Chapter Text
As Mrs Rowley was not feeling better, Doctor Lewiston was called up to the house. Poirot used the opportunity to talk to him.
"Will Madame Rowley be all right?" he asked.
"I think she's in shock," Lewiston answered. "I understand that she is already a very nervous person under normal circumstances, and the events of the last few days have been very stressful."
"I am sorry to hear that. Please send la pauvre Madame my regards."
Lewiston's expression softened and suddenly I realised how terse he had been the last couple of days.
"What I have been meaning to ask you", Poirot continued, "I have noticed many needle marks on Madame Stanwood's body. Do you know how she got them?"
"I can only guess. She has often used her own blood samples for her research projects, so the marks might be from that."
"One of the maids told us that Madame Stanwood was not well for some time. Might she not have taken the opium herself?"
Lewiston shrugged. "If she was indeed not well, she didn't tell me about it. I didn't prescribe the opium, if that's what you are asking."
"And you haven't noticed anything amiss?"
"No. But after all, the maid probably knew her better than I did."
"Is that so?" Poirot asked and narrowed his eyes.
Lewiston stared back, any traces of softness in his features now gone again. "Is there something else?"
"No, thank you, Doctor Lewiston, you have been most helpful."
Lewiston nodded, first towards Poirot and then towards me, collected his bag and started down the hall.
"Oh, just one more question, Monsieur le docteur. What was Madame Stanwood's latest research project? I can imagine you have talked about your work?"
Doctor Lewiston stopped, turned around and regarded Poirot for a fraction, before he answered, "I'm afraid I'm not allowed to talk about it."
"He’s lying," I remarked when he was out of earshot.
"Oui. But why and what about, that is the question."
"Maybe he wants to claim some of her work as his own?"
Poirot was lost in his own thoughts and I was not sure if he was listening to me. After a while, he said, "We will see in time. I have asked Inspector Dickinson to investigate Madame Stanwood's work, and also to check for fingerprints on the second opium phial. With luck, we will have the results at lunch time. In the meantime, I will retire to my room and think."
Knowing that Poirot did not want company when he was 'employing his little grey cells', I strolled around the house, searching for something with which to occupy myself. In the hall, I bumped into Emily.
"I'm sorry!" we cried out simultaneously.
My eyes caught something falling down from the folds of her dress, and as she quickly bent down to retrieve it I saw that it was a man's waistcoat. Emily folded it hastily and pressed it against her bosom, then she excused herself once more and ran outside.
Curious, I followed her, keeping a careful distance. She ran over to the stable, opened the door and, after having cast a cautious look behind, disappeared inside. Did she want to get rid of the waistcoat? I was almost sure it belonged to the mysterious Edward Turner. He had probably forgotten it when he visited her, and now maybe she was going to hide the waistcoat in the stable for him to get.
I waited for about ten minutes, and when Emily did not return I began to wonder if instead she and Edward had an appointment for a secret meeting, and if Edward had already been inside the stable. Emily had not been dressed in riding clothes, so I did not think she was going for a ride, and what else could she be doing there that took so long?
Just when I was pondering whether to walk over and peek in through the windows, she came out. I hid myself behind a bush and waited until she had entered the house, then I ran over to the stable. It was empty except for the horses who were peacefully chewing on their hay. I hastened to reach the back door and looked outside, but there was no-one to be seen.
Finally I let my eyes wander across the place, searching for a spot where Emily could have hidden the waistcoat, but there were too many chests and corners for me to search. And even if I did find the waistcoat, what was it going to prove?
I stood a while in the aisle, idly watching the horses while contemplating the situation, when I heard the clip-clop of hooves outside. Through the open door, I could see James dismounting his dark bay stallion which Emily admired so much. Next to James, another rider came to a halt and leapt swiftly to the ground. It was Ashley, the servant.
The boys stood outside for some time, chatting happily, and, while I watched them, I suddenly realised that Poirot was partly right about James. From the way James looked at Ashley, the way he talked to him, and the way he touched him casually when they were handling the horses, it was obvious that they felt more for each other than was decent. I even wondered how I had not seen it earlier—after all, I had witnessed them together a few times before—but then I remembered what Poirot would say. I could clearly hear his voice in my head: 'You are not observing, mon ami. You have made up your mind and you are only seeing what that mind of yours believes.'
