Poirot Investigates. Агата Кристи

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      ‘What do you mean?’ she faltered, her eyes growing wide.

      ‘Have you never taken part in any spiritualistic séances? You are mediumistic, you know.’

      ‘I have been told so. But you do not believe in Spiritualism, surely?’

      ‘Madame, I have seen some strange things. You know that they say in the village that this house is haunted?’

      She nodded, and at that moment the parlourmaid announced that dinner was ready.

      ‘Won’t you just stay and have something to eat?’

      We accepted gratefully, and I felt that our presence could not but help distract her a little from her own griefs.

      We had just finished our soup, when there was a scream outside the door, and the sound of breaking crockery. We jumped up. The parlourmaid appeared, her hand to her heart.

      ‘It was a man—standing in the passage.’

      Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.

      ‘There is no one there.’

      ‘Isn’t there, sir?’ said the parlourmaid weakly. ‘Oh it did give me a start!’

      ‘But why?’

      She dropped her voice to a whisper.

      ‘I thought—I thought it was the master—it looked like ‘im.’

      I saw Mrs Maltravers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to the old superstition that a suicide cannot rest. She thought of it too, I am sure, for a minute later, she caught Poirot’s arm with a scream.

      ‘Didn’t you hear that? Those three taps on the window? That’s how he always used to tap when he passed round the house.’

      ‘The ivy,’ I cried. ‘It was the ivy against the pane.’

      But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlourmaid was obviously unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs Maltravers besought Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified to be left alone. We sat in the little morning room. The wind was getting up, and moaning round the house in an eerie fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched and the door slowly opened, and each time she clung to me with a terrified gasp.

      ‘Ah, but this door, it is bewitched!’ cried Poirot angrily at last. He got up and shut it once more, then turned the key in the lock. ‘I shall lock it, so!’

      ‘Don’t do that,’ she gasped. ‘If it should come open now—’

      And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door slowly swung open. I could not see into the passage from where I sat, but she and Poirot were facing it. She gave one long shriek as she turned to him.

      ‘You saw him—there in the passage?’ she cried.

      He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his head.

      ‘I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?’

      ‘Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well—unstrung—’

      ‘I am perfectly well, I—Oh, God!’

      Suddenly, without warning, the lights quivered and went out. Out of the darkness came three loud raps. I could hear Mrs Maltravers moaning.

      And then—I saw!

      The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us, gleaming with a faint ghostly light. There was blood on his lips, and he held his right hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliant light seemed to proceed from it. It passed over Poirot and me, and fell on Mrs Maltravers. I saw her white terrified face, and something else!

      ‘My God, Poirot!’ I cried. ‘Look at her hand, her right hand. It’s all red!’

      Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

      ‘Blood,’ she cried hysterically. ‘Yes, it’s blood. I killed him. I did it. He was showing me, and then I put my hand on the trigger and pressed. Save me from him—save me! He’s come back!’

      Her voice died away in a gurgle.

      ‘Lights,’ said Poirot briskly.

      The lights went on as if by magic.

      ‘That’s it,’ he continued. ‘You heard, Hastings? And you, Everett? Oh, by the way, this is Mr Everett, rather a fine member of the theatrical profession. I phoned to him this afternoon. His make-up is good, isn’t it? Quite like the dead man, and with a pocket torch and the necessary phosphorescence he made the proper impression. I shouldn’t touch her right hand if I were you, Hastings. Red paint marks so. When the lights went out I clasped her hand, you see. By the way, we mustn’t miss our train. Inspector Japp is outside the window. A bad night—but he has been able to while away the time by tapping on the window every now and then.’

      ‘You see,’ continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind and rain, ‘there was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased was a Christian Scientist, and who could have given him that impression but Mrs Maltravers? But to us she represented him as being in a great state of apprehension about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance of young Black? And lastly, although I know that convention decrees that a woman must make a decent pretence of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such heavily-rouged eyelids! You did not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing!

      ‘Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s story suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe—or at least so I imagine. Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered.

      ‘No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was the case of murder, not suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw played tonight.’

      ‘Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime?’ I said.

      ‘Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of her husband’s financial débâcle and tired of the elderly mate she had only married for his money, induces him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gives her that—the young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon when monsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband are strolling round the grounds. “What a curious story that was last night!” she observes. “Could a man shoot himself in such a way? Do show me if it is possible!” The poor fool—he shows her. He places the end of his rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. “And now, sir,” she says saucily, “supposing I pull the trigger?”

      ‘And then—and then, Hastings—she pulls it!’

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