The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The French Stranger XV. The French Stranger Virginia and Anthony walked side by side down the path which led to the lake. For some minutes after leaving the house they were silent. It was Virginia who broke the silence at last with a little laugh. “Oh, dear,” she said, “isn’t it dreadful? Here I am so bursting with the things I want to tell you, and the things I want to know, that I simply don’t know where to begin. First of all”—she lowered her voice—“What have you done with the body? How awful it sounds, doesn’t it! I never dreamt that I should be so steeped in crime.” “I suppose it’s quite a novel sensation for you,” agreed Anthony. “But not for you?” “Well, I’ve never disposed of a corpse before, certainly.” “Tell me about it.” Briefly and succinctly, Anthony ran over the steps he had taken on the previous night. Virginia listened attentively. “I think you were very clever,” she said approvingly when he had finished. “I can pick up the trunk again when I go back to Paddington. The only difficulty that might arise is if you had to give an account of where you were yesterday evening.” “I can’t see that that can arise. The body can’t have been found until late last night—or possibly this morning. Otherwise there would have been something about it in this morning’s papers. And whatever you may imagine from reading detective stories, doctors aren’t such magicians that they can tell you exactly how many hours a man has been dead. The exact time of his death will be pretty vague. An alibi for last night would be far more to the point.” “I know. Lord Caterham was telling me all about it. But the Scotland Yard man is quite convinced of your innocence now, isn’t he?” Anthony did not reply at once. “He doesn’t look particularly astute,” continued Virginia. “I don’t know about that,” said Anthony slowly. “I’ve an impression that there are no flies on Superintendent Battle. He appears to be convinced of my innocence—but I’m not so sure. He’s stumped at present by my apparent lack of motive.” “Apparent?” cried Virginia. “But what possible reason could you have for murdering an unknown foreign Count?” Anthony darted a sharp glance at her. “You were at one time or other in Herzoslovakia, weren’t you?” he asked. “Yes. I was there with my husband, for two years, at the Embassy.” “That was just before the assassination of the King and Queen. Did you ever run across Prince Michael Obolovitch?” “Michael? Of course I did. Horrid little wretch! He suggested, I remember, that I should marry him morganatically.” “Did he really? And what did he suggest you should do about your existing husband?” “Oh, he had a sort of David and Uriah scheme all made out.” “And how did you respond to this amiable offer?” “Well,” said Virginia, “unfortunately one had to be diplomatic. So poor little Michael didn’t get it as straight from the shoulder as he might have done. But he retired hurt all the same. Why all this interest about Michael?” “Something I’m getting at in my own blundering fashion. I take it that you didn’t meet the murdered man?” “No. To put it like a book, he ‘retired to his own apartments immediately on arrival.’” “And of course you haven’t seen the body?” Virginia, eyeing him with a good deal of interest, shook her head. “Could you get to see it, do you think?” “By means of influence in high places—meaning Lord Caterham—I dare say I could. Why? Is it an order?” “Good Lord, no,” said Anthony, horrified. “Have I been as dictatorial as all that? No, it’s simply this. Count Stanislaus was the incognito of Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.” Virginia’s eyes opened very wide. “I see.” Suddenly her face broke into its fascinating one-sided smile. “I hope you don’t suggest that Michael went to his rooms simply to avoid seeing me?” “Something of the kind,” admitted Anthony. “You see, if I’m right in my idea that some one wanted to prevent your coming to Chimneys, the reason seems to lie in your knowing Herzoslovakia. Do you realize that you’re the only person here who knew Prince Michael by sight?” “Do you mean that this man who was murdered was an impostor?” asked Virginia abruptly. “That is the possibility that crossed my mind. If you can get Lord Caterham to show you the body, we can clear up that point at once.” “He was shot at 11.45,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “The time mentioned on that scrap of paper. The whole thing’s horribly mysterious.” “That reminds me. Is that your window up there? The second from the end over the Council Chamber?” “No, my room is in the Elizabethan wing, the other side. Why?” “Simply because as I walked away last night, after thinking I heard a shot, the light went up in that room.” “How curious! I don’t know who has that room, but I can find out by asking Bundle. Perhaps they heard the shot?” “If so, they haven’t come forward to say so. I understood from Battle that nobody in the house heard the shot fired. It’s the only clue of any kind that I’ve got, and I dare say it’s a pretty rotten one, but I mean to follow it up for what it’s worth.” “It’s curious, certainly,” said Virginia thoughtfully. They had arrived at the boat-house by the lake, and had been leaning against it as they talked. “And