Taken at the Flood (22 page)

Poirot paused.

“A very ingenious performance,” he observed.

“Is that true, David?” cried Lynn. “Is it true?”

David was grinning broadly.

“I think a good deal of myself as a female impersonator. Lord, you should have seen that old gorgon's face!”

“But how could you be here at ten o'clock and yet telephone to me from London at eleven?” demanded Lynn perplexedly.

David Hunter bowed to Poirot.

“All explanations by Hercule Poirot,” he remarked. “The man who knows everything. How did I do it?”

“Very simply,” said Poirot. “You rang up your sister at the flat from the public call box and gave her certain precise instructions. At eleven-four exactly she put through a toll call to Warmsley Vale 34. When Miss Marchmont came to the phone the operator verified the number, then saying no doubt ‘A call from London,' or ‘Go ahead London,' something of that kind?”

Lynn nodded.

“Rosaleen Cloade then replaced the receiver.
You,
” Poirot turned to David, “carefully noting the time, dialled 34, got it, pressed Button A, said ‘London wants you' in a slightly disguised voice and then spoke. The lapse of a minute or two would be nothing strange in a telephone call these days, and would only strike Miss Marchmont as a reconnection.”

Lynn said quietly:

“So
that's
why you rang me up, David?”

Something in her tone, quiet as it was, made David look at her sharply.

He turned to Poirot and made a gesture of surrender.

“No doubt about it. You
do
know everything! To tell the truth I was scared stiff. I had to think up something. After I'd rung Lynn, I walked five miles to Dasleby and went up to London by the early milk train. Slipped into the flat in time to rumple the bed and have
breakfast with Rosaleen. It never entered my head that the police would think
she'd
done it.

“And of course
I
hadn't the remotest idea who
had
killed him! I simply couldn't imagine who could have
wanted
to kill him. Absolutely nobody had a motive as far as I could see, except for myself and Rosaleen.”

“That,” said Poirot, “has been the great difficulty.
Motive.
You and your sister had a motive for killing Arden. Every member of the Cloade family had a motive for killing Rosaleen.”

David said sharply:

“She
was
killed, then? It wasn't suicide?”

“No. It was a carefully premeditated well-thought-out crime. Morphia was substituted for bromide in one of her sleeping-powders—one towards the bottom of the box.”

“In the
powders.
” David frowned. “You don't mean—you
can't
mean
Lionel Cloade?
”

“Oh, no,” said Poirot. “You see, practically
any
of the Cloades could have substituted the morphia. Aunt Kathie could have tampered with the powders before they left the surgery. Rowley here came up to Furrowbank with butter and eggs for Rosaleen. Mrs. Marchmont came there. So did Mrs. Jeremy Cloade. Even Lynn Marchmont came. And one and all they had a motive.”

“Lynn didn't have a motive,” cried David.

“We all had motives,” said Lynn. “That's what you mean?”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “That is what has made the case difficult. David Hunter and Rosaleen Cloade had a motive for killing Arden—but they did
not
kill him. All of you Cloades had a motive for killing Rosaleen Cloade and yet none of you killed her. This case is, always has been,
the wrong way round.
Rosaleen Cloade was
killed by the person who had
most to lose
by her death.” He turned his head slightly. “
You
killed her, Mr. Hunter….”

“I?” David cried. “Why on earth should I kill my own sister?”

“You killed her because she wasn't your sister. Rosaleen Cloade died by enemy action in London nearly two years ago. The woman you killed was a young Irish housemaid, Eileen Corrigan, whose photograph I received from Ireland today.”

He drew it from his pocket as he spoke. With lightning swiftness David snatched it from him, leapt to the door, jumped through it, and banging it behind him, was gone. With a roar of anger Rowley charged headlong after him.

Poirot and Lynn were left alone.

Lynn cried out, “It's not true. It can't be true.”

“Oh, yes, it is true. You saw half the truth once when you fancied David Hunter was not her brother. Put it the other way and it all falls into shape. This Rosaleen was a Catholic (Underhay's wife was
not
a Catholic), troubled by conscience, wildly devoted to David. Imagine his feelings on that night of the Blitz, his sister dead, Gordon Cloade dying—all that new life of ease and money snatched away from him, and then he sees this girl, very much the same age, the only survivor except for himself, blasted and unconscious. Already no doubt he has made love to her and he has no doubt he can make her do what he wants.

“He had a way with woman,” Poirot added dryly, without looking at Lynn who flushed.

“He is an opportunist, he snatches his chance of fortune. He identifies her as his sister. She returns to consciousness to find him at her bedside. He persuades and cajoles her into accepting the role.

