“All that’s true enough.”
Poirot said:
“Then there is yourself.”
Roddy started like a nervous horse.
“Me?”
“Certainly. You could have abstracted the morphine. You could have given it to Mrs. Welman! You were alone with her for a short period that night. But, again, why should you? If she lived to make a will, it is at least probable that you would have been mentioned in it. So again, you see, there is no motive. Only two people had a motive.”
Roddy’s eyes brightened.
“Two people?”
“Yes. One was Elinor Carlisle.”
“And the other?”
Poirot said slowly:
“The other was the writer of that anonymous letter.”
Roddy looked incredulous.
Poirot said:
“Somebody wrote that letter—somebody who hated Mary Gerrard or at least disliked her—somebody who was, as they say, ‘on your side.’ Somebody, that is, who did not want Mary Gerrard to benefit at Mrs. Welman’s death. Now, have you any idea, Mr. Welman, who the writer of that letter could be?”
Roddy shook his head.
“I’ve no idea at all. It was an illiterate letter, misspelt, cheap-looking.”
Poirot waved a hand.
“There is nothing much to that! It might easily have been written by an educated person who chose to disguise the fact. That is why I wish you had the letter still. People who try to write in an uneducated manner usually give themselves away.”
Roddy said thoughtfully:
“Elinor and I thought it might be one of the servants.”
“Had you any idea which of them?”
“No—no idea whatsoever.”
“Could it, do you think, have been Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper?”
Roddy looked shocked.
“Oh, no, she’s a most respectable, high-and-mighty creature. Writes beautifully involved and ornate letters with long words in them. Besides, I’m sure she would never—”
As he hesitated, Poirot cut in:
“She did not like Mary Gerrard!”
“I suppose she didn’t. I never noticed anything, though.”
“But perhaps, Mr. Welman, you do not notice very much?”
Roddy said slowly:
“You don’t think, M. Poirot, that my aunt could have taken that morphine herself?”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is an idea, yes.”
Roddy said:
“She hated her—her helplessness, you know. Often said she wished she could die.”
Poirot said:
“But, then, she could not have risen from her bed, gone downstairs and helped herself to the tube of morphine from the nurse’s case?”
Roddy said slowly:
“No, but somebody could have got it for her.”
“Who?”
“Well, one of the nurses.”
“No, neither of the nurses. They would understand the danger to themselves far too well! The nurses are the last people to suspect.”
“Then—somebody else….”
He started, opened his mouth, shut it again.
Poirot said quietly:
“You have remembered something, have you not?”
Roddy said doubtfully:
“Yes—but—”
“You wonder if you ought to tell me?”
“Well, yes….”
Poirot said, a curious smile tilting the corners of his mouth:
“When did Miss Carlisle say it?”
Roddy drew a deep breath.
“By Jove, you are a wizard! It was in the train coming down. We’d had the telegram, you know, saying Aunt Laura had had another stroke. Elinor said how terribly sorry she was for her, how the poor dear hated being ill, and that now she would be more helpless still and that it would be absolute hell for her. Elinor said, ‘One does feel that people ought to be set free if they themselves really want it.’”
“And you said—what?”
“I agreed.”
Poirot spoke very gravely:
“Just now, Mr. Welman, you scouted the possibility of Miss Carlisle having killed your aunt for monetary gain. Do you also scout the possibility that she may have killed Mrs. Welman out of compassion?”
Roddy said:
“I—I—no, I can’t….”
Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
He said:
“Yes, I thought—I was sure—that you would say that….”
Seven
In the offices of Messrs Seddon, Blatherwick & Seddon, Hercule Poirot was received with extreme caution, not to say distrust.
Mr. Seddon, a forefinger stroking his closely shaven chin, was noncommittal and his shrewd grey eyes appraised the detective thoughtfully.
“Your name is familiar to me, M. Poirot, of course. But I am at a loss to understand your position in this case.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I am acting, Monsieur, in the interests of your client.”
“Ah—indeed? And who—er—engaged you in that capacity?”
“I am here at the request of Dr. Lord.”
Mr. Seddon’s eyebrows rose very high.
“Indeed! That seems to me very irregular—very irregular. Dr. Lord, I understand, has been subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution.”
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Does that matter?”
Mr. Seddon said:
“The arrangements for Miss Carlisle’s defence are entirely in our hands. I really do not think we need any outside assistance in this case.”
Poirot asked:
“Is that because your client’s innocence will be so easily proved?”
Mr. Seddon winced. Then he became wrathful in a dry legal fashion.
“That,” he said, “is a most improper question. Most improper.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“The case against your client is a very strong one….”
“I really fail to see, M. Poirot, how you know anything about it.”
Poirot said:
“Although I am actually retained by Dr. Lord, I have here a note from Mr. Roderick Welman.”
He handed it over with a bow.