I felt like an intruder as I watched the men who clearly believed themselves alone, and I retreated to the back of the stable, seriously considering leaving through the back door.
At that moment, James entered.
"Oh, hullo Captain Hastings!" he said.
"Uh, hullo," I answered, trying my best to look nonchalant. I turned towards one of the box-stalls and was greeted by a white, soft nose that blew warmly into my face.
"I didn't know you were interested in horses," James remarked. "Do you want to go for a ride, say, this afternoon?"
"It's been a while and I didn't bring my riding clothes," I said. I had meant to decline, but the last words had not even left my mouth before I thought that I would very much like to get some fresh air. Because of the rain and the events surrounding Mrs Stanwood's death I had barely left the house for nearly a week. Contrary to Poirot, who did not seem to mind staying inside all day, I liked being outside and having some exercise once in a while. The weather had, finally, cleared up and the sun was shining invitingly, so this would be an excellent opportunity. Hastily, I added, "But if it's not too much trouble?"
"No, the horses need exercising, and I'm sure we will find something for you to wear!" James laughed.
When I met Poirot later, he was in rather good humour.
"Did you bring order into the whole affair?" I asked him.
"Oui, mon ami, I did."
"Tell me! Do you know what happened?"
"Ne soyez pas impatient, Hastings! Everything at its own time! I have not solved the case yet. There are still some things that puzzle me, and I hope that our good Inspector Dickinson has some answers for me. But, the most important, I have brought order to my thoughts!"
Poirot tapped his temple. I was, of course, curious, but I knew it was no use trying to extract information from Poirot against his will, so I told him what I had learnt in his absence instead. At the mention of Emily disposing of the waistcoat, he seemed very pleased, as he was about James and Ashley.
"So you were right about James being ... you know," I finished my small report.
"You can always trust Papa Poirot to know about the affaires de cœur!"
Despite still feeling uncomfortable about the whole topic, I laughed heartily.
After I had recovered a little, I asked, "And you do not object to the idea of two men ... loving each other?"
For, even if I still found it hard to think of it as such, what I had witnessed between James and Ashley was nothing other than love. That men did unspeakable acts for pure gratification I could in a way comprehend, although I had tried my best to close my eyes to it so far. Love, however, was a completely different thing.
"My dear Hastings, it is hard enough to find love as it is, is it not? Why should I not be happy for those who have found it? L'amour, he does not care for your little social rules."
I goggled at the little man—but maybe I should not have been too surprised. After all, Poirot's methods for solving problems were not only of impressive logic, but also quite often unconventional; I had already experienced how far, at times, his opinion of justice differed from that of the police, and how resolutely he followed his own conscience in those cases. Although old-fashioned, Poirot had on many occasions proved that he was able to see behind social façades like no-one else, and, what was more, the old man was also a romantic at heart, despite so often mocking me for being just that.
Poirot returned my gaze with a twinkle, but beneath the light-heartedness of his demeanour I sensed some deeper emotion I could not quite fathom and which oddly unsettled me. At the same time, something about the whole situation felt quite familiar.
It was shortly before lunch when Inspector Dickinson came storming into the house.
"We found fingerprints on the phial of opium you gave me, Poirot," he said without prelude. "They belong to Mrs Rowley."
"Parbleu!" Poirot said, looking crestfallen.
I, too, was surprised. Had we not just ruled out the Rowleys having anything to do with the opium?
"And there were no other prints?" Poirot asked.
"No. Why, what did you expect?"
Poirot only shook his head.
"I'm going to ask Mrs Rowley a few questions," Dickinson said. "Do you know where she is?"
"I believe she is still in her room," I said, and all three of us went upstairs to see her.
Lucy spotted us and told us Mrs Rowley was supposed to rest, as she was not feeling much better, but Inspector Dickinson would have none of it. Boldly, he stormed into her room.
"Is this your opium?" he demanded, holding up a glass container which contained the phial in question.
Mrs Rowley's eyes grew wide. "Why do you ask?"
"Please answer the question," Dickinson said coolly.
"I don't know. I keep mine on the washstand..."
