While the Light Lasts (17 page)

I found my voice. ‘Why? But why?'

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘Why did a man shoot himself? Why did two Italians fight a duel? Curtiss is of a dark passionate
temperament. He wanted Marguerita Clayton. With her husband and Rich out of the way, she would, or so he thought, turn to him.'

He added musingly:

‘These simple childlike women…they are very dangerous. But
mon Dieu!
what an artistic masterpiece! It goes to my heart to hang a man like that. I may be a genius myself, but I am capable of recognizing genius in other people. A perfect murder,
mon ami
. I, Hercule Poirot, say it to you. A perfect murder.
E´ patant!
'

‘The Mystery of The Baghdad Chest', first published in the
Strand Magazine
in January 1932, is the original version of ‘The Mystery of the Spanish Chest', a novella included in the collection
The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding
(1960). The novella is told in the third person and Hastings does not appear.

Hercule Poirot's debut was
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
(1920), written by Christie in response to a challenge from her sister while working in a poisons dispensary in Torquay. When Poirot died fifty-five years later in
Curtain
(1975), published shortly before Christie's own death, one mystery remained unsolved: his age. Though the original text of
Curtain
was written some thirty years earlier, subsequent events mean we must assume the published novel to take place in the early 1970s, shortly after what was to be his ‘penultimate' case,
Elephants Can Remember
(1972)
was published. In
Curtain
, Poirot seems to be at least in his mid- to late-eighties, which would mean that he was in his early thirties in
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
. This novel is set in 1917 and in it Poirot is described as a ‘quaint dandified little man with a bad limp…as a detective his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.' Moreover, in the short story in which Poirot first appeared, ‘The Adventure at the Victory Ball', collected in
Poirot's Early Cases
(1974), he is described as having been ‘formerly chief of the Belgian force'. Given his ‘bad limp', it is possible that Poirot retired through ill health although it did not constitute much of a handicap in his many later cases. However, in
Styles
, Inspector James Japp, who appears in many later novels, recalled how he and Poirot had worked together in 1904–‘the Abercrombie forgery case'–when Poirot could only have been a teenager if he was in his eighties in
Curtain
!

In September 1975, the writer and critic H. R. F. Keating suggested a possible solution in a piece to mark the publication of
Curtain
–Poirot was in fact
117
years of age at his death, and Keating went on to suggest that there might be other skeletons in the detective's closet!

Perhaps the last word should go to Poirot's creator who, in an interview in 1948, commented prematurely
that ‘He lived for such a long time. I really ought to have got rid of him. But I was never given the opportunity to do so. My fans wouldn't let me.' This was only a few years after
Curtain
had been written but nearly thirty years before it was published.

I

The Ford car bumped from rut to rut, and the hot African sun poured down unmercifully. On either side of the so-called road stretched an unbroken line of trees and scrub, rising and falling in gently undulating lines as far as the eye could reach, the colouring a soft, deep yellow-green, the whole effect languorous and strangely quiet. Few birds stirred the slumbering silence. Once a snake wriggled across the road in front of the car, escaping the driver's efforts at destruction with sinuous ease. Once a native stepped out from the bush, dignified and upright, behind him a woman with an infant bound closely to her broad back and a complete household equipment, including a frying pan, balanced magnificently on her head.

All these things George Crozier had not failed to point out to his wife, who had answered him with a monosyllabic lack of attention which irritated him.

‘Thinking of that fellow,' he deduced wrathfully. It was thus that he was wont to allude in his own mind to Deirdre Crozier's first husband, killed in the first year of the War. Killed, too, in the campaign against German West Africa. Natural she should, perhaps–he stole a glance at her, her fairness, the pink and white smoothness of her cheek; the rounded lines of her figure–rather more rounded perhaps than they had been in those far-off days when she had passively permitted him to become engaged to her, and then, in that first emotional scare of war, had abruptly cast him aside and made a war wedding of it with that lean, sunburnt boy lover of hers, Tim Nugent.

Well, well, the fellow was dead–gallantly dead–and he, George Crozier, had married the girl he had always meant to marry. She was fond of him, too; how could she help it when he was ready to gratify her every wish and had the money to do it, too! He reflected with some complacency on his last gift to her, at Kimberley, where, owing to his friendship with some of the directors of De Beers, he had been able to purchase a diamond which, in the ordinary way, would not have been in the market, a stone not remarkable as to size, but of a very exquisite and rare shade, a peculiar deep amber, almost old gold, a diamond such as you might not find in a hundred years. And the look in her eyes when he gave it to her! Women were all the same about diamonds.

The necessity of holding on with both hands to prevent himself being jerked out brought George Crozier back to the realities. He cried out for perhaps the fourteenth time, with the pardonable irritation of a man who owns two Rolls-Royce cars and who has exercised his stud on the highways of civilization: ‘Good Lord, what a car! What a road!' He went on angrily: ‘Where the devil is this tobacco estate, anyway? It's over an hour since we left Bulawayo.'

