Agatha Christie

Sad Cypress

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

Dedication

To Peter and Peggy McLeod

Epigraph

Come away, come away, death,

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath!

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew

O prepare it;

My part of death no one so true;

Did share it.

Shakespeare

Prologue

âElinor Katharine Carlisle. You stand charged upon this indictment with the murder of Mary Gerrard upon the 27th of July last. Are you guilty or not guilty?â

Elinor Carlisle stood very straight, her head raised. It was a graceful head, the modelling of the bones sharp and well-defined. The eyes were a deep vivid blue, the hair black. The brows had been plucked to a faint thin line.

There was a silenceâquite a noticeable silence.

Sir Edwin Bulmer, Counsel for the Defence, felt a thrill of dismay.

He thought:

âMy God, sheâs going to plead guiltyâ¦ Sheâs lost her nerveâ¦.â

Elinor Carlisleâs lips parted. She said:

âNot guilty.â

Counsel for the Defence sank back. He passed a handkerchief over his brow, realizing that it had been a near shave.

Sir Samuel Attenbury was on his feet, outlining the case for the Crown.

âMay it please your lordship, gentlemen of the jury, on the 27th of July, at half past three in the afternoon, Mary Gerrard died at Hunterbury, Maidensfordâ¦.â

His voice ran on, sonorous and pleasing to the ear. It lulled Elinor almost into unconsciousness. From the simple and concise narrative, only an occasional phrase seeped through to her conscious mind.

ââ¦case a peculiarly simple and straightforward oneâ¦

ââ¦It is the duty of the Crownâ¦prove motive and opportunityâ¦

ââ¦No one, as far as can be seen, had any motive to kill this unfortunate girl, Mary Gerrard, except the accused. A young girl of a charming dispositionâliked by everybodyâwithout, one would have said, an enemy in the worldâ¦.â

Mary, Mary Gerrard! How far away it all seemed now. Not real any longerâ¦.

ââ¦Your attention will be particularly directed to the following considerations:

Â 

1. What opportunities and means had the accused for administering poison?

2. What motive had she for so doing?

Â 

âIt will be my duty to call before you witnesses who can help you to form a true conclusion on these mattersâ¦.

ââ¦As regards the poisoning of Mary Gerrard, I shall endeavour to show you that no one had any opportunity to commit this crime except the accusedâ¦.â

Elinor felt as though imprisoned in a thick mist. Detached words came drifting through the fog.

ââ¦Sandwichesâ¦

ââ¦Fish pasteâ¦

ââ¦Empty houseâ¦â

The words stabbed through the thick enveloping blanket of Elinorâs thoughtsâpin-pricks through a heavy muffling veilâ¦.

The court. Faces. Rows and rows of faces! One particular face with a big black moustache and shrewd eyes. Hercule Poirot, his head a little on one side, his eyes thoughtful, was watching her.

She thought: Heâs trying to see just exactly why I did itâ¦ Heâs trying to get inside my head to see what I thoughtâwhat I feltâ¦.

Feltâ¦? A little blurâa slight sense of shockâ¦ Roddyâs faceâhis dear, dear face with its long nose, its sensitive mouthâ¦ Roddy! Always Roddyâalways, ever since she could rememberâ¦since those days at Hunterbury amongst the raspberries and up in the warren and down by the brook. RoddyâRoddyâRoddyâ¦

Other faces! Nurse OâBrien, her mouth slightly open, her freckled fresh face thrust forward. Nurse Hopkins looking smugâsmug and implacable. Peter Lordâs faceâPeter Lordâso kind, so sensible, soâso comforting! But looking nowâwhat was itâlost? Yesâlost! Mindingâminding all this frightfully! While she herself, the star performer, didnât mind at all!

Here she was, quite calm and cold, standing in the dock, accused of murder. She was in court.

Something stirred; the folds of blanket round her brain lightenedâbecame mere wraiths. In court!â¦Peopleâ¦

People leaning forward, their lips parted a little, their eyes agog, staring at her, Elinor, with a horrible ghoulish enjoymentâlistening with a kind of slow, cruel relish to what that tall man with the Jewish nose was saying about her.

âThe facts in this case are extremely easy to follow and are not in dispute. I shall put them before you quite simply. From the very beginningâ¦â

Elinor thought:

âThe beginningâ¦ The beginning? The day that horrible anonymous letter came! That was the beginning of itâ¦.â

PART I

One

An anonymous letter!

Elinor Carlisle stood looking down at it as it lay open in her hand. Sheâd never had such a thing before. It gave one an unpleasant sensation. Ill-written, badly spelt, on cheap pink paper.

This is to Warn You (it ran),

Iâm naming no Names but thereâs Someone sucking up to your Aunt and if youâre not kareful youâll get Cut Out of Everything. Girls Are very Artful and Old Ladies is Soft when Young Ones suck up to Them and Flatter them What I say is Youâd best come down and see for Yourself whats Going On its not right you and the Young Gentleman should be Done Out of Whatâs yoursâand Sheâs Very Artful and the Old Lady might Pop off at any time.

Well-Wisher

Elinor was still staring at this missive, her plucked brows drawn together in distaste, when the door opened. The maid announced, âMr. Welman,â and Roddy came in.

Roddy! As always when she saw Roddy, Elinor was conscious of a slightly giddy feeling, a throb of sudden pleasure, a feeling that it was incumbent upon her to be very matter-of-fact and unemotional. Because it was so very obvious that Roddy, although he loved her, didnât feel about her the way she felt about him. The first sight of him did something to her, twisted her heart round so that it almost hurt. Absurd that a manâan ordinary, yes, a perfectly ordinary young manâshould be able to do that to one! That the mere look of him should set the world spinning, that his voice should make you wantâjust a littleâto cryâ¦ Love surely should be a pleasurable emotionânot something that hurt you by its intensityâ¦.

One thing was clear: one must be very, very careful to be offhand and casual about it all. Men didnât like devotion and adoration. Certainly Roddy didnât.

She said lightly:

âHallo, Roddy!â

Roddy said:

âHallo, darling. Youâre looking very tragic. Is it a bill?â

Elinor shook her head.

Roddy said:

âI thought it might beâmidsummer, you knowâwhen the fairies dance, and the accounts rendered come tripping along!â

Elinor said:

âItâs rather horrid. Itâs an anonymous letter.â

Roddyâs brows went up. His keen fastidious face stiffened and changed. He saidâa sharp, disgusted exclamation:

âNo!â

Elinor said again:

âItâs rather horridâ¦.â

She moved a step towards her desk.

âIâd better tear it up, I suppose.â

She could have done thatâshe almost didâfor Roddy and anonymous letters were two things that ought not to come together. She might have thrown it away and thought no more about it. He would not have stopped her. His fastidiousness was far more strongly developed than his curiosity.

But on impulse Elinor decided differently. She said:

âPerhaps, though, youâd better read it first. Then weâll burn it. Itâs about Aunt Laura.â

Roddyâs eyebrows rose in surprise.

âAunt Laura?â

He took the letter, read it, gave a frown of distaste, and handed it back.

âYes,â he said. âDefinitely to be burnt! How extraordinary people are!â

Elinor said:

âOne of the servants, do you think?â

âI suppose so.â He hesitated. âI wonder whoâwho the person isâthe one they mention?â

Elinor said thoughtfully:

âIt must be Mary Gerrard, I think.â

Roddy frowned in an effort of remembrance.

âMary Gerrard? Whoâs she?â

âThe daughter of the people at the lodge. You must remember her as a child? Aunt Laura was always fond of the girl, and took an interest in her. She paid for her schooling and for various extrasâpiano lessons and French and things.â

Roddy said:

âOh, yes, I remember her now: scrawny kid, all legs and arms, with a lot of messy fair hair.â

Elinor nodded.

âYes, you probably havenât seen her since those summer holidays when Mum and Dad were abroad. Youâve not been down at Hunterbury as often as I have, of course, and sheâs been abroad au pair in Germany lately, but we used to rout her out and play with her when we were all kids.â

âWhatâs she like now?â asked Roddy.

