“It was a curious remark, Mademoiselle. It revealed that you knew of the existence of Mr. Morley, that you had rather expected something to happen—not to happen to him—but possibly to happen in his house.”
“You do like telling yourself stories, don’t you?”
Poirot paid no attention.
“You had expected—or rather you had feared—that something might happen at Mr. Morley’s house. You had feared that that something would have happened to your uncle. But if so, you must know something that we did not know. I reflected on the people who had been in Mr. Morley’s house that day, and I seized at once on the one person who might possibly have a connection with you—which was that young American, Mr. Howard Raikes.”
“It’s just like a serial, isn’t it? What’s the next thrilling instalment?”
“I went to see Mr. Howard Raikes. He is a dangerous and attractive young man—”
Poirot paused expressively.
Jane said meditatively:
“He is, isn’t he?” She smiled. “All right! You win! I was scared stiff.”
She leaned forward.
“I’m going to tell you things, M. Poirot. You’re not the kind one can just string along. I’d rather tell you than have you snooping around finding out. I love that man, Howard Raikes. I’m just crazy about him. My mother brought me over here just to get me away from him. Partly that and partly because she hopes Uncle Alistair might get fond enough of me to leave me his money when he dies.”
She went on:
“Mother is his niece by marriage. Her mother was Rebecca Arnholt’s sister. He’s my great-uncle-in-law. Only he hasn’t got any near relatives of his own, so mother doesn’t see why we shouldn’t be his residuary legatees. She cadges off him pretty freely too.
“You see, I’m being frank with you, M. Poirot. That’s the kind of people we are. Actually we’ve got plenty of money ourselves—an indecent amount according to Howard’s ideas—but we’re not in Uncle Alistair’s class.”
She paused. She struck with one hand fiercely on the arm of her chair.
“How can I make you understand? Everything I’ve been brought up to believe in, Howard abominates and wants to do away with. And sometimes, you know, I feel like he does. I’m fond of Uncle Alistair, but he gets on my nerves sometimes. He’s so stodgy—so British—so cautious and conservative. I feel sometimes that he and his kind ought to be swept away, that they are blocking progress—that without them we’d get things done!”
“You are a convert to Mr. Raikes’ ideas?”
“I am—and I’m not. Howard is—is wilder than most of his crowd. There are people, you know, who—who agree with Howard up to a point. They would be willing to—to try things—if Uncle Alistair and his crowd would agree. But they never will! They just sit back and shake their heads and say: ‘We could never risk that.’ And ‘It wouldn’t be sound economically.’ And ‘We’ve got to consider our responsibility.’ And ‘Look at history.’ But I think that one mustn’t look at history. That’s looking back. One must look forward all the time.”
Poirot said gently:
“It is an attractive vision.”
Jane looked at him scornfully.
“You say that too!”
“Perhaps because I am old. Their old men have dreams—only dreams, you see.”
He paused and then asked in a matter-of-fact voice:
“Why did Mr. Howard Raikes make that appointment in Queen Charlotte Street?”
“Because I wanted him to meet Uncle Alistair and I couldn’t see otherwise how to manage it. He’d been so bitter about Uncle Alistair—so full of—well, hate really, that I felt if he could only see him—see what a nice kindly unassuming person he was—that—that he would feel differently … I couldn’t arrange a meeting here because of mother—she would have spoilt everything.”
Poirot said:
“But after having made that arrangement, you were—afraid.”
Her eyes grew wide and dark. She said:
“Yes. Because—because—sometimes Howard gets carried away. He—he—”