The Under Dog: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie

The chauffeur descended once more and opened the door of the car, and Poirot stepped out. The butler was already holding the front door open.

      Poirot gave the outside of the house a swift appraising glance before passing through the open door. It was a big, solidly built red-brick mansion, with no pretensions to beauty, but with an air of solid comfort.

      Poirot stepped into the hall. The butler relieved him deftly of his hat and overcoat, then murmured with that deferential undertone only to be achieved by the best servants:

      ‘Her ladyship is expecting you, sir.’

      Poirot followed the butler up the soft-carpeted stairs. This, without doubt, was Parsons, a very well-trained servant, with a manner suitably devoid of emotion. At the top of the staircase he turned to the right along a corridor. He passed through a door into a little ante-room, from which two more doors led. He threw open the left-hand one of these, and announced:

      ‘M. Poirot, m’lady.’

      The room was not a very large one, and it was crowded with furniture and knick-knacks. A woman, dressed in black, got up from a sofa and came quickly towards Poirot.

      ‘M. Poirot,’ she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the dandified figure. She paused a minute, ignoring the little man’s bow over her hand, and his murmured ‘Madame,’ and then, releasing his hand after a sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed:

      ‘I believe in small men! They are the clever ones.’

      ‘Inspector Miller,’ murmured Poirot, ‘is, I think, a tall man?’

      ‘He is a bumptious idiot,’ said Lady Astwell. ‘Sit down here by me, will you, M. Poirot?’

      She indicated the sofa and went on:

      ‘Lily did her best to put me off sending for you, but I have not come to my time of life without knowing my own mind.’

      ‘A rare accomplishment,’ said Poirot, as he followed her to the settee.

      Lady Astwell settled herself comfortably among the cushions and turned so as to face him.

      ‘Lily is a dear girl,’ said Lady Astwell, ‘but she thinks she knows everything, and as often as not in my experience those sort of people are wrong. I am not clever, M. Poirot, I never have been, but I am right where many a more stupid person is wrong. I believe in guidance. Now do you want me to tell you who is the murderer, or do you not? A woman knows, M. Poirot.’

      ‘Does Miss Margrave know?’

      ‘What did she tell you?’ asked Lady Astwell sharply.

      ‘She gave me the facts of the case.’

      ‘The facts? Oh, of course they are dead against Charles, but I tell you, M. Poirot, he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t!’ She bent upon him an earnestness that was almost disconcerting.

      ‘You are very positive, Lady Astwell?’

      ‘Trefusis killed my husband, M. Poirot. I am sure of it.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Why should he kill him, do you mean, or why am I sure? I tell you I know it! I am funny about those things. I make up my mind at once, and I stick to it.’

      ‘Did Mr Trefusis benefit in any way by Sir Reuben’s death?’

      ‘Never left him a penny,’ returned Lady Astwell promptly. ‘Now that shows you dear Reuben couldn’t have liked or trusted him.’

      ‘Had he been with Sir Reuben long, then?’

      ‘Close on nine years.’

      ‘That is a long time,’ said Poirot softly, ‘a very long time to remain in the employment of one man. Yes, Mr Trefusis, he must have known his employer well.’

      Lady Astwell stared at him.

      ‘What are you driving at? I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

      ‘I was following out a little idea of my own,’ said Poirot. ‘A little idea, not interesting, perhaps, but original, on the effects of service.’

      Lady Astwell still stared.

      ‘You are very clever, aren’t you?’ she said in rather a doubtful tone. ‘Everybody says so.’

      Hercule Poirot laughed.

      ‘Perhaps you shall pay me that compliment, too, Madame, one of these days. But let us return to the motive. Tell me now of your household, of the people who were here in the house on the day of the tragedy.’

      ‘There was Charles, of course.’

      ‘He was your husband’s nephew, I understand, not yours.’

      ‘Yes, Charles was the only son of Reuben’s sister. She married a comparatively rich man, but one of those crashes came – they do, in the city – and he died, and his wife, too, and Charles came to live with us. He was twenty-three at the time, and going to be a barrister. But when the trouble came, Reuben took him into his office.’

      ‘He was industrious, M. Charles?’

      ‘I like a man who is quick on the uptake,’ said Lady Astwell with a nod of approval. ‘No, that’s just the trouble, Charles was not industrious. He was always having rows with his uncle over some muddle or other that he had made. Not that poor Reuben was an easy man to get on with. Many’s the time I’ve told him he had forgotten what it was to be young himself. He was very different in those days, M. Poirot.’

      Lady Astwell heaved a sigh of reminiscence.

      ‘Changes must come, Madame,’ said Poirot. ‘It is the law.’

      ‘Still,’ said Lady Astwell, ‘he was never really rude to me. At least if he was, he was always sorry afterwards – poor dear Reuben.’

      ‘He was difficult, eh?’ said Poirot.

      ‘I could always manage him,’ said Lady Astwell with the air of a successful lion tamer. ‘But it was rather awkward sometimes when he would lose his temper with the servants. There are ways of doing that, and Reuben’s was not the right way.’

      ‘How exactly did Sir Reuben leave his money, Lady Astwell?’

      ‘Half to me and half to Charles,’ replied Lady Astwell promptly. ‘The lawyers don’t put it simply like that, but that’s what it amounts to.’

      Poirot nodded his head.

      ‘I see – I see,’ he murmured. ‘Now, Lady Astwell, I will demand of you that you will describe to me the household. There was yourself, and Sir Reuben’s nephew, Mr Charles Leverson, and the secretary, Mr Owen Trefusis, and there was Miss Lily Margrave. Perhaps you will tell me something of that young lady.’

      ‘You want to know about Lily?’

      ‘Yes, she had been with you long?’

      ‘About a year. I have had a lot of secretary-companions you know, but somehow or other they all got on my nerves. Lily was different. She was tactful and full of common sense and besides she looks so nice. I do like to have a pretty face about me, M. Poirot. I am a funny kind of person; I take likes and dislikes straight away. As soon as I saw that girl, I said to myself: “She’ll do”.’

      ‘Did she come to you through friends, Lady Astwell?’

      ‘I think she answered an advertisement. Yes – that was it.’

      ‘You know something of her people, of where she comes from?’

      ‘Her father and mother are out in India, I believe. I don’t really know much about them, but you can see at a glance that Lily is a lady, can’t you, M. Poirot?’

      ‘Oh, perfectly, perfectly.’

      ‘Of course,’ went on Lady Astwell, ‘I am not a lady