Elinor said:

âSheâs turned out very nice looking. Good manners and all that. As a result of her education, youâd never take her for old Gerrardâs daughter.â

âGone all ladylike, has she?â

âYes. I think, as a result of that, she doesnât get on very well at the lodge. Mrs. Gerrard died some years ago, you know, and Mary and her father donât get on. He jeers at her schooling and her âfine ways.ââ

Roddy said irritably:

âPeople never dream what harm they may do by âeducatingâ someone! Often itâs cruelty, not kindness!â

Elinor said:

âI suppose she is up at the house a good dealâ¦ She reads aloud to Aunt Laura, I know, since she had her stroke.â

Roddy said:

âWhy canât the nurse read to her?â

Elinor said with a smile:

âNurse OâBrienâs got a brogue you can cut with a knife! I donât wonder Aunt Laura prefers Mary.â

Roddy walked rapidly and nervously up and down the room for a minute or two. Then he said:

âYou know, Elinor, I believe we ought to go down.â

Elinor said with a slight recoil:

âBecause of thisâ?â

âNo, noânot at all. Oh, damn it all, one must be honest, yes! Foul as that communication is, there may be some truth behind it. I mean, the old girl is pretty illââ

âYes, Roddy.â

He looked at her with his charming smileâadmitting the fallibility of human nature. He said:

âAnd the money does matterâto you and me, Elinor.â

She admitted it quickly.

âOh, it does.â

He said seriously:

âItâs not that Iâm mercenary. But, after all, Aunt Laura herself has said over and over again that you and I are her only family ties. Youâre her own niece, her brotherâs child, and Iâm her husbandâs nephew. Sheâs always given us to understand that at her death all sheâs got would come to one or otherâor more probably bothâof us. Andâand itâs a pretty large sum, Elinor.â

âYes,â said Elinor thoughtfully. âIt must be.â

âItâs no joke keeping up Hunterbury.â He paused. âUncle Henry was what youâd call, I suppose, comfortably off when he met your Aunt Laura. But she was an heiress. She and your father were both left very wealthy. Pity your father speculated and lost most of his.â

Elinor sighed.

âPoor Father never had much business sense. He got very worried over things before he died.â

âYes, your Aunt Laura had a much better head than he had. She married Uncle Henry and they bought Hunterbury, and she told me the other day that sheâd been exceedingly lucky always in her investments. Practically nothing had slumped.â

âUncle Henry left all he had to her when he died, didnât he?â

Roddy nodded.

âYes, tragic his dying so soon. And sheâs never married again. Faithful old bean. And sheâs always been very good to us. Sheâs treated me as if I was her nephew by blood. If Iâve been in a hole sheâs helped me out; luckily I havenât done that too often!â

âSheâs been awfully generous to me, too,â said Elinor gratefully.

Roddy nodded.

âAunt Laura,â he said, âis a brick. But, you know, Elinor, perhaps without meaning to do so, you and I live pretty extravagantly, considering what our means really are!â

She said ruefully:

âI suppose we doâ¦ Everything costs so muchâclothes and oneâs faceâand just silly things like cinemas and cocktailsâand even gramophone records!â

Roddy said:

âDarling, you are one of the lilies of the field, arenât you? You toil not, neither do you spin!â

Elinor said:

âDo you think I ought to, Roddy?â

He shook his head.

âI like you as you are: delicate and aloof and ironical. Iâd hate you to go all earnest. Iâm only saying that if it werenât for Aunt Laura you probably would be working at some grim job.â

He went on:

âThe same with me. Iâve got a job, of sorts. Being with Lewis & Hume is not too arduous. It suits me. I preserve my self-respect by having a job; butâmark thisâbut I donât worry about the future because of my expectationsâfrom Aunt Laura.â

Elinor said:

âWe sound rather like human leeches!â

âNonsense! Weâve been given to understand that some day we shall have moneyâthatâs all. Naturally, that fact influences our conduct.â

Elinor said thoughtfully:

âAunt Laura has never told us definitely just how she has left her money?â

Roddy said:

âThat doesnât matter! In all probability sheâs divided it between us; but if that isnât soâif sheâs left all of it or most of it to you as her own flesh and bloodâwhy, then, darling, I shall share in it, because Iâm going to marry youâand if the old pet thinks the majority should go to me as the male representative of the Welmans, thatâs still all right, because youâre marrying me.â

He grinned at her affectionately. He said:

âLucky we happen to love each other. You do love me, donât you, Elinor?â

âYes.â

She said it coldly, almost primly.

âYes!â Roddy mimicked her. âYouâre adorable, Elinor. That little air of yoursâaloofâuntouchableâla Princesse Lointaine. Itâs that quality of yours that made me love you, I believe.â

Elinor caught her breath. She said, âIs it?â

âYes.â He frowned. âSome women are soâoh, I donât knowâso damned possessiveâsoâso doglike and devotedâtheir emotions slopping all over the place! Iâd hate that. With you I never knowâIâm never sureâany minute you might turn round in that cool, detached way of yours and say youâd changed your mindâquite coolly, like thatâwithout batting an eyelash! Youâre a fascinating creature, Elinor. Youâre like a work of artâsoâsoâfinished!â

He went on:

âYou know, I think ours will be the perfect marriageâ¦ We both love each other enough and not too much. Weâre good friends. Weâve got a lot of tastes in common. We know each other through and through. Weâve all the advantages of cousinship without the disadvantages of blood relationship. I shall never get tired of you, because youâre such an elusive creature. You may get tired of me, though. Iâm such an ordinary sort of chapââ

Elinor shook her head. She said:

âI shanât get tired of you, Roddyânever.â

âMy sweet!â

He kissed her.

He said:

âAunt Laura has a pretty shrewd idea of how it is with us, I think, although we havenât been down since we finally fixed it up. It rather gives us an excuse, doesnât it, for going down?â

âYes. I was thinking the other dayââ

Roddy finished the sentence for her:

ââThat we hadnât been down as often as we might. I thought that, too. When she first had her stroke we went down almost every other weekend. And now it must be almost two months since we were there.â

Elinor said:

âWeâd have gone if sheâd asked for usâat once.â

âYes, of course. And we know that she likes Nurse OâBrien and is well looked after. All the same, perhaps we have been a bit slack. Iâm talking now not from the money point of viewâbut the sheer human one.â

Elinor nodded.

âI know.â

âSo that filthy letter has done some good, after all! Weâll go down to protect our interests and because weâre fond of the old dear!â

He lit a match and set fire to the letter which he took from Elinorâs hand.

âWonder who wrote it?â he said. âNot that it mattersâ¦ Someone who was âon our side,â as we used to say when we were kids. Perhaps theyâve done us a good turn, too. Jim Partingtonâs mother went out to the Riviera to live, had a handsome young Italian doctor to attend her, became quite crazy about him and left him every penny she had. Jim and his sisters tried to upset the will, but couldnât.â

Elinor said:

âAunt Laura likes the new doctor whoâs taken over Dr. Ransomeâs practiceâbut not to that extent! Anyway, that horrid letter mentioned a girl. It must be Mary.â

Roddy said:

âWeâll go down and see for ourselvesâ¦.â

II

Nurse OâBrien rustled out of Mrs. Welmanâs bedroom and into the bathroom. She said over her shoulder:

âIâll just pop the kettle on. You could do with a cup of tea before you go on, Iâm sure, Nurse.â

Nurse Hopkins said comfortably:

âWell, dear, I can always do with a cup of tea. I always say thereâs nothing like a nice cup of teaâa strong cup!â

Nurse OâBrien said as she filled the kettle and lit the gas ring:

âIâve got everything here in this cupboardâteapot and cups and sugarâand Edna brings me up fresh milk twice a day. No need to be forever ringing bells. âTis a fine gas ring, this; boils a kettle in a flash.â

Nurse OâBrien was a tall red-haired woman of thirty with flashing white teeth, a freckled face and an engaging smile. Her cheerfulness and vitality made her a favourite with her patients. Nurse Hopkins, the District Nurse who came every morning to assist with the bed making and toilet of the heavy old lady, was a homely-looking middle-aged woman with a capable air and a brisk manner.

She said now approvingly:

âEverythingâs very well-done in this house.â

The other nodded.

