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‘All my life I’ve been a source of embarrassment and frustration to Father: refusing to bow down, to do what he wants, think what he thinks, work in his chosen profession. He wants me to take up the law. He’s never forgiven me for not wanting to be him.’
‘May I ask what is your profession?’
‘Profession?’ McCrodden sneered. ‘I work for a living. Nothing fancy. Nothing grand that involves playing with other people’s lives. I’ve worked in a mine, on farms, in factories. I’ve made trinkets for ladies and sold them. I’m good at selling. At the moment I’ve got a market stall. It keeps a roof over my head, but none of that’s good enough for my father. And, being Rowland McCrodden, he won’t admit defeat. Never.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I hoped he had given up on me. Now I see that he never will. He knows a man accused of murder will need to defend himself. It’s rather clever of him, actually. He’s trying to provoke me, and harbouring all sorts of fantasies, I imagine, of me insisting on defending myself against the charge of murder at the Old Bailey. To do that, I would have to take an interest in the law, wouldn’t I?’
It was evident that Rowland McCrodden was to John McCrodden what Eustace was to Sylvia Rule.
‘You can tell him from me that his plan has failed. I will never be the person my father wants me to be. And I would rather he didn’t attempt to communicate with me again—directly, or using you or any of his other toadies as a conduit.’
Poirot rose from his chair. ‘Please wait here for a few moments,’ he said. He left the room, taking care to leave the door wide open.
When Poirot returned to the room, he was accompanied by his valet. He smiled at John McCrodden and said, ‘You have already met Georges. You will, I hope, have heard me explain to him that I would like him to join us for a short while. I raised my voice so that you would hear everything I said to him.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ said McCrodden in a bored voice.
‘If I had said anything else to Georges, you would have heard it too. I did not. Therefore, what he is about to tell you will, I hope, convince you that I am not your enemy. Please, Georges—speak!’
George looked astonished. He was not accustomed to receiving such vague instructions. ‘About what, sir?’
Poirot turned to John McCrodden. ‘You see? He does not know. I have not prepared him for this. Georges, when I returned from luncheon today, I told you about something that had just happened to me, did I not?’
‘You did, sir.’
‘Please repeat the story that I told you.’
‘Very well, sir. You were accosted by a lady who introduced herself as Mrs Sylvia Rule. Mrs Rule mistakenly believed that you had written a letter to her in which you had accused her of murder.’
‘Merci, Georges. Tell me, who was the supposed victim of this murder?’
‘A Mr Barnabas Pandy, sir.’
‘And what else did I tell you?’
‘That you were not acquainted with a man of that name, sir. If there is such a gentleman, you do not know if he is alive or dead, or if he has been murdered. When you tried to explain this to Mrs Rule, she refused to listen.’
Poirot turned to John McCrodden in triumph. ‘Monsieur, perhaps your father wishes also for Sylvia Rule to defend herself at the Old Bailey? Or are you finally willing to concede that you have misjudged and most unfairly maligned Hercule Poirot? It might interest to you to know that Madame Rule also accused me of conspiring with one of her enemies to cause her distress—a man named Eustace.’
‘I still say my father is behind it all,’ John McCrodden said after a short interval. He sounded markedly less certain than he had before. ‘He enjoys nothing more than the challenge of an elaborate puzzle. I’m supposed to work out why Mrs Rule received the same letter I did.’
‘When one has a driving preoccupation—yours with your father, or Sylvia Rule’s obsession with her Eustace—it colours the way one sees the world,’ said Poirot with a sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you have brought the letter with you?’
‘No. I tore it up and sent the pieces to my father with a note telling him what I think of him, and now I’m telling you, M. Poirot. I won’t stand for it. Even the great Hercule Poirot cannot accuse innocent people of murder and expect to get away with it.’
It was a considerable relief when John McCrodden finally removed himself from the room. Poirot stood by the window in order to watch his visitor’s departure from the building.
‘Are you ready for your sirop de menthe now, sir?’ George asked.
‘Mon ami, I am ready for all the sirop de menthe in the world.’ Seeing that he might have caused confusion, he clarified. ‘One glass please, Georges. Only one.’
