Poirot Investigates
moustache. He seemed an intelligent fellow.
We returned to Crabtree Manor in high spirits, and, locking the
study door, proceeded to put our newly acquired knowledge into
effect. It was impossible to see any sign on the bricks, but when
we pressed in the manner indicated, a deep cavity was at once
disclosed.
Eagerly Poirot plunged in his hand. Suddenly his face fell from
complacent elation to consternation. All he held was a charred
fragment of stiff paper. But for it, the cavity was empty.
“_Sacré!_” cried Poirot angrily. “Some one has been before us.”
We examined the scrap of paper anxiously. Clearly it was a fragment
of what we sought. A portion of Baker’s signature remained, but no
indication of what the terms of the will had been.
Poirot sat back on his heels. His expression would have been
comical if we had not been so overcome.
“I understand it not,” he growled. “Who destroyed this? And what
was their object?”
“The Bakers?” I suggested.
“_Pourquoi?_ Neither will makes any provision for them, and they
are more likely to be kept on with Miss Marsh than if the place
became the property of a hospital. How could it be to anyone’s
advantage to destroy the will? The hospitals benefit—yes; but one
cannot suspect institutions.”
“Perhaps the old man changed his mind and destroyed it himself,”
I suggested.
Poirot rose to his feet, dusting his knees with his usual care.
“That may be,” he admitted. “One of your more sensible observations,
Hastings. Well, we can do no more here. We have done all that
mortal man can do. We have successfully pitted our wits against
the late Andrew Marsh’s; but, unfortunately, his niece is no better
off for our success.”
By driving to the station at once, we were just able to catch a
train to London, though not the principal express. Poirot was sad
and dissatisfied. For my part, I was tired and dozed in a corner.
Suddenly, as we were just moving out of Taunton, Poirot uttered a
piercing squeal.
“_Vite_, Hastings! Awake and jump! But jump I say!”
Before I knew where I was we were standing on the platform,
bareheaded and minus our valises, whilst the train disappeared into
the night. I was furious. But Poirot paid no attention.
“Imbecile that I have been!” he cried. “Triple imbecile! Not again
will I vaunt my little grey cells!”
“That’s a good job at any rate,” I said grumpily. “But what is this
all about?”
As usual, when following out his own ideas, Poirot paid absolutely
no attention to me.
“The tradesmen’s books—I have left them entirely out of account!
Yes, but where? Where? Never mind, I cannot be mistaken. We must
return at once.”
Easier said than done. We managed to get a slow train to Exeter,
and there Poirot hired a car. We arrived back at Crabtree Manor in
the small hours of the morning. I pass over the bewilderment of
the Bakers when we had at last aroused them. Paying no attention
to anybody, Poirot strode at once to the study.
“I have been, not a triple imbecile, but thirty-six times one, my
friend,” he deigned to remark. “Now, behold!”
Going straight to the desk, he drew out the key, and detached the
envelope from it. I stared at him stupidly. How could he possibly
hope to find a big will-form in that tiny envelope? With great care
he cut open the envelope, laying it out flat. Then he lighted the
fire and held the plain inside surface of the envelope to the
flame. In a few minutes faint characters began to appear.
“Look, _mon ami_!” cried Poirot in triumph.
I looked. There were just a few lines of faint writing stating
briefly that he left everything to his niece, Violet Marsh. It was
dated March 25, 12.30 p.m., and witnessed by Albert Pike,
confectioner, and Jessie Pike, married woman.
“But is it legal?” I gasped.
“As far as I know, there is no law against writing your will in a
blend of disappearing and sympathetic ink. The intention of the
testator is clear, and the beneficiary is his only living relation.
But the cleverness of him! He foresaw every step that a searcher
would take—that I, miserable imbecile, took. He gets two will-forms,
makes the servants sign twice, then sallies out with his will
written on the inside of a dirty envelope and a fountain-pen
containing his little ink mixture. On some excuse he gets the
confectioner and his wife to sign their names under his own
signature, then he ties it to the key of his desk and chuckles to
himself. If his niece sees through his little ruse, she will have
justified her choice of life and elaborate education, and be
thoroughly welcome to his money.”
“She didn’t see through it, did she?” I said slowly. “It seems
rather unfair. The old man really won.”
“But no, Hastings. It is _your_ wits that go astray. Miss Marsh
proved the astuteness of her wits and the value of the higher
education for women by at once putting the matter in _my_ hands.
Always employ the expert. She has amply proved her right to the
money.”
I wonder—I very much wonder—what old Andrew Marsh would have
thought!
THE END