Lord Edgware Dies

‘Opinion?’ said Jane absently, as she twisted her head over her shoulder. ‘What on?’

‘Who do you think likely to have killed Lord Edgware?’

Jane shook her head. ‘I haven’t any idea!’

She wriggled her shoulders experimentally and took up the hand-glass.

‘Madame!’ said Poirot in a loud, emphatic voice. ‘Who DO you THINK KILLED YOUR HUSBAND?’

This time it got through. Jane threw him a startled glance. ‘Geraldine, I expect,’ she said.

‘Who is Geraldine?’

But Jane’s attention was gone again.

‘Ellis, take this up a little on the right shoulder. So. What, M. Poirot? Geraldine’s his daughter. No Ellis, the right shoulder. That’s better. Oh! must you go, M. Poirot? I’m terribly grateful for everything. I mean, for the divorce, even though it isn’t necessary after all. I shall always think you were wonderful.’ 

I only saw Jane Wilkinson twice again. Once on the stage, once when I sat opposite her at a luncheon party. I always think of her as I saw her then, absorbed heart and soul in clothes, her lips carelessly throwing out the words that were to influence Poirot’s further actions, her mind concentrated firmly and beautifully on herself.

‘Epatant,’ said Poirot with reverence as we emerged into the Strand.

Chapter 12. The Daughter

There was a letter sent by hand lying on the table when we got back to our rooms. Poirot picked it up, slit it open with his usual neatness, and then laughed.

‘What is it you say-“Talk of the devil”? See here, Hastings.’

I took the note from him.

The paper was stamped 17 Regent Gate and was written in very upright characteristic handwriting which looked easy to read and, curiously enough, was not.

‘Dear Sir(it ran),

I hear you were at the house this morning with the inspector. I am sorry not to have had the opportunity of speaking to you. If convenient to yourself I should be much obliged if you could spare me a few minutes any time this afternoon.

Yours truly,

Geraldine Marsh.’ 

‘Curious,’ I said. ‘I wonder why she wants to see you?’

‘Is it curious that she should want to see me? You are not polite, my friend.’

Poirot has the most irritating habit of joking at the wrong moment.

‘We will go round at once, my friend,’ he said, and lovingly brushing an imagined speck of dust from his hat, he put it on his head.

Jane Wilkinson’s careless suggestion that Geraldine might have killed her father seemed to me particularly absurd. Only a particularly brainless person could have suggested it. I said as much to Poirot.

‘Brains. Brains. What do we really mean by the term? In your idiom you would say that Jane Wilkinson has the brains of a rabbit. That is a term of disparagement. But consider the rabbit for a moment. He exists and multiplies, does he not? That, in Nature, is a sign of mental superiority. The lovely Lady Edgware she does not know history, or geography, nor the classics sans doute. The name of Lao Tse would suggest to her a prize Pekingese dog, the name of Moliere a maison de couture. But when it comes to choosing clothes, to making rich and advantageous marriages, and to getting her own way-her success is phenomenal. The opinion of a philosopher as to who murdered Lord Edgware would be no good to me-the motive for murder from a philosopher’s point of view would be the greatest good of the greatest number, and as that is difficult to decide, few philosophers are murderers. But a careless opinion from Lady Edgware might be useful to me because her point of view would be materialistic and based on a knowledge of the worst side of human nature.’

‘Perhaps there’s something in that,’ I conceded.

‘Nous voici,’ said Poirot. ‘I am curious to know why the young lady wishes so urgently to see me.’

‘It is a natural desire,’ I said, getting my own back. ‘You said so a quarter of an hour ago. The natural desire to see something unique at close quarters.’

‘Perhaps it is you, my friend, who make an impression on her heart the other day,’ replied Poirot as he rang the bell.

I recalled the startled face of the girl who had stood in the doorway. I could still see those burning dark eyes in the white face. That momentary glimpse had made a great impression on me.

We were shown upstairs to a big drawing-room and in a minute or two Geraldine Marsh came to us there.

The impression of intensity which I had noticed before was heightened on this occasion. This tall, thin, white-faced girl with her big haunting black eyes was a striking figure.

She was extremely composed-in view of her youth, remarkably so.

‘It is very good of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot,’ she said. ‘I am sorry to have missed you this morning.’

‘You were lying down?’

‘Yes. Miss Carroll-my father’s secretary, you know-insisted. She has been very kind.’

There was a queer grudging note in the girl’s voice that puzzled me.

‘In what way can I be of service to you, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot.

She hesitated a minute and then said:

‘On the day before my father was killed you came to see him?’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’

‘Why? Did he-send for you?’