AGATHA CHRISTIE - THE CRETAN BULL

AGATHA CHRISTIE -

THE LABOURS OF HERCULES 

Chapter 7
THE CRETAN BULL

Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at his visitor.
He saw a pale face with a determined-looking chin, eyes that were more grey than blue, and hair that was of that real blue-black shade so seldom seen - the hyacinthine locks of ancient Greece.
He noted the well-cut, but also well-worn, country tweeds, the shabby handbag, and the unconscious arrogance of manner that lay behind the girl's obvious nervousness. He thought to himself:
"Ah yes, she is 'the County' - but no money! And it must be something quite out of the way that would bring her to me."
Diana Maberly said, and her voice shook a little:
"I - I don't know whether you can help me or not, M. Poirot. It's - it's a very extraordinary position."
Poirot said: "But yes? Tell me?"
Diana Maberly said: "I've come to you because I don't know what to do! I don't even know if there is anything to do!"
"Will you let me be the judge of that?"
The colour surged suddenly into the girl's face. 
She said rapidly and breathlessly: "I've come to you because the man I've been engaged to for over a year has broken off our engagement."
She stopped and eyed him defiantly.
"You must think," she said, "that I'm completely mental."
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
"On the contrary. Mademoiselle, I have no doubt whatever but that you are extremely intelligent. It is certainly not my metier in life to patch up the lovers' quarrels, and I know very well that you are quite aware of that. It is, therefore, that there is something unusual about the breaking of this engagement. That is so, is it not?"
The girl nodded. She said in a clear, precise voice. "Hugh broke off our engagement because he thinks he is going mad. He thinks people who are mad should not marry."
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little.
"And do you not agree?"
"I don't know... What is being mad, after all? Everyone is a little mad."
"It has been said so," Poirot agreed cautiously.
"It's only when you begin thinking you're a poached egg or something that they have to shut you up."
"And your fiancé has not reached that stage?"
Diana Maberly said: "I can't see that there's anything wrong with Hugh at all. He's, oh, he's the sanest person I know. Sound - dependable -"
"Then why does he think he is going mad?"
Poirot paused a moment before going on.
"Is there, perhaps, madness in his family?"
Reluctantly Diana jerked her head in assent. 
She said: "His grandfather was mental, I believe - and some great-aunt or other. But what I say is, that every family has got someone queer in it. You know, a bit half-witted or extra clever or something!"
Her eyes were appealing.
Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. 
He said: "I am very sorry for you. Mademoiselle."
Her chin shot out. She cried: "I don't want you to be sorry for me! I want you to do something!"
"What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know - but there's something wrong."
"Will you tell me Mademoiselle, all about your fiancé?"
Diana spoke rapidly: "His name's Hugh Chandler. He's twenty-four. His father is Admiral Chandler. They live at Lyde Manor. It's been in the Chandler family since the time of Elizabeth. Hugh's the only son. He went into the Navy - all the Chandlers are sailors - it's a sort of tradition - ever since Sir Gilbert Chandler sailed with Sir Walter Raleigh in fifteen-something-or-other. Hugh went into the Navy as a matter of course. His father wouldn't have heard of anything else. And yet - and yet, it was his father who insisted on getting him out of it!"
"When was that?"
"Nearly a year ago. Quite suddenly."
"Was Hugh Chandler happy in his profession?"
"Absolutely."
"There was no scandal of any kind?"
"About Hugh? Absolutely nothing. He was getting on splendidly. He - he couldn't understand his father."
"What reason did Admiral Chandler himself give?"
Diana said slowly: "He never really gave a reason. Oh! he said it was necessary Hugh should learn to manage the estate - but - but that was only a pretext. Even George Frobisher realised that."
"Who is George Frobisher?"
"Colonel Frobisher. He's Admiral Chandler's oldest friend and Hugh's godfather. He spends most of his time down at the Manor."
"And what did Colonel Frobisher think of Admiral Chandler's determination that his son should leave the Navy?"
"He was dumbfounded. He couldn't understand it at all. Nobody could."
"Not even Hugh Chandler himself?"
Diana did not answer at once. 
Poirot waited a minute, then he went on: "At the time, perhaps, he, too, was astonished. But now? Has he said nothing - nothing at all?"
Diana murmured reluctantly: "He said - about a week ago - that - that his father was right - that it was the only thing to be done."
"Did you ask him why?"
"Of course. But he wouldn't tell me."
Hercule Poirot reflected for a minute or two. Then he said: "Have there been any unusual occurrences in your part of the world? Starting, perhaps, about a year ago? Something that has given rise to a lot of local talk and surmise?"
She flashed out: "I don't know what you mean!"
Poirot said quietly, but with authority in his voice: "You had better tell me."
"There wasn't anything - nothing of the kind you mean."
"Of what kind then?"
"I think you're simply odious! Queer things often happen on farms. It's revenge - or the village idiot or somebody."
"What happened?"
She said reluctantly: "There was a fuss about some sheep... Their throats were cut. Oh! it was horrid! But they all belonged to one farmer and he's a very hard man. The police thought it was some kind of spite against him."
"But they didn't catch the person who had done it?"
"No."
She added fiercely. "But if you think -"
Poirot held up his hand. He said: "You do not know in the least what I think. Tell me this, has your fiancé consulted a doctor?"
"No, I'm sure he hasn't."
"Wouldn't that be the simplest thing for him to do?"
Diana said slowly: "He won't. He - he hates doctors."
"And his father?"
"I don't think the Admiral believes much in doctors either. Says they're a lot of humbug merchants."
"How does the Admiral seem himself? Is he well? Happy?"
Diana said in a low voice: "He's aged terribly in - in -"
"In the last year?"
"Yes. He's a wreck - a sort of shadow of what he used to be."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. Then he said: "Did he approve of his son's engagement?"
"Oh yes. You see, my people's land adjoins his. We've been there for generations. He was frightfully pleased when Hugh and I fixed it up."
"And now? What does he say to your engagement being broken off?"
The girl's voice shook a little. She said: "I met him yesterday morning. He was looking ghastly. He took my hand in both of his. He said: 'It's hard on you, my girl. But the boy's doing the right thing - the only thing he can do.'"
"And so," said Hercule Poirot, "you came to me?"
She nodded. She asked: "Can you do anything?"
Hercule Poirot replied: "I do not know. But I can at least come down and see for myself."

