Murder in Mesopotamia

Chapter 22. David Emmott, Father Lavigny and a Discovery

Turning abruptly away, Carey strode off with long, angry strides.

Poirot sat looking after him and presently he murmured: ‘Yes – I see…’

Without turning his head he said in a slightly louder voice: ‘Do not come round the corner for a minute, nurse. In case he turns his head. Now it is all right. You have my handkerchief? Many thanks. You are most amiable.’

He didn’t say anything at all about my having been listening – and how he knew I was listening I can’t think. He’d never once looked in that direction. I was rather relieved he didn’t say anything. I mean, I felt all right with myself about it, but it might have been a little awkward explaining to him. So it was a good thing he didn’t seem to want explanations.

‘Do you think he did hate her, M. Poirot?’ I asked.

Nodding his head slowly with a curious expression on his face, Poirot answered.

‘Yes – I think he did.’

Then he got up briskly and began to walk to where the men were working on the top of the mound. I followed him. We couldn’t see anyone but Arabs at first, but we finally found Mr Emmott lying face downwards blowing dust off a skeleton that had just been uncovered.

He gave his pleasant, grave smile when he saw us.

‘Have you come to see round?’ he asked. ‘I’ll be free in a minute.’

He sat up, took his knife and began daintily cutting the earth away from round the bones, stopping every now and then to use either a bellows or his own breath. A very insanitary proceeding the latter, I thought.

‘You’ll get all sorts of nasty germs in your mouth, Mr Emmott,’ I protested.

‘Nasty germs are my daily diet, nurse,’ he said gravely. ‘Germs can’t do anything to an archaeologist – they just get naturally discouraged trying.’

He scraped a little more away round the thigh bone. Then he spoke to the foreman at his side, directing him exactly what he wanted done.

‘There,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘That’s ready for Reiter to photograph after lunch. Rather nice stuff she had in with her.’

He showed us a little verdigris copper bowl and some pins. And a lot of gold and blue things that had been her necklace of beads.

The bones and all the objects were brushed and cleaned with a knife and kept in position ready to be photographed.

‘Who is she?’ asked Poirot.

‘First millennium. A lady of some consequence perhaps. Skull looks rather odd – I must get Mercado to look at it. It suggests death by foul play.’

‘A Mrs Leidner of two thousand odd years ago?’ said Poirot.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Emmott.

Bill Coleman was doing something with a pick to a wall face.

David Emmott called something to him which I didn’t catch and then started showing M. Poirot round.

When the short explanatory tour was over, Emmott looked at his watch.

‘We knock off in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘Shall we walk back to the house?’

‘That will suit me excellently,’ said Poirot.

We walked slowly along the well-worn path.

‘I expect you are all glad to get back to work again,’ said Poirot.

Emmott replied gravely: ‘Yes, it’s much the best thing. It’s not been any too easy loafing about the house and making conversation.’

‘Knowing all the time that one of you was a murderer.’

Emmott did not answer. He made no gesture of dissent. I knew now that he had had a suspicion of the truth from the very first when he had questioned the house-boys.

After a few minutes he asked quietly: ‘Are you getting anywhere, M. Poirot?’

Poirot said gravely: ‘Will you help me to get somewhere?’

‘Why, naturally.’

Watching him closely, Poirot said: ‘The hub of the case is Mrs Leidner. I want to know about Mrs Leidner.’

David Emmott said slowly: ‘What do you mean by know about her?’

‘I do not mean where she came from and what her maiden name was. I do not mean the shape of her face and the colour of her eyes. I mean her – herself.’

‘You think that counts in the case?’

‘I am quite sure of it.’

Emmott was silent for a moment or two, then he said: ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘And that is where you can help me. You can tell me what sort of a woman she was.’

‘Can I? I’ve often wondered about it myself.’

‘Didn’t you make up your mind on the subject?’

‘I think I did in the end.’

‘Eh bien?’

But Mr Emmott was silent for some minutes, then he said: ‘What did nurse think of her? Women are said to sum up other women quickly enough, and a nurse has a wide experience of types.’

