The Hollow

"But Veronica Cray would have had to get the gun somehow from Sir Henry's study."

"Yes, it would mean premeditation…" The Inspector took another tug at his moustache, then he looked at Poirot. "But you've hinted yourself at another possibility, M.

Poirot. There's Miss Savernake. And here's where your eye-witness stuff, or rather I should say ear-witness stuff, comes in again.

Dr. Christow said 'Henrietta' when he was dying. You heard him-they all heard him, though Mr. Angkatell doesn't seem to have caught what he said-"

"Edward Angkatell did not hear? That is interesting."

"But the others did. Miss Savernake herself says he tried to speak to her. Lady Angkatell says he opened his eyes, saw Miss Savernake, and said 'Henrietta.' She doesn't, I think, attach any importance to it."

Poirot smiled. "No-she would not attach importance to it."

"Now, M. Poirot, what about you? You were there-you saw-you heard. Was Dr.

Christow trying to tell you all that it was Henrietta who had shot him? In short, was that word an accusation?"

Poirot said slowly:

"I did not think so at the time."

"But now, M. Poirot? What do you think now?" Poirot sighed. Then he said slowly:

"It may have been so. I cannot say more than that. It is an impression only for which you are asking me, and when the moment is past there is a temptation to read into things a meaning which was not there at the time."

Grange said hastily:

"Of course, this is all off the record.

What M. Poirot thought isn't evidence-I know that. It's only a pointer I'm trying to get."

"Oh, I understand you very well-and an impression from an eye-witness can be a very useful thing. But I am humiliated to have to say that my impressions are valueless.

I was under the misconception, induced by the visual evidence, that Mrs. Christow had just shot her husband, so that when Dr.

Christow opened his eyes and said 'Henrietta,'

I never thought of it as being an accusation.

It is tempting now, looking back, to read into that scene something that was not there."

"I know what you mean," said Grange. "But it seems to me that since 'Henrietta' Was the last word Christow spoke, it must have meant one of two things. It was either an accusation of murder or else it was-well, purely emotional. She's the woman he was in love with and he was dying. Now, bearing everything in mind, which of the two did it sound like to you?"

Poirot sighed, stirred, closed his eyes, opened them again, stretched out his hands in acute vexation. He said:

"His voice was urgent-that is all I can say-urgent. It seemed to me neither accusing nor emotional-but urgent, yes! And of one thing I am sure. He was in full possession of his faculties. He spoke-yes, he spoke like a doctor-a doctor who has, say, a sudden surgical emergency on his hands -a patient who is bleeding to death, perhaps. …"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "That is the best I can do for you."

"Medical, eh?" said the Inspector. "Well, yes, that is a third way of looking at it. He was shot, he suspected he was dying, he wanted something done for him quicklyAnd if, as Lady Angkatell says. Miss Savernake was the first person he saw when his eyes opened, then he would appeal to her …It's not very satisfactory, though."

"Nothing about this case is satisfactory," said Poirot with some bitterness.

A murder scene, set and staged to deceive Hercule Poirot-and which had deceived him! No, it was not satisfactory.

Inspector Grange was looking out of the window.

"Hullo," he said, "here's Coombes, my Sergeant. Looks as though he's got something.

He's been working on the servants-the friendly touch. He's a nice-looking chap, got a way with women."

Sergeant Coombes came in a little breathlessly.

He was clearly pleased with himself, though subduing the fact under a respectful official manner.

"Thought I'd better come and report, sir, since I knew where you'd gone."

He hesitated, shooting a doubtful glance at Poirot, whose exotic foreign appearance did not commend itself to his sense of official reticence.

"Out with it, my lad," said Grange. "Never mind M. Poirot here. He's forgotten more about this game than you'll know for many years to come."

"Yes, sir. It's this way, sir. I got something out of the kitchen maid-"

Grange interrupted. He turned to Poirot triumphantly.

"What did I tell you? There's always hope where there's a kitchen maid. Heaven help us when domestic staffs are so reduced that nobody keeps a kitchen maid any more.

Kitchen maids talk, kitchen maids babble.

They're so kept down and in their place by the cook and the upper servants that it's only human nature to talk about what they know to someone who wants to hear it. Go on, Coombes."

"This is what the girl says, sir. That on Sunday afternoon she saw Gudgeon, the butler, walking across the hall with a revolver in his hand."

"Gudgeon?"

"Yes, sir." Coombes referred to a notebook.