manage.’
‘You mean it was a professional job, sir?’
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘It does seem like it,’ the other admitted. ‘Following that up, it looks as though there were a professional thief among the servants. That would explain the diamonds being taken and the murder would follow on logically from that.’
‘Well, anything wrong with that theory?’
‘It’s what I thought myself to begin with. But it’s difficult. There are eight servants in the house; six of them are women, and of those six, five have been here for four years and more. Then there’s the butler and the footman. The butler has been here for close on forty years – bit of a record that, I should say. The footman’s local, son of the gardener, and brought up here. Don’t see very well how he can be a professional. The only other person is Mr Lee’s valet attendant. He’s comparatively new, but he was out of the house – still is – went out just before eight o’clock.’
Colonel Johnson said:
‘Have you got a list of just who exactly was in the house?’
‘Yes, sir. I got it from the butler.’ He took out his note-book. ‘Shall I read it to you?’
‘Please, Sugden.’
‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee. Mr George Lee, M.P., and his wife, Mr Henry Lee, Mr and Mrs David Lee. Miss’ – the superintendent paused a little, taking the words carefully – ‘Pilar’ – he pronounced it like a piece of architecture – ‘Estravados. Mr Stephen Farr. Then for the servants: Edward Tressilian, butler. Walter Champion, footman. Emily Reeves, cook. Queenie Jones, kitchenmaid. Gladys Spent, head housemaid. Grace Best, second housemaid. Beatrice Moscombe, third housemaid. Joan Kench, betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.’
‘That’s the lot, eh?’
‘That’s the lot, sir.’
‘Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder?’
‘Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, the gentlemen were in the dining-room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing-room. Tressilian had served coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noise upstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of the others.’
Colonel Johnson said:
‘How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here?’
‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.’
Johnson nodded.
‘Where are they all?’
‘I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.’
‘I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.’
The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.
As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath.
‘Pretty horrible,’ he commented.
He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood-bespattered debris.
A thin elderly man stood up from where he had been kneeling by the body and gave a nod.
‘Evening, Johnson,’ he said. ‘Bit of a shambles, eh?’
‘I should say it was. Got anything for us, doctor?’
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He grinned.
‘I’ll let you have the scientific language at the inquest! Nothing complicated about it. Throat cut like a pig. He bled to death in less than a minute. No sign of the weapon.’
Poirot went across the room to the windows. As the superintendent had said, one was shut and bolted. The other was open about four inches at the bottom. A thick patent screw of the kind known many years ago as an anti-burglar screw secured it in that position.
Sugden said: ‘According to the butler, that window was never shut wet or fine. There’s a linoleum mat underneath it in case rain beat in, but it didn’t much, as the overhanging roof protects it.’
Poirot nodded.
He came back to the body and stared down at the old man.
The lips were drawn back from the bloodless gums in something that looked like a snarl. The fingers were curved like claws.
Poirot said:
‘He does not seem a strong man, no.’
The doctor said:
‘He was pretty tough, I believe. He’d survived several pretty bad illnesses that would have killed most men.’
Poirot said: ‘I do not mean that. I mean, he was not big, not strong physically.’
‘No, he’s frail enough.’
Poirot turned from the dead man. He bent to examine an overturned chair, a big chair of mahogany. Beside it was a round mahogany table and the fragments of a big china lamp. Two other smaller chairs lay nearby, also the smashed fragments of a decanter and two glasses, a heavy glass paperweight was unbroken, some miscellaneous books, a big Japanese vase smashed in pieces, and a bronze statuette of a naked girl completed the debris.
Poirot bent over all these exhibits, studying them gravely, but without touching them. He frowned to himself as though perplexed.
The chief constable said:
‘Anything strike you, Poirot?’
Hercule Poirot sighed. He murmured:
‘Such a frail shrunken old man – and yet – all this.’
Johnson looked puzzled. He turned away and said to the sergeant, who was busy at his work:
‘What about prints?’
‘Plenty of them, sir, all over the room.’
‘What about the safe?’
‘No good. Only prints on that are those of the old gentleman himself.’
Johnson turned to the doctor.
‘What about bloodstains?’ he asked. ‘Surely whoever killed him must have got blood on him.’
The doctor said doubtfully:
‘Not necessarily. Bleeding was almost entirely from the jugular vein. That wouldn’t spout like an artery.’
‘No, no. Still, there seems a lot of blood about.’
Poirot said:
‘Yes, there is a lot of blood – it strikes one, that. A lot of blood.’
Superintendent Sugden said respectfully:
‘Do you – er – does that suggest anything to you, Mr Poirot?’
Poirot looked about him. He shook his head perplexedly.
He said:
‘There is something here – some violence…’ He stopped a minute, then went on: ‘Yes, that is it – violence… And blood – an insistence on blood… There is – how shall I put it? – there is too much blood. Blood on the chairs, on the tables, on the carpet… The blood ritual? Sacrificial blood? Is that it? Perhaps. Such a frail old man, so thin, so shrivelled, so dried up – and yet – in his death – so much blood…’
His voice died away. Superintendent Sugden, staring at him with round, startled eyes, said in an awed voice:
‘Funny – that’s what she said – the lady…’
Poirot said sharply:
‘What lady? What was it she said?’