Dickinson went over to the indicated place and examined the bottles and containers there.
"There is no opium here," he said.
"Well, then it might be mine," Mrs Rowley said.
"And how do you explain that it was found in the house's medicine chest?"
Mrs Rowley shrugged weakly. "One of the maids must have taken it."
Needless to say, none of the maids could remember having taken a phial of opium from Mrs Rowley's room, and why would they do such a thing? Inspector Dickinson was enraged.
"Mrs Rowley was lying, of course. Straight to my face!" he grumbled.
"I would not concern myself too much with Madame Rowley," Poirot said calmly.
Dickinson shot him an angry look. "And why is that, Mister Poirot?"
Poirot's only reply was an elegant shrug.
"Well, Mrs Stanwood didn't die of opium, so I'll let it rest for now. Got more important things to do. Oh, one more thing," he said over his shoulder, "Mrs Stanwood had been working on a cure for leukaemia for the better part of the year. As far as I know, she wasn't very successful. I don't see how this is related to the case, but I might send one of my men over tomorrow. Unless there is something you want to tell me, Poirot?"
It was clear from his tone that Inspector Dickinson was annoyed with Poirot, and I could not blame him. I knew from first-hand experience how it felt when Poirot kept things to himself.
Poirot, however, was oblivious to the Inspector's dark mood and answered cheerfully, "No, I am afraid there is not much I can say right now, my dear Inspector."
Inspector Dickinson turned on his heels and stomped off, muttering to himself.
"Mon ami," Poirot said to me, "I fancy I will pay Mrs Stanwood's colleagues a visit this afternoon."
"You? Alone?" I asked.
"That is right. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on people, Hastings!"
I tried not to be disappointed. I really would have preferred getting information about Mrs Stanwood's work first hand instead of relying on Poirot to be in the mood to tell me what he found out, and I also liked being out and about with him in general—but I reminded myself that I had an appointment of my own to look forward to this afternoon.
Focusing on another topic, a question which I had thought of earlier came to my mind. "Did Inspector Dickinson ever try to verify Mrs Ashford's statement about the Apollo figurine?" I asked Poirot.
Poirot looked at me in surprise. "Ah, the figurine!" he ejaculated. "Hastings, that is an excellent idea!"
Poirot left in an excited rush and I hastened to follow him, not sure what he had in mind. We came to a halt in the boudoir, and Poirot studied the mantelpiece with interest.
Then he asked, "What do you think, Hastings?"
"There are three figurines depicting Greek gods," I said.
Poirot nodded, but looked at me as if waiting for more. I studied the statues more closely.
"Well, they all seem to be of the same style as the Apollo figurine. Other than that, I can't see anything special. It's all very clean and tidy."
"Yes. There are no figurines like them elsewhere in the house," Poirot said.
"No. Only the Apollo in Mrs Stanwood's bedroom," I said. "Oh, are you implying that belongs here, too? But the statues on the mantelpiece are arranged as if they are complete the way they are now."
"Let us ask the maids about it. Venez, Hastings!"
He seized my elbow and steered me out of the room. We found Mary in the dining-room, where she was busy with the tablecloth and napkins.
"Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Mary!" Poirot said with a slight bow. "Pray tell, did Mrs Stanwood always have the Apollo figurine in her bedroom?"
Mary blinked at him. "Apollo?"
"The handsome young Greek gentleman with the bow? On the mantelpiece?" Poirot added helpfully.
"Oh! No, she used to keep it in the boudoir, along with the other statues."
"When did she move it?"
Mary shrugged. "I don't know. Last week, perhaps?"
I turned towards Poirot, a little disappointed. "So Mrs Ashford might have told the truth. She might not have been in Mrs Stanwood's bedroom at all," I said.
"Quite so," the little man murmured thoughtfully.
After lunch, I spent some time on the terrace. It was too cold and wet to sit down, so I stood there for a while, looking at the garden. After about a quarter of an hour, I was joined by Mr Rowley. I had tried to avoid him as best I could since he never stopped asking questions about the case. Now was no exception.
"Ah, Captain Hastings!" he exclaimed. "I saw that Inspector Dickinson was here. Is there any news?"
"Except the interview with your wife?" I said coolly.
