Chapter Twenty Lady Clarke



          There was an air of deep and settled melancholy over Combeside
     when we
     saw it again for the second time.This may，perhaps，have been partly
     due to
     the weather-it was a moist September day with a hint of autumn in the
     air，
     and partly，no doubt，it was the semi-shut-up state of the house.The
     downstairs rooms were closed and shuttered，and the small room into
     which we
     were shown smelt damp and airless.
         A capable-looking hospital nurse came to us there pulling down her
     starched cuffs.
         "M.Poirot?"she said briskly."I am Nurse Capstick.I got Mr Clarke's
     letter saying you were coming."
         Poirot inquired after Lady Clarke's health.
         "Not at all bad really，all things considered."
         "All things considered，"I presumed，meant considering she was
     under
     sentence of death.
         "One can't hope for much improvement，of course，but some new
     treatment
     has made things a little easier for her.Dr Logan is quite pleased with
     her
     condition."
         "But it is true，is it not，that she can never recover?"
         "Oh，we never actually say that，"said Nurse Capstick，a little
     shocked
     by this plain speaking.
         "I suppose her husband's death was a terrible shock to her?"
         "Well，M.Poirot，if you understand what I mean，it wasn't as much
     of a
     shock as it would have been to anyone in full possession of her health
     and
     faculties.Things are dimmed for Lady Clarke in her condition."
         "Pardon my asking，but was she deeply attached to her husband and
     he to
     her?"
         "Oh，yes，they were a very happy couple.He was very worried and
     upset
     about her，poor man.It's always worse for a doctor，you know.They
     can't buoy
     themselves up with false hopes.I'm afraid it preyed on his mind very
     much to
     begin with."
         "To begin with?Not so much afterwards?"
         "One gets used to everything，doesn't one?And then Sir Carmichael
     had
     

     his collection.A hobby is a great consolation to a man.He used to run
     up to
     sales occasionally，and then he and Miss Grey were busy recataloguing
     and
     rearranging the museum on a new system."
         "Oh，yes-Miss Grey.She has left，has she not?"
         "Yes-I'm very sorry about it-but ladies do take these fancies
     sometimes
     when they're not well.And there's no arguing with them.It's better to
     give
     in.Miss Grey was very sensible about it."
         "Had Lady Clarke always disliked her?"
         "No-that is to say，not disliked.As a matter of fact，I think she
     rather
     liked her to begin with.But there，I mustn't keep you gossiping.My
     patient
     will be wondering what has become of us."
         She led us upstairs to a room on the first floor.
         What had at one time been a bedroom had been turned into a
     cheerful-looking sitting-room.
         Lady Clarke was sitting in a big armchair near the window.She was
     painfully thin，and her face had the grey，haggard look of one who
     suffers
     much pain.She had a slightly faraway，dreamy look，and I noticed that
     the
     pupils of her eyes were mere pin-points.
         "This is M.Poirot whom you wanted to see，"said Nurse Capstick in
     her
     high，cheerful voice.
         "Oh，yes，M.Poirot，"said Lady Clarke vaguely.
         She extended her hand.
         "My friend Captain Hastings，Lady Clarke."
         "How do you do?So good of you both to come."
         We sat down as her vague gesture directed.There was a silence.Lady
     Clarke seemed to have lapsed into a dream.
         Presently with a slight effort she roused herself.
         "It was about Car，wasn't it?About Car's death.Oh，yes."
         She signed，but still in a faraway manner，shaking her head.
         "We never thought it would be that way round......I was so sure I
     should
     be the first to go......"She mused a minute or two.
         "Car was very strong-wonderful for his age.He was never ill.He was
     nearly sixty-but he seemed more like fifty......Yes，very
     strong......"
         She relapsed again into her dream.Poirot，who was well acquainted
     with
     the effects of certain drugs and of how they give their taker the
     impression
     of endless time，said nothing.
         Lady Clarke said suddenly:
         "Yes-it was good of you to come.I told Franklin.He said he
     wouldn't
     forget to tell you.I hope Franklin isn't going to be foolish......he's
     so
     easily taken in，in spite of having knocked about the world so
     much.Men are
     like that......They remain boys......Franklin，in particular."
         "He has an impulsive nature，"said Poirot.
         "Yes-yes......And very chivalrous.Men are so foolish that way.Even
     Car-"Her voice tailed off.
         She shook her head with a febrile impatience.
         "Everything's so dim......One's body is a nuisance，M.Poirot，
     especially
     when it gets the upper hand.One is conscious of nothing else-whether
     the
     pain will hold off or not-nothing else seems to matter."
         "I know，Lady Clarke.It is one of the stragedies of this life."
         "It makes me so stupid.I cannot even remember what it was I wanted
     to
     say to you."
         "Was it something about your husband's death?"
         "Car's death?Yes，perhaps......Mad，poor creature-the murderer，I
     mean.
