Chapter 2 Tragedy at Marston Manor

I had been away from town for several days on business, and when I returned I saw Poirot preparing to pack his little traveling bag. "Just in time, Hastings, I was afraid you wouldn't be back in time to join me." "So. Another case requires you to go out?" "Yes, though I cannot promise a result; on the face of it, the matter seems indistinct. Northern Union has asked me to investigate the death of a Mr. Insured a huge personal insurance of up to 50,000 pounds with their company." "Really?" I asked with interest. "Of course, there is a customary suicide clause in the insurance policy. If he commits suicide within a year, the premium will be forfeited. Mr. Matt Trevor has been carefully examined by the company doctor, although he is slightly Past the prime of his life, but still in good health, he was found, just a few days ago, in his own room at Marston Hall, Essex, last Friday. The body of Mr. Trevor. The cause of his death was diagnosed as internal bleeding. There is no surprise in itself, but there are rumors. Mr. Matt Trevor's financial situation is already in shambles. It has been unanimously investigated that the late old gentleman was on the verge of bankruptcy, and things have now changed a great deal. Mr. Matt Trevor had a young and beautiful wife, and it was said that he had all his cash took it out and bought life insurance for his wife's sake, and then he killed himself. There's nothing unusual about this kind of thing, my friend Alfred. Wright asks me to look into this matter anyway. i He was a director of the Northern Union Insurance Company. But, as I told him, I had little hope of success. If the cause of death had been heart disease, I might have had greater hopes. I think it's a disease that the local pension grading insurance agency is unable to investigate the true cause of death of the policyholder. However, the internal bleeding is quite clear. However, we only have to do some necessary investigations. Please pack your luggage within five minutes, black Stings, and we'll take a taxi to Liverpool Street."

An hour later, we got off at Marston Station, and at the information desk at the station, we learned that Marston Manor was about 1-mile away. Poirot decided that we should go there on foot.So, we walked along the main street. "What are our plans for this business trip?" I asked. "First, I'm going to call on the doctor. I've found out that there's only one doctor in Marston, and he's Dr. Rolf Bernard. Ah, we've come to his lodgings." The doctor said. The house was one of the nicer farmhouses.A little farther away from the road, the doctor's name was engraved on the bronze plaque in front of the door, we walked up the steps along the path in front of the door, and rang the doorbell.

It turned out that we were very lucky to visit at this time, when the doctor was visiting, and there was no patient waiting for him.Dr. Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered and somewhat stooped.The attitude towards people and things is very pleasant. Poirot introduced himself, asked him to explain the purpose of our visit, and went out of his way to tell him that the insurance company should make a thorough investigation of such matters. "Of course, of course." Dr. Bernard replied vaguely: "In my opinion. For a man as rich as him, he must have insured a large amount of insurance money for his own life?"

"You think he's a rich man, doctor?" The doctor showed a rather startled look. "Didn't he? He had two cars. You know, Marston's Park is a pretty big place and it's not easy to keep up, though I'm sure he bought it cheaply." "I hear he has suffered a great loss of late," said Poirot, watching the door closely. However, the doctor just shook his head sadly. "Is that so? Indeed, then his wife is very lucky to have this large sum of life insurance. She was a very pretty, very charming young woman, but she was frightened by the dreadful catastrophe." Deranged. Poor thing, she was in a great fright, and I treated her as well as I could. But, of course, the blow must have been pretty severe."

"Have you been seeing Mr. Matt Trevor lately?" "My dear sir, I never see him as a doctor." "what?" "I heard Matt Trevor was a Christian scientist—or something like that." "However. Is it the corpse you examined?" "Of course. One of his gardeners called me." "Is the cause of death obvious?" "Absolutely. There was blood on his lips. Most of the blood was in the internal organs of the body." "Was he still lying there when his body was found?" "Yes, the body was untouched. He was lying on the side of a small plantation. A small shotgun was still beside him. It was obviously used to shoot crows. The internal bleeding must have happened very suddenly. , there is no doubt that it is stomach bleeding."

"Is it possible that he was shot?" "Oh my God!" "I beg your pardon," said Poirot humbly, "but, if I remember correctly, in a recent murder, the doctor first diagnosed a heart attack, and after the local police pointed out that the victim had a bullet in the head. When he passed through, he changed his conclusion." "You won't find any bullet grazing on Matt Trevor's dead body." Dr. Bernard said dryly, "Now, gentlemen, if there is no question of further--" we understood what he meant. "Goodbye, thank you very much, doctor. Thank you very much for answering our questions so kindly, and by the way, do you think an autopsy is unnecessary?"