"Ah, that," he said, and had the grace to look embarrassed for a moment. "I'm sure it is all a misunderstanding. She has nothing to do with Edna's death." Then he looked expectantly at me. "Was that all?"
"There's nothing I am allowed to talk about," I said, not quite truthfully.
I hoped dearly that my little white lie would quiet him, and that he would not ask me about one of Poirot's old cases instead. It did not work.
"Do you know who forced the drawer open yet?"
"No," I said curtly.
"Well, I would ask Julius about it."
"Mr Ashford? What makes you say so?"
"I saw him burn something in the dining-room fire yesterday. It must have been something he wanted to get rid of very desperately, don't you think?"
I was not sure if I could trust the information he was giving me, or if he was just aggrandising himself—or even trying to mislead the investigation—but I decided to talk to Mr Ashford anyway. What could it hurt?
I went to the fireplace in the dining-room and poked around in the ashes, but I did not find anything useful in there. Given how the fireplace was used at every meal and how tidy the servants kept it, that was not much of a surprise. I went on to search for Mr Ashford.
I found him in his usual spot in the sitting-room, reading a newspaper. Without further ado, I confronted him with what I had heard, and he lowered the newspaper a fraction. Over the edge of the front page, he said unimpressed, "I was not aware that burning something in the fire was a crime."
"It is not. But why would you suddenly burn something when you are on holiday—unless it's something to do with Mrs Stanwood's death or the forced-open drawer of her writing desk? You must admit it does make you look rather suspicious."
Mr Ashford watched me intently before he answered, "Well, in that case, I deny everything."
He resumed reading, making it clear that for him the topic was settled. I was left gaping at a headline on the front page, which read 'No Progress in the Stanwood Murder', uncertain what to make of Mr Ashford. I was not sure at all whether he had burnt something in the fire and was extraordinarily audacious about it, or whether he had done no such thing and was just mocking me.
Later in the afternoon, clad in a borrowed pair of riding breeches and boots, I met James in the stable. The mere prospect of our ride had already lifted my spirits considerably, and forgotten were the annoying Mr Rowley, the grumpy Mr Ashford, and even Poirot's ongoing secrecy.
"If it weren't for me, Edna would have long since given up the stable," James said as we led our horses outside. "It is a great deal of work, and Edna pretty much stopped riding herself."
"Yes, I can imagine that," I replied.
"I'm not quite sure what will happen now. With the horses, I mean. I'll try to keep the stallion, but other than him?" James shook his head. Then he smiled ruefully. "Does that sound silly? That I'm worrying about the horses when..." He made a vague gesture towards the house.
"No, not at all," I assured him.
"Anyhow, let's try not to think about it for a while, shall we?" James said and mounted his mare. I followed his example, and off we rode.
When we let our horses trot across the wide pastures of the estate, the sun reflecting peacefully on the still wet grass and the silence broken only by an occasional snort of the horses or the call of a pheasant, it suddenly occurred to me that Poirot was right. James was a fine chap, and it did not matter that he was so. Maybe it was possible for two men to love each other. Perhaps it did not matter much what people did in their bedrooms, even if there was a law against such things. Maybe, for once, the law was wrong. Being a rather old-fashioned and law-abiding man, this was quite an idea for me, and I felt adventurous from simply reflecting on it.
Once I got accustomed to my new theory, however, I became curious. All sorts of questions started forming in my mind, any of them as ridiculous and impossible to ask as the next, and not all of them about James. Without much success, I tried to focus on less scandalous topics. I was glad when James proposed to canter for a while, which effectively kept my mind occupied. After that, we fell into an easy chit-chat which lasted until we returend home.
As I had told James, it had been a while since I had sat on a horse's back, and while one never forgets how to ride—I felt comfortable during our whole outing—there are certain muscles one needs for horse riding which are rarely used on other occasions. When I dismounted, I could already feel a slight pain on the inner side of my thighs, and I knew instantly that it would only get worse the next day.
Late in the afternoon Poirot returned from his trip. He was beaming with pleasure; obviously his enquiries had been to his satisfaction. He pulled me into an exuberant embrace, planting a kiss on each of my cheeks as if we had not seen each other for weeks instead of hours. As always, I was at the same time embarrassed and touched by the little man's display of affection.
