‘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 arm-chairs, and some upright chairs of genuine Chippendale. There were not many ornaments, but some bronzes on the mantel-piece 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?’

‘Well, you see, he had no son of his own—and he was pretty sore about it. He was mad about family and all that sort of thing. I believe it cut him to the quick to know that when he died the Chevenix-Gores would cease to exist. They’ve been going ever since the Norman Conquest, you know. The Old Man was the last of them. I suppose it was rather rotten from his point of view.’

‘You yourself do not share that sentiment?’

Hugo shrugged his shoulders.

‘All that sort of thing seems to me rather out of date.’

‘What will happen to the estate?’

‘Don’t really know. I might get it. Or he may have left it to Ruth. Probably Vanda has it for her lifetime.’

‘Your uncle did not definitely declare his intentions?’

‘Well, he had his pet idea.’

‘And what was that?’

‘His idea was that Ruth and I should make a match of it.’

‘That would doubtless have been very suitable.’

‘Eminently suitable. But Ruth—well, Ruth has very decided views of her own about life. Mind you, she’s an extremely attractive young woman, and she knows it. She’s in no hurry to marry and settle down.’