II

It was Hugh Chandler's magnificent physique that impressed Hercule Poirot more than anything else. Tall, magnificently proportioned, with a terrific chest and shoulders, and a tawny head of hair. There was a tremendous air of strength and virility about him.
On their arrival at Diana's house, she had at once rung up Admiral Chandler, and they had forthwith gone over to Lyde Manor where they had found tea waiting on the long terrace. And with the tea, three men. There was Admiral Chandler, white haired, looking older than his years, his shoulders bowed as though by an over-heavy burden, and his eyes dark and brooding. A contrast to him was his friend Colonel Frobisher, a dried-up, tough, little man with reddish hair turning grey at the temples. A restless, irascible, snappy, little man, rather like a terrier - but the possessor of a pair of extremely shrewd eyes. He had a habit of drawing down his brows over his eyes and lowering his head, thrusting it forward, whilst those same shrewd little eyes studied you piercingly. The third man was Hugh.
"Fine specimen, eh?" said Colonel Frobisher.
He spoke in a low voice, having noted Poirot's close scrutiny of the young man.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He and Frobisher were sitting close together. The other three had their chairs on the far side of the tea-table and were chatting together in an animated but slightly artificial manner.
Poirot murmured: "Yes, he is magnificent - magnificent. He is the young Bull - yes, one might say the Bull dedicated to Poseidon... A perfect specimen of healthy manhood."
"Looks fit enough, doesn't he?"
Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering Hercule Poirot.
Presently he said: "I know who you are, you know."
"Ah that, it is no secret!"
Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not incognito, the gesture seemed to say. He was travelling as himself.
After a minute or two Frobisher asked: "Did the girl get you down - over this business?"
"The business -?"
"The business of young Hugh... Yes, I see you know all about it. But I can't quite see why she went to you... Shouldn't have thought this sort of thing was in your line - meantersay it's more a medical show."
"All kinds of things are in my line... You would be surprised."
"I mean I can't see quite what she expected you could do."
"Miss Maberly," said Poirot, "is a fighter."
Colonel Frobisher nodded a warm assent.
"Yes, she's a fighter all right. She's a fine kid. She won't give up. All the same, you know, there are some things that you can't fight..."
His face looked suddenly old and tired.
Poirot dropped his voice still lower. He murmured discreetly: "There is - insanity, I understand, in the family?"
Frobisher nodded.
"Only crops up now and again," he murmured. "Skips a generation or two. Hugh's grandfather was the last."
Poirot threw a quick glance in the direction of the other three. Diana was holding the conversation well, laughing and bantering Hugh. You would have said that the three of them had not a care in the world.
"What form did the madness take?" Poirot asked softly.
"The old boy became pretty violent in the end. He was perfectly all right up to thirty - normal as could be. Then he began to go a bit queer. It was some time before people noticed it. Then a lot of rumours began going around. People started talking properly. Things happened that were hushed up. But - well," he raised his shoulders "ended up as mad as a hatter, poor devil! Homicidal! Had to be certified."
He paused for a moment and then added:
"He lived to be quite an old man, I believe... That's what Hugh is afraid of, of course. That's why he doesn't want to see a doctor. He's afraid of being shut up and living shut up for years. Can't say I blame him. I'd feel the same." 
"And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?"
"It's broken him up completely," Frobisher spoke shortly.
"He is very fond of his son?"
"Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating accident when the boy was only ten years old. Since then he's lived for nothing but the child."
"Was he very devoted to his wife?"
"Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped her. She was - she was one of the loveliest women I've ever known." He paused a moment and then said jerkily, "Care to see her portrait?"
"I should like to see it very much."
Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose. 
Aloud he said: "Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles. He's a bit of a connoisseur."
The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana's face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an agonised question. Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked steadily at the small man with the big black moustache.
Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one article from another. But he realised that the house was full of old and beautiful things.
Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and pearls.
Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.
"Painted by Orpen," he said gruffly.
They stood looking up at a tall woman, her hand on a greyhound's collar. A woman with auburn hair and an expression of radiant vitality.
"Boy's the spitting image of her," said Frobisher. "Don't you think so?"
"In some things, yes."
"He hasn't got her delicacy - her femininity, of course. He's a masculine edition - but in all the essential things -" He broke off. "Pity he inherited from the Chandlers the one thing he could well have done without..."
They were silent. There was melancholy in the air all around them - as though dead and gone Chandlers sighed for the taint that lay in their blood and which, remorselessly, from time to time, they passed on.
Hercule Poirot turned his head to look at his companion. George Frobisher was still gazing up at the beautiful woman on the wall above him. 
Poirot said softly: "You knew her well..."
Frobisher spoke jerkily.
"We were boy and girl together. I went off as a subaltern to India when she was sixteen... When I got back - she was married to Charles Chandler."
"You knew him well also?"
"Charles is one of my oldest friends. He's my best friend - always has been."
"Did you see much of them - after the marriage?"
"Used to spend most of my leaves here. Like a second home to me, this place. Charles and Caroline always kept my room here - ready and waiting..." He squared his shoulders, suddenly thrust his head forward pugnaciously. "That's why I'm here now - to stand by in case I'm wanted. If Charles needs me - I'm here."
Again the shadow of tragedy crept over them.
"And what do you think - about all this?" Poirot asked.
Frobisher stood stiffly. His brows came down over his eyes.
"What I think is, the least said the better. And to be frank, I don't see what you're doing in the business, M. Poirot. I don't see why Diana roped you in and got you down here."
"You are aware that Diana Maberly's engagement to Hugh Chandler has been broken off?"
"Yes, I know that."
"And you know the reason for it?"
Frobisher replied stiffly: "I don't know anything about that. Young people manage these things between them. Not my business to butt in."
Poirot said: "Hugh Chandler told Diana that it was not right that they should marry, because he was going out of his mind."
He saw the beads of perspiration break out on Frobisher's forehead.
Frobisher said: "Have we got to talk about the damned thing? What do you think you can do? Hugh's done the right thing, poor devil. It's not his fault, it's heredity - germ plasm - brain cells... But once he knew, well, what else could he do but break the engagement? It's one of those things that just has to be done."
"If I could be convinced of that -"
"You can take it from me."
"But you have told me nothing."
"I tell you I don't want to talk about it."
"Why did Admiral Chandler force his son to leave the Navy?"
"Because it was the only thing to be done."
"Why?"
Frobisher shook an obstinate head.
Poirot murmured softly: "Was it to do with some sheep being killed?"
The other man said angrily: "So you've heard about that?"
"Diana told me."
"That girl had far better keep her mouth shut."
"She did not think it was conclusive."
"She doesn't know."
"What doesn't she know?"
Unwillingly, jerkily, angrily, Frobisher spoke:
"Oh well, if you must have it... Chandler heard a noise that night. Thought it might be someone got in the house. Went out to investigate. Light in the boy's room. Chandler went in. Hugh asleep on bed - dead asleep - in his clothes. Blood on the clothes. Basin in the room full of blood. His father couldn't wake him. Next morning heard about sheep being found with their throats cut. Questioned Hugh. Boy didn't know anything about it. Didn't remember going out - and his shoes found by the side door caked in mud. Couldn't explain the blood in the basin. Couldn't explain anything. Poor devil didn't know, you understand.
"Charles came to me, talked it over. What was the best thing to be done? Then it happened again - three nights later. After that - well, you can see for yourself. The boy had got to leave the service. If he was here, under Charles's eye, Charles could watch over him. Couldn't afford to have a scandal in the Navy. Yes, it was the only thing to be done." 
Poirot asked: "And since then?" 
Frobisher said fiercely, "I'm not answering any more questions. Don't you think Hugh knows his own business best?"
Hercule Poirot did not answer. He was always loath to admit that anyone could know better than Hercule Poirot.

