[adapted]

by
Agatha Christie

The problem Miss Violet Marsh brought to us was a nice change from our usual work. Poirot got a short, business-like letter from the lady, asking for a meeting. He answered and asked her to come at eleven o’clock the next day.

She arrived on time—a tall, pretty young woman, simply but neatly dressed, with a confident and professional manner. She was clearly someone who planned to succeed in life. I don’t like the so-called “New Woman” much, and although she was good-looking, I didn’t feel very friendly toward her.

“My business is a little unusual, Monsieur Poirot,” she began, after sitting down. “I think I should start from the beginning and tell you everything.”

“If you please, mademoiselle.”

“I am an orphan. My father had one brother. They were sons of a small farmer in Devonshire. The farm was poor, and the older brother, Andrew, moved to Australia. He did very well there, and by buying and selling land, he became a rich man. My father, Roger, the younger brother, didn’t want to be a farmer. He got a little education and found work as a clerk in a small company. He married a woman from a slightly better family. My mother was the daughter of a poor artist. My father died when I was six. My mother died when I was fourteen.

“My only living relative was my Uncle Andrew. He had recently come back from Australia and bought a small house, Crabtree Manor, in the same county where he was born. He was very kind to me, his brother’s orphan child. He took me to live with him and treated me like a daughter.

“Crabtree Manor is really just an old farmhouse. My uncle loved farming and was very interested in trying out modern farming ideas. Even though he was very kind to me, he had strong ideas about how women should be raised. He had little education, though he was very clever. He didn’t value ‘book knowledge’ and was especially against women’s education. In his opinion, girls should learn to cook, clean, and work with dairy animals. He wanted me to grow up this way, which made me very sad and angry. I didn’t agree. I knew I had a good mind, and I had no talent for housework.

“My uncle and I argued a lot about this. We cared about each other, but we were both very stubborn. I was lucky to win a scholarship, so I was able to follow my own path, at least a little. The biggest argument came when I decided to go to Girton College. I had a small amount of money from my mother, and I was determined to make good use of my talents. We had one last big argument. He told me clearly: I was his only family, and he planned to leave all his money to me. But if I went on with these ‘strange new ideas,’ I would get nothing from him. I stayed polite, but I was firm. I told him I loved him very much, but I had to live my own life. We ended the talk like that. His last words were: ‘You think you’re smart, my girl. I’ve never had an education, but I’ll match my brains against yours any day. We’ll see who wins.’

“That was nine years ago. Since then, I visited him for a weekend now and then. We got along well, but his opinions didn’t change. He never talked about my exams or my B.Sc. For the past three years, he had been sick, and one month ago, he died.”

“I am now coming to the point of my visit. My uncle left a very strange will. According to it, I can live in Crabtree Manor and use everything in it for one year after his death. The will says, ‘During this time my clever niece may prove her wits.’ Those are the exact words. After that one year, if I don’t prove myself clever enough, the house and my uncle’s big fortune will go to different charities.”

“That seems a little unfair to you, mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “You were Mr. Marsh’s only family member.”

“I don’t think it’s unfair. Uncle Andrew warned me clearly, and I chose to live my own life. Since I didn’t do what he wanted, he had every right to leave his money to whoever he wanted.”

“Was the will made by a lawyer?”

“No. It was written on a printed will form and signed by the man and woman who lived in the house and worked for my uncle.”

“Is it possible to cancel such a will?”

“I would never try to do that.”

“So you think of it as a kind of challenge from your uncle?”

“Yes, that’s exactly how I see it.”

“It could be seen that way,” said Poirot, thinking. “Maybe somewhere in the big old house your uncle hid either a lot of money or a second will. He gave you one year to try and find it, using your cleverness.”

“Exactly, Monsieur Poirot. And I am paying you the compliment of believing that your cleverness is greater than mine.”

“Eh, eh! That is very nice of you. My little grey cells are at your service. Have you searched the house yourself?”

“Only a quick search. But I respect my uncle’s intelligence too much to think it will be easy to find anything.”

“Do you have the will or a copy of it with you?”

Miss Marsh gave Poirot a paper. He looked through it quickly, nodding as he read.

