“Done anything with those cases, sir?”
“I have studied them—yes.”
Colgate got up, he walked along and peered into the next niche. He came back, saying:
“One can’t be too careful. Don’t want to be overheard.”
Poirot said:
“You are wise.”
Colgate said:
“I don’t mind telling you, M. Poirot, that I’ve been interested in those cases myself—though perhaps I shouldn’t have thought about them if you hadn’t asked for them.” He paused: “I’ve been interested in one case in particular.”
“Alice Corrigan?”
“Alice Corrigan.” He paused. “I’ve been on to the Surrey police about that case—wanted to get all the ins and outs of it.”
“Tell me, my friend. I am interested—very interested.”
“I thought you might be. Alice Corrigan was found strangled in Caesar’s Grove on Blackridge Heath—not ten miles from Marley Copse where Nellie Parsons was found—and both those places are within twelve miles of Whiteridge where Mr. Lane was vicar.”
Poirot said:
“Tell me more about the death of Alice Corrigan.”
Colgate said:
“The Surrey police didn’t at first connect her death with that of Nellie Parsons. That’s because they’d pitched on the husband as the guilty party. Don’t quite know why except that he was a bit of what the Press calls a ‘mystery man’—not much known about him—who he was or where he came from. She’d married him against her people’s wishes, she’d a bit of money of her own—and she’d insured her life in his favour—all that was enough to raise suspicion, as I think you’ll agree, sir?”
Poirot nodded.
“But when it came down to brass tacks the husband was washed right out of the picture. The body was discovered by one of these women hikers—hefty young women in shorts. She was an absolutely competent and reliable witness—games mistress at a school in Lancashire. She noted the time when she found the body—it was exactly four-fifteen—and gave it as her opinion that the woman had been dead quite a short time—not more than ten minutes. That fitted in well enough with the police surgeon’s view when he examined the body at 5:45. She left everything as it was and tramped across country to Bagshot police station where she reported the death. Now from three o’clock to four-ten, Edward Corrigan was in the train coming down from London where he’d gone up for the day on business. Four other people were in the carriage with him. From the station he took the local bus, two of his fellow passengers travelling by it also. He got off at the Pine Ridge Café where he’d arranged to meet his wife for tea. Time then was four twenty-five. He ordered tea for them both, but said not to bring it till she came. Then he walked about outside waiting for her. When, by five o’clock she hadn’t turned up, he was getting alarmed—thought she might have sprained her ankle. The arrangement was that she was to walk across the moors from the village where they were staying to the Pine Ridge Café and go home by bus. Caesar’s Grove is not far from the café, and it’s thought that as she was ahead of time she sat down there to admire the view for a bit before going on, and that some tramp or madman came upon her there and caught her unawares. Once the husband was proved to be out of it, naturally they connected up her death with that of Nellie Parsons—that rather flighty servant girl who was found strangled in Marley Copse. They decided that the same man was responsible for both crimes, but they never caught him—and what’s more they never came near to catching him! Drew a blank everywhere.”
He paused and then he said slowly:
“And now—here’s a third woman strangled—and a certain gentleman we won’t name right on the spot.”
He stopped.
His small shrewd eyes came round to Poirot. He waited hopefully.
Poirot’s lips moved. Inspector Colgate leaned forward.
Poirot was murmuring:
“—so difficult to know which pieces are part of the fur rug and which are the cat’s tail.”
“I beg pardon, sir?” said Inspector Colgate, startled.
Poirot said quickly:
“I apologize. I was following a train of thought of my own.”
“What’s this about a fur rug and a cat?”
“Nothing—nothing at all.” He paused. “Tell me, Inspector Colgate, if you suspected someone of telling lies—many, many lies but you had no proof, what would you do?”