Public-domain ebook
Language: en8,939 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
In: Short Stories·Crime, Thrillers and Mystery·British Literature
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #67173.
The story opens with Miss Violet Marsh, a determined young woman, seeking the help of Hercule Poirot to unravel a puzzling inheritance. She recounts her family’s modest origins in Devon, the fortunes of her uncle Andrew, and the strange terms of his will that grant her a year’s use of Crabtree Manor before the estate passes to charity. Poirot’s quick acceptance of the case, his methodical inspection of the study’s desk, and the discovery of a hidden cavity in a fireplace brick set the stage for a classic “missing‑will” mystery, promising a blend of domestic intrigue and clever sleuthing.
Christie’s prose captures the genteel atmosphere of early‑20th‑century England, with Poirot’s precise observations and the subtle humor of his interactions with Hastings and the local Bakers. The narrative’s measured pace, rich dialogue, and focus on logical deduction will appeal to readers who enjoy tightly plotted detective tales, especially those fond of Christie’s famous Belgian detective and the genteel world of country‑house secrets.
The opening · free to read
The problem presented to us by Miss Violet Marsh made a rather pleasant change from our usual routine work. Poirot had received a brisk and businesslike note from the lady asking for an appointment, and he had replied, asking her to call upon him at eleven o’clock the following day.
She arrived punctually—a tall, handsome young woman, plainly but neatly dressed, with an assured and businesslike manner—clearly, a young woman who meant to get on in the world. I am not a great admirer of the so-called New Woman myself, and in spite of her good looks, I was not particularly prepossessed in her favor.
“My business is of a somewhat unusual nature, M. Poirot,” she began, after she had accepted a chair. “I had better begin at the beginning and tell you the whole story.”
“If you please, mademoiselle.”
“I am an orphan. My father was one of two brothers, sons of a small yeoman farmer in Devonshire. The farm was a poor one, and the eldest brother, Andrew, emigrated to Australia, where he did very well indeed, and by means of successful speculation in land became a very rich man. The younger brother, Roger, my father, had no leanings toward the agricultural life. He managed to educate himself a little, and obtained a post as a clerk in a small firm. He married slightly above him; my mother was the daughter of a poor artist. My father died when I was six years old. When I was fourteen, my mother followed him to the grave. My only living relation then was my Uncle Andrew, who had recently returned from Australia and bought a small place in his native county, Crabtree Manor. He was exceedingly kind to his brother’s orphan child, took me to live with him, and treated me in every way as though I were his own daughter.
“Crabtree Manor,” she pursued, “in spite of its name, is really only an old farmhouse. Farming was in my uncle’s blood, and he was intensely interested in various modern farming experiments. Although kindness itself to me, he had certain peculiar and deeply rooted ideas as to the upbringing of women. Himself a man of little or no education, though possessing remarkable shrewdness, he placed little value on what he called ‘book knowledge.’ He was especially opposed to the education of women. In his opinion, girls should learn practical housework and dairy work, be useful about the home, and have as little to do with book-learning as possible. He proposed to bring me up on these lines, to my bitter disappointment.
“I rebelled frankly. I knew that I possessed a good brain, and had absolutely no talent for domestic duties. My uncle and I had many bitter arguments on the subject, for though much attached to each other, we were both self-willed. I was lucky enough to win a scholarship, and up to a certain point was successful in getting my own way. The crisis arose when I resolved to go to Girton. I had a little money of my own, left me by my mother, and I was quite determined to make the best use of the gifts God had given me. I had one long final argument with my uncle. He put the facts plainly before me. He had no other relations, and he had intended me to be his sole heiress. As I have told you, he was a very rich man. If I persisted in these ‘newfangled notions’ of mine, however, I need look for nothing from him. I remained polite, but firm. I should always be deeply attached to him, but I must lead my own life. We parted on that note. ‘You fancy your brains, my girl,’ were his last words. ‘I’ve no book-learning, but for all that, I’ll pit mine against yours any day. We’ll see what we shall see.’
“That was nine years ago. I have stayed with him for a week-end occasionally, and our relations were perfectly amicable, though his views remained unaltered. He never referred to my having matriculated, nor to my B. Sc. For the last three years his health has been failing, and a month ago he died. I am now coming to the point of my visit. My uncle left a most extraordinary will. By its terms, Crabtree Manor and its contents are to be at my disposal for a year from his death—‘during which time my clever niece may prove her wits,’ the actual words run. At the end of that period, ‘my wits having proved better than hers,’ the house and all my uncle’s large fortune pass to various charitable institutions.”