Poirot didn’t give me any chance of speaking even if I had wanted to. He said quickly: ‘What I want to know is what a man thought of her?’

Emmott smiled a little.

‘I expect they’d all be much the same.’ He paused and said, ‘She wasn’t young, but I think she was about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever come across.’

‘That’s hardly an answer, Mr Emmott.’

‘It’s not so far off one, M. Poirot.’

He was silent a minute or two and then he went on: ‘There used to be a fairy story I read when I was a kid. A Northern fairy tale about the Snow Queen and Little Kay. I guess Mrs Leidner was rather like that – always taking Little Kay for a ride.’

‘Ah yes, a tale of Hans Andersen, is it not? And there was a girl in it. Little Gerda, was that her name?’

‘Maybe. I don’t remember much of it.’

‘Can’t you go a little further, Mr Emmott?’

David Emmott shook his head.

‘I don’t even know if I’ve summed her up correctly. She wasn’t easy to read. She’d do a devilish thing one day, and a really fine one the next. But I think you’re about right when you say that she’s the hub of the case. That’s what she always wanted to be – at the centre of things. And she liked to get at other people – I mean, she wasn’t just satisfied with being passed the toast and the peanut butter, she wanted you to turn your mind and soul inside out for her to look at it.’

‘And if one did not give her that satisfaction?’ asked Poirot.

‘Then she could turn ugly!’

I saw his lips close resolutely and his jaw set.

‘I suppose, Mr Emmott, you would not care to express a plain unofficial opinion as to who murdered her?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Emmott. ‘I really haven’t the slightest idea. I rather think that, if I’d been Carl – Carl Reiter, I mean – I would have had a shot at murdering her. She was a pretty fair devil to him. But, of course, he asks for it by being so darned sensitive. Just invites you to give him a kick in the pants.’

‘And did Mrs Leidner give him – a kick in the pants?’ inquired Poirot.

Emmott gave a sudden grin.

‘No. Pretty little jabs with an embroidery needle-that was her method. He was irritating, of course. Just like some blubbering, poor-spirited kid. But a needle’s a painful weapon.’

I stole a glance at Poirot and thought I detected a slight quiver of his lips.

‘But you don’t really believe that Carl Reiter killed her?’ he asked.

‘No. I don’t believe you’d kill a woman because she persistently made you look a fool at every meal.’

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.

Of course, Mr Emmott made Mrs Leidner sound quite inhuman. There was something to be said on the other side too.

There had been something terribly irritating about Mr Reiter’s attitude. He jumped when she spoke to him, and did idiotic things like passing her the marmalade again and again when he knew she never ate it. I’d have felt inclined to snap at him a bit myself.

Men don’t understand how their mannerisms can get on women’s nerves so that you feel you just have to snap.

I thought I’d just mention that to Mr Poirot some time.

We had arrived back now and Mr Emmott offered Poirot a wash and took him into his room.

I hurried across the courtyard to mine.

I came out again about the same time they did and we were all making for the dining-room when Father Lavigny appeared in the doorway of his room and invited Poirot in.

Mr Emmott came on round and he and I went into the dining-room together. Miss Johnson and Mrs Mercado were there already, and after a few minutes Mr Mercado, Mr Reiter and Bill Coleman joined us.

We were just sitting down and Mercado had told the Arab boy to tell Father Lavigny lunch was ready when we were all startled by a faint, muffled cry.

I suppose our nerves weren’t very good yet, for we all jumped, and Miss Johnson got quite pale and said: ‘What was that? What’s happened?’

Mrs Mercado stared at her and said: ‘My dear, what is the matter with you? It’s some noise outside in the fields.’

But at that minute Poirot and Father Lavigny came in.

‘We thought someone was hurt,’ Miss Johnson said.

‘A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,’ cried Poirot. ‘The fault is mine. Father Lavigny, he explains to me some tablets, and I take one to the window to see better – and, ma foi, not looking where I was going, I steb the toe, and the pain is sharp for the moment and I cry out.’

‘We thought it was another murder,’ said Mrs Mercado, laughing.