Poirot returned to his chair in a state of agitation. What hope was there for justice or peace to prevail in the world when three people who might have made common cause—three wrongly accused people: Sylvia Rule, John McCrodden and Hercule Poirot—could not sit together and have a calm, rational discussion that might have helped them all to understand what had happened? Instead there had been anger, an almost fanatical refusal to entertain a point of view other than one’s own, and the ceaseless hurling of insults. Not from Hercule Poirot, however; he had behaved impeccably in the face of intolerable provocation.
When George brought him his sirop, he said, ‘Tell me—is there anybody else waiting to see me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nobody has telephoned to request an appointment?’
‘No, sir. Are you expecting someone?’
‘Oui. I am expecting an angry stranger, or perhaps several.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’
Just then the telephone started to ring. Poirot nodded and permitted himself a small smile. When there was no other pleasure to be taken from a situation, one might as well enjoy being correct, he thought. ‘There he is, Georges—or there she is. The third person. Third of who knows how many? Three, four, five? It could be any number.’
‘Number of what, sir?’
‘People who have received a letter accusing them of the murder of Barnabas Pandy—signed, fraudulently, in the name of Hercule Poirot!’
CHAPTER 3
The Third Person
At three o’clock the next day, Poirot was visited at Whitehaven Mansions by a Miss Annabel Treadway. As he waited for George to show her in, he found himself looking forward to the encounter. For those of a different temperament, it might have been tedious to field the same accusation time after time from a succession of strangers united in their determination not to listen to a word that was said to them; not so for Hercule Poirot. This third time, he resolved, he would succeed in making his point. He would convince Miss Annabel Treadway that he was telling the truth. Perhaps then progress might be made and some more interesting questions asked.
The puzzle of why most people, even intelligent people, were so illogical and pig-headed was one to which Poirot had devoted quite enough consideration while lying awake the previous night; he was eager to turn his attention to Barnabas Pandy himself. Of course, that was assuming that Barnabas Pandy had a self. It was possible that he did not exist, had never existed, and was no more than a figment of the letter-writer’s imagination.
The door opened and George ushered in a thin woman of average height, with fair hair and dark eyes and clothes. Poirot was alarmed by his reaction to the sight of her. He felt as if he ought to bow his head and say, ‘My condolences, mademoiselle.’ Having no reason to believe that she had suffered a loss, he restrained himself. A letter accusing her of murder might provoke anger or fear, but it could hardly be considered a tragedy; it would not, Poirot thought, make a person sad.
As surely as John McCrodden had filled Poirot’s room with cold contempt, Annabel Treadway had brought sorrow in with her. ‘The aching heart,’ Poirot thought. He felt it as keenly as if it were his own.
‘Thank you, Georges,’ he said. ‘Please, sit down, mademoiselle.’
She hurried to the nearest chair and sat in a manner that cannot have been comfortable for her. Poirot observed that her most striking facial feature was a deep vertical groove that started between her eyebrows: a pronounced crease that seemed to divide her forehead into two neat halves. Poirot resolved not to look at it again, lest she should notice.
‘Thank you for allowing me to come here today,’ she said quietly. ‘I expected you to refuse.’ She looked at Poirot five or six times as she spoke, turning away quickly on each occasion as if she didn’t want him to catch her in the act of observing him.
‘From where have you come, mademoiselle?’
‘Oh, you won’t have heard of it. Nobody has. It’s in the country.’
‘Why did you expect me to refuse to see you?’
‘Most people would go to any lengths to prevent someone they believed to be a murderer from entering their home,’ she said. ‘M. Poirot, what I came here to tell you is … Well, you might not believe me, but I am innocent. I could not murder another living soul. Never! You cannot know …’ She broke off with a ragged gasp.
‘Please continue,’ said Poirot gently. ‘What is it that I cannot know?’
‘I have never caused pain or injury to anybody, and nor could I. I have saved lives!’
‘Mademoiselle—’
Annabel Treadway had produced a handkerchief from her pocket and was dabbing at her eyes. ‘Please forgive me if I sounded boastful. I did not mean to exaggerate my own goodness or my achievements, but it is true that I have saved a life. Many years ago.’
‘A life? You said “lives”.’
‘I only meant that if I had the opportunity to do so again, I should save every life that I could save, even if I had to place myself in danger to do so.’ Her voice trembled.
‘Is that because you are especially heroic or because you think other people matter more than you do?’ Poirot asked her.
