Part 14 (1/2)
Poirot turned his head very slowly and looked at the secretary. Those last words had been uttered too hastily. He formed the conviction that Trefusis could have said more had he wished to do so. But once again Poirot did not press the question.
”And then? Proceed, I pray of you.”
”I worked with Sir Reuben for about an hour and a half. At 11 o'clock Lady Astwell came in, and Sir Reuben told me I could go to bed.”
”And you went?”
”Yes.”
”Have you any idea how long she stayed with him?”
”None at all. Her room is on the first floor, and mine is on the second, so I would not hear her go to bed.”
”I see.”
Poirot nodded his head once or twice and sprang to his feet.
”And now, Monsieur, take me to the Tower room.”
He followed the secretary up the broad stairs to the first landing. Here Trefusis led him along the corridor, and through a baize door at the end of it, which gave on the servants staircase and on a short pa.s.sage that ended in a door. They pa.s.sed through this door and found themselves on the scene of the crime.
It was a lofty room twice as high as any of the others, and was roughly about thirty feet square. Swords and a.s.segais adorned the walls, and many native curios were arranged about on tables. At the far end, in the embrasure of the window, was a large writing table. Poirot crossed straight to it.
”It was here Sir Reuben was found?”
Trefusis nodded.
”He was struck from behind, I understand?”
Again the secretary nodded.
”The crime was committed with one of these native clubs,” he explained. ”A tremendously heavy thing. Death must have been practically instantaneous.”
”That strengthens the conviction that the crime was not premeditated. A sharp quarrel, and a weapon s.n.a.t.c.hed up almost unconsciously.”
”Yes, it does not look well for poor Leverson.”
”And the body was found fallen forward on the desk?”
”No, it had slipped sideways to the ground.”
”Ah,” said Poirot, ”that is curious.”
”Why curious?” asked the secretary.
”Because of this.”
Poirot pointed to a round irregular stain on the polished surface of the writing table.
”That is a blood stain mon ami,”
”It may have splattered there,” suggested Trefusis, ”or it may have been made later, when they moved the body.”
”Very possibly, very possibly,” said the little man. ”There is only the one door to this room?”
”There is a staircase here.”
Trefusis pulled aside a velvet curtain in the corner of the room nearest the door, where a small spiral staircase led upward.
”This place was originally built by an astronomer. The stairs lead up to the tower where the telescope was fixed. Sir Reuben had the place fitted up as a bedroom, and sometimes slept there if he was working very late.”
Poirot went nimbly up the steps. The circular room upstairs was plainly furnished, with a camp bed, a chair and dressing-table. Poirot satisfied himself that there was no other exit, and then came down again to where Trefusis stood waiting for him.
”Did you hear Mr Leverson come in?” he asked.
Trefusis shook his head.
”I was fast asleep by that time.”
Poirot nodded. He looked slowly round the room.
”Eh bien!” he said at last. ”I do not think there is any thing further here, unless - perhaps you would be so kind as to draw the curtains.”
Obediently Trefusis pulled the heavy black curtains across the window at the far end of the room. Poirot switched on the light - which was masked by a big alabaster bowl hanging from the ceiling.
”There was a desk light?” he asked.
For reply the secretary clicked on a powerful green-shaded hand lamp, which stood on the writing table. Poirot switched the other light off, then on, then off again.
”C'est bien! I have finished here.”
”Dinner is at half-past seven,” murmured the secretary.
”I thank you, M. Trefusis, for your many amiabilities.”
”Not at all.”
Poirot went thoughtfully along the corridor to the room appointed for him. The immovable George was there laying out his master's things.
”My good George,” he said presently, ”I shall, I hope, meet at dinner a certain gentleman who begins to intrigue me greatly. A man who has come home from the tropics, George. With a tropical temper - so it is said. A man whom Parsons tries to tell me about, and whom Lily Margrave does not mention. The late Sir Reuben had a temper of his own, George. Supposing such a man to come into contact with a man whose temper was worse than his own - how do you say it? The fur would jump about, eh?”
”'Would fly' is the correct expression, sir, and it is not always the case, sir, not by a long way.”
”No?”
”No, sir. There was my Aunt Jemima, sir, a most shrewish tongue she had, bullied a poor sister of hers who lived with her, something shocking she did. Nearly worried the life out of her. But if anyone came along who stood up to her, well, it was a very different thing. It was meekness she couldn't bear.”
”Ha!” said Poirot, ”it is suggestive - that.”