‘Lost in Rhodesia,' said Deirdre lightly between two involuntary leaps into the air.

But the coffee-coloured driver, appealed to, responded with the cheering news that their destination was just round the next bend of the road.

II

The manager of the estate, Mr Walters, was waiting on the stoep to receive them with the touch of deference due to George Crozier's prominence in Union Tobacco. He introduced his daughter-in-law, who shepherded Deirdre through the cool, dark inner hall to a bedroom beyond, where she could remove the veil with which she was always careful to shield her complexion when motoring. As she unfastened the pins in her usual leisurely, graceful fashion, Deirdre's eyes swept round
the whitewashed ugliness of the bare room. No luxuries here, and Deirdre, who loved comfort as a cat loves cream, shivered a little. On the wall a text confronted her. ‘What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?' it demanded of all and sundry, and Deirdre, pleasantly conscious that the question had nothing to do with her, turned to accompany her shy and rather silent guide. She noted, but not in the least maliciously, the spreading hips and the unbecoming cheap cotton gown. And with a glow of quiet appreciation her eyes dropped to the exquisite, costly simplicity of her own French white linen. Beautiful clothes, especially when worn by herself, roused in her the joy of the artist.

The two men were waiting for her.

‘It won't bore you to come round, too, Mrs Crozier?'

‘Not at all. I've never been over a tobacco factory.'

They stepped out into the still Rhodesian afternoon.

‘These are the seedlings here; we plant them out as required. You see–'

The manager's voice droned on, interpolated by her husband's sharp staccato questions–output, stamp duty, problems of coloured labour. She ceased to listen.

This was Rhodesia, this was the land Tim had loved, where he and she were to have gone together after the War was over. If he had not been killed! As always, the bitterness of revolt surged up in her at that thought.
Two short months–that was all they had had. Two months of happiness–if that mingled rapture and pain were happiness. Was love ever happiness? Did not a thousand tortures beset the lover's heart? She had lived intensely in that short space, but had she ever known the peace, the leisure, the quiet contentment of her present life? And for the first time she admitted, somewhat unwillingly, that perhaps all had been for the best.

‘I wouldn't have liked living out here. I mightn't have been able to make Tim happy. I might have disappointed him. George loves me, and I'm very fond of him, and he's very, very good to me. Why, look at that diamond he bought me only the other day.' And, thinking of it, her eyelids dropped a little in pure pleasure.

‘This is where we thread the leaves.' Walters led the way into a low, long shed. On the floor were vast heaps of green leaves, and white-clad black ‘boys' squatted round them, picking and rejecting with deft fingers, sorting them into sizes, and stringing them by means of primitive needles on a long line of string. They worked with a cheerful leisureliness, jesting amongst themselves, and showing their white teeth as they laughed.

‘Now, out here–'

They passed through the shed into the daylight
again, where the lines of leaves hung drying in the sun. Deirdre sniffed delicately at the faint, almost imperceptible fragrance that filled the air.

Walters led the way into other sheds where the tobacco, kissed by the sun into faint yellow discoloration, underwent its further treatment. Dark here, with the brown swinging masses above, ready to fall to powder at a rough touch. The fragrance was stronger, almost overpowering it seemed to Deirdre, and suddenly a sort of terror came upon her, a fear of she knew not what, that drove her from that menacing, scented obscurity out into the sunlight. Crozier noted her pallor.

‘What's the matter, my dear, don't you feel well? The sun, perhaps. Better not come with us round the plantations? Eh?'

Walters was solicitous. Mrs Crozier had better go back to the house and rest. He called to a man a little distance away.

‘Mr Arden–Mrs Crozier. Mrs Crozier's feeling a little done up with the heat, Arden. Just take her back to the house, will you?'

The momentary feeling of dizziness was passing. Deirdre walked by Arden's side. She had as yet hardly glanced at him.

‘Deirdre!'

Her heart gave a leap, and then stood still. Only one person had ever spoken her name like that, with
the faint stress on the first syllable that made of it a caress.

She turned and stared at the man by her side. He was burnt almost black by the sun, he walked with a limp, and on the cheek nearer hers was a long scar which altered his expression, but she knew him. ‘Tim!'

For an eternity, it seemed to her, they gazed at each other, mute and trembling, and then, without knowing how or why, they were in each other's arms. Time rolled back for them. Then they drew apart again, and Deirdre, conscious as she put it of the idiocy of the question, said:

‘Then you're not dead?'

‘No, they must have mistaken another chap for me. I was badly knocked on the head, but I came to and managed to crawl into the bush. After that I don't know what happened for months and months, but a friendly tribe looked after me, and at last I got my proper wits again and managed to get back to civilization.' He paused. ‘I found you'd been married six months.'

Deirdre cried out:

‘Oh, Tim, understand, please understand! It was so awful, the loneliness–and the poverty. I didn't mind being poor with you, but when I was alone I hadn't the nerve to stand up against the sordidness of it all.'

