“Whal did you say to him?” asked with curiosity.
“I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I was empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not immediately handed over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more little lies which occurred to me. He was as wax in my hands!"
I pondered the matter.
“It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond through no fault of her own.”
“Bah!” said Poirot brutally. “She has a magnificent advertisement. That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is different. Bonne mere, trds femme!”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on femininity. “I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate letters.”
du tout," said Poirot briskly. “She came by the advice of Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and she changed her mind, jumping at a pretext that you9 my friend, offered her. A very few questions suflBced to show me that you told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your words offered.”
“I don’t believe it,” I cried, stung.
"siy mon amiy it is a pity that you study not the psychology. She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, never does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it would be more prudent to do so!”
“It’s all very well," I said, my anger rising, “but you’ve made a perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well to try to explain it away afterwards. There really is a
“But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend. I had not the heart to shatter your illusions.”
“It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time.”
“Mon Dieu! but how you enrage yourself for nothing, mon ami!”
“I’m fed up!” I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an absolute laughing stock of me. I decided he needed a sharp lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself!
The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor
I HAD been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.
“A la bonne heure, Hastings. I feared you would not have returned in time to accompany me.”
“You are called away on a case, then?”
“Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr. Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds.”
“Yes?" I said, much interested.
'There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event of his commiting suicide within a year the premiums would be forfeited. Mr. Maltravers was duly examined by the Company s own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the prime of life was passed as being in quite sound health. However, on Wednesday last一the day before yesterday—the body of Mr. Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex, Marsdon Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of internal hemorrhage. That in itself would be nothing remarkable, but sinister rumors as to Mr. Maltravers" financial position have been in the air of late, and the Northern Union have ascertained beyond any possible doubt that the deceased gentleman stood upon the verge of bankruptcy. Now that alters matters considerably. Maltravers had a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of paying the premiums on a life insurance for his wife’s benefit, and then commited suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my friend Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him, I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of the death had been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine. Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local G. P. to discover what his patient really did die of, but a hemorrhage seems fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries. I have minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi to Livepoor Street.”
About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the little station of Marsdon Leigh. Inquiries at the station yielded the information that Marsdon Manor was about a mile distant. Poirot decided to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street.
“What is our plan of campaign?” I asked.
“First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there is only one doctor in Marsdon Leigh, Dr. Ralph Bernard. Ah, here we are at his house.”
The house in question was a kind of superior cottage, standing back a little from the road. A brass plate on the gate bore the doctor s name. We passed up the path and rang the bell.
We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor's consulting hour, and for the moment there were no patients waiting for him. Dr. Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered and stooping, with a pleasant vagueness of manner.
Poirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit, adding that insurance companies were bound to investigate fully in a case of this kind.
“Of course, of course” said Dr. Bernard vaguely. “I suppose, as he was such a rich man,his life was insured for a big sum?”
“You consider him a rich man,doctor?”
The doctor looked rather surprised.
“Was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsdon Manor is a pretty big place to keep up, although I believe he bought it very cheap.”
“I understand that he had had considerable losses of late” said Poirot, watching the doctor narrowly.
The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly.
“that so? Indeed. It is fortunate for his wife, then, that there is this life insurance. A very beautiful and charming young creature, but terribly unstrung by this sad catastrophe. A mass of nerves, poor thing. I have tried to spare her all I can, but of course the shock was bound to be considerable.”
“You have been attending Mr. Maltravers recently?”
“My dear sir, I never attended him.”
“What?”
“I understand Mr. Maltravers was a Christian Scientist—or something of that kind”
“But you examined the body?”
“Certainly. I was fetched by one of the under-gardeners.”
“And the cause of death was clear?”
“Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding must have been internal."
“Was he still lying where he had been found?”
“Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying on the edge of a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a small rook rifle lay beside him. The hemorrhage must have occurred quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer, without a doubt.”
“N7o question of his having been shot, eh?”
“My dear sir!”
“I demand pardon,” said Poirot humbly. “But, if my memory is not at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart failure—altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!”
“You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr. Maltravers,”