‘Marie!’ said her husband.

His tone was reproachful and she flushed and bit her lip.

Miss Johnson hastily turned the conversation to the dig and what objects of interest had turned up that morning. Conversation all through lunch was sternly archaeological.

I think we all felt it was the safest thing.

After we had had coffee we adjourned to the living-room. Then the men, with the exception of Father Lavigny, went off to the dig again.

Father Lavigny took Poirot through into the antika-room and I went with them. I was getting to know the things pretty well by now and I felt a thrill of pride – almost as though it were my own property – when Father Lavigny took down the gold cup and I heard Poirot’s exclamation of admiration and pleasure.

‘How beautiful! What a work of art!’

Father Lavigny agreed eagerly and began to point out its beauties with real enthusiasm and knowledge.

‘No wax on it today,’ I said.

‘Wax?’ Poirot stared at me.

‘Wax?’ So did Father Lavigny.

I explained my remark.

‘Ah, je comprends,’ said Father Lavigny. ‘Yes, yes, candle grease.’

That led direct to the subject of the midnight visitor. Forgetting my presence they both dropped into French, and I left them together and went back into the living-room.

Mrs Mercado was darning her husband’s socks and Miss Johnson was reading a book. Rather an unusual thing for her. She usually seemed to have something to work at.

After a while Father Lavigny and Poirot came out, and the former excused himself on the score of work. Poirot sat down with us.

‘A most interesting man,’ he said, and asked how much work there had been for Father Lavigny to do so far.

Miss Johnson explained that tablets had been scarce and that there had been very few inscribed bricks or cylinder seals. Father Lavigny, however, had done his share of work on the dig and was picking up colloquial Arabic very fast.

That led the talk to cylinder seals, and presently Miss Johnson fetched from a cupboard a sheet of impressions made by rolling them out on plasticine.

I realized as we bent over them, admiring the spirited designs, that these must be what she had been working at on that fatal afternoon.

As we talked I noticed that Poirot was rolling and kneading a little ball of plasticine between his fingers.

‘You use a lot of plasticine, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘A fair amount. We seem to have got through a lot already this year – though I can’t imagine how. But half our supply seems to have gone.’

‘Where is it kept, mademoiselle?’

‘Here – in this cupboard.’

As she replaced the sheet of impressions she showed him the shelf with rolls of plasticine, Durofix, photographic paste and other stationery supplies.

Poirot stooped down.

‘And this – what is this, mademoiselle?’

He had slipped his hand right to the back and had brought out a curious crumpled object.

As he straightened it out we could see that it was a kind of mask, with eyes and mouth crudely painted on it in Indian ink and the whole thing roughly smeared with plasticine.

‘How perfectly extraordinary!’ cried Miss Johnson. ‘I’ve never seen it before. How did it get there? And what is it?’

‘As to how it got there, well, one hiding-place is as good as another, and I presume that this cupboard would not have been turned out till the end of the season. As to what it is – that, too, I think, is not difficult to say.We have here the face that Mrs Leidner described. The ghostly face seen in the semi-dusk outside her window – without body attached.’

Mrs Mercado gave a little shriek.

Miss Johnson was white to the lips. She murmured: ‘Then it was not fancy. It was a trick – a wicked trick! But who played it?’

‘Yes,’ cried Mrs Mercado. ‘Who could have done such a wicked, wicked thing?’

Poirot did not attempt a reply. His face was very grim as he went into the next room, returned with an empty cardboard box in his hand and put the crumpled mask into it.

‘The police must see this,’ he explained.

‘It’s horrible,’ said Miss Johnson in a low voice. ‘Horrible!’

‘Do you think everything’s hidden here somewhere?’ cried Mrs Mercado shrilly. ‘Do you think perhaps the weapon – the club she was killed with – all covered with blood still, perhaps…Oh! I’m frightened – I’m frightened…’

Miss Johnson gripped her by the shoulder.

‘Be quiet,’ she said fiercely. ‘Here’s Dr Leidner. We mustn’t upset him.’