“It was made three years ago. The date is March 25, and it even gives the time—11 a.m. That’s very interesting. It helps us narrow down the search. I’m sure there must be another will, made even just half an hour later. That would cancel this one. Well, mademoiselle, this is a very fun and clever puzzle you’ve brought me. I’ll enjoy solving it for you. Your uncle may have been clever—but not as clever as Hercule Poirot’s little grey cells!”

(Really, Poirot’s ego is very obvious!)

“Luckily, I have no important work at the moment. Hastings and I will go to Crabtree Manor tonight. The man and woman who worked for your uncle are still there, I hope?”

“Yes, their name is Baker.”

The next morning we began our search for real. We had arrived late the night before. Mr. and Mrs. Baker had received a telegram from Miss Marsh, so they were ready for us. They were a nice couple. Mr. Baker was small, wrinkled, and pink-faced, like an old apple. His wife was a large woman, calm and cheerful in a true Devonshire way.

We were tired from our trip and the eight-mile drive from the train station, so we went to bed after a good supper of roast chicken, apple pie, and Devonshire cream. Now, after a wonderful breakfast, we were sitting in a small wooden-panelled room. This had been Mr. Marsh’s study and living room.

A large desk with a rolling top stood against the wall. It was full of papers, all neatly labelled. A big leather armchair showed clearly that Mr. Marsh had sat there often. On the other wall was a large sofa covered in old-fashioned flowered fabric, and the deep window seats were covered in the same material.

“Well, my friend,” said Poirot, lighting one of his tiny cigarettes, “we must plan our search. I’ve already looked around the house quickly, but I believe any clue will be in this room. We must go through the papers in the desk very carefully. I don’t expect to find the will itself, but maybe one paper will give us a clue to where it is hidden. First, we need a little information. Please ring the bell.”

I rang the bell. While we waited, Poirot walked up and down, looking at the room with approval.

“Mr. Marsh was a man who liked things in order. Look how neatly the papers are labeled. Each drawer key has a little tag. Even the china cabinet keys are labeled. And look how carefully the dishes inside are arranged. It is a joy to see. Nothing is out of place—”

Poirot suddenly stopped. His eyes had seen something strange. The key to the desk had a dirty envelope tied to it. Poirot frowned and took it out of the lock. On the envelope were the words “Key of Roll Top Desk,” written in messy handwriting, very different from the neat labels on the other keys.

“Something strange,” said Poirot, frowning. “I am sure Mr. Marsh did not write this. But who else has been in the house? Only Miss Marsh—and she, I believe, is also a person who likes things neat and tidy.”

Baker came when we rang the bell.

“Can you please get your wife and answer a few questions?” Poirot asked.

Baker left and came back in a few minutes with Mrs. Baker. She was wiping her hands on her apron and smiling happily.

Poirot explained clearly why we were there. The Bakers listened and looked concerned.

“We don’t want to see Miss Violet lose what should be hers,” said Mrs. Baker. “It would be very unfair if the hospitals got everything.”

Poirot began his questions. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Baker clearly remembered signing the will. Baker had been sent to the nearby town to buy two printed will-forms.

“Two?” asked Poirot quickly.

“Yes, sir. I think it was to be safe, in case he made a mistake—and he did. We signed the first one—”

“What time was that?”

Baker scratched his head, thinking, but his wife answered quickly.

“It was just after I put the milk on for the cocoa at eleven o’clock. Don’t you remember? The milk had boiled over on the stove when we got back to the kitchen.”

“And then what happened?”

“About an hour later, he called us again. ‘I made a mistake,’ he said. ‘Had to tear it up. Please sign again,’ he told us. And we did. Then he gave each of us some money. ‘I’ve left you nothing in my will,’ he said, ‘but each year I live, I’ll give you this money so you’ll have a bit saved up when I’m gone.’ And he really did give it to us.”

Poirot thought carefully.

“After you signed the second time, what did Mr. Marsh do? Do you know?”

“Yes, he went to the village to pay the shopkeepers.”

That did not seem very helpful. Poirot tried a new question. He held out the desk key.

“Is this your master’s handwriting?”