“But imagine their consternation when the first blackmailing
letter arrives. All along I have said to myself, ‘Is Hunter really the type of man to let himself be blackmailed so easily?' It seemed, too, that he was actually uncertain whether the man blackmailing him was Underhay or not. But how
could
he be uncertain? Rosaleen Cloade could tell him at once if the man were her husband or not. Why hurry her up to London before she has a chance to catch a glimpse of the man? Because—there could only be one reason—because he could not risk the man getting a glimpse of
her.
If the man
was
Underhay, he must not discover that Rosaleen Cloade was not Rosaleen Cloade at all. No, there was only one thing to be done. Pay up enough to keep the blackmailer quiet, and then—do a flit—go off to America.

“And then, unexpectedly, the blackmailing stranger is murdered—and Major Porter identifies him as Underhay. Never in his life has David Hunter been in a tighter place! Worse still, the girl herself is beginning to crack. Her conscience is becoming increasingly active. She is showing signs of mental breakdown. Sooner or later she will confess, give the whole thing away, render him liable to criminal prosecution. Moreover, he finds her demands on him increasingly irksome. He has fallen in love with you. So he decides to cut his losses. Eileen must die. He substitutes morphia for one of the powders prescribed for her by Dr. Cloade, urges her on to take them every night, suggests to her fears of the Cloade family. David Hunter will not be suspected since the death of his sister means that her money passes back to the Cloades.

“That was his trump card: lack of motive. As I told you—this case was always the wrong way round.”

The door opened and Superintendent Spence came in.

Poirot said sharply,
“Eh bien?”

Spence said, “It's all right. We've got him.”

Lynn said in a low voice:

“Did he—say anything?”

“Said he'd had a good run for his money—”

“Funny,” added the Superintendent, “how they always talk at the wrong moment…We cautioned him, of course. But he said, ‘Cut it out, man. I'm a gambler—but I know when I've lost the last throw.'”

Poirot murmured:

“Yes, the tide sweeps in—but it also ebbs—and may carry you out to sea.”

I
t was a Sunday morning when Rowley Cloade, answering a knock at the farm door, found Lynn waiting outside.

He stepped back a pace.

“Lynn!”

“Can I come in, Rowley?”

He stood back a little. She passed him and went into the kitchen. She had been at church and was wearing a hat. Slowly, with an almost ritual air, she raised her hands, took off the hat and laid it down on the windowsill.

“
I've come home, Rowley.
”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Just that. I've come home. This is home—here, with you. I've been a fool not to know it before—not to know journey's end when I saw it. Don't you understand, Rowley, I've come
home!
”

“You don't know what you're saying, Lynn. I—I tried to kill you.”

“I know.” Lynn gave a grimace and put her fingers gingerly to her throat. “Actually, it was just when I thought you
had
killed me, that I began to realize what a really thundering fool I'd been making of myself!”

“I don't understand,” said Rowley.

“Oh, don't be stupid. I always wanted to marry you, didn't I? And then I got out of touch with you—you seemed to me so tame—so
meek
—I felt life would be so safe with you—so dull. I fell for David because he was dangerous and attractive—and, to be honest, because he knows women much too well. But none of that was
real.
When you caught hold of me by the throat and said if I wasn't for you, no one should have me—well—I knew then that I was
your
woman! Unfortunately it seemed that I was going to know it—just too late…Luckily Hercule Poirot walked in and saved the situation. And I
am
your woman, Rowley!”

Rowley shook his head.

“It's impossible, Lynn. I've killed two men—murdered them—”

“Rubbish,” cried Lynn. “Don't be pigheaded and melodramatic. If you have a row with a hulking big man and hit him and he falls down and hits his head on a fender—
that
isn't murder. It's not even legally murder.”

“It's manslaughter. You go to prison for it.”

“Possibly. If so, I shall be on the step when you come out.”

“And there's Porter. I'm morally responsible for his death.”

“No, you're not. He was a fully adult responsible man—he could have turned down your proposition. One can't blame any one else for the things one decides to do with one's eyes open. You suggested dishonesty to him, he accepted it and then repented and took a quick way out. He was just a weak character.”

Rowley shook his head obstinately.

“It's no good, old girl. You can't marry a gaolbird.”

“I don't think you're going to gaol. A policeman would have been round for you before now if so.”

Rowley stared.

“But damn it all, manslaughter—bribing Porter—”

“What makes you think the police know anything about all that or ever will?”

“That fellow Poirot knows.”

“He isn't the police. I'll tell you what the police think. They think David Hunter killed Arden as well as Rosaleen, now they know he was in Warmsley Vale that evening. They won't charge him with it because it isn't necessary—and besides, I believe you can't be arrested twice on the same charge. But as long as they
think
he did it, they won't look for any one else.”

“But that chap Poirot—”

“He told the Superintendent it was an accident, and I gather the Superintendent just laughed at him. If you ask me I think Poirot will say nothing to any one. He's rather a dear—”

“No, Lynn. I can't let you risk it. Apart from anything else I—well, I mean, can I trust myself? What I mean is, it wouldn't be
safe
for you.”

“Perhaps not…But you see, Rowley, I
do
love you—and you've had such a hell of a time—and I've never, really,
cared
very much for being safe—”