now for the whole story,” said Anthony. “We’ll paddle gently about on the lake, secure from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, American visitors, and curious house-maids.” “I’ve heard something from Lord Caterham,” said Virginia. “But not nearly enough. To begin with, which are you really, Anthony Cade or Jimmy McGrath?” For the second time that morning, Anthony unfolded the history of the last six weeks of his life—with this difference that the account given to Virginia needed no editing. He finished up with his own astonished recognition of “Mr. Holmes.” “By the way, Mrs. Revel,” he ended, “I’ve never thanked you for imperilling your immortal soul by saying that I was an old friend of yours.” “Of course you’re an old friend,” cried Virginia. “You don’t suppose I’d cumber you with a corpse, and then pretend you were a mere acquaintance next time I met you? No, indeed!” She paused. “Do you know one thing that strikes me about all this?” she went on. “That there’s some extra mystery about those Memoirs that we haven’t fathomed yet.” “I think you’re right,” agreed Anthony. “There’s one thing I’d like you to tell me,” he continued. “What’s that?” “Why did you seem so surprised when I mentioned the name of Jimmy McGrath to you yesterday at Pont Street? Had you heard it before?” “I had, Sherlock Holmes. George—my cousin, George Lomax, you know—came to see me the other day, and suggested a lot of frightfully silly things. His idea was that I should come down here and make myself agreeable to this man McGrath and Delilah the Memoirs out of him somehow. He didn’t put it like that, of course. He talked a lot of nonsense about English gentlewomen, and things like that, but his real meaning was never obscure for a moment. It was just the sort of rotten thing poor old George would think of. And then I wanted to know too much, and he tried to put me off with lies that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two.” “Well, his plan seems to have succeeded, anyhow,” observed Anthony. “Here am I, the James McGrath he had in mind, and here are you being agreeable to me.” “But, alas, for poor old George, no Memoirs! Now I’ve got a question for you. When I said I hadn’t written those letters, you said you knew I hadn’t—you couldn’t know any such thing?” “Oh, yes, I could,” said Anthony, smiling. “I’ve got a good working knowledge of psychology.” “You mean your belief in the sterling worth of my moral character was such that——” But Anthony was shaking his head vigorously. “Not at all. I don’t know anything about your moral character. You might have a lover, and you might write to him. But you’d never lie down to be blackmailed. The Virginia Revel of those letters was scared stiff. You’d have fought.” “I wonder who the real Virginia Revel is—where she is, I mean. It makes me feel as though I had a double somewhere.” Anthony lit a cigarette. “You know that one of the letters was written from Chimneys?” he asked at last. “What?” Virginia was clearly startled. “When was it written?” “It wasn’t dated. But it’s odd, isn’t it?” “I’m perfectly certain no other Virginia Revel has ever stayed at Chimneys. Bundle or Lord Caterham would have said something about the coincidence of the name if she had.” “Yes. It’s rather queer. Do you know, Mrs. Revel, I am beginning to disbelieve profoundly in this other Virginia Revel.” “She’s very elusive,” agreed Virginia. “Extraordinarily elusive. I am beginning to think that the person who wrote those letters deliberately used your name.” “But why?” cried Virginia. “Why should they do such a thing?” “Ah, that’s just the question. There’s the devil of a lot to find out about everything.” “Who do you really think killed Michael?” asked Virginia suddenly. “The Comrades of the Red Hand?” “I suppose they might have done so,” said Anthony in a dissatisfied voice. “Pointless killing would be rather characteristic of them.” “Let’s get to work,” said Virginia. “I see Lord Caterham and Bundle strolling together. The first thing to do is to find out definitely whether the dead man is Michael or not.” Anthony paddled to shore and a few moments later they had joined Lord Caterham and his daughter. “Lunch is late,” said his lordship in a depressed voice. “Battle has insulted the cook, I expect.” “This is a friend of mine, Bundle,” said Virginia. “Be nice to him.” Bundle looked earnestly at Anthony for some minutes, and then addressed a remark to Virginia as though he had not been there. “Where do you pick up these nice-looking men, Virginia? ‘How do you do it?’ says she enviously.” “You can have him,” said Virginia generously. “I want Lord Caterham.” She smiled upon the flattered peer, slipped her hand through his arm and they moved off together. “Do you talk?” asked Bundle. “Or are you just strong and silent?” “Talk?” said Anthony. “I babble. I murmur. I gurgle—like the running brook, you know. Sometimes I even ask questions.” “As for instance?” “Who occupies the second room on the left from the end?” He pointed to it as he spoke. “What an extraordinary question!” said Bundle. “You intrigue me greatly. Let me see—yes—that’s Mademoiselle Brun’s room. The French governess. She endeavours to keep my young sisters in order. Dulcie and Daisy—like the song, you know. I dare