Hercule Poirots casebook. Agatha Christie
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terms, Crabtree Manor and its contents are to be at my disposal for a year from his death—‘during which time my clever niece may prove her wits/ the actual words run. At the end of that period, 4my wits having proved better than hers/ the house and all my uncle’s large fortune pass to various charitable institutions.”
‘That is a little hard on you,mademoiselle, seeing that you were Mr. Marsh’s only blood relation.”
“I do not look on it in that way. Uncle Andrew warned me fairly, and I chose my own path. Since I would not fall in with his wishes, he was at perfect liberty to leave his money to whom he pleased.”
“Was the will drawn up by a lawyer?”
“No； it was writen on a printed will form and witnessed by the man and his wife who lI have in the house and do for my uncle.,”
“There might be a possibility of upsetting such a will?”
“I would not even attempt to do such a thing.”
“You regard it, then, as a sporting challenge on the part of your uncle?”
“That is exactly how I look upon it:
“It bears that interpretation, certainly” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Somewhere in this rambling old manor house your uncle has concealed either a sum of money in notes or possibly a second will, and has gaven you a year in which to exercise your ingenuity to find it."
"Exactly, Monsieur Poirot; and I am paying you the compliment of assuming that your ingenuity will be greater than mine.”
“Eh, eh! but that is very charming of you. My gray cells are at your disposal. You have made no search yourself?”
"Only a cursory one； but I have too much respect for my uncle s undoubted abilities to fancy that the task will be an easy one”
“Have you the will or a copy of it with you?”
Miss Marsh handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it, nodding to himself.
“Made three years ago. Dated March 25; and the time is gaven also—II a.m.—that is very suggestI have. It narrows the field of search. Assuredly it is another will vve have to seek for. A will made even half an hour later would upset this. Eh bienf mademoiselle, it is a problem charming and ingenious that you have presented to me here. I shall have all the pleasure in the world in solving it for you. Granted that your uncle was a man of ability, his gray cells cannot have been of the quality of Hercule Poirot’s!”
(Really, Poirot's vanity is blatant!)
“P'ortunately, I have nothing of moment on hand at the minute. Hastings and I will go down to Crabtree Manor tonight. The man and wife who attended on your uncle are still there,I presume?” “Yes,their name is Baker.”
The following morning saw us started on the hunt proper. We had arrived late the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Baker, having received a telegram from Miss Marsh, were expecting us. They were a pleasant couple, the man gnarled and pink-cheeked, like a shrI haveled pippin, and his wife a woman of vast proportions and true Devonshire calm.
Tired with our journey and the eight-mile drI have from the station, we had retired at once to bed after a supper of roast chicken, apple pie, and Devonshire cream. We had now disposed of an excellent breakfast, and were siting in a small paneled room which had been the late Mr. Marsh’s study and living room. A roll-top desk stuffed with papers, all neatly docketed, stood against the wall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its owner’s constant resting place. A big chintz-covered settee ran along the opposite wail, and the deep low window seats were covered with the same faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern.
“Eh bieny mon ami”, said Poirot, lighting one of his tiny cigarettes, "we must map out our plan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of the house, but I am of opinion that any clue will be found in this room. We shall have to go through the documents in the desk with meticulous care. Naturally, I do not expect to find the will among them； but it is likely that some apparently innocent paper may conceal the clue to its hiding place. But first we must have a little information. Ring the bell, I pray of you.”
I did so. While we were waiting for it to be answered, Poirot walked up and down, looking about him approvingly.
“A man of method, this Mr. Marsh. See how neatly the packets of papers are docketed; then the key to each drawer has its ivory label— so has the key of the china cabinet on the wall; and see with what precision the china within is arranged. It rejoices the heart. Nothing here offends the eye—”
He came to an abrupt pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk itself, to which a dirty envelope was affixed. Poirot frowned at it and withdrew it from the lock. On it were scrawled the words： KEY OF ROLL-TOP DESK, in a crabbed handwriting, quite unlike the neat superscriptions on the other keys.
“An alien note” said Poirot, frowning. ‘I could swear that here we have no longer the personality of Mr. Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh, and she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method and order.”
Baker came in answer to the bell.
“Will you fetch madame your wife, and answer a few questions?”
Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs. Baker, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming all over her face.
In a few clear words Poirot set forth the object of his mission. The Bakers were immediately sympathetic.
“Us don’t want to see Miss Violet done out of what’s hers,” declared the woman. “Cruel hard .twould be for hospitals to get it all”’
Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker remembered perfectly witnessing the will. Baker had previously been sent in to the neighbouring town to get two printed will forms.
“wo?M said Poirot sharply.
“Yes, sir, for safety like, I suppose, in case he should spoil one— and sure enough, so he did do. Us had signed one—”
“What time of day was that?”
Baker scratched his head, but his wife was quicker.
“Why, to be sure,I’d just put the milk on for the cocoa at eleven.
Don’t ee remember? It had all boiled over on the stove when us got back to kitchen.”
“And afterwards?”
“ Twould be about an hour later. Us had to go in again. ‘I have made a mistake,' says old master, ‘had to tear the whole thing up. Til trouble you to sign again/ and us did. And afterwards master gave us a tidy sum of money each. “Ve left you nothing in my will/ says he, 4but each year I lI have you’ll have this to be a nest egg when I’m gone’; and sure enough, so he did.”
Poirot reflected.
“After you had signed the second time, what did Mr. Marsh do? Do you know?”
“Went out to the village to pay tradesmen’s books."
That did not seem very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out the key of the desk.
“Is that your master’s writing?”
I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied, “Yes, sir, it is.”
“He’s lying,” I thought. “But why?”
“Has your master let the house?—have there been any strangers in it during the last three years?"
“No, sir.”
“No visitors?”
“Only Miss Violet”,’
“No strangers of any kind been inside this room?”
“No, sir.”
“You forget the workmen,Jim,” his wife reminded him.