Mr. Seddon perused the few lines it contained and remarked grudgingly:
“That, of course, throws a new complexion on the matter. Mr. Welman has made himself responsible for Miss Carlisle’s defence. We are acting at his request.”
He added with visible distaste:
“Our firm does very little in—er—criminal procedure, but I felt it my duty to my—er—late client—to undertake the defence of her niece. I may say we have already briefed Sir Edwin Bulmer, K.C.”
Poirot said, and his smile was suddenly ironic:
“No expense will be spared. Very right and proper!”
Looking over his glasses, Mr. Seddon said:
“Really, M. Poirot—”
Poirot cut into his protest.
“Eloquence and emotional appeal will not save your client. It will need more than that.”
Mr. Seddon said drily:
“What do you advise?”
“There is always the truth.”
“Quite so.”
“But in this case will the truth help us?”
Mr. Seddon said sharply:
“That, again, is a most improper remark.”
Poirot said:
“There are certain questions to which I should like answers.”
Mr. Seddon said cautiously:
“I cannot, of course, guarantee to answer without the consent of my client.”
“Naturally. I understand that.” He paused and then said, “Has Elinor Carlisle any enemies?”
Mr. Seddon showed a faint surprise.
“As far as I know, none.”
“Did the late Mrs. Welman, at any period of her life, make a will?”
“Never. She always put it off.”
“Has
Elinor Carlisle made a will?”
“Yes.”
“Recently? Since her aunt’s death?”
“Yes.”
“To whom has she left her property?”
“That, M. Poirot, is confidential. I cannot tell you without authorization from my client.”
Poirot said:
“Then I shall have to interview your client!”
Mr. Seddon said with a cold smile:
“That, I fear, will not be easy.”
Poirot rose and made a gesture.
“Everything,” he said, “is easy to Hercule Poirot.”
Eight
Chief Inspector Marsden was affable.
“Well, M. Poirot,” he said. “Come to set me right about one of my cases?”
Poirot murmured deprecatingly:
“No, no. A little curiosity on my part, that is all.”
“Only too happy to satisfy it. Which case is it?”
“Elinor Carlisle.”
“Oh, yes, girl who poisoned Mary Gerrard. Coming up for trial in two weeks’ time. Interesting case. She did in the old woman too, by the way. Final report isn’t in yet, but it seems there’s no doubt of it. Morphia. Cold-blooded bit of goods. Never turned a hair at the time of her arrest or after. Giving nothing away. But we’ve got the goods on her all right. She’s for it.”
“You think she did it?”
Marsden, an experienced, kindly looking man, nodded his head affirmatively.
“Not a doubt of it. Put the stuff in the top sandwich. She’s a cool customer.”
“You have no doubts? No doubts at all?”
“Oh, no! I’m quite sure. It’s a pleasant feeling when you are sure! We don’t like making mistakes any more than anyone else would. We’re not just out to get a conviction, as some people think. This time I can go ahead with a clear conscience.”
Poirot said slowly:
“I see.”
The Scotland Yard man looked at him curiously.
“Is there anything on the other side?”
Slowly Poirot shook his head.
“As yet, no. So far everything I have found out about the case points to Elinor Carlisle’s being guilty.”
Inspector Marsden said with cheerful certainty:
“She’s guilty, all right.”
Poirot said:
“I should like to see her.”
Inspector Marsden smiled indulgently. He said:
“Got the present Home Secretary in your pocket, haven’t you? That will be easy enough.”
Nine
Peter Lord said:
“Well?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“No, it is not very well.”
Peter Lord said heavily:
“You haven’t got hold of anything?”
Poirot said slowly:
“Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard out of jealousy… Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt so as to inherit her money… Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt out of compassion… My friend, you may make your choice!”
Peter Lord said:
“You’re talking nonsense!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Am I?”
Lord’s freckled face looked angry. He said:
“What is all this?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Do you think it is possible, that?”
“Do I think what is possible?”
“That Elinor Carlisle was unable to bear the sight of her aunt’s misery and helped her out of existence.”
“Nonsense!”
“Is it nonsense? You have told me yourself that the old lady asked you to help her.”
“She didn’t mean it seriously. She knew I wouldn’t do anything of the sort.”
“Still, the idea was in her mind. Elinor Carlisle might have helped her.”
Peter Lord strolled up and down. He said at last:
“One can’t deny that that sort of thing is possible. But Elinor Carlisle is a levelheaded, clear-thinking kind of young woman. I don’t think she’d be so carried away by pity as to lose sight of the risk. And she’d realize exactly what the risk was. She’d be liable to stand accused of murder.”
“So you don’t think she would do it?”
Peter Lord said slowly:
“I think a woman might do such a thing for her husband; or for her child; or for her mother, perhaps. I don’t think she’d do it for an aunt, though she might be fond of that aunt. And I think in any case she’d only do it if the person in question was actually suffering unbearable pain.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“Perhaps you are right.”
