way?”
“Excuse me, inspector. I didn't say that. To be upset and worried was my poor brother's
normal condition.”
“Why was that?”
“You may not know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke, is in very bad health. Frankly,
between ourselves, she is suffering from an incurable cancer, and cannot live very much
longer. Her illness has preyed terribly on my brother's mind. I myself returned from the
East not long ago and I was shocked at the change in him.”
Poirot interpolated a question.
“Supposing, Mr. Clarke, that your brother had been found shot at the foot of a cliff - or
shot with a revolver beside him. What would have been your first thought?”
“Quite frankly, I should have jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide,” said Clarke.
“Encore!” said Poirot.
“What is that?”
“A fact that repeats itself. It is of no matter.”
“Anyway, it wasn't suicide,” said Crome with a touch of curtness. “Now I believe, Mr.
Clarke, that it was your brother's habit to go for a stroll every evening?”
“Quite right. He always did.”
“Every night?”
“Well, not if it was pouring with rain, naturally.”
“And every one in the house knew of this habit?”
“Of course.”
“And outside?”
“I don't quite know what you mean by outside. The gardener may have been aware of it or
not, I don't know.”
“And in the village?”
“Strictly speaking, we haven't got a village. There's a post office and cottages at
Churston Fetters - but there's no village or shops.”
“I suppose a stranger hanging round the place would be fairly easily noticed?”
“On the contrary. In August all this part of the world is a seething mass of strangers.
They come over every day from Brixham and Torquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on
foot. Broadsands, which is down there (he pointed), is a very popular beach and so is
Elbury Cove - it s a well-known beauty spot and people come there and picnic. I wish they
didn't! You've no idea how beautiful and peaceful this part of the world is in June and
the beginning of July.”
“So you don't think a stranger would be noticed?”
“Not unless he looked - well, off his head.”
“This man doesn't look off his head,” said Crome with certainty. “You see what I'm getting
at, Mr. Clarke. This man must have been spying out the land beforehand and discovered your
brother's habit of taking an evening stroll. I suppose, by the way, that no strange man
came up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?”
“Not that I know of - but we'll ask Deveril.”
He rang the bell and put the question to the butler.
“No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmichael. And I didn't notice any one hanging about the
house either. No more did the maids, because I've asked them.”
The butler waited a moment, then inquired: “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, Deveril, you can go.”
The butler withdrew, drawing back in the doorway to let a young woman pass.
Franklin Clarke rose as she came.
“This is Miss Grey, gentlemen. My brother's secretary.”
My attention was caught at once by the girl's extraordinary Scandinavian fairness. She had
the almost colourless ash hair - light grey eyes - and transparent glowing pallor that one
finds amongst Norwegians and Swedes. She looked about twenty-seven and seemed to be as
efficient as she was decorative.
“Can I help you in any way?” she asked as she sat down.
Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food.
“Did you deal with Sir Carmichael's correspondence?” asked Crome.
“Yes, all of it.”
“I suppose he never received a letter or letters signed A.B.C.?”
“A.B.C.?” She shook her head. “No, I'm sure he didn't.”
“He didn't mention having seen any one hanging about during his evening walks lately?”
“No. He never mentioned anything of the kind.”
“And you yourself have noticed no strangers?”
“Not exactly
“Excuse me, inspector. I didn't say that. To be upset and worried was my poor brother's
normal condition.”
“Why was that?”
“You may not know that my sister-in-law, Lady Clarke, is in very bad health. Frankly,
between ourselves, she is suffering from an incurable cancer, and cannot live very much
longer. Her illness has preyed terribly on my brother's mind. I myself returned from the
East not long ago and I was shocked at the change in him.”
Poirot interpolated a question.
“Supposing, Mr. Clarke, that your brother had been found shot at the foot of a cliff - or
shot with a revolver beside him. What would have been your first thought?”
“Quite frankly, I should have jumped to the conclusion that it was suicide,” said Clarke.
“Encore!” said Poirot.
“What is that?”
“A fact that repeats itself. It is of no matter.”
“Anyway, it wasn't suicide,” said Crome with a touch of curtness. “Now I believe, Mr.
Clarke, that it was your brother's habit to go for a stroll every evening?”
“Quite right. He always did.”
“Every night?”
“Well, not if it was pouring with rain, naturally.”
“And every one in the house knew of this habit?”
“Of course.”
“And outside?”
“I don't quite know what you mean by outside. The gardener may have been aware of it or
not, I don't know.”
“And in the village?”
“Strictly speaking, we haven't got a village. There's a post office and cottages at
Churston Fetters - but there's no village or shops.”
“I suppose a stranger hanging round the place would be fairly easily noticed?”
“On the contrary. In August all this part of the world is a seething mass of strangers.
They come over every day from Brixham and Torquay and Paignton in cars and buses and on
foot. Broadsands, which is down there (he pointed), is a very popular beach and so is
Elbury Cove - it s a well-known beauty spot and people come there and picnic. I wish they
didn't! You've no idea how beautiful and peaceful this part of the world is in June and
the beginning of July.”
“So you don't think a stranger would be noticed?”
“Not unless he looked - well, off his head.”
“This man doesn't look off his head,” said Crome with certainty. “You see what I'm getting
at, Mr. Clarke. This man must have been spying out the land beforehand and discovered your
brother's habit of taking an evening stroll. I suppose, by the way, that no strange man
came up to the house and asked to see Sir Carmichael yesterday?”
“Not that I know of - but we'll ask Deveril.”
He rang the bell and put the question to the butler.
“No, sir, no one came to see Sir Carmichael. And I didn't notice any one hanging about the
house either. No more did the maids, because I've asked them.”
The butler waited a moment, then inquired: “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, Deveril, you can go.”
The butler withdrew, drawing back in the doorway to let a young woman pass.
Franklin Clarke rose as she came.
“This is Miss Grey, gentlemen. My brother's secretary.”
My attention was caught at once by the girl's extraordinary Scandinavian fairness. She had
the almost colourless ash hair - light grey eyes - and transparent glowing pallor that one
finds amongst Norwegians and Swedes. She looked about twenty-seven and seemed to be as
efficient as she was decorative.
“Can I help you in any way?” she asked as she sat down.
Clarke brought her a cup of coffee, but she refused any food.
“Did you deal with Sir Carmichael's correspondence?” asked Crome.
“Yes, all of it.”
“I suppose he never received a letter or letters signed A.B.C.?”
“A.B.C.?” She shook her head. “No, I'm sure he didn't.”
“He didn't mention having seen any one hanging about during his evening walks lately?”
“No. He never mentioned anything of the kind.”
“And you yourself have noticed no strangers?”
“Not exactly
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