The Dead Man’s Mirror: A Hercule Poirot Short Story

‘When was this?’

‘Oh, about ten past eight. Snell had just sounded the first gong.’

‘And where were you when you heard it?’

‘In the hall. We – we were laughing about it – arguing, you know, as to where the sound came from. I said it came from the dining-room, and Susan said it came from the direction of the drawing-room, and Miss Lingard said it sounded like upstairs, and Snell said it came from the road outside, only it came through the upstairs windows. And Susan said, “Any more theories?” And I laughed and said there was always murder! Seems pretty rotten to think of it now.’

His face twitched nervously.

‘It did not occur to anyone that Sir Gervase might have shot himself?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘You have, in fact, no idea why he should have shot himself?’

Hugo said slowly:

‘Oh, well, I shouldn’t say that –’

‘You have an idea?’

‘Yes – well – it’s difficult to explain. Naturally I didn’t expect him to commit suicide, but all the same I’m not frightfully surprised. The truth of it is that my uncle was as mad as a hatter, M. Poirot. Everyone knew that.’

‘That strikes you as a sufficient explanation?’

‘Well, people do shoot themselves when they’re a bit barmy.’

‘An explanation of an admirable simplicity.’

Hugo stared.

Poirot got up again and wandered aimlessly round the room. It was comfortably furnished, mainly in a rather heavy Victorian style. There were massive bookcases, huge armchairs, and some upright chairs of genuine Chippendale. There were not many ornaments, but some bronzes on the mantelpiece attracted Poirot’s attention and apparently stirred his admiration. He picked them up one by one, carefully examining them before replacing them with care. From the one on the extreme left he detached something with a fingernail.

‘What’s that?’ asked Hugo without much interest.

‘Nothing very much. A tiny sliver of looking-glass.’

Hugo said:

‘Funny the way that mirror was smashed by the shot. A broken mirror means bad luck. Poor old Gervase … I suppose his luck had held a bit too long.’

‘Your uncle was a lucky man?’

Hugo gave a short laugh.

‘Why, his luck was proverbial! Everything he touched turned to gold! If he backed an outsider, it romped home! If he invested in a doubtful mine, they struck a vein of ore at once! He’s had the most amazing escapes from the tightest of tight places. His life’s been saved by a kind of miracle more than once. He was rather a fine old boy, in his way, you know. He’d certainly “been places and seen things” – more than most of his generation.’

Poirot murmured in a conversational tone:

‘You were attached to your uncle, Mr Trent?’

Hugo Trent seemed a little startled by the question.

‘Oh – er – yes, of course,’ he said rather vaguely. ‘You know, he was a bit difficult at times. Frightful strain to live with, and all that. Fortunately I didn’t have to see much of him.’

‘He was fond of you?’

‘Not so that you’d notice it! As a matter of fact, he rather resented my existence, so to speak.’

‘How was that, Mr Trent?’