The Hunter’s Lodge Case

                          by Agatha Christie





[Illustration]



    The famous “little gray cells” of the great detective

    Poirot function admirably in solving what at first seems a

    particularly puzzling murder mystery.





“After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die

this time.”



Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as

showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer

from the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting

up in bed, propped up with pillows.



“Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myself

again, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evildoers! Figure to

yourself, _mon ami_, that I have a little paragraph to myself in

_Society Gossip_. But yes! Here it is!



“‘Go it, criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot,—and believe me, girls,

he’s some Hercules!—our own pet society detective can’t get a grip on

you. ’Cause why? ’Cause he’s got _la grippe_ himself!’”



I laughed.



“Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And

fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during

this time.”



“That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me

with any regret.”



Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.



“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see M. Poirot or you,

Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do,—and with all that quite

the gentleman,—I brought up ’is card.”



She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “‘Hon. Roger Havering,’” I read.



Poirot motioned with his head toward the bookcase, and I obediently

pulled forth the “Who’s Who.” Poirot took it from me and scanned the

pages rapidly.



“Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter

of William Crabb.”



“H’m,” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the

Frivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember she

married some young man about town just before the war.”



“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our

visitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”



Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart

appearance.



His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently laboring under

great agitation.



“Captain Hastings? You are M. Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is

imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”



“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill in

bed—influenza.”



His face fell.



“Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”



“The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”



“My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was

foully murdered last night.”



“Here in London?”



“No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wife

this morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come round

and beg M. Poirot to undertake the case.”



“If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.



I rushed upstairs, and in few brief words acquainted Poirot with the

situation. He took any further words out of my mouth.



“I see—I see. You want to go yourself, is it not so? Well, why not?

You should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you should report

to me fully every day, and follow implicitly any instructions I may

wire you.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



To this I willingly agreed, and an hour later I was sitting opposite

Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway,

speeding rapidly away from London.



“To begin with, Captain Hastings, you must understand that Hunter’s

Lodge, where we are going, and where the tragedy took place, is only a

small shooting-box in the heart of the Derbyshire moors. Our real home

is near Newmarket, and we usually rent a flat in town for the season.

Hunter’s Lodge is looked after by a housekeeper who is quite capable

of doing all we need when we run down for an occasional week-end. Of

course, during the shooting season, we take down some of our own

servants from Newmarket.



“My uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace (as you may know, my mother was a Miss

Pace of New York), has for the last three years made his home with us.

He never got on well with my father, or my elder brother, and I

suspect that my being somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather

increased than diminished his affection toward me. Of course, I am a

poor man, and my uncle was a rich one—in other words, he paid the

piper! But though exacting in many ways, he was not really hard to get

on with, and we all three lived very harmoniously together.



“Two days ago my uncle, rather wearied with some recent gayeties of

ours in town, suggested that we should run down to Derbyshire for a

day or two. My wife telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the housekeeper,

and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I was forced

to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This morning

I received this telegram.”



He handed it over to me, and I read:



    Come at once. Uncle Harrington murdered last night. Bring good

    detective if you can, but do come.

                                                              Zoe.



“Then as yet you know no details?”



“No, I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Without doubt the

police are in charge.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



It was about three o’clock when we arrived at the little station of

Elmer’s Dale. From there a five-mile drive brought us to a small gray

stone building in the midst of the rugged moors.



“A lonely place,” I observed.



Havering nodded.



“I shall try and get rid of it. I could never live here again.”



We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak

door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us.



“Japp!” I ejaculated.



The Scotland Yard Inspector grinned at me in a friendly fashion before

addressing my companion.



“Mr. Havering, I think? I’ve been sent down from London to take charge

of this case, and I’d like a word with you, if I may, sir.”



“My wife——”



“I’ve seen your good lady, sir—and the housekeeper. I won’t keep you a

moment, but I’m anxious to get back to the village now that I’ve seen

all there is to see here.”