âYes, old-fashioned, some of it, no central heating, but plenty of fires and all the maids are very obliging girls and Mrs. Bishop looks after them well.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âThese girls nowadaysâIâve no patience with âemâdonât know what they want, most of themâand canât do a decent dayâs work.â

âMary Gerrardâs a nice girl,â said Nurse OâBrien. âI really donât know what Mrs. Welman would do without her. You saw how she asked for her now? Ah, well, sheâs a lovely creature, I will say, and sheâs got a way with her.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âIâm sorry for Mary. That old father of hers does his best to spite the girl.â

âNot a civil word in his head, the old curmudgeon,â said Nurse OâBrien. âThere, the kettleâs singing. Iâll wet the tea as soon as it comes to the boil.â

The tea was made and poured, hot and strong. The two nurses sat with it in Nurse OâBrienâs room next door to Mrs. Welmanâs bedroom.

âMr. Welman and Miss Carlisle are coming down,â said Nurse OâBrien. âThere was a telegram came this morning.â

âThere now, dear,â said Nurse Hopkins. âI thought the old lady was looking excited about something. Itâs some time since theyâve been down, isnât it?â

âIt must be two months and over. Such a nice young gentleman, Mr. Welman. But very proud-looking.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âI saw her picture in the Tatler the other dayâwith a friend at Newmarket.â

Nurse OâBrien said:

âSheâs very well-known in society, isnât she? And always has such lovely clothes. Do you think sheâs really good-looking, Nurse?â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âDifficult to tell what these girls really look like under their makeup! In my opinion, she hasnât got anything like the looks Mary Gerrard has!â

Nurse OâBrien pursed her lips and put her head on one side.

âYou may be right now. But Mary hasnât got the style!â

Nurse Hopkins said sententiously:

âFine feathers make fine birds.â

âAnother cup of tea, Nurse?â

âThank you, Nurse. I donât mind if I do.â

Over their steaming cups the women drew a little closer together.

Nurse OâBrien said:

âAn odd thing happened last night. I went in at two oâclock to settle my dear comfortably, as I always do, and she was lying there awake. But she must have been dreaming, for as soon as I got into the room she said, âThe photograph. I must have the photograph.â

âSo I said, âWhy, of course, Mrs. Welman. But wouldnât you rather wait till morning?â And she said, âNo, I want to look at it now.â So I said, âWell, where is this photograph? Is it the one of Mr. Roderick youâre meaning?â And she said, âRoder-ick? No. Lewis.â And she began to struggle, and I went to lift her and she got out her keys from the little box beside her bed and told me to unlock the second drawer of the tallboy, and there, sure enough, was a big photograph in a silver frame. Such a handsome man. And âLewisâ written across the corner. Old-fashioned, of course, must have been taken many years ago. I took it to her and she held it there, staring at it a long time. And she just murmured. âLewisâLewis.â Then she sighed and gave it to me and told me to put it back. And would you believe it, when I turned round again sheâd gone off as sweetly as a child.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âWas it her husband, do you think?â

Nurse OâBrien said:

âIt was not! For this morning I asked Mrs. Bishop, careless-like, what was the late Mr. Welmanâs first name, and it was Henry, she told me!â

The two women exchanged glances. Nurse Hopkins had a long nose, and the end of it quivered a little with pleasurable emotion. She said thoughtfully:

âLewisâLewis. I wonder, now. I donât recall the name anywhere round these parts.â

âIt would be many years ago, dear,â the other reminded her.

âYes, and, of course, Iâve only been here a couple of years. I wonder nowââ

Nurse OâBrien said:

âA very handsome man. Looked as though he might be a cavalry officer!â

Nurse Hopkins sipped her tea. She said:

âThatâs very interesting.â

Nurse OâBrien said romantically:

âMaybe they were boy and girl together and a cruel father separated themâ¦.â

Nurse Hopkins said with a deep sigh:

âPerhaps he was killed in the warâ¦.â

III

When Nurse Hopkins, pleasantly stimulated by tea and romantic speculation, finally left the house, Mary Gerrard ran out of the door to overtake her.

âOh, Nurse, may I walk down to the village with you?â

âOf course you can, Mary, my dear.â

Mary Gerrard said breathlessly:

âI must talk to you. Iâm so worried about everything.â

The older woman looked at her kindly.

At twenty-one, Mary Gerrard was a lovely creature with a kind of wild-rose unreality about her: a long delicate neck, pale golden hair lying close to her exquisitely shaped head in soft natural waves, and eyes of a deep vivid blue.

Nurse Hopkins said:

âWhatâs the trouble?â

âThe trouble is that the time is going on and on and Iâm not doing anything!â

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

âTime enough for that.â

âNo, but it is soâso unsettling. Mrs. Welman has been wonderfully kind, giving me all that expensive schooling. I do feel now that I ought to be starting to earn my own living. I ought to be training for something.â

Nurse Hopkins nodded sympathetically.

âItâs such a waste of everything if I donât. Iâve tried toâto explain what I feel to Mrs. Welman, butâitâs difficultâshe doesnât seem to understand. She keeps saying thereâs plenty of time.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âSheâs a sick woman, remember.â

Mary flushed a contrite flush.

âOh, I know. I suppose I oughtnât to bother her. But it is worryingâand Fatherâs soâso beastly about it! Keeps jibing at me for being a fine lady! But indeed I donât want to sit about doing nothing!â

âI know you donât.â

âThe trouble is that training of any kind is nearly always expensive. I know German pretty well now, and I might do something with that. But I think really I want to be a hospital nurse. I do like nursing and sick people.â

Nurse Hopkins said unromantically:

âYouâve got to be as strong as a horse, remember!â

âI am strong! And I really do like nursing. Motherâs sister, the one in New Zealand, was a nurse. So itâs in my blood, you see.â

âWhat about massage?â suggested Nurse Hopkins. âOr Norland? Youâre fond of children. Thereâs good money to be made in massage.â

Mary said doubtfully:

âItâs expensive to train for it, isnât it? I hopedâbut of course thatâs very greedy of meâsheâs done so much for me already.â

âMrs. Welman, you mean? Nonsense. In my opinion, she owes you that. Sheâs given you a slap-up education, but not the kind that leads to anything much. You donât want to teach?â

âIâm not clever enough.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âThereâs brains and brains! If you take my advice, Mary, youâll be patient for the present. In my opinion, as I said, Mrs. Welman owes it to you to help you get a start at making your living. And Iâve no doubt she means to do it. But the truth of the matter is, sheâs got fond of you, and she doesnât want to lose you.â

Mary said:

âOh!â She drew in her breath with a little gasp. âDo you really think thatâs it?â

âI havenât the least doubt of it! There she is, poor old lady, more or less helpless, paralysed one side and nothing and nobody much to amuse her. It means a lot to her to have a fresh, pretty young thing like you about the house. Youâve a very nice way with you in a sickroom.â

Mary said softly:

âIf you really think soâthat makes me feel betterâ¦ Dear Mrs. Welman, Iâm very, very fond of her! Sheâs been so good to me always. Iâd do anything for her!â

Nurse Hopkins said drily:

âThen the best thing you can do is to stay where you are and stop worrying! It wonât be for long.â

Mary said, âDo you meanâ?â

Her eyes looked wide and frightened.

The District Nurse nodded.

âSheâs rallied wonderfully, but it wonât be for long. There will be a second stroke and then a third. I know the way of it only too well. You be patient, my dear. If you keep the old ladyâs last days happy and occupied, thatâs a better deed than many. The time for the other will come.â

Mary said:

âYouâre very kind.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âHereâs your father coming out from the lodgeâand not to pass the time of day pleasantly, I should say!â

They were just nearing the big iron gates. On the steps of the lodge an elderly man with a bent back was painfully hobbling down the two steps.

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

âGood morning, Mr. Gerrard.â

Ephraim Gerrard said crustily:

âAh!â

âVery nice weather,â said Nurse Hopkins.

Old Gerrard said crossly:

âMay be for you. âTisnât for me. My lumbagoâs been at me something cruel.â

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

âThat was the wet spell last week, I expect. This hot dry weather will soon clear that away.â

Her brisk professional manner appeared to annoy the old man.

He said disagreeably:

âNursesânurses, youâm all the same. Full of cheerfulness over other peopleâs troubles. Little you care! And thereâs Mary talks about being a nurse, too. Should have thought sheâd want to be something better than that, with her French and her German and her piano playing and all the things sheâs learned at her grand school and her travels abroad.â

Mary said sharply:

âBeing a hospital nurse would be quite good enough for me!â

âYes, and youâd sooner do nothing at all, wouldnât you? Strutting about with your airs and your graces and your fine-lady-do-nothing ways. Laziness, thatâs what you like, my girl!â

Mary protested, tears springing to her eyes:

âIt isnât true, Dad. Youâve no right to say that!â

Nurse Hopkins intervened with a heavy, determinedly humorous air.

