Black was straightforward enough over the matter.
“Yes, I did tell them that story now that I come to think of it. Chap shot himself on a farm out there. Did it with a rook rifle through the roof of the mouth, bullet lodged in the brain. Doctors were no end puzzled over it—there was nothing to show except a little blood on the lips. But what—”
“What has it got to do with Mr. Maltravers? You did not know, I see, that he was found with a rook rifle by his side.”
“You mean my story suggested to him—oh, but that is awful!”
“Do not distress yourself—it would have been one way or another. Well, I must get on the telephone to London.”
Poirot had a lengthy conversation over the wire, and came back thoughtful. He went off by himself in the afternoon, and it was not till seven o’clock that he announced that he could put it off no longer, but must break the news to the young widow. My sympathy had already gone out to her unreservedly. To be left penniless, and with the knowledge that her husband had killed himself to assure her future was a hard burden for any woman to bear. I cherished a secret hope, however, that young Black might prove capable of consoling her after her first grief had passed. He evidently admired her enormously.
Our interview with the lady was painful. She refused vehemently to believe the facts that Poirot advanced, and when she was at last convinced broke down into bitter weeping. An examination of the body turned our suspicions into certainty. Poirot was very sorry for the poor lady, but, after all, he was employed by the Insurance Company, and what could he do? As he was preparing to leave he said gently to Mrs. Maltravers:
“Madame, you of all people should know that there are no dead!”
“What do you mean?” she faltered, her eyes growing wide.
“Have you never taken part in any spiritualistic séances? You are mediumistic, you know.”
“I have been told so. But you do not believe in spiritualism, surely?”
“Madame, I have seen some strange things. You know that they say in the village that this house is haunted?”
She nodded, and at that moment the parlourmaid announced that dinner was ready.
“Won’t you just stay and have something to eat?”
We accepted gratefully, and I felt that our presence could not but help distract her a little from her own griefs.
We had just finished our soup, when there was a scream outside the door, and the sound of breaking crockery. We jumped up. The parlourmaid appeared, her hand to her heart.
“It was a man—standing in the passage.”
Poirot rushed out, returning quickly.
“There is no one there.”
“Isn’t there, sir?” said the parlourmaid weakly. “Oh, it did give me a start!”
“But why?”
She dropped her voice to a whisper.
“I thought—I thought it was the master—it looked like ’im.”
I saw Mrs. Maltravers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to the old superstition that a suicide cannot rest. She thought of it too, I am sure, for a minute later, she caught Poirot’s arm with a scream.
“Didn’t you hear that? Those three taps on the window? That’s how he always used to tap when he passed round the house.”
“The ivy,” I cried. “It was the ivy against the pane.”
But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlourmaid was obviously unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs. Maltravers besought Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified to be left alone. We sat in the little morning-room. The wind was getting up, and moaning round the house in an eerie fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched and the door slowly opened, and each time she clung to me with a terrified gasp.
“Ah, but this door, it is bewitched!” cried Poirot angrily at last. He got up and shut it once more, then turned the key in the lock. “I shall lock it, so!”
“Don’t do that,” she gasped, “if it should come open now—”
And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door slowly swung open. I could not see into the passage from where I sat, but she and Poirot were facing it. She gave one long shriek as she turned to him.
“You saw him—there in the passage?” she cried.
He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his head.
“I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?”
“Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well—unstrung—”
“I am perfectly well, I—Oh, God!”
Suddenly, without any warning, the lights quivered and went out. Out of the darkness came three loud raps. I could hear Mrs. Maltravers moaning.
And then—I saw!
The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us, gleaming with a faint ghostly light. There was blood on his lips, and he held his right hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliant light seemed to proceed from it. It passed over Poirot and me, and fell on Mrs. Maltravers. I saw her white terrified face, and something else!
“My God, Poirot!” I cried. “Look at her hand, her right hand. It’s all red!”
Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“Blood,” she cried hysterically. “Yes, it’s blood. I killed him. I did it. He was showing me, and then I put my hand on the trigger and pressed. Save me from him—save me! he’s come back!”
Her voice died away in a gurgle.
“Lights,” said Poirot briskly.
The lights went on as if by magic.
“That’s it,” he continued. “You heard, Hastings? And you, Everett? Oh, by the way, this is Mr. Everett, rather a fine member of the theatrical profession. I phoned to him this afternoon. His makeup is good, isn’t
