He nodded. “Continue. What about the curate, Monsieur Rawcliffe? He looked most uncomfortable, did he not?”
“We need to get to the bottom of whatever he and Vivienne Laurier were discussing when they didn’t know I could hear them. Osgood subtly hinted to me that Rawcliffe is in love with Vivienne Laurier. If that is true, then his and Osgood’s motives are one and the same: get the ailing husband out of the way, and marry the widow.”
“And what of Maddie, Douglas, Janet and Jonathan Laurier?” Poirot asked. “Does each of them also have a motive for the murder of Arnold Laurier?”
“Janet Laurier has an odd one,” I told him. “She secretly wants—wanted—Arnold to die at Frellingsloe House so that Jonathan would view the place as tarnished and not waste time on the fool’s errand of trying to save its life. All four of them—both sons, both wives—stand to gain financially when Douglas and Jonathan each get their half of the family money. Maddie also has the motive of wanting the best for Vivienne, of whom she is very fond. She told me with great conviction that only once Arnold had died could Vivienne begin to recover and find happiness again. Oh—and Jonathan Laurier has an altruistic motive too, in addition to the financial incentive.”
“Which is what?” Poirot asked.
“He believed Arnold would die a happy man ifyouwould only promise to save Frellingsloe House from destruction by the forces of natural erosion. I’m afraid I made it plain to him that you were unwilling to lie. When you were taken off to the hospital, Jonathan perhaps saw his chance to spare his father the pain of being told there was nothing you could do to save his beloved Frelly.”
“What about Terence and Enid Surtees?” said Poirot.
“Easy and obvious: they loathed Arnold Laurier, and bitterly resented their status as servants in his household. Enid also blames Arnold’s poor genetic legacy for her lack of grandchildren, by the sound of it. Terence blamed him for lobbying in favor of the Jonathan–Janet union and probably most of all for Enid’s miserable decline.”
“Note, also, that MonsieuretMadame Surtees seem overjoyed today. Observing who is made happier by a murder is an instructive exercise.”
“Quite,” I agreed. “Though I suppose neither Terence nor Enid could have foreseen that killing Arnold Laurier would lead to the instant healing of the rift between their daughters.”
“Parents know their children,” said Poirot. “Or at least, it is sometimes true that they do.”
“Well, if you are right, then the Surteeses had a motive so sizeable, it must have had trouble fitting into the county of Norfolk.”
Poirot smiled. “You have proven your point most adequately, Catchpool. Everybody at Frellingsloe House does indeed have a motive for killing Arnold Laurier, thoughsome are thinner and less likely than others,évidemment.Let us return to the house and find Monsieur Rawcliffe. Whether or not he is guilty of murder, I am hopeful that we can persuade him to tell us whatever it is that is making him so afraid.”
Chapter 30
A Broken Glass Lie and the Pursuit of Truth
There was no need to seek out Felix Rawcliffe. He was hovering when we arrived back at the house and pounced on us as soon as we entered the hall, pale and perspiring as before, and clutching a yellow envelope.
“This came for you, Inspector Catchpool,” said the curate.
A telegram, I thought, and my heart picked up pace.
It was, as I expected, from Sergeant James Wight of Scotland Yard.
Inspector Catchpool,
The alibis of all Niven family members are good. They are all in the clear. I have been able to turn up no link of any sort between any of the people on your list and the family of Stanley Niven. One point of interest: somebody on the list is not who they claim to be. I trust you would prefer me to impart the particulars in person or over thetelephone, since written documents can easily fall into the wrong hands.
Yours sincerely,
James Wight (Sergeant).
I handed the telegram to Poirot. His eyebrows shot up as he read it, and his moustaches twitched. At that moment, Inspector Mackle appeared in the hall with two other policemen in uniform by his side and two men in suits following behind them, carrying something large and black. I guessed that this was the container in which Arnold Laurier’s body would eventually be placed in order to transport it elsewhere.
Felix Rawcliffe gasped at the sight of this black receptacle. He gripped my arm. “There is something I must tell you,” he said. “I have stayed silent for too long.”
A few minutes later, he, Poirot and I were alone in the dining room with the door closed. It was as cold in here as it was outside, thanks to the smashed window.
“Could we not go somewhere warmer?” I said, shivering.
“In my estimation we are still outside,” said Poirot. “Luckily we have not yet divested ourselves of our coats. Monsieur Rawcliffe, do you wish to fetch a coat, hat and gloves?”
The curate’s answer was the most peculiar I have ever heard: “I am afraid to go anywhere alone,” he said.
I expected Poirot to be as interested as I was in this remark, but he acted as if he had not heard it. He walkedover to the smashed window. “What strikes you about this pile of glass fragments, Catchpool? Come and look at it closely, please.”