"What did you find out?" I asked, reluctantly letting my hands drop from his shoulders.
"I do not have time to tell it now, Hastings! Do you fancy a walk, mon cher?"
"What, now?" I asked, flabbergasted.
"Oui, oui!"
Poirot took my elbow and hastened outside, practically dragging me with him.
"Where are we going?" I asked when we were about to leave Stanwood Manor.
"We are going to visit Monsieur Brown. I am told he lives in the neighbourhood."
"The solicitor? Why?"
"Why, to ask him a question, of course!" Poirot exclaimed.
"Who would have thought," I said drily.
"Ah! The sarcasm! The irony!"
"Poirot," I grumbled.
I wanted to let Poirot know that I was annoyed at him for leaving me in the dark and resolved not to talk to him for a while, but I was itching to tell him about Mr Ashford, so the silence did not last for long. To tell the truth, I never was able to be angry at Poirot for long anyway.
"So I'm not sure whether Mr Ashford is lying or not," I concluded my little report.
"From what you have told me, he did not exactly make a statement about his actions."
"True. He was just dashed evasive. But do you think he burnt something in the fire?"
"Yes, it seems highly likely."
"Really?" I cried. "But what was it? Mrs Stanwood's will?"
"I can only guess what it was that he burnt, but I am very certain that it was not Madame Stanwood's will."
"But where is the will then? Or was there no will in the first place?"
"That is for Monsieur Brown to know," Poirot said cryptically.
Mr Brown's house was about half an hour away from Stanwood Manor. The door was answered by an elderly maid who let us into the parlour, and after ten minutes Brown walked into the room.
"Ah, Monsieur Brown!" Poirot said with a polite bow. "My sincerest apologies to interrupt you at this hour unannounced. I only have one very short question." Poirot straightened and fixed his green eyes on Brown. "Why did you lie about the will?"
"I ... I beg your pardon?" Brown said, surprised.
"You lied about Mrs Stanwood's will. Why?" Poirot repeated, and his eyes gleamed like a cat's.
"I'm sorry," Brown said, and he was fidgeting now. "Look, I am very busy at the moment. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I could visit you at Stanwood Manor right after breakfast, if it suits you."
Poirot narrowed his eyes and scrutinised Brown, then he nodded.
"Eh bien. I will await you tomorrow morning."
Obviously relieved, Brown led us to the door.
"What was that about?" I asked Poirot. "Does he have anything to do with the murder? If so, he might not show up tomorrow at all! He might even make a run for it!"
While I talked, I had seized Poirot's arm in excitement.
Poirot patted my hand lightly. "I am confident he will keep his word," he said.
I released his arm. "And I presume you will not tell me why you think so?" A hint of bitterness had crept into my voice.
"Ah! Poirot does not know everything yet! But it will be explained in due course! Soyez patient, mon ami!"
On our way back, we took a more leisurely pace. The ground was still wet and sometimes the branches quivering in the wind dripped water upon us, but none of this could impair Poirot's good humour.
"The Body in the Sewer, do you know what it is about?" Poirot asked all of a sudden.
"The novel? I've read some articles about it, though I have never read the book itself," I answered.
"How was the murder committed?"
"I believe the victim was stabbed to death."
"But there were no poisons in the book?" Poirot prodded.
"I suppose not," I said. I did not know why Poirot was suddenly so interested in the novel, but whatever it was that he was contemplating, my answer seemed to satisfy him, as he nodded contently. Before I could ask him about it, however, he was already onto a new topic.
"How was your ride with Monsieur James?" he asked.
"Err, nice," I said, feeling strangely uneasy. "How did you know about it?"
"I did not know," Poirot explained cheerfully, "but there are some hairs of a horse on your sleeve, and you walk a bit stiffly. It has been a while, hein?"
I brushed at my clothes absentmindedly. "Poirot..." I began, but then fell silent. There was something I wanted to say to Poirot, something to talk about, but somehow I did not know what, much less how to formulate it.
Poirot beamed at me with a mixture of pride and affection. I wondered what it was that he saw in me, or how it could be that he often seemed to know me better than I did myself.