“I know nothing as yet as to what—”



“Ex-actly,” said Japp soothingly. “But there are just one or two

little points I’d like your opinion about all the same. Captain

Hastings, here, he knows me, and he’ll go on up to the house and tell

them you’re coming.”



I went on to the house. I rang the bell, as Japp had closed the door

behind him. After some moments it was opened to me by a middle-aged

woman in black.



“Mr. Havering will be here in a moment,” I explained. “He has been

detained by the Inspector. I have come down with him from London to

look into the case. Perhaps you can tell me briefly what occurred last

night?”



“Come inside, sir.” She closed the door behind me, and we stood in the

dimly lighted hall. “It was after dinner last night, sir, that the man

came. He asked to see Mr. Pace, sir, and seeing that he spoke the same

way, I thought it was an American gentleman friend of Mr. Pace’s, and

I showed him into the gun-room, and then went to tell Mr. Pace. He

wouldn’t give no name, which of course was a bit odd, now I come to

think of it.



“I told Mr. Pace, and he seemed puzzled, like, but he said to the

mistress: ‘Excuse me, Zoe, while I just see what this fellow wants.’

He went off to the gun-room, and I went back to the kitchen, but after

a while I heard loud voices, as if they were quarreling, and I came

out into the hall. At the same time, the mistress she comes out too,

and just then there was a shot and then a dreadful silence. We both

ran to the gun-room door, but it was locked, and we had to go round to

the window. It was open, and there inside was Mr. Pace, all shot and

bleeding.”



“What became of the man?”



“He must have got away through the window, sir, before we got to it.”



“And then?”



“Mrs. Havering sent me to fetch the police. Five miles to walk, it

was. They came back with me; and the constable, he stayed all night;

and this morning the police gentleman from London arrived.”



“What was this man like who called to see Mr. Pace?”



The housekeeper reflected.



“He had a black beard, sir, and was about middle-aged, and had on a

light overcoat. Beyond the fact that he spoke like an American, I

didn’t notice much about him.”



“I see. Now, I wonder if I can see Mrs. Havering?”



“She’s upstairs, sir. Shall I tell her?”



“If you please. Tell her that Mr. Havering is outside with Inspector

Japp, and that the gentleman he has brought back with him from London

is anxious to speak to her as soon as possible.”



“Very good, sir.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



I was in a fever of impatience to get at all the facts. Japp had two

or three hours start of me, and his anxiety to be gone made me keen to

be close at his heels.



Mrs. Havering did not keep me waiting long. In a few minutes I heard a

light step descending the stairs, and looked up to see a very handsome

young woman coming toward me. She wore a flame-colored jumper, that

set off the slender boyishness of her figure. On her dark head was a

little hat of flame-colored leather. Even the present tragedy could

not dim the vitality of her personality.



I introduced myself, and she nodded in quick comprehension.



“Of course I have often heard of you and your colleague, M. Poirot.

You have done some wonderful things together, haven’t you? It was very

clever of my husband to get you so promptly. Now, will you ask me

questions? That is the easiest way, isn’t it, of getting to know all

you want to about this dreadful affair?”



“Thank you, Mrs. Havering. Now, what time was it that this man

arrived?”



“It must have been just before nine o’clock. We had finished dinner,

and were sitting over our coffee and cigarettes.”



“Your husband had already left for London?”



“Yes, he went up by the six-fifteen.”



“Did he go by car to the station, or did he walk?”



“Our own car isn’t down here. One came out from the garage in Elmer’s

Dale to fetch him in time for the train.”



“Was Mr. Pace quite his usual self?”



“Absolutely—most normal in every way.”



“Now, can you describe this visitor at all?”



“I’m afraid not. I didn’t see him. Mrs. Middleton showed him straight

into the gun-room and then came to tell my uncle.”



“What did your uncle say?”



“He seemed rather annoyed, but went off at once. It was about five

minutes later that I heard the sound of raised voices. I ran out into

the hall, and almost collided with Mrs. Middleton. Then we heard the

shot. The gun-room door was locked on the inside, and we had to go

round the house to the window. Of course that took some time, and the

murderer had been able to get well away. My poor uncle”—her voice

faltered—“had been shot through the head. I saw at once that he was

dead, and I sent Mrs. Middleton for the police straight away. I was

careful to touch nothing in the room but to leave it exactly as I

found it.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



I nodded approval.