Indeed, at that very moment the car had driven into the courtyard. Dr Leidner got out of it and came straight across and in at the living-room door. His face was set in lines of fatigue and he looked twice the age he had three days ago.

He said in a quiet voice: ‘The funeral will be at eleven o’clock tomorrow. Major Deane will read the service.’

Mrs Mercado faltered something, then slipped out of the room.

Dr Leidner said to Miss Johnson: ‘You’ll come, Anne?’

And she answered: ‘Of course, my dear, we’ll all come. Naturally.’

She didn’t say anything else, but her face must have expressed what her tongue was powerless to do, for his face lightened up with affection and a momentary ease.

‘Dear Anne,’ he said. ‘You are such a wonderful comfort and help to me. My dear old friend.’

He laid his hand on her arm and I saw the red colour creep up in her face as she muttered, gruff as ever: ‘That’s all right.’

But I just caught a glimpse of her expression and knew that, for one short moment, Anne Johnson was a perfectly happy woman.

And another idea flashed across my mind. Perhaps soon, in the natural course of things, turning to his old friend for sympathy, a new and happy state of things might come about.

Not that I’m really a matchmaker, and of course it was indecent to think of such a thing before the funeral even. But after all, it would be a happy solution. He was very fond of her, and there was no doubt she was absolutely devoted to him and would be perfectly happy devoting the rest of her life to him. That is, if she could bear to hear Louise’s perfections sung all the time. But women can put up with a lot when they’ve got what they want.

Dr Leidner then greeted Poirot, asking him if he had made any progress.

Miss Johnson was standing behind Dr Leidner and she looked hard at the box in Poirot’s hand and shook her head, and I realized that she was pleading with Poirot not to tell him about the mask. She felt, I was sure, that he had enough to bear for one day.

Poirot fell in with her wish.

‘These things march slowly, monsieur,’ he said.

Then, after a few desultory words, he took his leave.

I accompanied him out to his car.

There were half a dozen things I wanted to ask him, but somehow, when he turned and looked at me, I didn’t ask anything after all. I’d as soon have asked a surgeon if he thought he’d made a good job of an operation. I just stood meekly waiting for instructions.

Rather to my surprise he said: ‘Take care of yourself, my child.’

And then he added: ‘I wonder if it is well for you to remain here?’

‘I must speak to Dr Leidner about leaving,’ I said. ‘But I thought I’d wait until after the funeral.’

He nodded in approval.

‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘do not try to find out too much. You understand, I do not want you to be clever!’ And he added with a smile, ‘It is for you to hold the swabs and for me to do the operation.’

Wasn’t it funny, his actually saying that?

Then he said quite irrelevantly: ‘An interesting man, that Father Lavigny.’

‘A monk being an archaeologist seems odd to me,’ I said.

‘Ah, yes, you are a Protestant. Me, I am a good Catholic. I know something of priests and monks.’

He frowned, seemed to hesitate, then said: ‘Remember, he is quite clever enough to turn you inside out if he likes.’

If he was warning me against gossiping I felt that I didn’t need any warning!

It annoyed me, and though I didn’t like to ask him any of the things I really wanted to know, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t at any rate say one thing.

‘You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot,’ I said. ‘But it’s “stubbed your toe”, not stepped or stebbed.’

‘Ah! Thank you, ma soeur.’

‘Don’t mention it. But it’s just as well to get a phrase right.’

‘I will remember,’ he said – quite meekly for him.

And he got in the car and was driven away, and I went slowly back across the courtyard wondering about a lot of things.

About the hypodermic marks on Mr Mercado’s arm, and what drug it was he took. And about that horrid yellow smeared mask. And how odd it was that Poirot and Miss Johnson hadn’t heard my cry in the living-room that morning, whereas we had all heard Poirot perfectly well in the dining-room at lunch-time – and yet Father Lavigny’s room and Mrs Leidner’s were just the same distance from the living-room and the dining-room respectively.

And then I felt rather pleased that I’d taught Doctor Poirot one English phrase correctly!

Even if he was a great detective he’d realize he didn’t know everything!