say they’d have called the next one, Dorothy May. But mother got tired of having nothing but girls and died. Thought some one else could take on the job of providing an heir.” “Mademoiselle Brun,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “How long has she been with you?” “Two months. She came to us when we were in Scotland.” “Ha!” said Anthony. “I smell a rat.” “I wish I could smell some lunch,” said Bundle. “Do I ask the Scotland Yard man to have lunch with us, Mr. Cade? You’re a man of the world, you know about the etiquette of such things. We’ve never had a murder in the house before. Exciting, isn’t it? I’m sorry your character was so completely cleared this morning. I’ve always wanted to meet a murderer and see for myself if they’re as genial and charming as the Sunday papers always say they are. God! what’s that?” “What” seemed to be a taxi approaching the house. Its two occupants were a tall man with a bald head and a black beard, and a smaller and younger man with a black moustache. Anthony recognized the former, and guessed that it was he—rather than the vehicle which contained him—that had wrung the exclamation of astonishment from his companion’s lips. “Unless I much mistake,” he remarked, “that is my old friend, Baron Lollipop.” “Baron what?” “I call him Lollipop for convenience. The pronouncing of his own name tends to harden the arteries.” “It nearly wrecked the telephone this morning,” remarked Bundle. “So that’s the Baron, is it? I foresee he’ll be turned on to me this afternoon—and I’ve had Isaacstein all the morning. Let George do his own dirty work, say I, and to hell with politics. Excuse me leaving you, Mr. Cade, but I must stand by poor old Father.” Bundle retreated rapidly to the house. Anthony stood looking after her for a minute or two and thoughtfully lighted a cigarette. As he did so, his ear was caught by a stealthy sound quite near him. He was standing by the boat-house, and the sound seemed to come from just round the corner. The mental picture conveyed to him was that of a man vainly trying to stifle a sudden sneeze. “Now I wonder—I very much wonder who’s behind the boat-house,” said Anthony to himself. “We’d better see, I think.” Suiting the action to the word, he threw away the match he had just blown out, and ran lightly and noiselessly round the corner of the boat-house. He came upon a man who had evidently been kneeling on the ground and was just struggling to rise to his feet. He was tall, wore a light coloured overcoat and glasses, and for the rest, had a short pointed black beard and a slightly foppish manner. He was between thirty and forty years of age, and altogether of a most respectable appearance. “What are you doing here?” asked Anthony. He was pretty certain that the man was not one of Lord Caterham’s guests. “I ask your pardon,” said the stranger, with a marked foreign accent and what was meant to be an engaging smile. “It is that I wish to return to the Jolly Crickets, and I have lost my way. Would Monsieur be so good as to direct me?” “Certainly,” said Anthony. “But you don’t go there by water, you know.” “Eh?” said the stranger, with the air of one at a loss. “I said,” repeated Anthony, with a meaning glance at the boat-house, “that you won’t get there by water. There’s a right of way across the park—some distance away, but all this is the private part. You’re trespassing.” “I am most sorry,” said the stranger. “I lost my direction entirely. I thought I would come up here and inquire.” Anthony refrained from pointing out that kneeling behind a boat-house was a somewhat peculiar manner of prosecuting inquiries. He took the stranger kindly by the arm. “You go this way,” he said. “Right round the lake and straight on—you can’t miss the path. When you get on it, turn to the left, and it will lead you to the village. You’re staying at the Cricketers, I suppose?” “I am, monsieur. Since this morning. Many thanks for your kindness in directing me.” “Don’t mention it,” said Anthony. “I hope you haven’t caught cold.” “Eh?” said the stranger. “From kneeling on the damp ground, I mean,” explained Anthony. “I fancied I heard you sneezing.” “I may have sneezed,” admitted the other. “Quite so,” said Anthony. “But you shouldn’t suppress a sneeze, you know. One of the most eminent doctors said so only the other day. It’s frightfully dangerous. I don’t remember exactly what it does to you—whether it’s an inhibition or whether it hardens your arteries, but you must never do it. Good morning.” “Good morning, and thank you, monsieur, for setting me on the right road.” “Second suspicious stranger from village inn,” murmured Anthony to himself, as he watched the other’s retreating form. “And one that I can’t quite place, either. Appearance that of a French commercial traveller. I don’t quite see him as a Comrade of the Red Hand. Does he represent yet a third party in the harassed state of Herzoslovakia? The French governess has the second window from the end. A mysterious Frenchman is found slinking round the grounds, listening to conversations that are not meant for his ears. I’ll bet my hat there’s something in it.” Musing thus, Anthony retraced his steps to the house. On the terrace he encountered Lord Caterham, looking suitably depressed, and two