“Now, as to the weapon?”



“Well, I can make a guess at it, Captain Hastings. A pair of revolvers

of my husband’s were mounted upon the wall. One of them is missing. I

pointed this out to the police, and they took the other one away with

them. When they have extracted the bullet, I suppose they will know

for certain.”



“May I go to the gun-room?”



“Certainly. The police have finished with it. But the body has been

removed.”



She accompanied me to the scene of the crime. At that moment Havering

entered the hall, and with a quick apology, his wife ran to him. I was

left to undertake my investigations alone.



I may as well confess at once that they were rather disappointing. In

detective-novels, clues abound, but here I could find nothing that

struck me as out of the ordinary except a large bloodstain on the

carpet where I judged the dead man had fallen. I examined everything

with painstaking care and took a couple of pictures of the room with

my little camera, which I had brought with me. I also examined the

ground outside the window, but it appeared to have been so heavily

trampled that I judged it was useless to waste time over it. Now I had

seen all that Hunter’s Lodge had to show me. I must go back to Elmer’s

Dale and get into touch with Japp. Accordingly I took leave of the

Haverings, and was driven off in the car that had brought us up from

the station.



                  *       *       *       *       *



Japp I found at the Matlock Arms, and he took me forthwith to see the

body. Harrington Pace was a small, spare, cleanshaven man, typically

American in appearance. He had been shot through the back of the head,

and the revolver had been discharged at close quarters.



“Turned away for a moment,” remarked Japp, “and the other fellow

snatched up a revolver and shot him. The one Mrs. Havering handed over

to us was fully loaded, and I suppose the other one was also. Curious

what darn fool things people do. Fancy keeping two loaded revolvers

hanging up on your wall!”



“What do you think of the case?” I asked as we left the gruesome

chamber behind us.



“Well, I’d got my eye on Havering to begin with.... Oh, yes,”—noting

my exclamation of astonishment,—“Havering has one or two shady

incidents in his past. When he was a boy at Oxford, there was some

funny business about the signature on one of his father’s checks. All

hushed up, of course. Then he’s pretty heavily in debt now, and

they’re the kind of debts he wouldn’t like to go to his uncle about;

whereas you may be sure the uncle’s will would be in his favor. Yes,

I’d got my eye on him, and that’s why I wanted to speak to him before

he saw his wife; but their statements dovetail all right, and I’ve

been to the station, and there’s no doubt whatever that he left by the

six-fifteen. That gets up to London about ten-thirty. He went straight

to his club, he says, and if that’s confirmed all right—why, he

couldn’t have been shooting his uncle here at nine o’clock in a black

beard!”



“Ah, yes—I was going to ask you what you thought about that beard?”



Japp winked.



“I think it grew pretty fast—grew in the five miles from Elmer’s Dale

to Hunter’s Lodge. Americans that I’ve met are mostly clean shaven. I

questioned the housekeeper first, and then her mistress, and their

stories agree all right; but I’m sorry Mrs. Havering didn’t get a look

at the fellow. She’s a smart woman, and she might have noticed

something that would set us on the track.”



                  *       *       *       *       *



I sat down and wrote a minute and lengthy account to Poirot. I was

able to add various further items of information before I posted the

letter.



The bullet had been extracted and was proved to have been fired from a

revolver identical in size to the one held by the police. Furthermore,

Mr. Havering’s movements on the night in question had been checked and

verified, and it was proved beyond doubt that he had actually arrived

in London by the train in question. And thirdly, a sensational

development had occurred. A city gentleman, living at Ealing, on

crossing Haven Green to get to the District Railway station that

morning, had observed a brown paper parcel stuck between the railings.

Opening it, he found that it contained a revolver. He handed the

parcel over to the local police station, and before night it was

proved to be the one we were in search of, the fellow to that given us

by Mrs. Havering. One bullet had been fired from it.