“That is a little hard on you, mademoiselle,” commented Poirot, “seeing that you were Mr. Marsh’s only blood relation.”
“I do not look on it in that way. Uncle Andrew warned me fairly, and I chose my own path. Since I would not fall in with his wishes, he was at perfect liberty to leave his money to whom he pleased.”
“Was the will drawn up by a lawyer?”
“No; it was written on a printed will-form and witnessed by the man and his wife who lived in the house and looked after my uncle.”
“There might be a possibility of upsetting such a will?”
“I would not even attempt to do such a thing.”
“You regard it, then, as a sporting challenge on the part of your uncle?”
“That is exactly how I look upon it.”
“It bears that interpretation, certainly,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Somewhere in this rambling old manor house your uncle has concealed either a sum of money in notes, or possibly a second will, and has given you a year in which to exercise your ingenuity to find it.”
“Exactly, M. Poirot, and I am paying you the compliment of assuming that your ingenuity will be greater than mine.”
“Eh, eh! But that is very charming of you. My gray cells are at your disposal. You have made no search yourself?”
“Only a cursory one, but I have too much respect for my uncle’s undoubted abilities to fancy that the task will be an easy one.”
“Have you the will, or a copy of it with you?”
Miss Marsh handed a document across the table. Poirot ran through it, nodding to himself.
“Made three years ago. Dated March 25, and the time is given also—eleven a. m.—that is very suggestive. It narrows the field of search. Assuredly it is another will we have to seek for. A will made even half an hour later would upset this. Eh bien, mademoiselle, it is a problem charming and ingenious that you have presented to me here. I shall have all the pleasure in the world in solving it for you. Granted that your uncle was a man of ability, his gray cells cannot have been of the quality of Hercule Poirot’s!”
(Really, Poirot’s vanity is blatant!)
“Fortunately, I have nothing of moment on hand at the minute. Hastings and I will go down to Crabtree Manor tonight. The man and wife who attended on your uncle are still there, I presume?”
“Yes, their name is Baker.”
The following morning saw us started on the hunt proper. We had arrived late the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Baker, having received a telegram from Miss Marsh, were expecting us. They were a pleasant couple, the man gnarled and pink-cheeked like a shriveled pippin, and his wife a woman of vast proportions and true Devonshire calm.
Tired with our journey, including an eight-mile drive from the station, we had retired at once to bed after a supper of roast chicken, apple pie and Devonshire cream. We had now disposed of an excellent breakfast, and were sitting in a small paneled room which had been the late Mr. Marsh’s study and living-room. A roll-top desk stuffed with papers, all neatly docketed, stood against the wall, and a big leather armchair showed plainly that it had been its owner’s constant resting-place. A big chintz-covered settee ran along the opposite wall, and the deep low window-seats were covered with the same faded chintz of an old-fashioned pattern.
“_Eh bien, mon ami_,” said Poirot, lighting one of his tiny cigarettes, “we must map out our plan of campaign. Already I have made a rough survey of the house, but I am of opinion that any clue will be found in this room. We shall have to go through the documents in the desk with meticulous care. Naturally I do not expect to find the will among them, but it is likely that some apparently innocent paper may conceal the clue to its hiding-place. But first we must have a little information. Ring the bell, I pray of you.”
He came to an abrupt pause, as his eye was caught by the key of the desk itself, to which a dirty envelope was affixed. Poirot frowned at it, and withdrew it from the lock. On it were scrawled the words “_Key of Roll-top Desk_” in a crabbed handwriting quite unlike the neat superscriptures on the other keys.
“An alien note,” said Poirot, frowning. “I could swear that here we have no longer the personality of Mr. Marsh. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh; and she, if I mistake not, is also a young lady of method and order.”
Baker came in answer to the bell.
“Will you fetch Madame your wife and answer a few questions?”
Baker departed, and in a few moments returned with Mrs. Baker, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming all over her face.
In a few clear words, Poirot set forth the object of his mission. The Bakers were immediately sympathetic.
“Us don’t want to see Miss Violet done out of what’s hers,” declared the woman. “Cruel hard, ’twould be, for hospitals to get it all.”
Poirot proceeded with his questions. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker remembered perfectly witnessing the will. Baker had previously been sent into the neighboring town to get two printed will-forms.
“Two?” said Poirot sharply.
“Yes sir, for safety like, I suppose, in case he should spoil one—and sure enough, so he did do. Us had signed one—”
“What time of day was that?”
The book keeps going
Reading is free forever. Sign up and watch scenes appear while you read.
Scenes Storieta drew for other classics.
New illustrated classics
Once or twice a month: the latest books to get full character casts, scene art, and free comic editions. No account needed.