"Of course not." The doctor couldn't control his emotions. "The cause of death is very clear. As a doctor, I don't see any need to disturb the family members of a deceased person unnecessarily." After speaking, the doctor turned around and left, closing the door firmly in front of us. "What do you think of Dr. Bernard, Hastings?" as we walked up the road to Marston-Park.Poirot asked me so. "Just an old stubborn donkey." "Indeed, you are a very good judge of character, my friend." I glanced at him uncomfortably, but he seemed very serious when he said this.However, a strange light flashed in his eyes, and then he added a sentence slyly.

"That is to say, there is nothing wrong with that beautiful woman!" I looked at him coldly. When we arrived at the manor, a middle-aged maid opened the door for us.Poirot handed her his card, and a letter from the insurance company addressed to Mrs. Matt Trevor, who ushered us into a small drawing room, and then went out to report to her mistress.About ten minutes later, the door opened again, and a slim figure wearing a widow's mourning clothes stood at the door. "Are you M. Poirot?" she asked hesitantly. "Madame!" Poirot stood up elegantly, and walked towards her quickly. "I cannot express how sorry I am to have disturbed you in this way. But what about you? These things—they know no mercy."

Mrs. Mattrevor held out her hand, and Poirot led her to a chair. Her eyes were red from crying, but the momentary sorrow could hardly conceal her astonishing beauty.She is about twenty-seven or eight years old, with elegant temperament, big blue eyes, and slightly upturned lips, very beautiful. "It's about my husband's insurance, isn't it? But do I have to deal with these issues now? Is it all that urgent?" "Cheer up, my esteemed lady, cheer up! You know that your late husband had taken out quite a large amount of life insurance for himself, and that in this case the insurance company is going to give you some details. They have authorized me to Take care of it for them. You can rest assured that I will do my best to help you and make it easy for you. Would you like to tell me briefly about the sad incident that happened on Friday?" "I was preparing tea when one of my servants came back—he was a gardener, and he said he had found out—" Her voice fell out of hearing, and Poirot clapped her hand sympathetically.

"I can understand, I quite understand J. You met your husband earlier that afternoon, didn't you?" "Haven't seen him since lunch. I walked into the village to get some stamps. I know he's out and about the neighbourhood." "He's going to shoot crows, isn't he?" "Yes, he used to carry his little shotgun. I also heard a shot or two in the distance." "Where's the little shotgun he used to shoot the crows now?" "I think it's still in the hall." She led us out of the little drawing-room, found the little shotgun, and handed it to Poirot.Poirot took it and examined it carefully.