‘It's all right, Deirdre; I did understand. I know you
always have had a hankering after the flesh-pots. I took you from them once–but the second time, well–my nerve failed. I was pretty badly broken up, you see, could hardly walk without a crutch, and then there was this scar.'

She interrupted him passionately.

‘Do you think I would have cared for that?'

‘No, I know you wouldn't. I was a fool. Some women did mind, you know. I made up my mind I'd manage to get a glimpse of you. If you looked happy, if I thought you were contented to be with Crozier–why, then I'd remain dead. I did see you. You were just getting into a big car. You had on some lovely sable furs–things I'd never be able to give you if I worked my fingers to the bone–and–well–you seemed happy enough. I hadn't the same strength and courage, the same belief in myself, that I'd had before the War. All I could see was myself, broken and useless, barely able to earn enough to keep you–and you looked so beautiful, Deirdre, such a queen amongst women, so worthy to have furs and jewels and lovely clothes and all the hundred and one luxuries Crozier could give you. That–and–well, the pain–of seeing you together, decided me. Everyone believed me dead. I would stay dead.'

‘The pain!' repeated Deirdre in a low voice.

‘Well, damn it all, Deirdre, it hurt! It isn't that I blame you. I don't. But it hurt.'

They were both silent. Then Tim raised her face to his and kissed it with a new tenderness.

‘But that's all over now, sweetheart. The only thing to decide is how we're going to break it to Crozier.'

‘Oh!' She drew herself away abruptly. ‘I hadn't thought–' She broke off as Crozier and the manager appeared round the angle of the path. With a swift turn of the head she whispered:

‘Do nothing now. Leave it to me. I must prepare him. Where could I meet you tomorrow?'

Nugent reflected.

‘I could come in to Bulawayo. How about the Café near the Standard Bank? At three o'clock it would be pretty empty.'

Deirdre gave a brief nod of assent before turning her back on him and joining the other two men. Tim Nugent looked after her with a faint frown. Something in her manner puzzled him.

III

Deirdre was very silent during the drive home. Sheltering behind the fiction of a ‘touch of the sun', she deliberated on her course of action. How should she tell him? How
would he take it? A strange lassitude seemed to possess her, and a growing desire to postpone the revelation as long as might be. Tomorrow would be soon enough. There would be plenty of time before three o'clock.

The hotel was uncomfortable. Their room was on the ground floor, looking out on to an inner court. Deirdre stood that evening sniffing the stale air and glancing distastefully at the tawdry furniture. Her mind flew to the easy luxury of Monkton Court amidst the Surrey pinewoods. When her maid left her at last, she went slowly to her jewel case. In the palm of her hand the golden diamond returned her stare.

With an almost violent gesture she returned it to the case and slammed down the lid. Tomorrow morning she would tell George.

She slept badly. It was stifling beneath the heavy folds of the mosquito netting. The throbbing darkness was punctuated by the ubiquitous
ping
she had learnt to dread. She awoke white and listless. Impossible to start a scene so early in the day!

She lay in the small, close room all the morning, resting. Lunchtime came upon her with a sense of shock. As they sat drinking coffee, George Crozier proposed a drive to the Matopos.

‘Plenty of time if we start at once.'

Deirdre shook her head, pleading a headache, and she thought to herself: ‘That settles it. I can't rush the
thing. After all, what does a day more or less matter? I'll explain to Tim.'

She waved goodbye to Crozier as he rattled off in the battered Ford. Then, glancing at her watch, she walked slowly to the meeting place.

The Café was deserted at this hour. They sat down at a little table and ordered the inevitable tea that South Africa drinks at all hours of the day and night. Neither of them said a word till the waitress brought it and withdrew to her fastness behind some pink curtains. Then Deirdre looked up and started as she met the intense watchfulness in his eyes.

‘Deirdre, have you told him?'

She shook her head, moistening her lips, seeking for words that would not come.

‘Why not?'

‘I haven't had a chance; there hasn't been time.'

Even to herself the words sounded halting and unconvincing.

‘It's not that. There's something else. I suspected it yesterday. I'm sure of it today. Deirdre, what is it?'

She shook her head dumbly.

‘There's some reason why you don't want to leave George Crozier, why you don't want to come back to me. What is it?'

It was true. As he said it she knew it, knew it with sudden scorching shame, but knew it beyond
any possibility of doubt. And still his eyes searched her.

‘It isn't that you love him! You don't. But there's something.'

She thought: ‘In another moment he'll see! Oh, God, don't let him!'

Suddenly his face whitened.

‘Deirdre–is it–is it that there's going to be a–child?'

In a flash she saw the chance he offered her. A wonderful way! Slowly, almost without her own volition, she bowed her head.

She heard his quick breathing, then his voice, rather high and hard.

‘That–alters things. I didn't know. We've got to find a different way out.' He leant across the table and caught both her hands in his. ‘Deirdre, my darling, never think–never dream that you were in any way to blame. Whatever happens, remember that. I should have claimed you when I came back to England. I funked it, so it's up to me to do what I can to put things straight now. You see? Whatever happens, don't fret, darling. Nothing has been your fault.'