I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return
found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.
“_A la bonne heure_, Hastings. I feared you would not have returned
in time to accompany me.”
“You are called away on a case, then?”
“Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the
affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance
Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr. Maltravers
who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum
of fifty thousand pounds.”
“Yes?” I said, much interested.
“There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In
the event of his committing suicide within a year the premiums
would be forfeited. Mr. Maltravers was duly examined by the
Company’s own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the
prime of life was passed as being in quite sound health. However,
on Wednesday last—the day before yesterday—the body of Mr.
Maltravers was found in the grounds of his house in Essex, Marsdon
Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of
internal hæmorrhage. That in itself would be nothing remarkable,
but sinister rumours as to Mr. Maltravers’ financial position have
been in the air of late, and the Northern Union have ascertained
beyond any possible doubt that the deceased gentleman stood upon
the verge of bankruptcy. Now that alters matters considerably.
Maltravers had a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he
got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of paying
the premiums on a life insurance for his wife’s benefit, and then
committed suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my
friend Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has
asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but, as I told him,
I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of the death had
been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine. Heart failure
may always be translated as the inability of the local G.P. to
discover what his patient really did die of, but a hæmorrhage seems
fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries.
Five minutes to pack your bag, Hastings, and we will take a taxi
to Liverpool Street.”
About an hour later, we alighted from a Great Eastern train at the
little station of Marsdon Leigh. Inquiries at the station yielded
the information that Marsdon Manor was about a mile distant. Poirot
decided to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street.
“What is our plan of campaign?” I asked.
“First I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there
is only one doctor in Marsdon Leigh, Dr. Ralph Bernard. Ah, here
we are at his house.”
The house in question was a kind of superior cottage, standing back
a little from the road. A brass plate on the gate bore the doctor’s
name. We passed up the path and rang the bell.
We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor’s
consulting hour, and for the moment there were no patients waiting
for him. Dr. Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered and
stooping, with a pleasant vagueness of manner.
Poirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit,
adding that Insurance Companies were bound to investigate fully in
a case of this kind.
“Of course, of course,” said Dr. Bernard vaguely. “I suppose, as
he was such a rich man, his life was insured for a big sum?”
“You consider him a rich man, doctor?”
The doctor looked rather surprised.
“Was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsdon Manor is a
pretty big place to keep up, although I believe he bought it very
cheap.”
“I understand that he had had considerable losses of late,” said
Poirot, watching the doctor narrowly.
The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly.
“Is that so? Indeed. It is fortunate for his wife, then, that there
is this life insurance. A very beautiful and charming young
creature, but terribly unstrung by this sad catastrophe. A mass of
nerves, poor thing. I have tried to spare her all I can, but of
course the shock was bound to be considerable.”
“You had been attending Mr. Maltravers recently?”
“My dear sir, I never attended him.”
“What?”
“I understand Mr. Maltravers was a Christian Scientist—or something
of that kind.”
“But you examined the body?”
“Certainly. I was fetched by one of the under-gardeners.”
“And the cause of death was clear?”
“Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding
must have been internal.”
“Was he still lying where he had been found?”
“Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying at the edge of
a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a
small rook rifle lay beside him. The hæmorrhage must have occurred
quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer, without a doubt.”
“No question of his having been shot, eh?”
“My dear sir!”
“I demand pardon,” said Poirot humbly. “But, if my memory is not
at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a
verdict of heart failure—altering it when the local constable
pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!”
“You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr. Maltravers,”
said Dr. Bernard dryly. “Now, gentlemen, if there is nothing
further——”
We took the hint.
“Good morning, and many thanks to you, doctor, for so kindly
answering our questions. By the way, you saw no need for an
autopsy?”
“Certainly not.” The doctor became quite apoplectic. “The cause of
death was clear, and in my profession we see no need to distress
unduly the relatives of a dead patient.”
And, turning, the doctor slammed the door sharply in our faces.
“And what do you think of Dr. Bernard, Hastings?” inquired Poirot,
as we proceeded on our way to the Manor.
“Rather an old ass.”
“Exactly. Your judgments of character are always profound, my
friend.”
I glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly serious. A
twinkle, however, came into his eye, and he added slyly:
“That is to say, when there is no question of a beautiful woman!”