"Two bullets fired, I can see that." He inspected it and returned it. "Now. Madame, I wonder if I may—" He paused deliberately. "The servant will take you there," she murmured, and buried her head. The maid was called in.Take Poirot upstairs, and I will stay with that lovely and unfortunate woman.It's hard to figure out whether to speak up or keep silent.I made an effort once or twice, and said a few words casually, and she answered them absent-mindedly.A few minutes later Poirot returned. "Thank you very much for your hospitality, and I do not think you need be disturbed in this matter. By the way, do you know your husband's financial situation?" She shook her head. "I don't know anything. I don't understand anything about business." "I see. So you're going to have a hard time giving us clues as to why your husband suddenly decided to take out life insurance? He hasn't decided to do it before, has he?" "Well. We've only been married for a little over a year. But as for Why he has life insurance, it's because he clearly feels he won't live long, he has a strong premonition about his own death. I know he's had... internal bleeding before, and he knows it , if it happened again—it would kill him. I tried everything I could to drive away his terrible thoughts, but it was no use, alas, his premonition was so right!" Tears welled up in her eyes as she said goodbye to us gracefully. As we walk down the driveway together.Poirot made a typical gesture. "There! Go back to London, my friend. Nothing is wrong. But—" "But what?" "Just a little inconsistency, that's all! Didn't you notice? But life is full of inconsistencies—that's for sure. This man wouldn't take his own life. No poison could make his mouth full It's blood. No, no, I've got to convince myself of the fact that it's all clear here, all right—but who is that?" A tall young man was striding toward us along the road, passing us without showing any sign.However, I noticed that he is not ugly, with a thin face and a deep bronze skin, which is the trace of living in the tropics.A gardener was sweeping leaves, and he stopped what he was doing to take a break.Poirot hurried towards him. "Please tell me, who is that young man? Do you know him?" "I can't recall his name, sir. But I hear he stayed here one night last week, which was Thursday." "Quick, my dear friend, let us follow him." We walked quickly along the road, following behind the man who was walking away.Our target glanced over the balcony of the large house, caught a glimpse of a black-clad figure, and turned abruptly.We followed him, so that we could see the scene below. Mrs. Matt Trevor stood where she was, her figure swayed for a while, and her face suddenly turned pale. "You," she gasped, "I thought you were on board and on your way to East Africa." "I've heard some news from my solicitor which has caused me to postpone my trip," explained the young man. "My old uncle in Scotland died suddenly again and left me some money. In this case, I thought I'd better cancel my voyage. Then I read the sad news in the papers, and I came over to see if there was anything I could do; you may need help to take care of things. " Then they saw me and Poirot.Poirot stepped forward and explained with apologetic explanation that he had left his cane in the drawing room.It seemed to me that Mrs. Matt Trevor introduced us with great reluctance. "This is M. Poirot, and this is Captain Black." Then we chatted casually for a few minutes.During the chat, Poirot clarified the following facts.Captain Black is currently staying in a hotel.The so-called cane that had been left in the drawing room was of course never found (not surprising). Poirot apologized again and again, and we pulled away. We strode back to the village, and Poirot ran straight to the hotel. "We're going to wait here until our friend Captain Black returns," explained Poirot. "Have you noticed? I'm emphasizing the fact that we're going back to London by the first train. Perhaps you think we'll really do as I say. Catch the first train back to London, but won't do that—did you watch Mrs. Matt Trevor's face? When she saw this young Blake, she was obviously, and very surprised, and oh my god, He was loyal, don't you think? He was here on Thursday night—the day before Mr. Matt Trevor died. Hastings, we must investigate what Captain Black is doing here." Half an hour later we saw our target approaching the hotel, and Poirot went out to meet him, exchanged a few words with him, and took him to the room we had reserved. "I have been explaining our mission here to Captain Black just now." He explained to me, "You can understand, Mr. Captain, that I was anxious to understand Mr. Matt Trevor's state of mind in the period before his death, while Well, I don't want to ask Mrs. Matt Trevor any more painful questions, which would unduly increase her grief. And you, who happened to be in her window before it happened, can thus provide us with An equally valuable situation." "I will do my best to help you as long as I can, I promise," replied the young soldier, "but I'm afraid I haven't noticed too many unusual circumstances. You know, although Matt Trevor is our An old friend, but I don't know him very well personally." "When did you come here?" "Thursday afternoon. I went into town early Wednesday morning. As my ship came from Tibery about twelve o'clock, but I got some news which changed my plans, and I dare say you Heard me already when I explained it to Mrs. Matt Trevor." "Are you going back to East Africa?" "Yes, I've been serving there since the Great War—it's a marvelous country." "That's right. Now. Tell me, what did you talk about at dinner on Thursday night?" "Oh, I don't know. It's just a random topic. Matt Trevor sent greetings to my family. Then we discussed the issue of reparations