         It's all the noise and the speed nowadays-people can't stand
     it.I've
     always been sorry for mad people-their heads must feel so queer.And
     then，
     being shut up-it must be so terrible.But what else can one do?If they
     kill
     people......"She shook her head-gently pained."You haven't caught him
     yet?"she asked.
         "No，not yet."
         "He must have been hanging round here that day."
         "There were so many strangers about，Lady Clarke.It is the holiday
     season."
         "Yes-I forgot......But they keep down by the beaches，they don't
     come up
     near the house."
         "No stranger came to the house that day."
         "Who says so?"demanded Lady Clarke，with a sudden vigour.
         Poirot looked slightly taken aback.
         "The servants，"he said."Miss Grey."
         Lady Clarke said very distinctly:
         "That girl is a liar!"
         I started on my chair.Poirot threw me a glance.
         Lady Clarke was going on，speaking now rather feverishly.
         "I didn't like her.I never liked her.Car thought all the world of
     her.
         Used to go on about her being an orphan and alone in the
     world.What's
     wrong with being an orphan?Sometimes it's a blessing in disguise.You
     might
     have a good-for-nothing father and a mother who drank-then you would
     have
     something to comoplain about.Said she was so brave and such a good
     worker.I
     dare say she did her work well I don't know where all this bravery
     came in!"
         "Now don't excite yourself，dear，"said Nurse Capstick，
     intervening."We
     mustn't have you getting tired."
         "I soon sent her packing!Franklin had the impertinence to suggest
     that
     she might be a comfort to me.Comfort to me indeed!
         The sooner I saw the last of her the better-that's what I said!
         Franklin's a fool!I didn't want him getting mixed up with her.He's
     a
     boy!No sense!
         "I'll give her three months'salary，if you like，"I said."But out
     she
     goes.I don't want her in the house a day longer."There's one thing
     about
     being ill-men can't argue with you.He did what I said and she went.
         Went like a martyr，I expect-with more sweetness and bravery!"
         "Now，dear，don't get so excited.It's bad for you."
         Lady Clarke waved Nurse Capstick away.
         "You were as much of a fool about her as anyone else."
         "Oh!Lady Clarke，you mustn't say that.I did think Miss Grey a very
     nice
     girl-so romantic-looking，like someone out of a novel."
         "I've no patience with the lot of you，"said Lady Clarke feebly.
         "Well，she's gone now，my dear.Gone right away."
         Lady Clarke shook her head with feeble impatience but she did not
     answer.
         Poirot said:
         "Why did you say that Miss Grey was a liar?"
         "Because she is.She told you no strangers came to the house，
     didn't
     she?"
         "Yes."
         "Very well，then.I saw her-with my own eyes-out of this
     window-talking
     to a perfectly strange man on the front doorstep."
         "When was this?"
         "In the morning of the day Car died-about eleven o'clock."
         "What did this man look like?"
         "An ordinary sort of man.Nothing special."
         "A gentleman-or a tradesman?"
         "Not a tradesman.A shabby sort of person.I can't remember."
         A sudden quiver of pain shot across her face.
         "Please-you must go now-I'm a little tired-Nurse."
         We obeyed the cue and took our departure.
         "That's an extraordinary story，"I said to Poirot as we journeyed
     back
     to London."About Miss Grey and a strange man."
         "You see，Hastings?It is，as I tell you:there is always something
     to be
     found out."
         "Why did the girl lie about it and say she had seen no one?"
         "I can think of seven separate reasons-one of them an extremely
     simple
     one."
         "Is that a snub?"I asked.
         "It is，perhaps，an invitation to use your ingenuity.But there is
     no
     need for us to perturb ourselves.The easiest way to answer the
     question is
     to ask her."
         "And suppose she tells us another lie."
         "That would indeed be interesting-and highly suggestive."
         "It is monstrous to suppose that a girl like that could be in
     league
     with a madman."
         "Precisely-so I do not suppose it."
         I thought for some minutes longer.
         "A good-looking girl has a hard time of it，"I said at last with a
     sigh.
         "Du tout.Disabuse your mind of that idea."
         "It's true，"I insisted，"everyone's hand is against her simply
     because
     she is good-looking."
         "You speak the betises，my friend.Whose hand was against her at
     Combeside?Sir Carmichael's?Franklin's?Nurse Capstick's?"
         "Lady Clarke was down on her，all right."
         "Mon ami，you are full of charitable feelling towards beautiful
     young
     girls.Me，I feel charitable to sick old ladies.It may be that Lady
     Clarke
     was the clear-sighted one-and that her husband，Mr Franklin Clarke and
     Nurse
     Capstick were all as blind as bats-and Captain Hastings."
         "You've got a grudge against that girl，Poirot."
         To my surprise his eyes twinkled suddenly.
         "Perhaps it is that I like to mount you on your romantic high
     horse，
     Hastings.You are always the true knight-ready to come to the rescue of
     damsels in distress-good-looking damsels，bien entendu."
         "How ridiculous you are，Poirot，"I said，unable to keep from
     laughing.
         "Ah，well，one cannot be tragic all the time.
