Beaux and Arrows

All eyes in the drawing-room were upon the dapper Belgian, standing by the fireplace. Placing the back of an immaculate kid glove to his lips, he gave a little cough, to make sure he had their fullest attention.

“Mesdames, Messieurs,” he began. “This has been a matter of the greatest complexity, even for Poirot. The little grey cells have – how you say – been working overtime. So many of you had the motive, so many of you the means, also the opportunity; but one, and only one of you here today, actually murdered le pauvre Lord Redbreast.”

A gasp ran round the room. Lady Paloma Redbreast bridled, and drew herself up in her chair, her dark, Argentinian eyes flashing with anger.

“Señor Poirot,” she said. “In my country we do not make accusations so lightly, for fear of the… consequences.”

Poirot held up a gloved hand.

“Pardon, Madame, I accuse no one,” he said. “I merely state the truth. Everyone here had reason to dislike your late husband, or would have benefitted from his death, or, at the very least, must fall under some suspicion or other. You yourself are the subject of much gossip, n’est-ce pas, to the effect that you married Lord Redbreast merely for his fortune…”

Lady Redbreast stood, quivering, her hands balled into taut little fists. It looked for one moment as though she would fly at the little Belgian detective standing calmly before her.

“I loved my husband,” she said, emphasizing every word. “And shall mourn him for ever. Not for nothing do I wear black today!”

“Calmez-vous, Madame,” replied Poirot. “Please do not assume that I set any store by gossip. I know that you are not the murderer. Asseyez-vous.”

Poirot made a gentle and courteous gesture, which mollified the irate widow, and she again seated herself with dignity. Then Poirot’s piercing gaze swept the room, passing across the upturned faces of the assembled company.

“As I say, so many of you could have murdered Lord Redbreast. For example, there is one of you whose alibi, given to the Police, is purest fabrication. I refer to you… Mademoiselle Fly.”

Evadne Fly gripped the arms of her chair. A vein throbbed on her porcelain temple. She looked about wildly, as though soliciting support from others in the room.

“But… but… you can’t think I killed him, surely?”

Again Poirot held up a hand. “Non, non, non, Mademoiselle. Although I know that you were there, at the place of the death of Lord Redbreast, at the time he was killed. You could not have been, as you stated, playing le tennis with your friend Mademoiselle Beetle the seamstress, because she had, at that time, the sprained ankle. In fact you had been with your beau, Monsieur Rodney Owl, son of the village grave-digger, something which you did not wish anyone to know. Your guardian, the late Lord Redbreast did not approve of the relationship; at the very moment he was killed, you were hurrying to see him, perhaps to beg him to relent and let you marry Monsieur Owl. En effet, Mademoiselle, you witnessed his death, n’est-ce pas?”

Miss Fly took out her handkerchief and sobbed into it.

“You’re right of course, Mr Poirot,” she said. “ I saw him die. But I didn’t kill him. You have to believe me!”

“Enfin, Mademoiselle, I do believe you,” replied the dapper detective. “Restez calme. One of slight build, such as yourself, would not have been capable of the murder. And you are a gentle young woman whom, I believe, would have resigned yourself to obedience to your guardian, had he remained obdurate, and would have waited until you had – how you say –  reached your majority. Mais, others here have motives less to do with the tender heart and more with the empty wallet…”

Poirot turned on his heel and pointed dramatically at the dog-collared man sitting on the edge of his seat by the window.

“…You, for example, Reverend Corbie, never received the money that Lord Redbreast promised you for the church roof!”

The parson blanched. His beak-like nose trembled violently.

“No, the old man rooked me!” he cried with a start. Then he recovered himself, and said more gently. “Though as a Christian I must not set store on such things.”

Poirot’s eyes were stern, but his voice was gentle.

“Did I not warn you of that very thing the day we met, Monsieur Corbie?” he said. “I hope sincerely it is a lesson you have taken to the heart.”

As the parson settled back into his chair, flushed, Poirot surveyed the room again. Many people now were shifting uneasily in their chairs, either from a guilty conscience or from the nervous thought that a murderer might be occupying the chair next to them. Who was the murderer? Was it Miss Fish, the District Nurse, who had been so quickly on hand to try to stem the bleeding from Lord Redbreast’s wound? Was it Mr Lark, Lord Redbreast’s secretary, who had been keeping notes of the proceedings, but whose pen now lay limp in his hand? Was it Mr Aloysius Kite, the undertaker, whose business was failing for lack of custom? Was it Olga Thrush, the famous contralto, whose career had faltered because Lord Redbreast had refused to back her concert tour? Poirot had suspected them all, for all that they put on such a show of grief when Lord Redbreast’s body was first discovered.

“Non, mes amis,” he said. “There is but one murderer in the room. And it is… you!”

Poirot’s sternest gaze had lighted upon the relaxed, nonchalant figure of Alan Sparrow, Lord Redbreast’s nephew, who was lounging in an armchair, his long, flannelled legs crossed, his sports jacket casually unbuttoned.

“Me?” he asked, then threw his head back and laughed.

“Oui, Monsieur Sparrow, c’était vous. You were enraged that Lord Redbreast would not – how you say – bail out your failing enterprise, and he had furthermore threatened to make a new will, leaving all his wealth to Mademoiselle Fly. You wished to stop him, and you lay in wait in the garden, hiding in the shrubbery, where you took your pocket-knife and improvised a crude bow-and-arrow from two branches of a tree and your braces. And with that bow-and-arrow you shot your uncle, Lord Redbreast. In the confusion, you were able to retrieve your improvised arrow and thrust it into the nearby flowerbed. But you reckoned without the observation of Poirot, who at once saw that there were five oriental poppies to be supported by stakes, but six stakes to support them! Furthermore, Monsieur Sparrow, you were at pains to stop me from seeing the sporting trophies in your room, but nothing can hide the fact that the tie that your vanity will not allow you to go without is that of a Cambridge Blue. Poirot’s guess is that your expertise is that of a – how you say – toxophilite!”

For a moment or two the sardonic smile remained on Alan Sparrow’s face. Then he scowled.

“All right, why deny it any more? I killed him. I killed my uncle Robin, with my bow-and-arrow. Curse him for a cocky old skinflint! And curse you too, you interfering Belgian swine! But you’ll never take me…”

Alan Sparrow leapt from his chair and made a dash for the French window. Poirot’s faithful lieutenant, Captain Hastings, made an attempt to stop him, but was pushed roughly aside. Just at that moment there was the shrill sound of a police whistle, and Inspector Japp burst into the room, accompanied by a pair of uniformed constables. They threw themselves upon the young murderer before he reached the window, and wrestled him to the ground. Japp, his hat awry, could be heard saying. “… arrest you… murder… not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and given in evidence…”

Later, as they were leaving Readbreast Hall, Captain Hastings addressed his friend.

“I say, Poirot,” he said. “I would never have suspected young Sparrow. Seemed like a decent chap to me. How did you work it all out?”

The words “Elementry, mon cher Hastings” were forming on the dapper Belgian’s lips; but he checked himself, and thought, “Non, non, non. Poirot does not say this!” Instead he tapped a grey-gloved finger on his forehead.

“The little grey cells, mon cher Hastings. The little grey cells.”