Problem at Pollensa Bay

‘It may be gossip.’

‘I implore you, speak.’

‘Very well, then, I will. Did you notice a very attractive looking young woman in the drawing room?’

‘I noticed two very attractive looking young women.’

‘Oh, yes, Miss Ashby. Pretty little thing. Her first visit. Harry Dalehouse got Mrs Lytcham Roche to ask her. No, I mean a dark girl—Diana Cleves.’

‘I noticed her,’ said Poirot. ‘She is one that all men would notice, I think.’

‘She’s a little devil,’ burst out Barling. ‘She’s played fast and loose with every man for twenty miles round. Someone will murder her one of these days.’

He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, oblivious of the keen interest with which the other was regarding him.

‘And this young lady is—’

‘She’s Lytcham Roche’s adopted daughter. A great disappointment when he and his wife had no children. They adopted Diana Cleves—she was some kind of cousin. Hubert was devoted to her, simply worshipped her.’

‘Doubtless he would dislike the idea of her marrying?’ suggested Poirot.

‘Not if she married the right person.’

‘And the right person was—you, monsieur?’

Barling started and flushed.

‘I never said—’

‘Mais, non, mais, non! You said nothing. But it was so, was it not?’

‘I fell in love with her—yes. Lytcham Roche was pleased about it. It fitted in with his ideas for her.’

‘And mademoiselle herself?’

‘I told you—she’s the devil incarnate.’

‘I comprehend. She has her own ideas of amusement, is it not so? But Captain Marshall, where does he come in?’

‘Well, she’s been seeing a lot of him. People talked. Not that I think there’s anything in it. Another scalp, that’s all.’

Poirot nodded.

‘But supposing that there had been something in it—well, then, it might explain why M. Lytcham Roche wanted to proceed cautiously.’

‘You do understand, don’t you, that there’s no earthly reason for suspecting Marshall of defalcation.’

‘Oh, parfaitement, parfaitement! It might be an affair of a forged cheque with someone in the household involved. This young Mr Dalehouse, who is he?’

‘A nephew.’

‘He will inherit, yes?’

‘He’s a sister’s son. Of course he might take the name—there’s not a Lytcham Roche left.’

‘I see.’

‘The place isn’t actually entailed, though it’s always gone from father to son. I’ve always imagined that he’d leave the place to his wife for her lifetime and then perhaps to Diana if he approved of her marriage. You see, her husband could take the name.’

‘I comprehend,’ said Poirot. ‘You have been most kind and helpful to me, monsieur. May I ask of you one thing further—to explain to Madame Lytcham Roche all that I have told you, and to beg of her that she accord me a minute?’

Sooner than he had thought likely, the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche entered. She floated to a chair.

‘Mr Barling has explained everything to me,’ she said. ‘We mustn’t have any scandal, of course. Though I do feel really it’s fate, don’t you? I mean with the mirror and everything.’

‘Comment—the mirror?’

‘The moment I saw it—it seemed a symbol. Of Hubert! A curse, you know. I think old families have a curse very often. Hubert was always very strange. Lately he has been stranger than ever.’

‘You will forgive me for asking, madame, but you are not in any way short of money?’

‘Money? I never think of money.’

‘Do you know what they say, madame? Those who never think of money need a great deal of it.’

He ventured a tiny laugh. She did not respond. Her eyes were far away.

‘I thank you, madame,’ he said, and the interview came to an end.

Poirot rang, and Digby answered.

‘I shall require you to answer a few questions,’ said Poirot. ‘I am a private detective sent for by your master before he died.’

‘A detective!’ the butler gasped. ‘Why?’

‘You will please answer my questions. As to the shot now—’

He listened to the butler’s account.

‘So there were four of you in the hall?’

‘Yes, sir; Mr Dalehouse and Miss Ashby and Mr Keene came from the drawing room.’

‘Where were the others?’

‘The others, sir?’

‘Yes, Mrs Lytcham Roche, Miss Cleves and Mr Barling.’