III

As they came into the hall, they met Admiral Chandler coming in. He stood for a moment, a dark figure silhouetted against the bright light outside.
He said in a low, gruff voice: "Oh there you both are. M. Poirot, I would like a word with you. Come into my study."
Frobisher went out through the open door, and Poirot followed the Admiral. He had rather the feeling of having been summoned to the quarter-deck to give an account of himself.
The Admiral motioned Poirot to take one of the big easy chairs and himself sat down in the other. Poirot, whilst with Frobisher, had been impressed by the other's restlessness, nervousness and irritability - all the signs of intense mental strain. With Admiral Chandler he felt a sense of hopelessness, of quiet, deep despair...
With a deep sigh. Chandler said: "I can't help being sorry Diana has brought you into this... Poor child, I know how hard it is for her. But - well - it is our own private tragedy, and I think you will understand, M. Poirot, that we don't want outsiders."
"I can understand your feeling, certainly."
"Diana, poor child, can't believe it... I couldn't at first. Probably wouldn't believe it now if I didn't know -"
He paused.
"Know what?"
"That it's in the blood. The taint, I mean."
"And yet you agreed to the engagement?"
Admiral Chandler flushed.
"You mean, I should have put my foot down then? But at the time I'd no idea. Hugh takes after his mother - nothing about him to remind you of the Chandlers. I hoped he'd taken after her in every way. From his childhood upwards, there's never been a trace of abnormality about him until now. I couldn't know that - dash it all, there's a trace of insanity in nearly every old family!"
Poirot said softly: "You have not consulted a doctor?"
Chandler roared: "No, and I'm not going to! The boy's safe enough here with me to look after him. They shan't shut him up between four walls like a wild beast..."
"He is safe here, you say. But are others safe?"
"What do you mean by that?"
Poirot did not reply. He looked steadily into Admiral Chandler's sad, dark eyes.
The Admiral said bitterly: "Each man to his trade. You're looking for a criminal! My boy's not a criminal, M. Poirot."
"Not yet."
"What do you mean by 'not yet'?"
"These things increase... Those sheep -"
"Who told you about the sheep?"
"Diana Maberly. And also your friend, Colonel Frobisher."
"George would have done better to keep his mouth shut."
"He is a very old friend of yours, is he not?"
"My best friend," the Admiral said gruffly.
"And he was a friend of - your wife's, too?"
Chandler smiled.
"Yes. George was in love with Caroline, I believe. When she was very young. He's never married. I believe that's the reason. Ah well, I was the lucky one - or so I thought. I carried her off - only to lose her."
He sighed and his shoulders sagged.
Poirot said: "Colonel Frobisher was with you when your wife was - drowned?"
Chandler nodded.
"Yes, he was with us down in Cornwall when it happened. She and I were out in the boat together - he happened to stay at home that day. I've never understood how that boat came to capsize... Must have sprung a sudden leak. We were right out in the bay - strong tide running. I held her up as long as I could..." His voice broke. "Her body was washed up two days later. Thank the Lord we hadn't taken little Hugh out with us! At least, that's what I thought at the time. Now - well - better for Hugh, poor devil, perhaps, if he had been with us. If it had all been finished and done for then..."
Again there came that deep, hopeless sigh.
"We're the last of the Chandlers, M. Poirot. There will be no more Chandlers at Lyde after we're gone. When Hugh got engaged to Diana, I hoped - well, it's no good talking of that. Thank God, they didn't marry. That's all I can say!"

