He repeated this request on entering the dining room.
Susan Cardwell gave him a quick glance, then transferred her gaze to Ruth. When Hugo said:
“Eh? What’s the idea?” she gave him a sharp nudge in the side, and he shut up obediently.
When he had finished his breakfast, Poirot rose and walked to the door. He turned and drew out a large old-fashioned watch.
“It is five minutes to ten. In five minutes—in the study.”
II
Poirot looked round him. A circle of interested faces stared back at him. Everyone was there, he noted, with one exception, and at that very moment the exception swept into the room. Lady Chevenix-Gore came in with a soft, gliding step. She looked haggard and ill.
Poirot drew forward a big chair for her, and she sat down.
She looked up at the broken mirror, shivered, and pulled her chair a little way round.
“Gervase is still here,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Poor Gervase . . . He will soon be free now.”
Poirot cleared his throat and announced:
“I have asked you all to come here so that you may hear the true facts of Sir Gervase’s suicide.”
“It was Fate,” said Lady Chevenix-Gore. “Gervase was strong, but his Fate was stronger.”
Colonel Bury moved forward a little.
“Vanda—my dear.”
She smiled up at him, then put up her hand. He took it in his. She said softly: “You are such a comfort, Ned.”
Ruth said sharply:
“Are we to understand, M. Poirot, that you have definitely ascertained the cause of my father’s suicide?”
Poirot shook his head.
“No, madame.”
“Then what is all this rigmarole about?”
Poirot said quietly:
“I do not know the cause of Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore’s suicide, because Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore did not commit suicide. He did not kill himself. He was killed. . . .”
“Killed?” Several voices echoed the word. Startled faces were turned in Poirot’s direction. Lady Chevenix-Gore looked up, said, “Killed? Oh, no!” and gently shook her head.
“Killed, did you say?” It was Hugo who spoke now. “Impossible. There was no one in the room when we broke in. The window was fastened. The door was locked on the inside, and the key was in my uncle’s pocket. How could he have been killed?”
“Nevertheless, he was killed.”
“And the murderer escaped through the keyhole, I suppose?” said Colonel Bury sceptically. “Or flew up the chimney?”
“The murderer,” said Poirot, “went out through the window. I will show you how.”
He repeated his manoeuvres with the window.
“You see?” he said. “That was how it was done! From the first I could not consider it likely that Sir Gervase had committed suicide. He had pronounced egomania, and such a man does not kill himself.