after the defeat of Tegu, and then Mr. Matt Trevor asked again. A lot of questions about East Africa, and I gave them an anecdote or two. That's about it." "thanks." Poirot was silent for a while.Then, he said softly: "Please allow me to do a little experiment. Just now, you have told us all the questions that your consciousness itself knows, and now I want to ask about what your subconscious mind feels. Case." "Is it for psychoanalysis?" Black visibly became alarmed. "Call, no," Boyu said earnestly, "Look, it's like this, I'll say one word to you, and you answer with another word, just repeat it like this, say whatever word comes to your mind first That's it. Shall we start?" "Okay," Blake said slowly, his expression uncomfortable. "Mark what we say, Hastings," said Poirot, taking his large pocket watch from his pocket, and placing it on the table next to him. "We're about to start: daytime." There was a brief pause, and then Black replied. "Dark night." As Poirot continued in this manner, the other party's answers became more and more similar. "Name," said Poirot. "Place." "Bernard." "resemble." "Thursday." "dinner." "travel." "Boat." "nation." "Uganda." "story." "lion." "A shotgun for shooting crows." "Nongchang" "shot." "suicide." "elephant." "ivory." "money." "lawyer." "Thank you, Captain Black. Perhaps you will allow me to speak to you for a few minutes in half an hour?" "Of course." The young soldier looked at him strangely.Then he stood up and wiped the sweat from his eyebrows. "Well, Hastings," said Poirot, smiling at me as he closed the door, "you understand all this now, don't you?" "I don't understand what you mean by that." "Don't these words mean anything to you?" I looked it over carefully, but shook my head resignedly. "I'm here to help you. To begin, within the normal time frame. Blake answered well, without any pauses, from which we can conclude that he has no intention of concealing himself. For example, with Bertian, yes. Night, using 'place' as a 'name' is a normal association. I started with a word 'Bernard', which might remind him of the local doctor, but apparently he didn't. In our later conversation, he used .dinner, to me 'Thursday', but 'travel' and 'country' got the answers 'ship' and 'Uganda', which shows that his travels abroad are important to him. It's what's important, not the journey he's made here. 'Story' reminds him of a story he told at lunch. about a lion. He answered the word 'farm' without thinking, and when I said 'shoot', he immediately answered the word 'suicide', and the association seemed clear. What about a man he knew on a farm? Killed himself with a crow shotgun. And remember, he was still thinking about the story he told at dinner at this time. I think if I call Captain Black over and ask him to repeat that Thursday night That suicide story he told at the dinner table, you will agree that I am not far from uncovering the truth." Blake was pretty straightforward on the matter. "Yeah. Now that I think about it, I did tell them that story. There was a guy on a farm who shot himself with a crow shotgun and put it in his mouth the roof of the jaw, and the bullet went into the brain. The doctor would never have suspected it—there was no sign of anything other than a little blood on the lip. But this—?" "What does it have to do with Mr. Matt Trevor? You want to ask, don't you? You don't know, I can see. But the truth is. When people found him, he had a Shoot the crow with the shotgun." "You mean the story I told reminded him of—oh, that's terrible!" "Don't blame yourself. It's not like this, it might be like that. Well, I must call London." Poirot talked for a long time on the phone.After returning, he fell into deep thought.He went out alone that afternoon, and it was seven o'clock in the evening when he said that he could delay no longer, that he must break the news to the young widow.My sympathy has turned unreservedly to her, left alone in an empty world with nothing, and knowing that her husband shot himself to give her a secure future, This is an unbearable blow to any woman.Nevertheless, I harbored a secret hope that the young Blake would be some comfort to her after all of her sorrows.It's clear that he adores her immensely. Our meeting with the lady was excruciating. She refused to believe Boyle's story at first, and then, when she was persuaded, she burst into tears and collapsed.The conclusion of another autopsy confirmed our suspicions.Poirot felt very sorry for the poor woman, but, after all, he was employed by the insurance company, so what else could he do?As he was about to leave, he said softly to Mrs. Matt Trevor, "Ma'am, you and everyone should know that there are no dead people." "What do you mean?" she stammered, her eyes widening. "Haven't you ever been in a spiritism show? You know the spiritism, you understand." "I've heard it said. But you don't really know how to do spiritualism, do you?" "Ma'am, I've seen strange things. You know the village says the house is haunted, don't you?" She nodded.Just then the maid came in to announce that supper was ready. "Would you like to stop for a while and have something to eat?" We accepted it gladly, and I felt that our presence only made her feel her grief more heavily. We had just finished our meal when there was a sudden scream outside the door and the sound of firecrackers.We jumped.The maid reappeared, her hands on her chest. "There's a man — standing in the hallway right now." Poirot rushed out, and was soon back again. "I didn't see a single person." "Isn't there, sir?" asked the maid in a faint voice. "Oh, it did startle me!" "But why?" Her voice dropped to a murmur. "I think—I think that's the man of the house—looks a lot like him." I could see that Mrs. Mattrever was in a terrible fright, and I was sure she