‘I … I’m not sure what you mean. We must all put others before ourselves. I don’t pretend to be more selfless than most, and I’m far from brave. I’m a terrible coward, in fact. Coming here to talk to you took all my courage. My sister Lenore—she’s the brave one. I’m sure you are brave, M. Poirot. Wouldn’t you save every life that you could, every single one?’
Poirot frowned. It was a peculiar question. The conversation so far had been unusual—even for what Poirot was calling in his mind ‘the new age of Barnabas Pandy’.
‘I have heard of your work and I admire you greatly,’ said Annabel Treadway. ‘That is why your letter pained me so. M. Poirot, you are quite wrong in your suspicions. You say you have proof against me, but I don’t see how that is possible. I have committed no crime.’
‘And I have sent you no letter,’ Poirot told her. ‘I did not accuse you—I do not accuse you—of the murder of Barnabas Pandy.’
Annabel Treadway blinked at Poirot in astonishment. ‘But … I don’t understand.’
‘The letter you received was not written by the true Hercule Poirot. I too am innocent! An impersonator has sent these accusations, each one with my name signed at the bottom.’
‘Each … each one? Do you mean—?’
‘Oui. You are the third person in two days to say this very thing to me: that I have written to you and accused you of murdering a Barnabas Pandy. Yesterday it was Madame Sylvia Rule and Monsieur John McCrodden. Today it is you.’ Poirot watched her closely to see if the names of her fellow accusees had any noticeable effect. There was none that he could see.
‘So you didn’t …’ Her mouth moved for a while after she stopped speaking. Eventually she said, ‘So you don’t think I’m a killer?’
‘That is correct. At the present moment, I have no reason to believe you have murdered anybody. Now, if you were the only person to come to me as you have and talk about this letter of accusation, I might wonder …’ Deciding against sharing any more of his thoughts, Poirot smiled and said, ‘It is a cruel joke that this trickster, whomever he is, has played upon us both, mademoiselle. The names Sylvia Rule and John McCrodden are not known to you?’
‘I have never heard of either of them,’ said Annabel Treadway. ‘And jokes are supposed to be funny. This is not funny. It’s appalling. Who would do it? I’m not important, but to do such a thing to a person of your reputation is shocking, M. Poirot.’
‘To me you are extremely important,’ he told her. ‘You alone, of the three people to receive this letter, have listened. You alone believe Hercule Poirot when he says that he wrote and sent no such accusation. You do not make me feel I must be going mad, as the other two did. For that I am profoundly grateful.’
An oppressive air of sorrow still lingered in the room. If Poirot could only bring a smile to Annabel Treadway’s face … Ah, but that was a dangerous way to think. Allow a person to affect your emotions and your judgement suffered, always. Reminding himself that Miss Treadway might, despite seeming forlorn, nevertheless have murdered a man named Barnabas Pandy, Poirot continued with less effusiveness: ‘Madame Rule and Monsieur McCrodden, they did not believe Poirot. They did not listen.’
‘They surely didn’t accuse you of lying?’
‘Unfortunately, they did.’
‘But you’re Hercule Poirot!’
‘An undeniable truth,’ Poirot agreed. ‘May I ask, have you brought the letter with you?’
‘No. I destroyed it at once, I’m afraid. I … I couldn’t bear for it to exist.’
‘Dommage. I should have liked to see it. Eh bien, mademoiselle, let us take the next step in our investigation. Who should want to make mischief in this particular way—for you, for me, and for Madame Rule and Monsieur McCrodden? Four people who do not know this Barnabas Pandy, if he exists at all, which, for all we know—’
‘Oh!’ Annabel Treadway gasped.
‘What is the matter?’ Poirot asked her. ‘Tell me. Do not be afraid.’
She looked terrified. ‘It’s not true,’ she whispered.
‘What is not true?’
‘He does exist.’
‘Monsieur Pandy? Barnabas Pandy?’
‘Yes. Well, he did exist. He’s dead, you see. Not murdered, though. He fell asleep and … I thought … it was not my intention to deceive you, M. Poirot. I should have made it clear straight away … I simply thought …’ Her eyes moved quickly from one part of the room to another. There was, Poirot sensed, great chaos in her mind at that moment.
‘You have not deceived me,’ he assured her. ‘Madame Rule and Monsieur McCrodden were adamant that they knew no one by the name of Barnabas Pandy, and neither do I. I made the assumption that the same must be true of you. Now, please tell me all that you know about Monsieur Pandy. He is dead, you say?’