All this I added to my report. A wire from Poirot arrived while I was

at breakfast the following morning:



    Of course black-bearded man was not Havering. Only you or

    Japp would have such an idea. Wire me description of

    housekeeper and what clothes she wore this morning. Same

    of Mrs. Havering. Do not waste time taking photographs of

    interiors. They are underexposed and not in the least

    artistic.



It seemed to me that Poirot’s style was unnecessarily facetious. I

also fancied he was a shade jealous of my position on the spot, with

full facilities for handling the case. His request for a description

of the clothes worn by the two women appeared to me to be simply

ridiculous, but I complied as well as I, a mere man, was able to. At

eleven a reply wire came from Poirot:



    Advise Japp arrest housekeeper before it is too late.



Dumfounded, I took the wire to Japp. He swore softly under his breath.



“He’s the goods, M. Poirot! If he says so, there’s something in it.

And I hardly noticed the woman! I don’t know that I can go so far as

arresting her, but I’ll have her watched. We’ll go up right away and

take another look at her.”



But it was too late. Mrs. Middleton, that quiet, middle-aged woman,

who had appeared so normal and respectable, had vanished into thin

air. Her box had been left behind. It contained only ordinary wearing

apparel. There was no clue in it to her identity, or as to her

whereabouts.



                  *       *       *       *       *



From Mrs. Havering we elicited all the facts we could.



“I engaged her about three weeks ago, when Mrs. Emery, our former

housekeeper, left. She came to me from Mrs. Selboume’s Agency in Mount

St.—a very well-known place. I get all my servants from there. They

sent several women to see me, but this Mrs. Middleton seemed much the

nicest, and had splendid references. I engaged her on the spot, and

notified the Agency of the fact. I can’t believe that there was

anything wrong with her. She was such a nice, quiet woman.”



The thing was certainly a mystery.



While it was clear that the woman herself could not have committed the

crime, since at the moment the shot was fired Mrs. Havering was with

her in the hall, nevertheless she must have some connection with the

murder, or why should she suddenly take to her heels and bolt?



I wired the latest development to Poirot, and suggested returning to

London and making inquiries at Selbourne’s Agency. Poirot’s reply was

prompt:



    Useless to inquire at Agency. They will never have heard

    of her. Find out what vehicle took her up to Hunter’s

    Lodge when she first arrived there.



Though mystified, I was obedient. The means of transport in Elmer’s

Dale were limited. The local garage had two cars, and there were two

station flies. None of these had been requisitioned on the date in

question. I may also mention that inquiries at the Agency in London

bore out Poirot’s prognostication. No such woman as “Mrs. Middleton”

had ever been on their books. They had received the Hon. Mrs.

Havering’s application for a housekeeper, and had sent her various

applicants for the post. When she sent them the engagement fee, she

omitted to mention which woman she had selected.



    [It is suggested that the reader pause in his perusal of the story

    at this point, make his own solution of the mystery—and then see

    how close he comes to that of the author—The Editors.]



Somewhat crestfallen, I returned to London. I found Poirot established

in an armchair by the fire. He greeted me with much affection.



“_Mon ami Hastings!_ But how glad I am to see you! Veritably I have

for you a great affection! And you have enjoyed yourself? You have run

to and fro with the good Japp? You have interrogated and investigated

to your heart’s content?”



“Poirot,” I cried, “the thing’s a dark mystery! It will never be

solved.”



“It is true that we are not likely to cover ourselves with glory over

it.”



“No, indeed. It’s a hard nut to crack.”



“Oh, as far as that goes, me, I am very good at cracking the nuts! A

veritable squirrel! It is not that which embarrasses me. I know well

enough who killed Mr. Harrington Pace.”



“You know? How did you find out?”



“Your illuminating answers to my wires supplied me with the truth.....