âJust a bit under the weather, arenât we, this morning? You donât really mean what you say, Gerrard. Maryâs a good girl and a good daughter to you.â

Gerrard looked at his daughter with an air of almost active malevolence.

âSheâs no daughter of mineânowadaysâwith her French and her history and her mincing talk. Pah!â

He turned and went into the lodge again.

Mary said, the tears still standing in her eyes:

âYou do see, Nurse, donât you, how difficult it is? Heâs so unreasonable. Heâs never really liked me even when I was a little girl. Mum was always standing up for me.â

Nurse Hopkins said kindly:

âThere, there, donât worry. These things are sent to try us! Goodness, I must hurry. Such a round as Iâve got this morning.â

And as she stood watching the brisk retreating figure, Mary Gerrard thought forlornly that nobody was any real good or could really help you. Nurse Hopkins, for all her kindness, was quite content to bring out a little stock of platitudes and offer them with an air of novelty.

Mary thought disconsolately:

âWhat shall I do?â

Two

Mrs. Welman lay on her carefully built-up pillows. Her breathing was a little heavy, but she was not asleep. Her eyesâeyes still deep and blue like those of her niece Elinor, looked up at the ceiling. She was a big, heavy woman, with a handsome, hawklike profile. Pride and determination showed in her face.

The eyes dropped and came to rest on the figure sitting by the window. They rested there tenderlyâalmost wistfully.

She said at last:

âMaryââ

The girl turned quickly.

âOh, youâre awake, Mrs. Welman.â

Laura Welman said:

âYes, Iâve been awake some timeâ¦.â

âOh, I didnât know. Iâd haveââ

Mrs. Welman broke in:

âNo, thatâs all right. I was thinkingâthinking of many things.â

âYes, Mrs. Welman?â

The sympathetic look, the interested voice, made a tender look come into the older womanâs face. She said gently:

âIâm very fond of you, my dear. Youâre very good to me.â

âOh, Mrs. Welman, itâs you who have been good to me. If it hadnât been for you, I donât know what I should have done! Youâve done everything for me.â

âI donât knowâ¦ I donât know, Iâm sureâ¦â The sick woman moved restlessly, her right arm twitchedâthe left remaining inert and lifeless. âOne means to do the best one can; but itâs so difficult to know what is bestâwhat is right. Iâve been too sure of myself alwaysâ¦.â

Mary Gerrard said:

âOh, no, Iâm sure you always know what is best and right to do.â

But Laura Welman shook her head.

âNoâno. It worries me. Iâve had one besetting sin always, Mary: Iâm proud. Pride can be the devil. It runs in our family. Elinor has it, too.â

Mary said quickly:

âIt will be nice for you to have Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick down. It will cheer you up a lot. Itâs quite a time since they were here.â

Mrs. Welman said softly:

âTheyâre good childrenâvery good children. And fond of me, both of them. I always know Iâve only got to send and theyâll come at any time. But I donât want to do that too often. Theyâre young and happyâthe world in front of them. No need to bring them near decay and suffering before their time.â

Mary said, âIâm sure theyâd never feel like that, Mrs. Welman.â

Mrs. Welman went on, talking perhaps more to herself than to the girl:

âI always hoped they might marry. But I tried never to suggest anything of the kind. Young people are so contradictory. It would have put them off! I had an idea, long ago when they were children, that Elinor had set her heart on Roddy. But I wasnât at all sure about him. Heâs a funny creature. Henry was like thatâvery reserved and fastidiousâ¦ Yes, Henryâ¦â

She was silent for a little, thinking of her dead husband.

She murmured:

âSo long agoâ¦so very long agoâ¦ We had only been married five years when he died. Double pneumoniaâ¦ We were happyâyes, very happy; but somehow it all seems very unreal, that happiness. I was an odd, solemn, undeveloped girlâmy head full of ideas and hero worship. No realityâ¦â

Mary murmured:

âYou must have been very lonelyâafterwards.â

âAfter? Oh, yesâterribly lonely. I was twenty-sixâ¦and now Iâm over sixty. A long time, my dearâ¦a long, long timeâ¦â She said with sudden brisk acerbity, âAnd now this!â

âYour illness?â

âYes. A stroke is the thing Iâve always dreaded. The indignity of it all! Washed and tended like a baby! Helpless to do anything for yourself. It maddens me. The OâBrien creature is good-naturedâI will say that for her. She doesnât mind my snapping at her and sheâs not more idiotic than most of them. But it makes a lot of difference to me to have you about, Mary.â

âDoes it?â The girl flushed. âIâIâm so glad, Mrs. Welman.â

Laura Welman said shrewdly:

âYouâve been worrying, havenât you? About the future. You leave it to me, my dear. Iâll see to it that you shall have the means to be independent and take up a profession. But be patient for a littleâit means too much to me to have you here.â

âOh, Mrs. Welman, of courseâof course! I wouldnât leave you for the world. Not if you want meââ

âI do want youâ¦â The voice was unusually deep and full. âYouâreâyouâre quite like a daughter to me, Mary. Iâve seen you grow up here at Hunterbury from a little toddling thingâseen you grow into a beautiful girlâ¦ Iâm proud of you, child. I only hope Iâve done what was best for you.â

Mary said quickly:

âIf you mean that your having been so good to me and having educated me aboveâwell, above my stationâif you think itâs made me dissatisfied orâorâgiven me what Father calls fine-lady ideas, indeed that isnât true. Iâm just ever so grateful, thatâs all. And if Iâm anxious to start earning my living, itâs only because I feel itâs right that I should, and notâand notâwell, do nothing after all youâve done for me. IâI shouldnât like it to be thought that I was sponging on you.â

Laura Welman said, and her voice was suddenly sharp-edged:

âSo thatâs what Gerrardâs been putting into your head? Pay no attention to your father, Mary; there never has been and never will be any question of your sponging on me! Iâm asking you to stay here a little longer solely on my account. Soon it will be overâ¦ If they went the proper way about things, my life could be ended here and nowânone of this long-drawn-out tomfoolery with nurses and doctors.â

âOh, no, Mrs. Welman, Dr. Lord says you may live for years.â

âIâm not at all anxious to, thank you! I told him the other day that in a decently civilized state, all there would be to do would be for me to intimate to him that I wished to end it, and heâd finish me off painlessly with some nice drug. âAnd if youâd any courage, Doctor,â I said, âyouâd do it, anyway!ââ

Mary cried:

âOh! What did he say?â

âThe disrespectful young man merely grinned at me, my dear, and said he wasnât going to risk being hanged. He said, âIf youâd left me all your money, Mrs. Welman, that would be different, of course!â Impudent young jackanapes! But I like him. His visits do me more good than his medicines.â

âYes, heâs very nice,â said Mary. âNurse OâBrien thinks a lot of him and so does Nurse Hopkins.â

Mrs. Welman said:

âHopkins ought to have more sense at her age. As for OâBrien, she simpers and says, âOh, doctor,â and tosses those long streamers of hers whenever he comes near her.â

âPoor Nurse OâBrien.â

Mrs. Welman said indulgently:

âSheâs not a bad sort, really, but all nurses annoy me; they always will think that youâd like a ânice cup of teaâ at five in the morning!â She paused. âWhatâs that? Is it the car?â

Mary looked out of the window.

âYes, itâs the car. Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick have arrived.â

II

Mrs. Welman said to her niece:

âIâm very glad, Elinor, about you and Roddy.â

Elinor smiled at her.

âI thought you would be, Aunt Laura.â

The older woman said, after a momentâs hesitation:

âYou doâcare about him, Elinor?â

Elinorâs delicate brows lifted.

âOf course.â

Laura Welman said quickly:

âYou must forgive me, dear. You know, youâre very reserved. Itâs very difficult to know what youâre thinking or feeling. When you were both much younger I thought you were perhaps beginning to care for Roddyâtoo muchâ¦.â

Again Elinorâs delicate brows were raised.

âToo much?â

The older woman nodded.