IV

Hercule Poirot sat on a seat in the rose garden. Beside him sat Hugh Chandler. Diana Maberly had just left them.
The young man turned a handsome, tortured face towards his companion.
He said: "You've got to make her understand, M. Poirot."
He paused for a minute and then went on: "You see, Di's a fighter. She won't give in. She won't accept what she's darned well got to accept. She - she will go on believing that I'm - sane."
"While you yourself are quite certain that you are - pardon me - insane?"
The young man winced. He said: "I'm not actually hopelessly off my head yet - but it's getting worse. Diana doesn't know, bless her. She's only seen me when I am - all right."
"And when you are - all wrong, what happens?"
Hugh Chandler took a long breath. Then he said: "For one thing - I dream. And when I dream, I am mad. Last night, for instance - I wasn't a man any longer. I was first of all a bull - a mad bull - racing about in blazing sunlight - tasting dust and blood in my mouth - dust and blood... And then I was a dog - a great slavering dog. I had hydrophobia - rabies - children scattered and fled as I came - men and women tried to shoot me - someone set down a great bowl of water for me and I couldn't drink. I couldn't drink..."
He paused. "I woke up. And I knew it was true. I went over to the wash-stand. My mouth was parched - horribly parched - and dry. I was thirsty. But I couldn't drink, M. Poirot... I couldn't swallow... Oh, my God, I wasn't able to drink..."
Hercule Poirot made a gentle murmur. Hugh Chandler went on. His hands were clenched on his knees. His face was thrust forward, his eyes were half closed as though he saw something coming towards him.
"And there are things that aren't dreams. Things that I see when I'm wide awake. Spectres, frightful shapes. They leer at me. And sometimes I'm able to fly, to leave my bed, and fly through the air, to ride the winds - and fiends bear me company!" 
"Tcha, tcha," said Hercule Poirot.
It was a gentle, deprecating little noise.
Hugh Chandler turned to him.
"Oh, there isn't any doubt. It's in my blood. It's my family heritage. I can't escape. Thank God I found it out in time! Before I'd married Diana. Suppose we'd had a child and handed on this frightful thing to him!" 
He laid a hand on Poirot's arm. 
"You must make her understand. You must tell her. She's got to forget. She's got to. There will be someone else someday. There's young Steve Graham - he's crazy about her and he's an awfully good chap. She'd be happy with him - and safe. I want her - to be happy. Graham's hard up, of course, and so are her people, but when I'm gone they'll be all right."
Hercule's voice interrupted him.
"Why will they be 'all right' when you are gone?"
Hugh Chandler smiled. It was a gentle, lovable smile.
He said: "There's my mother's money. She was an heiress, you know. It came to me. I've left it all to Diana."
Hercule Poirot sat back in his chair. He said: "Ah!"
Then he said: "But you may live to be quite an old man, Mr Chandler."
Hugh Chandler shook his head. 
He said sharply: "No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man."
Then he drew back with a sudden shudder.
"My God! Look!" He stared over Poirot's shoulder. "There - standing by you... it's a skeleton - its bones are shaking. It's calling to me - beckoning-"
His eyes, the pupils widely dilated, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as though collapsing.
Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice: "You didn't see - anything?" 
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
Hugh Chandler said hoarsely: "I don't mind this so much - seeing things. It's the blood I'm frightened of. The blood in my room - on my clothes... We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat cut - and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!"
He leant closer to Poirot.
"Even just lately things have been killed," he whispered. "All around - in the village - out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs - a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes - sometimes - the door's open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don't know where I've hidden it. I don't know. It isn't I who do these things - it's someone else who comes into me - who takes possession of me - who turns me from a man into a raving monster who wants blood and who can't drink water..."
Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.
After a minute or two, Poirot asked: "I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?"
Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said: "Don't you really understand? Physically I'm strong. I'm as strong as a bull. I might live for years - years - shut up between four walls! That I can't face! It would be better to go out altogether... There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun... that sort of thing. Diana will understand... I'd rather take my own way out!"
He looked defiantly at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked mildly:
"What do you eat and drink?"
Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.
"Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?"
Poirot merely repeated gently: "What do you eat and drink?"
"Just what everybody else eats and drinks."
"No special medicine? Cachets? Pills?"
"Good Lord, no. Do you really think patent pills would cure my trouble?" He quoted derisively: "'Canst though then minister to a mind diseased?'"
Hercule Poirot said dryly: "I am trying to. Does anyone in this house suffer with eye trouble?"
Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said: "Father's eyes give him a good deal of trouble. He has to go to an oculist fairly often."
"Ah!" Poirot meditated for a moment or two. Then he said: "Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has spent much of his life in the Raj?"
"Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He's very keen on India - talks about it a lot - native traditions - and all that."
Poirot murmured "Ah!" again.
Then he remarked: "I see that you have cut your chin."
Hugh put his hand up.
"Yes, quite a nasty gash. Father startled me one day when I was shaving. I'm a bit nervy these days, you know. And I've had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck. Makes shaving difficult."
Poirot said: "You should use a soothing cream."
"Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one."
He gave a sudden laugh.
"We're talking like a woman's beauty parlour. Lotions, soothing creams, patent pills, eye trouble. What does it all amount to? What are you getting at, M. Poirot?"
Poirot said quietly: "I am trying to do the best I can for Diana Maberly."
Hugh's mood changed. His face sobered. He laid a hand on Poirot's arm.
"Yes, do what you can for her. Tell her she's got to forget. Tell her that it's no good hoping... Tell her some of the things I've told you... Tell her - oh, tell her for God's sake to keep away from me! That's the only thing she can do for me now. Keep away - and try to forget!"

