LITMIR.BIZ

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to track you down at once, after I got your letter, but I misplaced it almost immediately—’

      ‘Monsieur,’ said Poirot sternly. ‘To which letter are you referring?’

      ‘The one about … well, about old Barnabas Pandy,’ said Hugo Dockerill, beaming with renewed vitality now that the crucial name had been uttered. ‘I wouldn’t normally dare to suggest that the amazing Hercule Poirot might be wrong about something, but on this occasion … I’m afraid it wasn’t me. I thought that … well, if you could tell me what has led you to believe it was, maybe between us we could get this funny mess ironed out. As I say, I’m sure the misunderstanding is entirely my fault.’

      ‘You say it was not you, monsieur. What was not you?’

      ‘The person who murdered Barnabas Pandy,’ said Hugo Dockerill.

      Having declared himself innocent of murder, Hugo Dockerill picked up an unused fork from the place setting opposite Poirot and helped himself to a chunk of Fee Spring’s Church Window Cake. Or perhaps it was Philippa the pilferer’s slice; Poirot could no longer remember which was which.

      ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Dockerill said. ‘Shame for it to go to waste. Don’t tell my wife! She’s always complaining I’ve got the table manners of a guttersnipe. But we boys are a bit more robust when it comes to filling our bellies, eh?’

      Poirot, aghast that anyone would find a half-eaten slice of cake tempting, made a tactfully non-specific noise. He permitted himself to reflect, briefly, upon similarity and difference. When many people do or say precisely the same thing, the effect is the opposite of what one might expect. Now two women and two men had come forward to communicate the same message: that they had received a letter signed in the name of Hercule Poirot and accusing them of the murder of Barnabas Pandy. Instead of pondering the similarities between these four encounters, Poirot found himself intrigued by the differences. He was now firmly of the view that if you wanted to see clearly how one person’s character diverged from that of another, the most efficient method was to place both in identical situations.

      Sylvia Rule was egotistical and full of proud rage. Like John McCrodden, she was in the grip of a powerful obsession with a particular person. Both believed Poirot must have done the bidding of that person in writing the letters, be it Rowland ‘Rope’ McCrodden or the mysterious Eustace. John McCrodden’s anger, Poirot thought, was equal to Sylvia Rule’s but different: less explosive, more enduring. He would not forget, whereas she might if a new and more pressing drama occurred.

      Of the four, Annabel Treadway was the hardest to fathom. She had not been angry at all, but she was withholding something. And afflicted, somehow.

      Hugo Dockerill was the first and only letter-recipient to remain cheerful in the face of his predicament, and certainly the first to demonstrate a belief that all the world’s problems could be solved if only decent people sat down at a table together and set things straight. If he objected to being accused of murder, he concealed it well. He was still doing his best to split his face across the middle with a radiant smile, and muttering, between mouthfuls of Church Window Cake, about how sorry he was if anything he’d done had created the impression that he might be a killer.

      ‘Do not keep apologizing,’ Poirot told him. ‘You spoke of “old Barnabas Pandy” a moment ago. Why did you refer to him in that way?’

      ‘Well, he was on his way to being a hundred years old when he died, wasn’t he?’

      ‘So you knew Monsieur Pandy?’

      ‘I had never met him, but I knew about him, of course—because of Timothy.’

      ‘Who is Timothy?’ asked Poirot. ‘I should explain, monsieur, that the letter you received did not come from me. I knew nothing of a Barnabas Pandy until I was visited by three people who were all sent the same letter. And now a fourth: you. These letters were signed “Hercule Poirot” by a deceiver. A fraud! They did not come from me. I have accused nobody of the murder of Monsieur Pandy—who, I believe, died of natural causes.’

      ‘Golly!’ Hugo Dockerill’s broad smile dipped a little as his eyes filled with confusion. ‘What a rum do. Silly prank, was it?’

      ‘Who is Timothy?’ Poirot asked again.

      ‘Timothy Lavington—he’s old Pandy’s great-grandson. I’m his housemaster at school. Turville. Pandy himself was a pupil there, as was Timothy’s father—both Old Turvillians. As am I. Only difference is, I never left the place!’ Dockerill chortled.

      ‘I see. So you are acquainted with Timothy Lavington’s family?’

      ‘Yes. But, as I say, I never met old Pandy.’

      ‘When did Barnabas Pandy die?’

      ‘I couldn’t tell you the exact date. It was late last year, I think. November or December.’ This matched what Annabel Treadway had said.

      ‘In your capacity as housemaster, you were told, I assume, that the great-grandfather of one of your charges was deceased?’

      ‘Yes, I was. We were all a bit glum about it. Still, the old boy lived to a ripe old age. We should all be so lucky!’ The joyous smile was back in place. ‘And if one has to go, I suppose there are worse ways than drowning.’

      ‘Drowning?’

      ‘Yes. Poor old Pandy fell asleep in his bath and sank down under the water. Drowned. Horrible accident. There was never any talk of it being anything else.’

      Annabel Treadway had spoken of her grandfather falling asleep. Poirot had assumed this meant he had died naturally in the night. She had said nothing about a bath or drowning. Had she deliberately withheld that part of the story?

      ‘This was what you believed until you received a letter signed in the name of Hercule Poirot—that Monsieur Pandy drowned in his bathtub, accidentally?’

      ‘It’s what everybody believes,’ said Hugo Dockerill. ‘There was an inquest that returned a verdict of accidental death. I remember hearing Jane, my wife, commiserating with young Timothy. I suppose the inquest must have got it wrong, what?’

      ‘Do you have the letter with you?’ Poirot asked him.

      ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t. As I said, I mislaid it. I lost it twice, in fact. I found it the first time—that’s how I had your address—but then it went astray again. I looked for the blasted thing before I set off for London, but couldn’t lay my hands on it. I do hope one of our boys hasn’t got his grubby mitts on it. I should hate for anybody to think I stand accused of murder—especially when, as it turns out, you have accused me of no such thing!’

      ‘Do you and your wife have children?’

      ‘Not yet. We’re hoping to. Oh—I’m speaking as a housemaster when I say “our boys”. We’ve got seventy-five of the little blighters! My wife is a saint to put up with them, I always say, and she always says that they’re no trouble at all, and if she’s a saint then it’s for putting up with me.’ A predictable guffaw followed.

      ‘Perhaps you could ask your wife to help you search the house?’ said Poirot. ‘So far, not one person has brought me their letter. It would be very helpful if I could see at least one.’

      ‘Of course. I should have thought of that. Jane’ll find it, I have no doubt. She’s tremendous! She has a talent for finding things, though she denies it. She says to me, “You’d find all the same things I find, Hugo, if you’d only open your eyes and engage your brain.” She’s marvellous!’

      ‘Do you know a woman by the name of Annabel Treadway, monsieur?’

      Hugo’s smile widened. ‘Annabel! Of course. She’s Timothy’s aunt, and old Pandy’s—what would it be? Let me think. Timothy’s mother Lenore is Pandy’s granddaughter, so … yes, Annabel was his … erm … She’s Lenore’s sister, so … she was also Pandy’s grand-daughter.’

      Poirot

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