“Please.”
She sat motionless for a few seconds, then said, “Jonathan and Janet said that it was quite unacceptable for Arnold’s room to be overlooked by the windows of several other patients,” said Vivienne. “When one is in a hospital room, one is not always in a presentable state and one is rarely fully dressed. Plus, the lack of privacy goes in both directions. That was their opinion. Jonathan told the nurse—Zillah, her name was—that his father would feel as awkward and embarrassed about his own ability to observe other patients in their rooms as he would be uncomfortable about their being able to spy on him in his.”
“Do you agree?” Poirot asked her. “Is that how your husband would have felt about the matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“You did not ask him, when you returned from the hospital?”
“No, I did not. He was very sick that day. I was in astate of shock, after discovering that a brutal murder had happened in the next room to the one I was standing in.”
“And later?” said Poirot. “The following week, or month... you did not raise the question with him?”
“Douglas had asked him by then, and Arnold had said he was happy to end up wherever they chose to put him, as long as it was at St. Walstan’s where he could set about solving Stanley Niven’s murder.”
“How would you feel if you were the patient?” Poirot asked her. “About the courtyard?”
“I... I don’t know.” Vivienne looked utterly perplexed. “I have not given it any thought.”
“I see. And Douglas and Maddie—did they express an opinion, when you were in the room with the courtyard view that afternoon, 8 September?”
Vivienne nodded. “They heaped on the ridicule as they always do when Jonathan and Janet are in the firing line. They said it didn’t matter a jot what sort of medical care Arnold received, or whether he was well-fed or kept out of pain as much as possible; none of that mattered in the least, as long as his room did not overlook a courtyard. The main thing was not his treatment or the condition of his health—the view was all that mattered. Eventually they ran out of sarcasm and said that for patients to be able to see each other in a hospital was not necessarily a bad thing. Maddie said they might welcome a little companionship and commiseration. And Douglas pointed out that the rooms had curtains, so one could always close one’s curtains for moments of privacy.”
“This is, in my estimation, a powerful point,” said Poirot. “Though of course one cannot then have privacy and daylight at the same time. Which would you choose, madame?”
Vivienne looked at him as if at a madman. “I have said already: I do not know. Why does it matter what I think?”
“It matters only because I wish to catch and bring to justice your husband’s killer.” He smiled. “Thank you. You have been most helpful while trying as hard as you can to be a hindrance. That will be all for now. You may leave. And madame? I am very sorry about what happened to Monsieur Arnold. You must be heartbroken.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And no, I am not. My heart died a long time before Arnold did. There was nothing left to break.”
Chapter 32
Lying in Wait
I need not have worried about traveling halfway across the country. The location to which Poirot had dispatched me was a recess in the wall next to the door of Frellingsloe House’s drawing room. He had laughed like a drunkard at the look of shock that appeared on my face when he told me. “When I said that the task involved going somewhere, Catchpool, your error was to assume I meant somewhere afar way. I meant only that you would need to leave this room we are in.”
And now here I was, lying in wait and stubbornly determined not to rub either of my eyes, no matter what else came to pass.
The trouble with secretly lying in wait is that no one knows that is what you are doing, so the chance of being left alone is small. I was accosted by four people, one after another, as I stood in that recess like a tall, useless houseplant that had escaped from its pot. The first was Inspector Mackle, who gave me the benefit of his latest theory aboutthat elusive criminal mastermind, Clarence Niven. I nodded along politely, then, when he had finished, said, “I am sure you are right.” That sent him on his way with a smile on his face.
Next Janet Laurier appeared. Her face was streaked with tears. Seeing me loitering, she ran toward me as if intent on knocking me over. “Inspector Catchpool,” she said. “It is all too dreadful. I cannot bear it. Arnold is dead and Jonathan is bereft. I don’t think I can make him happy, not after this. None of us will ever be happy again!”
“You have all had a horrible shock,” I said. “The next few weeks are likely to be verging on unbearable, but you will bear them, and you will find, in time, that life starts to seem worth living again. Jonathan will survive. You all will.”
“I believe my mother has told you that Maddie and I are on friendly terms once more?”
“Yes. I was glad to hear it.”
“I am afraid I might ruin it and make us enemies again. It was all my fault in the first place, the hostility between us. Maddie only ever wanted us to love each other, but I wanted—Ineeded—to defeat her, somehow. I was spiteful and greedy and hypocritical and... I must still be all those things, don’t you think?”
“Well, I—”
“Once the shock of Arnold’s murder wears off, I am likely to forget about the importance of love and find myself consumed by pettiness once again. But... I do not want to! I love my sister. What can I do, Inspector? Even Jonathanand Douglas are willing to go along with our new peace agreement. Douglas is calling it ‘L’Entente Cordiale.’”
“It sounds like a jolly good arrangement,” I said, looking past her along the corridor for my quarry, who had yet to appear. “I would make sure not to ruin it if I were you.” I must have sounded impatient and insensitive, but I needed to get rid of her as soon as I could.
I breathed a sigh of relief when she finally gave up on me as a potential source of comfort and left me alone—but I was far from being in the clear. Maddie Laurier came hurtling toward me a few moments later, her eyes red and puffy from weeping. “Edward!” she cried, throwing her arms around me and squeezing me in a manner that I found thoroughly objectionable. “I am so glad you and Monsieur Poirot are here. Please,please, lead us all out of this utter nightmare. You might not have been able to prevent Arnold’s murder, but you can surely solve it. Can you? Do say that you can! Inspector Mackle is about as much use as a square wheel. If he mentions the name of Clarence Niven one more time... I must say, it is a huge consolation to me to think of how happy Arnold must be that Janet and I are friends again. I know he is no longer with us in the way that he was, but I feel his presence so strongly. He would never leave his home and family; he loved us all too much. Most people, most souls, would allow themselves to be defeated by death—murder especially—but not Arnold! He is still here, Edward. You do not believe me, I can see that, but it is true.”