V

"Have you courage. Mademoiselle? Great courage? You will need it."
Diana cried sharply: "Then it's true. It's true? He is mad?"
Hercule Poirot said: "I am not an alienist. Mademoiselle. It is not I who can say, 'This man is mad. This man is sane.'"
She came closer to him.
"Admiral Chandler thinks Hugh is mad. George Frobisher thinks he is mad. Hugh himself thinks he is mad -"
Poirot was watching her.
"And you, Mademoiselle?"
"I? I say he isn't mad! That's why -" She stopped.
"That is why you came to me?"
"Yes. I couldn't have had any other reason for coming to you, could I?"
"That," said Hercule Poirot, "is exactly what I have been asking myself, Mademoiselle!"
"I don't understand you."
"Who is Stephen Graham?"
She stared. "Stephen Graham? Oh, he's - he's just someone."
She caught him by the arm.
"What's in your mind? What are you thinking about? You just stand there - behind that great moustache of yours - blinking your eyes in the sunlight, and you don't tell me anything. You're making me afraid - horribly afraid. Why are you making me afraid?"
"Perhaps," said Poirot, "because I am afraid myself."
The deep grey eyes opened wide, stared up at him. She said in a whisper:
"What are you afraid of?"
Hercule Poirot sighed - a deep sigh.
He said: "It is much easier to catch a murderer than it is to prevent a murder."
She cried out: "Murder? Don't use that word."
"Nevertheless," said Hercule Poirot, "I do use it."
He altered his tone, speaking quickly and authoritatively.
"Mademoiselle, it is necessary that both you and I should pass the night at Lyde Manor. I look to you to arrange the matter. You can do that?"
"I - yes - I suppose so. But why -?"
"Because there is no time to lose. You have told me that you have courage. Prove that courage now. Do what I ask and make no questions about it."
She nodded without a word and turned away.
Poirot followed her into the house after the lapse of a moment or two. He heard her voice in the library and the voices of three men. He passed up the broad staircase. There was no one on the upper floor.
He found Hugh Chandler's room easily enough. In the corner of the room was a fitted washbasin with hot and cold water. Over it, on a glass shelf, were various tubes and pots and bottles.
Hercule Poirot went quickly and dexterously to work...
What he had to do did not take him long. He was downstairs again in the hall when Diana came out of the library, looking flushed and rebellious.
"It's all right," she said.
Admiral Chandler drew Poirot into the library and closed the door. He said: "Look here, M. Poirot, I don't like this."
"What don't you like, Admiral Chandler?"
"Diana has been insisting that you and she should both spend the night here. I don't want to be inhospitable -"
"It is not a question of hospitality."
"As I say, I don't like being inhospitable - but frankly, I don't like it, M. Poirot. I - I don't want it. And I don't understand the reason for it. What good can it possibly do?"
"Shall we say that it is an experiment I am trying?"
"What kind of an experiment?"
"That, you will pardon me, is my business..."
"Now look here, M. Poirot, I didn't ask you to come here in the first place -"
Poirot interrupted.
"Believe me, Admiral Chandler, I quite understand and appreciate your point of view. I am here simply and solely because of the obstinacy of a girl in love. You have told me certain things. Colonel Frobisher has told me certain things. Hugh himself has told me certain things. Now - I want to see for myself."
"Yes, but see what? I tell you, there's nothing to see! I lock Hugh into his room every night and that's that."
"And yet - sometimes - he tells me that the door is not locked in the morning?"
"What's that?"
"Have you not found the door unlocked yourself?"
Chandler was frowning.
"I always imagined George had unlocked - what do you mean?"
"Where do you leave the key - in the lock?"
"No, I lay it on the chest outside. I, or George, or Withers, the valet, take it from there in the morning. We've told Withers it's because Hugh walks in his sleep... I daresay he knows more - but he's a faithful fellow, been with me for years."
"Is there another key?"
"Not that I know of."
"One could have been made."
"But who -"
"Your son thinks that he himself has one hidden somewhere, although he is unaware of it in his waking state."
Colonel Frobisher, speaking from the far end of the room, said: "I don't like it, Charles... The girl -"
Admiral Chandler said quickly: "Just what I was thinking. The girl mustn't come back with you. Come back yourself, if you like."
Poirot said: "Why don't you want Miss Maberly here tonight?"
Frobisher said in a low voice: "It's too risky. In these cases -"
He stopped.
Poirot said: "Hugh is devoted to her..."
Chandler cried: "That's just why! Damn it all, man, everything's topsy-turvy where a madman's concerned. Hugh knows that himself. Diana mustn't come here."
"As to that," said Poirot, "Diana must decide for herself."
He went out of the library. Diana was waiting outside in the car. She called out, "We'll get what we want for the night and be back in time for dinner."
As they drove down the long drive, Poirot repeated to her the conversation he had just held with the Admiral and Colonel Frobisher. She laughed scornfully.
"Do they think Hugh would hurt me?"
By way of reply, Poirot asked her if she would mind stopping at the chemist's in the village. He had forgotten, he said, to pack a toothbrush.
The chemist's shop was in the middle of the peaceful village street. Diana waited outside in the car. It struck her that Hercule Poirot was a long time choosing a toothbrush...