âYes. Itâs not wise to care too much. Sometimes a very young girl does do just thatâ¦ I was glad when you went abroad to Germany to finish. Then, when you came back, you seemed quite indifferent to himâand, well, I was sorry for that, too! Iâm a tiresome old woman, difficult to satisfy! But Iâve always fancied that you had, perhaps, rather an intense natureâthat kind of temperament runs in our family. It isnât a very happy one for its possessorsâ¦ But, as I say, when you came back from abroad so indifferent to Roddy, I was sorry about that, because I had always hoped you two would come together. And now you have, and so everything is all right! And you do really care for him?â

Elinor said gravely:

âI care for Roddy enough and not too much.â

Mrs. Welman nodded approval.

âI think, then, youâll be happy. Roddy needs loveâbut he doesnât like violent emotion. Heâd shy off from possessiveness.â

Elinor said with feeling:

âYou know Roddy very well!â

Mrs. Welman said:

âIf Roddy cares for you just a little more than you care for himâwell, thatâs all to the good.â

Elinor said sharply:

âAunt Agathaâs Advice column. âKeep your boyfriend guessing! Donât let him be too sure of you!ââ

Laura Welman said sharply:

âAre you unhappy, child? Is anything wrong?â

âNo, no, nothing.â

Laura Welman said:

âYou just thought I was being ratherâcheap? My dear, youâre young and sensitive. Life, Iâm afraid, is rather cheapâ¦.â

Elinor said with some slight bitterness:

âI suppose it is.â

Laura Welman said:

âMy childâyou are unhappy? What is it?â

âNothingâabsolutely nothing.â She got up and went to the window. Half turning, she said:

âAunt Laura, tell me, honestly, do you think love is ever a happy thing?â

Mrs. Welmanâs face became grave.

âIn the sense you mean, Elinorâno, probably notâ¦ To care passionately for another human creature brings always more sorrow than joy; but all the same, Elinor, one would not be without that experience. Anyone who has never really loved has never really livedâ¦.â

The girl nodded.

She said:

âYesâyou understandâyouâve known what itâs likeââ

She turned suddenly, a questioning look in her eyes:

âAunt Lauraââ

The door opened and red-haired Nurse OâBrien came in.

She said in a sprightly manner:

âMrs. Welman, hereâs Doctor come to see you.â

III

Dr. Lord was a young man of thirty-two. He had sandy hair, a pleasantly ugly freckled face and a remarkably square jaw. His eyes were a keen, piercing light blue.

âGood morning, Mrs. Welman,â he said.

âGood morning, Dr. Lord. This is my niece, Miss Carlisle.â

A very obvious admiration sprang into Dr. Lordâs transparent face. He said, âHow do you do?â The hand that Elinor extended to him he took rather gingerly as though he thought he might break it.

Mrs. Welman went on:

âElinor and my nephew have come down to cheer me up.â

âSplendid!â said Dr. Lord. âJust what you need! It will do you a lot of good, I am sure, Mrs. Welman.â

He was still looking at Elinor with obvious admiration.

Elinor said, moving towards the door:

âPerhaps I shall see you before you go, Dr. Lord?â

âOhâerâyes, of course.â

She went out, shutting the door behind her. Dr. Lord approached the bed, Nurse OâBrien fluttering behind him.

Mrs. Welman said with a twinkle:

âGoing through the usual bag of tricks, Doctor: pulse, respiration, temperature? What humbugs you doctors are!â

Nurse OâBrien said with a sigh:

âOh, Mrs. Welman. What a thing, now, to be saying to the doctor!â

Dr. Lord said with a twinkle:

âMrs. Welman sees through me, Nurse! All the same, Mrs. Welman, Iâve got to do my stuff, you know. The trouble with me is Iâve never learnt the right bedside manner.â

âYour bedside mannerâs all right. Actually youâre rather proud of it.â

Peter Lord chuckled and remarked:

âThatâs what you say.â

After a few routine questions had been asked and answered, Dr. Lord leant back in his chair and smiled at his patient.

âWell,â he said. âYouâre going on splendidly.â

Laura Welman said: âSo I shall be up and walking round the house in a few weeksâ time?â

âNot quite so quickly as that.â

âNo, indeed. You humbug! Whatâs the good of living stretched out like this, and cared for like a baby?â

Dr. Lord said:

âWhatâs the good of life, anyway? Thatâs the real question. Ever read about that nice mediaeval invention, the Little Ease? You couldnât stand, sit or lie in it. Youâd think anyone condemned to that would die in a few weeks. Not at all. One man lived for sixteen years in an iron cage, was released and lived to a hearty old age.â

Laura Welman said:

âWhatâs the point of this story?â

Peter Lord said:

âThe point is that oneâs got an instinct to live. One doesnât live because oneâs reason assents to living. People who, as we say, âwould be better dead,â donât want to die! People who apparently have got everything to live for just let themselves fade out of life because they havenât got the energy to fight.â

âGo on.â

âThereâs nothing more. Youâre one of the people who really want to live, whatever you say about it! And if your body wants to live, itâs no good your brain dishing out the other stuff.â

Mrs. Welman said with an abrupt change of subject:

âHow do you like it down here?â

Peter Lord said, smiling:

âIt suits me fine.â

âIsnât it a bit irksome for a young man like you? Donât you want to specialize? Donât you find a country GP practice rather boring?â

Lord shook his sandy head.

âNo, I like my job. I like people, you know, and I like ordinary everyday diseases. I donât really want to pin down the rare bacillus of an obscure disease. I like measles and chicken pox and all the rest of it. I like seeing how different bodies react to them. I like seeing if I canât improve on recognized treatment. The trouble with me is Iâve got absolutely no ambition. I shall stay here till I grow side-whiskers and people begin saying, âOf course, weâve always had Dr. Lord, and heâs a nice old man: but he is very old-fashioned in his methods and perhaps weâd better call in young so-and-so, whoâs so very up to dateâ¦.ââ

âHâm,â said Mrs. Welman. âYou seem to have got it all taped out!â

Peter Lord got up.

âWell,â he said. âI must be off.â

Mrs. Welman said:

âMy niece will want to speak to you, I expect. By the way, what do you think of her? You havenât seen her before.â

Dr. Lord went suddenly scarlet. His very eyebrows blushed. He said:

âIâoh! sheâs very good-looking, isnât she? Andâehâclever and all that, I should think.â

Mrs. Welman was diverted. She thought to herself:

âHow very young he is, reallyâ¦.â

Aloud she said:

âYou ought to get married.â

IV

Roddy had wandered into the garden. He had crossed the broad sweep of lawn and along a paved walk and had then entered the walled kitchen garden. It was well-kept and well-stocked. He wondered if he and Elinor would live at Hunterbury one day. He supposed that they would. He himself would like that. He preferred country life. He was a little doubtful about Elinor. Perhaps sheâd like living in London betterâ¦.

A little difficult to know where you were with Elinor. She didnât reveal much of what she thought and felt about things. He liked that about herâ¦ He hated people who reeled off their thoughts and feelings to you, who took it for granted that you wanted to know all their inner mechanism. Reserve was always more interesting.

Elinor, he thought judicially, was really quite perfect. Nothing about her ever jarred or offended. She was delightful to look at, witty to talk toâaltogether the most charming of companions.

He thought complacently to himself:

âIâm damned lucky to have got her. Canât think what she sees in a chap like me.â

For Roderick Welman, in spite of his fastidiousness, was not conceited. It did honestly strike him as strange that Elinor should have consented to marry him.

Life stretched ahead of him pleasantly enough. One knew pretty well where one was; that was always a blessing. He supposed that Elinor and he would be married quite soonâthat is, if Elinor wanted to; perhaps sheâd rather put it off for a bit. He mustnât rush her. Theyâd be a bit hard up at first. Nothing to worry about, though. He hoped sincerely that Aunt Laura wouldnât die for a long time to come. She was a dear and had always been nice to him, having him there for holidays, always interested in what he was doing.

His mind shied away from the thought of her actual death (his mind usually did shy away from any concrete unpleasantness). He didnât like to visualize anything unpleasant too clearlyâ¦ Butâerâafterwardsâwell, it would be very pleasant to live here, especially as there would be plenty of money to keep it up. He wondered exactly how his aunt had left it. Not that it really mattered. With some women it would matter a good deal whether husband or wife had the money. But not with Elinor. She had plenty of tact and she didnât care enough about money to make too much of it.

