'Ah, but it is another rucksack of which I am thinking.'
'You're confusing me with all these rucksacks,' Mrs Oliver complained. 'There was only one in my murder story. Don't you want to know what was in it?'
'Not in the least,' said Poirot. 'That is to say,' he added politely, 'I should be enchanted to hear, of course, but -'
Mrs Oliver swept over the 'but.'
'Very ingenious, I think,' she said, the pride of authorship in her voice. 'You see, in Marlene's haversack, which was supposed to be the Yugoslavian's wife's haversack, if you understand what I mean -'
'Yes, yes,' said Poirot, preparing himself to be lost in fog once more.
'Well, in it was the bottle of medicine containing poison with which the country squire poisoned his wife. You see, the Yugoslavian girl had been over here training as a nurse and she'd been in the house when Colonel Blunt poisoned his first wife for her money. And she, the nurse, had got hold of the bottle and taken it away, and then come back to blackmail him. That, of course, is why he killed her. Does that fit in, M. Poirot?'
'Fit in with what?'
'With your ideas,' said Mrs Oliver.
'Not at all,' said Poirot, but added hastily, 'All the same, my felicitations, Madame. I am sure your Murder Hunt was so ingenious that nobody won the prize.'
'But they did,' said Mrs Oliver. 'Quite late, about seven o'clock. A very dogged old lady supposed to be quite gaga. She got through all the clues and arrived at the boathouse triumphantly, but of course the police were there. So then she heard about the murder, and she was the last person at the whole fete to hear about it, I should imagine. Anyway, they gave her the prize.' She added with satisfaction, 'That horrid young man with the freckles who said I drank like a fish never got farther than the camellia garden.'
'Some day, Madame,' said Poirot, 'you shall tell me this story of yours.'
'Actually,' said Mrs Oliver, 'I'm thinking of turning it into a book. It would be a pity to waste it.'
And it may here be mentioned that some three years later Hercule Poirot read The Woman in the Wood, by Ariadne Oliver, and wondered whilst he read it why some of the persons and incidents seemed to him vaguely familiar.
Chapter 18
The sun was setting when Poirot came to what was called officially Mill Cottage, and known locally as the Pink Cottage down by Lawder's Creek. He knocked on the door and it was flung open with such suddenness that he started back. The angry-looking young man in the doorway stared at him for a moment without recognising him. Then he gave a short laugh.
'Hallo,' he said,' it's the sleuth. Come in, M. Poirot. I'm packing up.'
Poirot accepted the invitation and stepped into the cottage. It was plainly, rather badly furnished. And Alec Legge's personal possessions were at the moment taking up a disproportionate amount of room. Books, papers and articles of stray clothing were strewn all around, an open suitcase stood on the floor.
'The final break up of the menage,' said Alec Legge. 'Sally has cleared out. I expect you know that.'
'I did not know it, no.'
Alec Legge gave a short laugh.
'I'm glad there's something you don't know. Yes, she's had enough of married life. Going to link up her life with that tame architect.'
'I am sorry to hear it,' said Poirot.
'I don't see why you should be sorry.'
'I am sorry,' said Poirot, clearing off two books and a shirt and sitting down on the corner of the sofa, 'because I do not think she will be as happy with him as she would be with you.'
'She hasn't been particularly happy with me this last six months.'
'Six months is not a lifetime,' said Poirot, 'it is a very short space out of what might be a long happy married life.'
'Talking rather like a parson, aren't you?'
'Possibly. May I say, Mr Legge, that if your wife has not been happy with you it is probably more your fault than hers.'
'She certainly thinks so. Everything's my fault, I suppose.'
'Not everything, but some things.'
'Oh, blame everything on me. I might as well drown myself in the damn river and have done with it.'
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
'I am glad to observe,' he remarked, 'that you are now more perturbed with your own troubles than with those of the world.'
'The world can go hang,' said Mr- Legge. He added bitterly, 'I seem to have made the most complete fool of myself all along the line.'
'Yes,' said Poirot, 'I would say that you have been more unfortunate than reprehensible in your conduct.'
Alec Legge stared at him.
'Who hired you to sleuth me?' he demanded. 'Was it Sally?'
'Why should you think that?'
'Well, nothing's happened officially. So I concluded that you must have come down after me on a private job.'
'You are in error,' replied Poirot. 'I have not at any time been sleuthing you. When I came down here I had no idea that you existed.'
'Then how do you know whether I've been unfortunate or made a fool of myself or what?'
'From the result of observation and reflection,' said Poirot. 'Shall I make a little guess and will you tell me if I am right?'
'You can make as many little guesses as you like,' said Alec Legge. 'But don't expect me to play.'
'I think,' said Poirot, 'that some years ago you had an interest and sympathy for a certain political party. Like many other young men of a scientific bent. In your profession such sympathies and tendencies are naturally regarded with suspicion. I do not think you were ever seriously compromised, but I do think that pressure was brought upon you to consolidate your position in a way you did not want to consolidate it. You tried to withdraw and you were faced with a threat. You were given a rendezvous with someone. I doubt if I shall ever know that young man's name. He will be for me always the young man in the turtle shirt.'
Alec Legge gave a sudden explosion of laughter.
'I suppose that shirt was a bit of a joke. I wasn't seeing things were funny at the time.'
Hercule Poirot continued.
'What with worry over the fate of the world, and the worry over your own predicament, you became, if I may say so, a man almost impossible for any woman to live with happily. You did not confide in your wife. That was unfortunate for you, as I should say that your wife was a woman of loyalty, and that if she had realised how unhappy and desperate you were, she would have been whole-heartedly on your side. Instead of that she merely began to compare you, unfavourably, with a former friend of hers, Michael Weyman.'
He rose.
'I should advise you, Mr Legge, to complete your packing as soon as possible, to follow your wife to London, to ask her to forgive you and to tell her all that you have been through.'
'So that's what you advise,' said Alec Legge. 'And what the hell business is it of yours?'
'None,' said Hercule Poirot. He withdrew towards the door. 'But I am always right.'
There was a moment's silence. Then Alec Legge burst into a wild peal of laughter.
'Do you know,' he said, 'I think I'll take your advice. Divorce is damned expensive. Anyway, if you've got hold of the woman you want, and are then not able to keep her, it's a bit humiliating, don't you think? I shall go up to her flat in Chelsea, and if I find Michael there I shall take hold of him by that hand-knitted pansy tie he wears and throttle the life out of him. I'd enjoy that. Yes, I'd enjoy it a good deal.'