VI

In the big bedroom with the heavy Elizabethan oak furniture, Hercule Poirot sat and waited. There was nothing to do but wait. All his arrangements were made.
It was towards early morning that the summons came.
At the sound of footsteps outside, Poirot drew back the bolt and opened the door. There were two men in the passage outside - two middle-aged men who looked older than their years. The Admiral was stern-faced and grim. Colonel Frobisher twitched and trembled.
Chandler said simply: "Will you come with us, M. Poirot?"
There was a huddled figure lying outside Diana Maberly's bedroom door. The light fell on a rumpled, tawny head. Hugh Chandler lay there breathing stertorously. He was in his dressing-gown and slippers. In his right hand was a sharply-curved, shining knife. Not all of it was shining - here and there it was obscured by red glistening patches.
Hercule Poirot exclaimed softly: "Mon Dieu!"
Frobisher said sharply: "She's all right. He hasn't touched her." 
He raised his voice and called: "Diana! It's us! Let us in!"
Poirot heard the Admiral groan and mutter under his breath: "My boy. My poor boy."
There was a sound of bolts being drawn. The door opened and Diana stood there. Her face was dead white.
She faltered out: "What's happened? There was someone - trying to get in - I heard them - feeling the door - the handle - scratching on the panels - Oh! it was awful... like an animal..."
Frobisher said sharply: "Thank God your door was locked!"
"M. Poirot told me to lock it."
Poirot said: "Lift him up and bring him inside."
The two men stooped and raised the unconscious man. Diana caught her breath with a little gasp as they passed her.
"Hugh? Is it Hugh? What's that - on his hands?"
Hugh Chandler's hands were sticky and wet with a brownish, red stain.
Diana breathed: "Is that blood?"
Poirot looked inquiringly at the two men. 
The Admiral nodded. He said: "Not human, thank God! A cat! I found it downstairs in the hall. Throat cut. Afterwards he must have come up here -"
"Here?" Diana's voice was low with horror. "To me?"
The man on the chair stirred - muttered. They watched him, fascinated. Hugh Chandler sat up. He blinked.
"Hullo," his voice was dazed - hoarse. "What's happened? Why am I -?"
He stopped. He was staring at the knife which he held still clasped in his hand.
He said in a slow, thick voice: "What have I done?"
His eyes went from one to the other. They rested at last on Diana shrinking back against the wall. 
He said quietly: "Did I attack Diana?"
His father shook his head. 
Hugh said: "Tell me what has happened? I've got to know!"
They told him - told him unwillingly - haltingly. His quiet perseverance drew it out of them.
Outside the window the sun was coming up. Hercule Poirot drew a curtain aside. The radiance of the dawn came into the room.
Hugh Chandler's face was composed, his voice was steady.
He said: "I see."
Then he got up. He smiled and stretched himself. His voice was quite natural as he said:
"Beautiful morning, what? Think I'll go out in the woods and try to get a rabbit."
He went out of the room and left them staring after him.
Then the Admiral started forward. Frobisher caught him by the arm.
"No, Charles, no. It's the best way - for him, poor devil, if for nobody else."
Diana had thrown herself sobbing on the bed.
Admiral Chandler said, his voice coming unevenly: "You're right, George - you're right, I know. The boy's got guts..."
Frobisher said, and his voice, too, was broken: "He's a man..."
There was a moment's silence and then Chandler said:
"Damn it, where's that cursed foreigner?"

