Chapter 4
A State of Terror
Mother spent the next few seconds filling the air with exclamations that achieved nothing: “Really, doctor, what nonsense!” “Pure melodrama!” “I am surprised at you—so fanciful for a man of science.” I had to concede that she made one good point: “If Vivienne knew who Stanley Niven’s killer was, and that he was intent on murdering Arnold, why the devil would she not tell the police?”
Dr. Osgood muttered something inaudible under his breath. “All I can tell you, Mrs. Catchpool—”
“Cynthia.”
“—is that Vivienne clutched my arm and whispered, ‘Arnold will be murdered next.’ Those were the first words out of her mouth upon hearing of Stanley Niven’s death. She almost collapsed, I tell you. When she and I were alone together soon afterwards, she grabbed me by the arms, wild with fear, and said, ‘What if the killer meant to kill Arnold all along?’ Over and over, she said, ‘I won’t send him to that hospital, Robert. I won’t!’ She begged me to help herpersuade Arnold and the rest of the family to agree to him staying at home. Dying at home. So far, she has been unsuccessful. Certainly she has not persuaded the patient himself, who is eager to infiltrate Ward 6 and do some sleuthing.”
“This is most interesting,” said Poirot.
“She has been in that same state of heightened fear ever since,” Osgood told him. “I think it might kill her if it lasts too much longer. This is why you must work quickly. Catch and remove this killer, and then Arnold will be safe at St. Walstan’s and Vivienne can stop torturing herself. Maybe then she will start to eat properly again. She is skin and bone—and on top of the terror, I believe she is causing herself additional strain by determinedly maintaining the pretense that she feels only a normal level of anxiety, one that would appear understandable to the rest of us.”
“I do not find Vivienne’s fear to be mysterious or inexplicable in the least,” said Mother. “For a lady of her age and background, an unsolved murder in such close proximity to oneself or a loved one would be reason enough for terror. I consider myself lucky to have a Scotland Yard inspector for a son; thanks to Edward, I am able to regard murder as an ordinary if unfortunate aspect of everyday life.”
“Perhaps,” said Poirot. “Though, like Dr. Osgood, I see no reason why Madame Laurier should have the specific fear that her husband will be the killer’s next victim. And if that fear was expressed as a certainty—”
“It was,” said Osgood.
“Then that requires explanation.”
Mother laughed. “You men really are determined to complicate matters, aren’t you? Here I am—Vivienne’s best friend in the whole world—and yet none of you has thought to askme. Ah, well. You will ask Vivienne instead and you will get your explanation, Monsieur Poirot. She will tell you what she long ago confided to me: that she knows there is no logic to it. It is naïve to imagine our worst fears must have a rational basis. Often they have none whatever. At the risk of provoking you, Dr. Osgood—” Mother fluttered her eyelashes, “—Vivienne does not put on a show in my presence as she does in yours. She admits that in her bones she is horribly afraid Arnold will be the killer’s next victimandthat it makes no sense. She knows of no reason why anyone should wish to kill Arnold, yet she is convinced it is the case—chiefly because the first murder happened when it did, on 8 September—”
“Mother,” I said. “Do not refer to it as ‘the first murder,’ when—”
“—during the very hour that she was there, in the room next door. No more than a coincidence of course, but—”
“Attendez!What did you say, madame? Please repeat it.”
“I said that the timing of Stanley Niven’s murder was merely a coincidence, and the two rooms being next to each other was also pure chance.”
“Vivienne Laurier was on Ward 6 of St. Walstan’s Hospital when Stanley Niven was killed?” said Poirot.
“Yes, they all were,” Mother said. “Have I not already told you that? I thought I had.”
“Non, madame. Who are ‘they all’?”
“The Lauriers. Well, most of them.”
“What were they doing at the hospital on 8 September?” I asked. Arnold Laurier was not yet a patient at St. Walstan’s so they could not have been visiting him.
“They had been invited for a tour of the place,” said Mother. “To meet the doctors and nurses, see the facilities—in particular the room that is to be Arnold’s. Do not get excited, Monsieur Poirot. I see that you are, but it means nothing. That is probably why it did not occur to me to mention it. Like Vivienne, you are attributing profound significance to a mere coincidence. And none of the Lauriers could have killed Stanley Niven, in case you were thinking along those lines. All five of them were inside the room that has been reserved for Arnold, accompanied by a nurse and with the door closed, while Stanley Niven was being killed in the room next door. Besides, why should any of them wish to kill him? He was a complete stranger to them.”
Poirot and I exchanged a look. The motorcar engine struck a new note as we slowed down in front of two tall gateposts, each one a rectangular column topped by a round ball. We had arrived. There was a sign mounted on the gatepost closest to me but in the darkness I could not read the house’s name. The windows of the vehicle were closed but I could hear, clearly, the sound of an agitated sea. A few seconds later I saw the dark shape of a large building ahead.
Frelly.No, I would never call it by thatsoubriquetnor think of it as that. It was infantile.
“Who was in the room?” Poirot asked Mother. “Name them: ‘all five of them,’ you said. Vivienne Laurier, and a nurse. Who else from the Laurier family?”
“The nurse’s name is Zillah Hunt,” said Dr. Osgood. “I too was at the hospital that day. Mrs. Catchpool’s account is accurate. I saw them all emerge from the room that will be Arnold’s after Christmas. That was definitelyafterthe murder had been committed. The police interviewed everybody, naturally, and all six of them—Zillah Hunt and the five Lauriers—they all said the same thing: no one entered or left Arnold’s room at any point, until they all left together. No one opened the door until they were ready to make their exit as a party.”
“Who were the five Lauriers?” Poirot asked again.
Mother reeled them off: “Vivienne; her and Arnold’s two sons, Douglas and Jonathan; and their wives, Madeline and Janet.”
I don’t know why hearing the two names again after not hearing them for weeks should have brought it back to me, but it did.Madeline and Janet. Memories are peculiar creatures; you think they’ve scarpered, and then suddenly they spring up, having been lurking in the shadows all along.