He thought: âNo, thereâs nothing to worry aboutâwhatever happens!â

He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end. From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering through the trees.

Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to himâa rippling of his previous placidity. He felt: âThereâs somethingâsomething I havenât gotâsomething I wantâI wantâI wantâ¦.â

The golden green light, the softness in the airâwith them came a quickened pulse, a stirring of the blood, a sudden impatience.

A girl came through the trees towards himâa girl with pale, gleaming hair and a rose-flushed skin.

He thought, âHow beautifulâhow unutterably beautiful.â

Something gripped him; he stood quite still, as though frozen into immobility. The world, he felt, was spinning, was topsy-turvy, was suddenly and impossibly and gloriously crazy!

The girl stopped suddenly, then she came on. She came up to him where he stood, dumb and absurdly fishlike, his mouth open.

She said with a little hesitation:

âDonât you remember me, Mr. Roderick? Itâs a long time of course. Iâm Mary Gerrard, from the lodge.â

Roddy said:

âOhâohâyouâre Mary Gerrard?â

She said: âYes.â

Then she went on rather shyly:

âIâve changed, of course, since you saw me.â

He said: âYes, youâve changed. IâI wouldnât have recognized you.â

He stood staring at her. He did not hear footsteps behind him. Mary did and turned.

Elinor stood motionless a minute. Then she said:

âHello, Mary.â

Mary said:

âHow do you do, Miss Elinor? Itâs nice to see you. Mrs. Welman has been looking forward to you coming down.â

Elinor said:

âYesâitâs a long time. IâNurse OâBrien sent me to look for you. She wants to lift Mrs. Welman up, and she says you usually do it with her.â

Mary said: âIâll go at once.â

She moved off, breaking into a run. Elinor stood looking after her. Mary ran well, grace in every movement.

Roddy said softly: âAtalantaâ¦â

Elinor did not answer. She stood quite still for a minute or two. Then she said:

âItâs nearly lunchtime. Weâd better go back.â

They walked side by side towards the house.

V

âOh! Come on, Mary. Itâs Garbo, and a grand filmâall about Paris. And a story by a tiptop author. There was an opera of it once.â

âItâs frightfully nice of you, Ted, but I really wonât.â

Ted Bigland said angrily:

âI canât make you out nowadays, Mary. Youâre differentâaltogether different.â

âNo, Iâm not, Ted.â

âYou are! I suppose because youâve been away to that grand school and to Germany. Youâre too good for us now.â

âItâs not true, Ted. Iâm not like that.â

She spoke vehemently.

The young man, a fine sturdy specimen, looked at her appraisingly in spite of his anger.

âYes, you are. Youâre almost a lady, Mary.â

Mary said with sudden bitterness:

âAlmost isnât much good, is it?â

He said with sudden understanding:

âNo, I reckon it isnât.â

Mary said quickly:

âAnyway, who cares about that sort of thing nowadays? Ladies and gentlemen, and all that!â

âIt doesnât matter like it didâno,â Ted assented, but thoughtfully. âAll the same, thereâs a feeling. Lord, Mary, you look like a duchess or a countess or something.â

Mary said:

âThatâs not saying much. Iâve seen countesses looking like old-clothes women!â

âWell, you know what I mean.â

A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black, bore down upon them. Her eyes gave them a sharp glance. Ted moved aside a step or two. He said:

âAfternoon, Mrs. Bishop.â

Mrs. Bishop inclined her head graciously.

âGood afternoon, Ted Bigland. Good afternoon, Mary.â

She passed on, a ship in full sail.

Ted looked respectfully after her.

Mary murmured.

âNow, she really is like a duchess!â

âYesâsheâs got a manner. Always makes me feel hot inside my collar.â

Mary said slowly:

âShe doesnât like me.â

âNonsense, my girl.â

âItâs true. She doesnât. Sheâs always saying sharp things to me.â

âJealous,â said Ted, nodding his head sapiently. âThatâs all it is.â

Mary said doubtfully:

âI suppose it might be thatâ¦.â

âThatâs it, depend upon it. Sheâs been housekeeper at Hunterbury for years, ruling the roost and ordering everyone about and now old Mrs. Welman takes a fancy to you, and it puts her out! Thatâs all it is.â

Mary said, a shade of trouble on her forehead:

âItâs silly of me, but I canât bear it when anyone doesnât like me. I want people to like me.â

âSure to be women who donât like you, Mary! Jealous cats who think youâre too good-looking!â

Mary said:

âI think jealousyâs horrible.â

Ted said slowly:

âMaybeâbut it exists all right. Say, I saw a lovely film over at Alledore last week. Clark Gable. All about one of these millionaire blokes who neglected his wife; and then she pretended sheâd done the dirty on him. And there was another fellowâ¦.â

Mary moved away. She said:

âSorry, Ted, I must go. Iâm late.â

âWhere are you going?â

âIâm going to have tea with Nurse Hopkins.â

Ted made a face.

âFunny taste. That womanâs the biggest gossip in the village! Pokes that long nose of hers into everything.â

Mary said:

âSheâs been very kind to me always.â

âOh, Iâm not saying thereâs any harm in her. But she talks.â

Mary said:

âGoodbye, Ted.â

She hurried off, leaving him standing gazing resentfully after her.

VI

Nurse Hopkins occupied a small cottage at the end of the village. She herself had just come in and was untying her bonnet strings when Mary entered.

âAh, there you are. Iâm a bit late. Old Mrs. Caldecott was bad again. Made me late with my round of dressings. I saw you with Ted Bigland at the end of the street.â

Mary said rather dispiritedly:

âYesâ¦.â

Nurse Hopkins looked up alertly from where she was stooping to light the gas ring under the kettle.

Her long nose twitched.

âWas he saying something particular to you, my dear?â

âNo. He just asked me to go to the cinema.â

âI see,â said Nurse Hopkins promptly. âWell, of course, heâs a nice young fellow and doesnât do too badly at the garage, and his father does rather better than most of the farmers round here. All the same, my dear, you donât seem to me cut out for Ted Biglandâs wife. Not with your education and all. As I was saying, if I was you Iâd go in for massage when the time comes. You get about a bit and see people that way; and your timeâs more or less your own.â

Mary said:

âIâll think it over. Mrs. Welman spoke to me the other day. She was very sweet about it. It was just exactly as you said it was. She doesnât want me to go away just now. Sheâd miss me, she said. But she told me not to worry about the future, that she meant to help me.â

Nurse Hopkins said dubiously:

âLetâs hope sheâs put that down in black and white! Sick people are odd.â

Mary asked:

âDo you think Mrs. Bishop really dislikes meâor is it only my fancy?â

Nurse Hopkins considered a minute.

âShe puts on a sour face, I must say. Sheâs one of those who donât like seeing young people having a good time or anything done for them. Thinks, perhaps, Mrs. Welman is a bit too fond of you, and resents it.â

She laughed cheerfully.

âI shouldnât worry if I was you, Mary, my dear. Just open that paper bag, will you? Thereâs a couple of doughnuts in it.â

Three

Your Aunt had second stroke last night No cause immediate anxiety but suggest you should come down if possible Lord.

II

Immediately on receipt of the telegram Elinor had rung up Roddy, and now they were in the train together bound for Hunterbury.

Elinor had not seen much of Roddy in the week that had elapsed since their visit. On the two brief occasions when they had met, there had been an odd kind of constraint between them. Roddy had sent her flowersâa great sheaf of long stemmed roses. It was unusual on his part. At a dinner they had had together he had seemed more attentive than usual, consulting her preferences in food and drink, being unusually assiduous in helping her on and off with her coat. A little, Elinor thought, as though he were playing a part in a playâthe part of the devoted fiancÃ©â¦.

Then she had said to herself:

âDonât be an idiot. Nothingâs wrongâ¦ You imagine things! Itâs that beastly brooding, possessive mind of yours.â

Her manner to him had been perhaps a shade more detached, more aloof than usual.

Now, in this sudden emergency, the constraint passed, they talked together naturally enough.

