“He was seen in the King’s Road about seven o’clock that same evening, Thursday the 3rd, and he dined at the Gallant Endeavour restaurant at 7:30. It seems he always dined there on Thursdays.”
“He had no other relations? Only this nephew?”
“There was a twin brother. The whole story is rather curious. They hadn’t seen each other for years. As a young man Henry was by way of being an artist, you know. An extremely bad one. It seems the other brother, Anthony Gascoigne, married a very rich woman and gave up art — and the brothers quarreled over it. Hadn’t seen each other since, I believe. But oddly enough, they died on the same day. The elder twin passed away at one o’clock on the afternoon of the 3rd. Probably just a coincidence — but there it is.”
“Is the other brother’s wife alive?”
“No, she died some years ago.”
“Where did Anthony Gascoigne live?”
“He had a house on Kingston Hill. He was, I believe, from what Dr. Ramsey tells me, very much of a recluse.”
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
The Scotsman looked at him keenly.
“What exactly have you got in your mind, M. Poirot?” he asked bluntly. “I’ve answered your questions — as was my duty seeing the credentials you brought. But I’m in the dark as to what it’s all about.”
Poirot said slowly: “A simple case of accidental death, that’s what you said. What I have in mind is equally simple — a simple push.”
Dr. MacAndrew looked startled.
“In other words, murder! Have you any grounds for that belief?”
“No,” said Poirot. “It is a mere supposition.”
“There must be something—” persisted the other.
Poirot did not speak.
MacAndrew said, “If it’s the nephew, Ramsey, you suspect, I don’t mind telling you here and now that you are barking up the wrong tree. Ramsey was playing bridge in Wimbledon from 8:30 till midnight. That came out at the inquest.”
Poirot murmured: “And presumably it was verified. The police are careful.”
The doctor said: “Perhaps you know something against him?”
“I didn’t know that there was such a person until you mentioned him.”
“Then you suspect somebody else?”
“No, no. It is not that at all. It’s a case of the routine habits of the human animal. That is very important. And the dead M. Gascoigne does not fit in. It is all wrong, you see.”
“I really don’t understand.”
Hercule Poirot smiled. He rose and the doctor rose also.
“You know,” said MacAndrew, “honestly, I can’t see anything the least bit suspicious about the death of Henry Gascoigne.”
The little man spread out his hands.
“I’m an obstinate man — a man with a little idea — and nothing to support it! By the way, did Henry Gascoigne have false teeth?”
“No, his own teeth were in excellent preservation. Very creditable indeed at his age.”
“He looked after them well — they were white and well brushed?”
“Yes, I noticed them particularly.”
“Not discolored in any way?”
“No. I don’t think he was a smoker if that is what you mean.”
“I did not mean that precisely — it was just a long shot — which probably will not come off! Goodby, Dr. MacAndrew. Thank you for your kindness.”
He shook the doctor’s hand and departed.
“And now,” he said, “for the long shot.”
At the Gallant Endeavour, he sat down at the same table that he had shared with Bonnington. The girl who served him was not Molly. Molly, the girl told him, was away on a holiday.
It was just seven and Hercule Poirot found no difficulty in entering into conversation with the girl on the subject of old Mr. Gascoigne.
“Yes,” she said. “He’d been here for years and years. But none of us girls ever knew his name. We saw about the inquest in the paper, and there was a picture of him. ‘There,’ I said to Molly, ‘if that isn’t our Old Father Time—’ as we used to call him.”
“He dined here on the evening of his death, did he not?”
“That’s right. Thursday, the 3rd. He was always here on Tuesdays and Thursdays — punctual as a clock.”
“You don’t remember, I suppose, what he had for dinner?”
“Now let me see, it was mulligatawny soup, that’s right, and beefsteak pudding or was it the mutton? — no pudding, that’s right, and blackberry and apple pie and cheese. And then to think of him going home and falling down those stairs that very same evening. A frayed dressing-gown cord they said it was as caused it. Of course, his clothes were always something awful — old fashioned and put on anyhow, and all tattered, and yet he had a kind of air, all the same, as though he was somebody! Oh, we get all sorts of interesting customers here.”
She moved off.
Hercule Poirot ate his sole.
Armed with introductions from a certain influential quarter, Hercule Poirot found no difficulty at all in dealing with the coroner for the district.
“A curious figure, the deceased man Gascoigne,” he observed. “A lonely, eccentric old fellow. But his decease seems to arouse unusual attention.”
He looked with some curiosity at his visitor as he spoke.
Hercule Poirot chose his words carefully: “There are circumstances connected with it, Monsieur, which make investigation desirable.”
“Well, how can I help you?”
“It is, I believe, within your province to order documents produced in your court to be destroyed, or to be impounded — as you think fit. A certain letter was found in the pocket of Henry Gascoigne’s dressing gown, was it not? A letter from his nephew, Dr. George Ramsey?”
“Quite correct. The letter was produced at the inquest as helping to fix the time of death.”
“Is that letter still available?” Hercule Poirot waited rather anxiously for the reply.
When he heard that the letter was still available for examination he drew a sigh of relief.
When it was finally produced he studied it with some care. It was written in a slightly cramped handwriting with a stylographic pen. It ran as follows:
“Dear Uncle Henry:
I am sorry to tell you that I have had no success as regards Uncle Anthony. He showed no enthusiasm for a visit from you and would give me no reply to your request that he would let bygones be bygones. He is, of course, extremely ill, and his mind is inclined to wander. I should fancy that the end is very near. He seemed hardly to remember who you were.
I am sorry to have failed you, but I can assure you that I did my best.
Your affectionate nephew,
The letter itself was dated 3rd. November. Poirot glanced at the envelope’s postmark — 4:30 P.M.
He murmured: “It is beautifully in order, is it not?”...
Kingston Hill was his next objective. After a little trouble, with the exercise of good-humored pertinacity, he obtained an interview with Amelia Hill, cook-housekeeper to the late Anthony Gascoigne.
Mrs. Hill was inclined to be stiff and suspicious at first, but the charming geniality of this strange-looking foreigner soon had its effect. Mrs. Amelia Hill found herself, as had so many other women before her, pouring out her troubles to a sympathetic listener.
For fourteen years she had had charge of Mr. Gascoigne’s household — not an easy job! No, indeed! Many a woman would have quailed under the burdens she had had to bear! Eccentric the poor gentleman was and no denying it. Remarkably close with his money — a kind of mania with him it was — and he as rich a gentleman as might be! But Mrs. Hill had served him faithfully, and put up with his ways, and naturally she’d expected at any rate a remembrance. But no — nothing at all! Just an old will that left all his money to his wife and if she predeceased him then everything to his brother, Henry. A will made years ago. It didn’t seem fair!