‘Yes. He died in December of last year. Three months ago.’
‘And you say it was not murder—which means you know how he died?’
‘Of course I do. I was there. We lived together in the same house.’
‘You … you lived together?’ This Poirot had not been expecting.
‘Yes, since I was seven years old,’ she said. ‘Barnabas Pandy was my grandfather.’
‘He was more like a parent to me than a grandparent,’ Annabel Treadway told Poirot, once he had succeeded in convincing her that he was not angry with her for misleading him. ‘My mother and father died when I was seven, and Grandy—that’s what I called him—took us in, Lenore and me. Lenore has also been like a parent to me, in a way. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Grandy was terribly old. It’s sad when they leave us, of course, but old people do die, don’t they? Naturally, when it’s their time.’
The contrast between her matter-of-fact tone and the air of sadness that seemed to cling to her led Poirot to conclude that, whatever was making her unhappy, it was not her grandfather’s death.
Then her manner changed. There was a flash of something in her eyes as she said fiercely, ‘People mind so much less when old people die, which is dreadfully unfair! “He had a good innings,” they say, as if that makes it tolerable, whereas when a child dies everyone knows it’s the worst kind of tragedy. I believe every death is a tragedy! Don’t you think it’s unfair, M. Poirot?’
The word ‘tragedy’ seemed to echo in the air. If Poirot had been ordered to pick one word to describe the essence of the woman before him, he would have chosen that one. It was almost a relief to hear it spoken aloud.
When he didn’t immediately answer her question, Annabel Treadway blushed and said, ‘When I spoke of old people dying and nobody caring as much as … well, I didn’t mean … I was talking about really very old people. Grandy was ninety-four, which I’m sure is much older than … I hope I have caused no offence.’
Thus, reflected Poirot, did some reassurances cause greater alarm than the original remark upon which they sought to improve. Somewhat dishonestly, he told Annabel Treadway that he was not offended. ‘How did you destroy the letter?’ he asked her.
She looked down at her knees.
‘You would prefer not to tell me?’
‘Being accused of murder—not by you, but definitely by somebody—makes one a little nervous of revealing anything.’
‘I understand. All the same, I should like to know how you disposed of it.’
She frowned. ‘Alors!’ thought Poirot to himself as the crease between her eyebrows deepened. That was one mystery solved at least. Frowning was a habit of hers and had been for many years. The groove in her forehead was the proof.
‘You’ll think me silly and superstitious if I tell you,’ she said, raising her handkerchief to just below her nose. She was not crying, but perhaps expected to be soon. ‘I took a pen and scored thick black lines through every word, so that nothing of what was written remained visible. I did it to your name too, M. Poirot. Every single word! Then I tore it up and burned the pieces.’
‘Three distinct methods of obliteration.’ Poirot smiled. ‘I am impressed. Madame Rule and Monsieur McCrodden, they were less thorough than you, mademoiselle. There is something else I should like to ask you. I sense you are unhappy, and perhaps afraid?’
‘I have nothing to be afraid of,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve told you, I’m innocent. Oh, if only it were Lenore or Ivy accusing me, I would know how to convince them. I would simply say, “I swear on Hoppy’s life,” and they would know I was telling the truth. They already know, of course, that I did not kill Grandy.’
‘Who is Hoppy?’ asked Poirot.
‘Hopscotch. My dog. He’s the most darling creature. I would never swear on his life and then lie. You would love him, M. Poirot. It’s impossible not to love him.’ For the first time since arriving, Annabel Treadway smiled, and the thick layer of sadness in the room’s atmosphere lifted a little. ‘I must get back to him. You’ll think me foolish, but I miss him dreadfully. And I’m not afraid—truly. If the person who sent the letter wasn’t willing to put his name to it, then it’s not a serious accusation, is it? It’s a silly trick, that’s all it is, and I’m very glad to be able to see you and straighten it out. Now, I must go.’
‘Please, mademoiselle, do not leave yet. I would like to ask you more questions.’
‘But I must get back to Hoppy,’ Annabel Treadway insisted, rising to her feet. ‘He needs … and none of them can … When I’m not there, he … I’m so sorry. I hope whoever sent those letters causes you no further trouble. Thank you for seeing me. Good day, M. Poirot.’
‘Good day, mademoiselle,’ Poirot said to a room that was suddenly empty apart from himself and a lingering feeling of desolation.
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