Roddy said:

âPoor old dear, and she was so well when we saw her the other day.â

Elinor said:

âI do mind so terribly for her. I know how she hated being ill, anyway, and now I suppose sheâll be more helpless still, and sheâll simply loathe that! One does feel, Roddy, that people ought to be set freeâif they themselves really want it.â

Roddy said:

âI agree. Itâs the only civilized thing to do. You put animals out of their pain. I suppose you donât do it with human beings simply because, human nature being what it is, people would get shoved off for their money by their fond relationsâperhaps when they werenât really bad at all.â

Elinor said thoughtfully:

âIt would be in the doctorsâ hands, of course.â

âA doctor might be a crook.â

âYou could trust a man like Dr. Lord.â

Roddy said carelessly:

âYes, he seems straightforward enough. Nice fellow.â

III

Dr. Lord was leaning over the bed. Nurse OâBrien hovered behind him. He was trying, his forehead puckered, to understand the slurred sounds coming from his patientâs mouth.

He said:

âYes, yes. Now, donât get excited. Take plenty of time. Just raise this right hand a little when you mean yes. Thereâs something youâre worried about?â

He received the affirmatory sign.

âSomething urgent? Yes. Something you want done? Someone sent for? Miss Carlisle? And Mr. Welman? Theyâre on their way.â

Again Mrs. Welman tried incoherently to speak. Dr. Lord listened attentively.

âYou wanted them to come, but itâs not that? Someone else? A relation? No? Some business matter? I see. Something to do with money? Lawyer? Thatâs right, isnât it? You want to see your lawyer? Want to give him instructions about something?

âNow, nowâthatâs all right. Keep calm. Plenty of time. Whatâs that youâre sayingâElinor?â He caught the garbled name. âShe knows what lawyer? And she will arrange with him? Good. Sheâll be here in about half an hour. Iâll tell her what you want and Iâll come up with her and weâll get it all straight. Now, donât worry any more. Leave it all to me. Iâll see that things are arranged the way you want them to be.â

He stood a moment watching her relax, then he moved quietly away and went out on the landing. Nurse OâBrien followed him. Nurse Hopkins was just coming up the stairs. He nodded to her. She said breathlessly:

âGood evening, Doctor.â

âGood evening, Nurse.â

He went with the two of them into Nurse OâBrienâs room next door and gave them their instructions. Nurse Hopkins would remain on overnight and take charge with Nurse OâBrien.

âTomorrow Iâll have to get hold of a second resident nurse. Awkward, this diphtheria epidemic over at Stamford. The nursing homes there are working shorthanded as it is.â

Then, having given his orders, which were listened to with reverent attention (which sometimes tickled him), Dr. Lord went downstairs, ready to receive the niece and nephew who, his watch told him, were due to arrive at any minute now.

In the hall he encountered Mary Gerrard. Her face was pale and anxious. She asked:

âIs she better?â

Dr. Lord said:

âI can ensure her a peaceful nightâthatâs about all that can be done.â

Mary said brokenly:

âIt seems so cruelâso unfairââ

He nodded sympathetically enough.

âYes, it does seem like that sometimes. I believeââ

He broke off.

âThatâs the car.â

He went out into the hall. Mary ran upstairs.

Elinor exclaimed as she came into the drawing room:

âIs she very bad?â

Roddy was looking pale and apprehensive.

The doctor said gravely:

âIâm afraid it will be rather a shock to you. Sheâs badly paralysed. Her speech is almost unrecognizable. By the way, sheâs definitely worried about something. Itâs to do with sending for her lawyer. You know who he is, Miss Carlisle?â

Elinor said quickly:

âMr. Seddonâof Bloomsbury Square. But he wouldnât be there at this time of the evening, and I donât know his home address.â

Dr. Lord said reassuringly:

âTomorrow will be in plenty of time. But Iâm anxious to set Mrs. Welmanâs mind at rest as soon as possible. If you will come up with me now, Miss Carlisle, I think together we shall be able to reassure her.â

âOf course. I will come up at once.â

Roddy said hopefully:

âYou donât want me?â

He felt faintly ashamed of himself, but he had a nervous dread of going up to the sickroom, of seeing Aunt Laura lying there in-articulate and helpless.

Dr. Lord reassured him promptly.

âNot the least need, Mr. Welman. Better not to have too many people in the room.â

Roddyâs relief showed plainly.

Dr. Lord and Elinor went upstairs. Nurse OâBrien was with the patient.

Laura Welman, breathing deeply and stertorously, lay as though in a stupor. Elinor stood looking down on her, shocked by the drawn, twisted face.

Suddenly Mrs. Welmanâs right eyelid quivered and opened. A faint change came over her face as she recognized Elinor.

She tried to speak.

âElinorâ¦â The word would have been meaningless to anyone who had not guessed at what she wanted to say.

Elinor said quickly:

âIâm here, Aunt Laura. Youâre worried about something? You want me to send for Mr. Seddon?â

Another of those hoarse raucous sounds. Elinor guessed at the meaning. She said:

âMary Gerrard?â

Slowly the right hand moved shakily in assent.

A long burble of sound came from the sick womanâs lips. Dr. Lord and Elinor frowned helplessly. Again and again it came. Then Elinor got a word.

âProvision? You want to make provision for her in your will? You want her to have some money? I see, dear Aunt Laura. That will be quite simple. Mr. Seddon will come down tomorrow and everything shall be arranged exactly as you wish.â

The sufferer seemed relieved. The look of distress faded from that appealing eye. Elinor took her hand in hers and felt a feeble pressure from the fingers.

Mrs. Welman said with a great effort:

âYouâallâyouâ¦â

Elinor said: âYes, yes, leave it all to me. I will see that everything you want is done!â

She felt the pressure of the fingers again. Then it relaxed. The eyelids drooped and closed.

Dr. Lord laid a hand on Elinorâs arm and drew her gently away out of the room. Nurse OâBrien resumed her seat near the bed.

Outside on the landing Mary Gerrard was talking to Nurse Hopkins. She started forward.

âOh, Dr. Lord, can I go in to her, please?â

He nodded.

âKeep quite quiet, though, and donât disturb her.â

Mary went into the sickroom.

Dr. Lord said:

âYour train was late. Youââ He stopped.

Elinor had turned her head to look after Mary. Suddenly she became aware of his abrupt silence. She turned her head and looked at him inquiringly. He was staring at her, a startled look in his face. The colour rose in Elinorâs cheeks.

She said hurriedly:

âI beg your pardon. What did you say?â

Peter Lord said slowly:

âWhat was I saying? I donât remember. Miss Carlisle, you were splendid in there!â He spoke warmly. âQuick to understand, reassuring, everything you should have been.â

The very faintest of sniffs came from Nurse Hopkins.

Elinor said:

âPoor darling. It upset me terribly seeing her like that.â

âOf course. But you didnât show it. You must have great self-control.â

Elinor said, her lips set very straight:

âIâve learnt notâto show my feelings.â

The doctor said slowly:

âAll the same the maskâs bound to slip once in a while.â

Nurse Hopkins had bustled into the bathroom. Elinor said, raising her delicate eyebrows and looking full at him:

âThe mask?â

Dr. Lord said:

âThe human face is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask.â

âAnd underneath?â

âUnderneath is the primitive human man or woman.â

She turned away quickly and led the way downstairs.

Peter Lord followed, puzzled and unwontedly serious.

Roddy came out into the hall to meet them.

âWell?â he asked anxiously.

Elinor said:

âPoor darling. Itâs very sad to see herâ¦ I shouldnât go, Roddyâtillâtillâshe asks for you.â

Roddy asked:

âDid she want anythingâspecial?â

Peter Lord said to Elinor:

âI must be off now. Thereâs nothing more I can do for the moment. Iâll look in early tomorrow. Good-bye, Miss Carlisle. Donâtâdonât worry too much.â

He held her hand in his for a moment or two. He had a strangely reassuring and comforting clasp. He looked at her, Elinor thought, rather oddly as thoughâas though he was sorry for her.

As the door shut behind the doctor, Roddy repeated his question.

Elinor said:

âAunt Laura is worried aboutâabout certain business matters. I managed to pacify her and told her Mr. Seddon would certainly come down tomorrow. We must telephone him first thing.â

Roddy asked:

âDoes she want to make a new will?â

Elinor answered:

âShe didnât say so.â

âWhat did sheâ?â

He stopped in the middle of the question.

Mary Gerrard was running down the stairs. She crossed the hall and disappeared through the door to the kitchen quarters.

Elinor said in a harsh voice:

âYes? What is it you wanted to ask?â

Roddy said vaguely:

âIâwhat? Iâve forgotten what it was.â

He was staring at the door through which Mary Gerrard had gone.