         More and more I interest myself in the human developments that
     arise out
     of this tragedy.It is three dramas of family life that we have there.
         First there is Andover-the whole tragic life of Mrs Ascher，her
     struggles，her support of her German husband，the devotion of her
     niece.That
     alone would make a novel.Then you have Bexhill-the happy，easy-going
     father
     and mother，the two daughters so widely differing from each other-the
     pretty
     fluffy fool，and the intense，strong-willed Megan with her clear
     intelligence and her ruthless passion for truth.And the other
     figure-the
     self-controlled young Scotsman with his passionate jealousy and his
     worship
     of the dead girl.Finally you have the Churston household-the dying
     wife，and
     the husband absorbed in his collections，but with a growing tenderness
     and
     sympathy for the beautiful girl who helps him so sympathetically，and
     then
     the younger brother，vigorous，attractive，interesting，with a
     romantic
     glamour about him from his long travels.
         "Realize，Hastings，that in the ordinary course of events those
     three
     separate dramas would never have touched each other.
         They would have pursued their course uninfluenced by each
     other.The
     permutations and combinations of life，Hastings-I never cease to be
     fascinated by them."
         "This is Paddington，"was the only answer I made.
         It was time，I felt，that someone picked the bubble.
         On our arrival at Whitehaven Mansions we were told that a
     gentleman was
     waiting to see Poirot.
         I expected it to be Franklin，or perhaps Japp，but to my
     astonishment it
     turned out to be none other than Donald Fraser.
         He seemed very embarrassed and his inarticulateness was more
     noticeable
     than ever.
         Poirot did not press him to come to the point of his visit，but
     instead
     suggested sandwiches and a glass of wine.
         Until these made their appearance he monopolized the
     conversation，
     explaining where we had been，and speaking with kindliness and feeling
     of
     the invalid woman.
         Not until we had finished the sandwiches and sipped the wine did
     he give
     the conversation a personal turn.
         "You have come from Bexhill，Mr Fraser?"
         "Yes."
         "Any success with Milly Higley?"
         "Milly Higley?Milly Higley?"Fraser repeated the name
     wonderingly."Oh，
     that girl!No，I haven't done anything there yet.
         It's-"He stopped.His hands twisted themselves together nervously.
         "I don't know why I've come to you，"he burst out.
         "I know，"said Poirot.
         "You can't.How can you?"
         "You have come to me because there is something that you must tell
     to
     someone.You were quite right.I am the proper person.Speak!"
         Poirot's air of assurance had its effect.Fraser looked at him with
     a
     queer air of grateful obedience.
         "You think so?"
         "Parbleu，I am sure of it."
         "M.Poirot，do you know anything about dreams?"
         It was the last thing I had expected him to say.
         Poirot，however，seemed in no wise surprised.
         "I do，"he replied."You have been dreaming-?"
         "Yes.I suppose you'll say it's only natural that I should-should
     dream
     about-It.But it isn't an ordinary dream."
         "No?"
         "No?"
         "I've dreamed it now three nights running，sir......I thing I'm
     going
     mad......"
         "Tell me-"The man's face was livid.His eyes were staring out of
     his
     head.As a matter of fact，he looked mad.
         "It's always the same.I'm on the beach.
         Looking for Betty.She's lost-only lost，you understand.I've got to
     find
     her.I've got to give her her belt.I'm carrying it in my hand.And
     then-""Yes?"
         "The dream changes......I'm not looking any more.
         She's there in front of me-sitting on the beach.She doesn't see me
     coming-it's-oh，I can't-""Go on."
         Poirot's voice was authoritative-firm.
         "I come up behind her......she doesn't hear me......I slip the
     belt
     round her neck and pull-oh-pull......"
         The agony in his voice was frightful......I gripped the arms of my
     chair......The thing was too real.
         "She's choking......she's dead......I've strangled her-and then
     her head
     falls back and I see her face......and it's Megan-not Betty!"
         He leant back white and shaking.Poirot poured out another glass of
     wine
     and passed it over to him.
         "What's the meaning of it，M.Poirot?Why does it come to me?Every
     night......?"
         "Drink up your wine，"ordered Poirot.
         The young man did so，then he asked in a calmer voice:
         "What does it mean?I-I didn't kill her，did I?"
         What Poirot answered I do not know，for at that minute I heard the
     postman's knock and automatically I left the room.
         What I took out of the letter-box banished all my interest in
     Donald
     Fraser's extraordinary revelations.
         I raced back into the sitting-room.
         "Poirot，"I cried."It's come.The fourth letter."
         He sprang up，seized it from me，caught up his paper-knife and
     slit it
     open.He spread it out on the table.
         The three of us read it together.
         Still no sucess?Fie!Fie!What are you and the police doing?Well，
     well，
     isn't this fun?And where shall we go next for honey?
         Poor Mr Poirot.I'm quite sorry for you.
         If at first you don't succedd，try，try，try again.
         We've a long way to go still.
         Tipperary?No-that comes farther on.Letter T.
         The next little incident will take place at Doncaster on September
     11th.
         So long.

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