new arrivals. He brightened a little at the sight of Anthony. “Ah, there you are,” he remarked. “Let me introduce you to Baron—er—er—and Captain Andrassy. Mr. Anthony Cade.” The Baron stared at Anthony with growing suspicion. “Mr. Cade?” he said stiffly. “I think not.” “A word alone with you, Baron,” said Anthony. “I can explain everything.” The Baron bowed, and the two men walked down the terrace together. “Baron,” said Anthony. “I must throw myself upon your mercy. I have so far strained the honour of an English gentleman as to travel to this country under an assumed name. I represented myself to you as Mr. James McGrath—but you must see for yourself that the deception involved was infinitesimal. You are doubtless acquainted with the works of Shakespeare, and his remarks about the unimportance of the nomenclature of roses? This case is the same. The man you wanted to see was the man in possession of the Memoirs. I was that man. As you know only too well, I am no longer in possession of them. A neat trick. Baron, a very neat trick. Who thought of it, you or your principal?” “His Highness’s own idea it was. And for anyone but him to carry it out he would not permit.” “He did it jolly well,” said Anthony, with approval. “I never took him for anything but an Englishman.” “The education of an English gentleman did the Prince receive,” explained the Baron. “The custom of Herzoslovakia it is.” “No professional could have pinched those papers better,” said Anthony. “May I ask, without indiscretion, what has become of them?” “Between gentlemen,” began the Baron. “You are too kind, Baron,” murmured Anthony. “I’ve never been called a gentleman so often as I have in the last forty-eight hours.” “I to you say this—I believe them to be burnt.” “You believe, but you don’t know, eh? Is that it?” “His Highness in his own keeping retained them. His purpose it was to read them and then by the fire to destroy them.” “I see,” said Anthony. “All the same, they are not the kind of light literature you’d skim through in half an hour.” “Among the effects of my martyred master they have not discovered been. It is clear, therefore, that burnt they are.” “H’m!” said Anthony. “I wonder?” He was silent for a minute or two and then went on. “I have asked you these questions, Baron, because, as you may have heard, I myself have been implicated in the crime. I must clear myself absolutely, so that no suspicion attaches to me.” “Undoubtedly,” said the Baron. “Your honour demands it.” “Exactly,” said Anthony. “You put these things so well. I haven’t got the knack of it. To continue, I can only clear myself by discovering the real murderer, and to do that I must have all the facts. This question of the Memoirs is very important. It seems to me possible that to gain possession of them might be the motive of the crime. Tell me, Baron, is that a very far-fetched idea?” The Baron hesitated for a moment or two. “You yourself the Memoirs have read?” he asked cautiously at length. “I think I am answered,” said Anthony, smiling. “Now Baron, there’s just one thing more. I should like to give you fair warning that it is still my intention to deliver that manuscript to the publishers on Wednesday next, the 13th of October.” The Baron stared at him. “But you have no longer got it?” “On Wednesday next, I said. To-day is Friday. That gives me five days to get hold of it again.” “But if it is burnt?” “I don’t think it is burnt. I have good reasons for not believing so.” As he spoke they turned the corner of the terrace. A massive figure was advancing towards them. Anthony, who had not yet seen the great Mr. Herman Isaacstein, looked at him with considerable interest. “Ah, Baron,” said Isaacstein, waving the big black cigar he was smoking, “this is a bad business—a very bad business.” “My good friend, Mr. Isaacstein, it is indeed,” cried the Baron. “All our noble edifice in ruins is.” Anthony tactfully left the two gentlemen to their lamentations, and retraced his steps along the terrace. Suddenly he came to a halt. A thin spiral of smoke was rising into the air apparently from the very centre of the yew hedge. “It must be hollow in the middle,” reflected Anthony. “I’ve heard of such things before.” He looked swiftly to right and left of him. Lord Caterham was at the farther end of the terrace with Captain Andrassy. Their backs were towards him. Anthony bent down and wriggled his way through the massive yew. He had been quite right in his supposition. The yew hedge was really not one, but two, a narrow passage divided them. The entrance to this was about half-way up, on the side of the house. There was no mystery about it, but no one seeing the yew hedge from the front would have guessed at the probability. Anthony looked down the narrow vista. About half-way down, a man was reclining in a basket chair. A half-smoked cigar rested on the arm of the chair, and the gentleman himself appeared to be asleep. “H’m!” said Anthony to himself. “Evidently Mr. Hiram Fish prefers sitting in the shade.” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (1998). The Secret of Chimneys. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/65238/pg65238-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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