See here, Hastings, let us examine the facts methodically and in

order. Mr. Harrington Pace is a man with a considerable fortune which

at his death will doubtless pass to his nephew—point number one. His

nephew is known to be desperately hard up—point number two. His nephew

is also known to be—shall we say a man of loose moral fiber? Point

number three!”



“But  Roger Havering is proved to have journeyed straight up to

London.”



“_Précisément!_ And therefore, as Mr. Havering left Elmer’s Dale at

six-fifteen, and since Mr. Pace cannot have been killed before he left

(or the doctor would have spotted the time of the crime as being given

wrongly when he examined the body), we conclude, quite rightly, that

Mr. Havering did _not_ shoot his uncle. But there is a Mrs. Havering,

Hastings.”



“Impossible! The housekeeper was with her when the shot was fired.”



“Ah, yes, the housekeeper. But she has disappeared.”



“She will be found.”



“I think not. There is something peculiarly elusive about that

housekeeper—don’t you think so? It struck me at once.”



“She played her part, I suppose, and then got out in the nick of

time.”



“And what was her part?”



“Well—I presume to admit her confederate, the black-bearded man.”



“Oh, no, that was not her part. Her part was what you have just

mentioned, to provide an alibi for Mrs. Havering at the moment the

shot was fired. And no one will ever find her, _mon ami_, because she

does not exist! ‘There’s no sech person,’ as your so great Shakespeare

says.”



“It was Dickens,” I murmured, smiling. “But what do you mean, Poirot?”



“I mean that Zoe Havering was an actress before her marriage, that you

and Japp only saw the housekeeper in a dark hall, a dim, middle-aged

figure in black with a faint, subdued voice, and finally that neither

you, nor Japp, nor the local police whom the housekeeper fetched, ever

saw Mrs. Middleton and her mistress at one and the same time. It was a

child’s play for that clever and daring woman. On the pretext of

summoning her mistress, she runs upstairs, slips on a bright jumper

and a hat with black curls attached which she jams down over the gray

transformation. A few deft touches, and the make-up is removed; a

slight dusting of rouge, and the brilliant Zoe Havering comes down

with her clear ringing voice.”



“But the revolver that was found at Ealing? Mrs. Havering could not

have placed it there?”



“No, that was Roger Havering’s job—but it was a mistake on their part.

It put me on the right track. A man who has committed a murder with a

revolver which he found on the spot would fling it away at once; he

would not carry it up to London with him. No, the motive was clear;

the criminals wished to focus the interest of the police on a spot far

removed from Derbyshire; they were anxious to get the police away as

soon as possible from the vicinity of Hunter’s Lodge. Of course, the

revolver found at Ealing was not the one with which Mr. Pace was shot.

Roger Havering discharged one shot from it, brought it up to London,

went straight to his club to establish his alibi, then went quickly

out to Ealing by the District Railway, a matter of about twenty

minutes only, placed the parcel where it was found and so back to

town. That charming creature his wife, quietly shoots Mr. Pace after

dinner—you remember he was shot from behind? Another significant

point, that! She reloads the revolver and puts it back in its place,

and then starts off with her desperate little comedy.”



“It’s incredible,” I murmured, fascinated. “And yet—”



“And yet it is true. _Bien sûr_, my friend, it is true! But to bring

that precious pair to justice, that is another matter. Well, Japp must

do what he can—I have written him fully; but I very much fear,

Hastings, that we shall be obliged to leave them to Fate—or _le bon

Dieu_—whichever you prefer.”



“The wicked flourish like a green bay tree,” I reminded him.



“But at a price, Hastings, always at a price, _croyez moi_!”



                  *       *       *       *       *



Poirot’s forebodings were confirmed. Japp, though convinced of the

truth of his theory, was unable to get together the necessary evidence

to insure a conviction. Mr. Pace’s huge fortune passed into the hands

of his murderers. Nevertheless, Nemesis did overtake them, and when I

read in the paper that the Hon. Roger and Mrs. Havering were among

those killed in the crashing of the Air Mail to Paris, I knew that

Justice was satisfied.





[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June, 1924 issue of

The Blue Book Magazine.]