had thought of that old superstition that a man who kills himself has no rest.A few minutes later she gave a cry and seized Poirot's arm. "Didn't you hear something? Three taps on the window? That's what he always does when he walks around the house." "It's the ivy," I cried. "It's the sound of the wind blowing the ivy against the window." But we all felt a moment of dread.The maid was visibly overwhelmed with fright.After dinner Mrs. Mattrevor begged Poirot not to leave at once, and we sat down in the little drawing-room, evidently afraid of being left alone.The wind picked up and howled around the house in an eerie way.Twice, the latch of the door seemed to be loose, and the door was gently opened, and each time she was panting with fright and clutching my arm tightly. "Ah, the door is bewitched!" cried Poirot at last angrily.He jumped up, closed the door again, then turned the handle again, and locked the door. "This time I locked it securely!" "Don't do that," she gasped. "What if it opens again now—" Before she finished speaking, the impossible happened, and the locked door slowly opened again!I couldn't see the corridor from where I was sitting, but she and Poirot were both facing the corridor, and she took a long breath and turned to him. "Did you see him—over there in the corridor!" she cried. Poirot gazed at her in bewilderment, then shook his head. "I saw him—my husband—you must have seen him too?" "Ma'am, I don't see anything. You're not in a good mood—you're a little out of your wits—" "I'm wide awake, and I—oh, God!" Suddenly, without warning, the lights flickered and then all went out.From the darkness came three loud knocks on the door.I could hear Mrs. Matt Trevor groaning in pain. Then - I saw it too! The man I saw upstairs, lying on the bed, was standing there now facing us, with a faint, ghostly gleam in his eyes, and blood on his lips.He extended his right hand and pointed forward.Suddenly, a dazzling light seemed to rise from the ghost.The light passed Poirot and me, and stopped beside Mrs. Matt Trevor.I saw her terrified, and other things! "My God, Poirot!" I cried. "Look at his hand, his right hand. It's all red with blood!" Her own gaze fell on Ghost Shadow's hand, and she fell to the floor when she saw it. "Blood!" she yelled hysterically, "yes, it was blood. I killed him. I did it. He was telling me how to use a gun, and I put my hand on the trigger and pulled the trigger." Ring it. Save me, pull me off him, save me! He's back again!" After she let out a long whimper, she stopped speaking.Wan Lai is silent. "Turn on the light!" said Poirot quickly. The lights were all turned on, and it was as if she had been enchanted. "That's right," he went on, "did you hear that, Hastings? And you, Everett, did you hear that too? Oh. Introduce me, this is Everett Sir, a pretty good professional theatrical performer. I called him up this afternoon, and he did a great job in disguise. Didn't he? Very much like the dead old man, with a pocket torch and the requisite phosphorescence, He set the scene up quite well. If I were you, Hastings, I wouldn't touch his right hand. It was some red paint smears. When the lights went out, I caught Her hand, now you see. By the way, we mustn't miss our train. Inspector Japp's out the window. A bad night—but a few taps on the window now and then, so to pass the time.” "You know," continued Poirot, as we hurried on through the wind and rain, "there's a little doubt that the doctor seems to think that the dead gentleman was a Catholic scientist. Who else but Trevor could have made that impression on him? But to us, she said he was very aware of his health and, seeing that young Blake reappear, Why is she panicking like that? Last but not least, although I know that normally a woman has to grieve over her dead husband and do it in moderation, I don't care if she paints her eye sockets with such thick eye shadow So dark! Didn't you notice that her eyes were blacked out, Hastings? No? As I always say to you, you found nothing!" "Well, here it is. There are two possibilities. One is that Black's story offers Mr. Matt Trevor an easy means of suicide; the other is that another of his listeners was The wife, too, saw an easy way to commit murder. I'm inclined to the latter view." Shooting himself the way the story goes, he'd probably use his thumb to pull the trigger - at least that's what I thought.If Mr. Matt Trevor had been found kicking off one of his boots, it would have been a certainty that he had committed suicide.We should have heard similar stories and details like this should not be forgotten. " "No, as I said, I'm inclined to think it was a murder rather than a suicide. However, I realize that my reasoning lacks a shred of evidence, and so...the elaborate scene I saw this evening little comedy." "I still don't understand all the details of this crime until now," I said. "Then let's start from the beginning. There's this shrewd and scheming woman who knows her husband's property is in trouble. Also, she's tired of the elderly partner she married Just for his money. So she persuaded him to invest a large amount of life insurance for herself, and then tried every means to achieve her goal. An accidental event provided her with a way—that is, the young soldier Strange story told. Next afternoon, when the captain, as she thought, was at sea. She and her husband were walking in the fields.' What a strange story that was told last night !', she said intentionally, 'Could it be possible for a person to kill himself like that? Show me if it's possible!' That old fool he showed her. He put his shotgun into her own mouth. She bent down, put her finger on the trigger and smiled at him and said: 'Now, sir, what if I pull the trigger?'" "And—then, Hastings, she actually pulled the trigger!"