Then he added:
“Do you think Roderick Welman’s feelings could have been sufficiently worked upon to induce him to do such a thing?”
Peter Lord replied scornfully:
“He wouldn’t have the guts!”
Poirot murmured:
“I wonder. In some ways, mon cher, you underestimate that young man.”
“Oh, he’s clever and intellectual and all that, I dare say.”
“Exactly,” said Poirot. “And he has charm, too… Yes, I felt that.”
“Did you? I never have!”
Then Peter Lord said earnestly:
“Look here, Poirot, isn’t there anything?”
Poirot said:
“They are not fortunate so far, my investigations! They lead always back to the same place. No one stood to gain by Mary Gerrard’s death. No one hated Mary Gerrard—except Elinor Carlisle. There is only one question that we might perhaps ask ourselves. We might say, perhaps: Did anyone hate Elinor Carlisle?”
Slowly Dr. Lord shook his head.
“Not that I know of… You mean—that someone might have framed her for the crime?”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“It is a very far-fetched speculation, that, and there is nothing to support it…except, perhaps, the very completeness of the case against her.”
He told the other of the anonymous letter.
“You see,” he said, “that makes it possible to outline a very strong case against her. She was warned that she might be completely cut out of her aunt’s will—that this girl, a stranger, might get all the money. So, when her aunt in her halting speech was asking for a lawyer, Elinor took no chances, and saw to it that the old lady should die that night!”
Peter Lord cried:
“What about Roderick Welman? He stood to lose, too!”
Poirot shook his head.
“No, it was to his advantage that the old lady should make a will. If she died intestate, he got nothing, remember. Elinor was the next of kin.”
Lord said:
“But he was going to marry Elinor!”
Poirot said, “True. But remember that immediately afterwards the engagement was broken off—that he showed her clearly that he wished to be released from it.”
Peter Lord groaned and held his head. He said:
“It comes back to her, then. Every time!”
“Yes. Unless….”
He was silent for a minute. Then he said:
“There is something….”
“Yes?”
“Something—some little piece of the puzzle that is missing. It is something—of that I am certain—that concerns Mary Gerrard. My friend, you hear a certain amount of gossip, of scandal, down here. Have you ever heard anything against her?”
“Against Mary Gerrard? Her character, you mean?”
“Anything. Some bygone story about her. Some indiscretion on her part. A hint of scandal. A doubt of her honesty. A malicious rumour concerning her. Anything—anything at all—but something that definitely is damaging to her….”
Peter Lord said slowly:
“I hope you’re not going to suggest that line… Trying to rake up things about a harmless young woman who’s dead and can’t defend herself… And, anyway, I don’t believe you can do it!”
“She was like the female Sir Galahad—a blameless life??
??
“As far as I know, she was. I never heard anything else.”
Poirot said gently:
“You must not think, my friend, that I would stir the mud where no mud is… No, no, it is not like that at all. But the good Nurse Hopkins is not an adept at hiding her feelings. She was fond of Mary, and there is something about Mary she does not want known; that is to say, there is something against Mary that she is afraid I will find out. She does not think that it has any bearing on the crime. But, then, she is convinced that the crime was committed by Elinor Carlisle, and clearly this fact, whatever it is, has nothing to do with Elinor. But, you see, my friend, it is imperative that I should know everything. For it may be that there is a wrong done by Mary to some third person, and in that case, that third person might have a motive for desiring her death.”
Peter Lord said:
“But surely, in that case, Nurse Hopkins would realize that, too.”
Poirot said:
“Nurse Hopkins is quite an intelligent woman within her limitations, but her intellect is hardly the equal of mine. She might not see, but Hercule Poirot would!”
Peter Lord said, shaking his head:
“I’m sorry. I don’t know anything.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“No more does Ted Bigland—and he has lived here all his life and Mary’s. No more does Mrs. Bishop; for if she knew anything unpleasant about the girl, she would not have been able to keep it to herself! Eh bien, there is one more hope.”
“Yes?”
“I am seeing the other nurse, Nurse O’Brien, today.”
Peter Lord said, shaking his head:
“She doesn’t know much about this part of the world. She was only here for a month or two.”
Poirot said:
“I am aware of that. But, my friend, Nurse Hopkins, we have been told, has the long tongue. She has not gossiped in the village, where such talk might have done Mary Gerrard harm. But I doubt if she could refrain from giving at least a hint about something that was occupying her mind to a stranger and a colleague! Nurse O’Brien may know something.”
Ten
Nurse O’Brien tossed her red head and smiled widely across the tea table at the little man opposite her.
She thought to herself:
“It’s the funny little fellow he is—and his eyes green like any cat’s, and with all that Dr. Lord saying he’s the clever one!”