VII

In the gun-room, Hugh Chandler had lifted his gun from the rack and was in the act of loading it when Hercule Poirot's hand fell on his shoulder.
Hercule Poirot's voice said one word and said it with a strange authority. 
He said: "No !"
Hugh Chandler stared at him. 
He said in a thick, angry voice: "Take your hands off me. Don't interfere. There's going to be an accident, I tell you. It's the only way out."
Again Hercule Poirot repeated that one word: "No."
"Don't you realise that if it hadn't been for the accident of her door being locked, I would have cut Diana's throat - Diana's! - with that knife?"
"I realise nothing of the kind. You would not have killed Miss Maberly."
"I killed the cat, didn't I?"
"No, you did not kill the cat. You did not kill the parrot. You did not kill the sheep."
Hugh stared at him. He demanded: "Are you mad, or am I?"
Hercule Poirot replied: "Neither of us is mad."
It was at that moment that Admiral Chandler and Colonel Frobisher came in. Behind them came Diana.
Hugh Chandler said in a weak, dazed voice: "This chap says I'm not mad..."
Hercule Poirot said: "I am happy to tell you that you are entirely and completely sane."
Hugh laughed. It was a laugh such as a lunatic might popularly be supposed to give.
"That's damned funny! It's sane, is it, to cut the throats of sheep and other animals? I was sane, was I, when I killed that parrot? And the cat tonight?"
"I tell you you did not kill the sheep - or the parrot - or the cat."
"Then who did?"
"Someone who has had at heart the sole object of proving you insane. On each occasion you were given a heavy soporific and a blood-stained knife or razor was planted by you. It was someone else whose bloody hands were washed in your basin."
"But why?"
"In order that you should do what you were just about to do when I stopped you."
Hugh stared. Poirot turned to Colonel Frobisher.
"Colonel Frobisher, you lived for many years in the Raj. Did you never come across cases where persons were deliberately driven mad by the administration of drugs?"
Colonel Frobisher's face lit up. 
He said: "Never came across a case myself, but I've heard of them often enough. Datura poisoning. It ends by driving a person insane."
"Exactly. Well, the active principle of the datura is very closely allied to, if it is not actually, the alkaloid atropine - which is also obtained from belladonna or deadly nightshade. Belladonna preparations are fairly common and atropine sulphate itself is prescribed freely for eye treatments. By duplicating a prescription and getting it made up in different places a large quantity of the poison could be obtained without arousing suspicion. The alkaloid could be extracted from it and then introduced into, say - a soothing shaving cream. Applied externally it would cause a rash, this would soon lead to abrasions in shaving and thus the drug would be continually entering the system. It would produce certain symptoms - dryness of the mouth and throat, difficulty in swallowing, hallucinations, double vision - all the symptoms, in fact, which Mr Chandler has experienced."
He turned to the young man.
"And to remove the last doubt from your mind, I will tell you that that is not a supposition but a fact. Your shaving cream was heavily impregnated with atropine sulphate. I took a sample and had it tested."
White, shaking, Hugh asked: "Who did it?"
Hercule Poirot said: "That is what I have been studying ever since I arrived here. I have been looking for a motive for murder. Diana Maberly gained financially by your death, but I did not consider her seriously -"
Hugh Chandler flashed out: "I should hope not!"
"I envisaged another possible motive. The eternal triangle; two men and a woman. Colonel Frobisher had been in love with your mother. Admiral Chandler married her."
Admiral Chandler cried out: "George? George! I won't believe it."
Hugh said in an incredulous voice: "Do you mean that hatred could go on - to a son?"
Hercule Poirot said: "Under certain circumstances, yes."
Frobisher cried out: "It's a damned lie! Don't believe him, Charles."
Chandler shrank away from him. He muttered to himself:
"The datura... India - yes, I see... And we'd never suspect poison - not with madness in the family already..."
"Mais oui!" Hercule Poirot's voice rose high and shrill. "Madness in the family. A madman - bent on revenge - cunning - as madmen are, concealing his madness for years." He whirled round on Frobisher. "Mon Dieu, you must have known, you must have suspected, that Hugh was your son? Why did you never tell him so?"
Frobisher stammered, gulped.
"I didn't know. I couldn't be sure... You see, Caroline came to me once - she was frightened of something - in great trouble. I don't know, I never have known, what it was all about. She - I - we lost our heads. Afterwards I went away at once - it was the only thing to be done, we both knew we'd got to play the game. I - well, I wondered, but I couldn't be sure. Caroline never said anything that led me to think Hugh was my son. And then when this - this streak of madness appeared, it settled things definitely, I thought."
Poirot said: "Yes, it settled things! You could not see the way the boy has of thrusting out his face and bringing down his brows - a trick he inherited from you. But Charles Chandler saw it. Saw it years ago - and learnt the truth from his wife. I think she was afraid of him - he'd begun to show her the mad streak - that was what drove her into your arms - you whom she had always loved. Charles Chandler planned his revenge. His wife died in a boating accident. He and she were out in the boat alone and he knows how that accident came about. Then he settled down to feed his concentrated hatred against the boy who bore his name but who was not his son. Your stories put the idea of datura poisoning into his head. Hugh should be slowly driven mad. Driven to the stage where he would take his own life in despair. The blood lust was Admiral Chandler's, not Hugh's. It was Charles Chandler who was driven to cut the throats of sheep in lonely fields. But it was Hugh who was to pay the penalty!
"Do you know when I suspected? When Admiral Chandler was so averse to his son seeing a doctor. For Hugh to object was natural enough. But the father! There might be treatment which would save his son - there were a hundred reasons why he should seek to have a doctor's opinion. But no, a doctor must not be allowed to see Hugh Chandler - in case a doctor should discover that Hugh was sane!"
Hugh said very quietly: "Sane... I am sane?"
He took a step towards Diana. 
Frobisher said in a gruff voice: "You're sane enough. There's no taint in our family."
Diana said: "Hugh..."
Admiral Chandler picked up Hugh's gun. 
He said: "All a lot of nonsense! Think I'll go and see if I can get a rabbit -"
Frobisher started forward, but the hand of Hercule Poirot restrained him. 
Poirot said: "You said yourself - just now - that it was the best way..."
Hugh and Diana had gone from the room.
The two men, the Englishman and the Belgian, watched the last of the Chandlers cross the Park and go up into the woods.
Presently, they heard a shot...