Elinorâs hands closed. She could feel her long, pointed nails biting into the flesh of her palms.

She thought:

âI canât bear itâI canât bear itâ¦itâs not imaginationâ¦itâs trueâ¦ RoddyâRoddy I canât lose youâ¦.â

And she thought:

âWhat did that manâthe doctorâwhat did he see in my face upstairs? He saw somethingâ¦ Oh, God, how awful life isâto feel as I feel now. Say something, fool. Pull yourself together!â

Aloud she said, in her calm voice:

âAbout meals, Roddy. Iâm not very hungry. Iâll sit with Aunt Laura and the nurses can both come down.â

Roddy said in alarm:

âAnd have dinner with me?â

Elinor said coldly:

âThey wonât bite you!â

âBut what about you? You must have something. Why donât we dine first, and let them come down afterwards?â

Elinor said:

âNo, the other wayâs better.â She added wildly, âTheyâre so touchy, you know.â

She thought:

âI canât sit through a meal with himâaloneâtalkingâbehaving as usualâ¦.â

She said impatiently:

âOh, do let me arrange things my own way!â

Four

It was no mere housemaid who wakened Elinor the following morning. It was Mrs. Bishop in person, rustling in her old-fashioned black, and weeping unashamedly.

âOh, Miss Elinor, sheâs goneâ¦.â

âWhat?â

Elinor sat up in bed.

âYour dear aunt. Mrs. Welman. My dear mistress. Passed away in her sleep.â

âAunt Laura? Dead?â

Elinor stared. She seemed unable to take it in.

Mrs. Bishop was weeping now with more abandon.

âTo think of it,â she sobbed. âAfter all these years! Eighteen years Iâve been here. But indeed it doesnât seem like itâ¦.â

Elinor said slowly:

âSo Aunt Laura died in her sleepâquite peacefullyâ¦ What a blessing for her!â

Mrs. Bishop wept.

âSo sudden. The doctor saying heâd call again this morning and everything just as usual.â

Elinor said rather sharply:

âIt wasnât exactly sudden. After all, sheâs been ill for some time. Iâm just so thankful sheâs been spared more suffering.â

Mrs. Bishop said tearfully that there was indeed that to be thankful for. She added:

âWhoâll tell Mr. Roderick?â

Elinor said:

âI will.â

She threw on a dressing gown and went along to his door and tapped. His voice answered, saying, âCome in.â

She entered.

âAunt Lauraâs dead, Roddy. She died in her sleep.â

Roddy, sitting up in bed, drew a deep sigh.

âPoor dear Aunt Laura! Thank God for it, I say. I couldnât have borne to see her go on lingering in the state she was yesterday.â

Elinor said mechanically:

âI didnât know youâd seen her?â

He nodded rather shamefacedly.

âThe truth is, Elinor, I felt the most awful coward, because Iâd funked it! I went along there yesterday evening. The nurse, the fat one, left the room for somethingâwent down with a hot-water bottle, I thinkâand I slipped in. She didnât know I was there, of course. I just stood a bit and looked at her. Then, when I heard Mrs. Gamp stumping up the stairs again, I slipped away. But it wasâpretty terrible!â

Elinor nodded.

âYes, it was.â

Roddy said:

âSheâd have hated it like hellâevery minute of it!â

âI know.â

Roddy said:

âItâs marvellous the way you and I always see alike over things.â

Elinor said in a low voice:

âYes it is.â

He said:

âWeâre both feeling the same thing at this minute: just utter thankfulness that sheâs out of it allâ¦.â

II

Nurse OâBrien said:

âWhat is it, Nurse? Canât you find something?â

Nurse Hopkins, her face rather red, was hunting through the little attachÃ© case that she had laid down in the hall the preceding evening.

She grunted:

âMost annoying. How I came to do such a thing I canât imagine!â

âWhat is it?â

Nurse Hopkins replied not very intelligibly:

âItâs Eliza Rykinâthat sarcoma, you know. Sheâs got to have double injectionsânight and morningâmorphine. Gave her the last tablet in the old tube last night on my way here, and I could swear I had the new tube in here, too.â

âLook again. Those tubes are so small.â

Nurse Hopkins gave a final stir to the contents of the attachÃ© case.

âNo, itâs not here! I must have left it in my cupboard after all! Really, I did think I could trust my memory better than that. I could have sworn I took it out with me!â

âYou didnât leave the case anywhere, did you, on the way here?â

âOf course not!â said Nurse Hopkins sharply.

âOh, well, dear,â said Nurse OâBrien, âit must be all right?â

âOh, yes! The only place Iâve laid my case down was here in this hall, and nobody here would pinch anything! Just my memory, I suppose. But it vexes me, if you understand, Nurse. Besides, I shall have to go right home first to the other end of the village and back again.â

Nurse OâBrien said:

âHope you wonât have too tiring a day, dear, after last night. Poor old lady. I didnât think she would last long.â

âNo, nor I. I daresay Doctor will be surprised!â

Nurse OâBrien said with a tinge of disapproval:

âHeâs always so hopeful about his cases.â

Nurse Hopkins, as she prepared to depart, said:

âAh, heâs young! He hasnât our experience.â

On which gloomy pronouncement she departed.

III

Dr. Lord raised himself up on his toes. His sandy eyebrows climbed right up his forehead till they nearly got merged in his hair.

He said in surprise:

âSo sheâs conked outâeh?â

âYes, Doctor.â

On Nurse OâBrienâs tongue exact details were tingling to be uttered, but with stern discipline she waited.

Peter Lord said thoughtfully:

âConked out?â

He stood for a moment thinking, then he said sharply:

âGet me some boiling water.â

Nurse OâBrien was surprised and mystified, but true to the spirit of hospital training, hers not to reason why. If a doctor had told her to go and get the skin of an alligator she would have murmured automatically, âYes, Doctor,â and glided obediently from the room to tackle the problem.

IV

Roderick Welman said:

âDo you mean to say that my aunt died intestateâthat she never made a will at all?â

Mr. Seddon polished his eyeglasses. He said:

âThat seems to be the case.â

Roddy said:

âBut how extraordinary!â

Mr. Seddon gave a deprecating cough.

âNot so extraordinary as you might imagine. It happens oftener than you would think. Thereâs a kind of superstition about it. People will think theyâve got plenty of time. The mere fact of making a will seems to bring the possibility of death nearer to them. Very oddâbut there it is!â

Roddy said:

âDidnât you everâerâexpostulate with her on the subject?â

Mr. Seddon replied drily:

âFrequently.â

âAnd what did she say?â

Mr. Seddon sighed.

âThe usual things. That there was plenty of time! That she didnât intend to die just yet! That she hadnât made up her mind definitely, exactly how she wished to dispose of her money!â

Elinor said:

âBut surely, after her first strokeâ?â

Mr. Seddon shook his head.

âOh, no, it was worse then. She wouldnât hear the subject mentioned!â

Roddy said:

âSurely thatâs very odd?â

Mr. Seddon said again:

âOh, no. Naturally, her illness made her much more nervous.â

Elinor said in a puzzled voice:

âBut she wanted to dieâ¦.â

Polishing his eyeglasses, Mr. Seddon said:

âAh, my dear Miss Elinor, the human mind is a very curious piece of mechanism. Mrs. Welman may have thought she wanted to die; but side by side with that feeling there ran the hope that she would recover absolutely. And because of that hope, I think she felt that to make a will would be unlucky. It isnât so much that she didnât mean to make one, as that she was eternally putting it off.â

âYou know,â went on Mr. Seddon, suddenly addressing Roddy in an almost personal manner, âhow one puts off and avoids a thing that is distastefulâthat you donât want to face?â

Roddy flushed. He muttered:

âYes, IâIâyes, of course. I know what you mean.â

âExactly,â said Mr. Seddon. âMrs. Welman always meant to make a will, but tomorrow was always a better day to make it than today! She kept telling herself that there was plenty of time.â

Elinor said slowly:

âSo thatâs why she was so upset last nightâand in such a panic that you should be sent forâ¦.â

Mr. Seddon replied:

âUndoubtedly!â

Roddy said in a bewildered voice:

âBut what happens now?â

âTo Mrs. Welmanâs estate?â The lawyer coughed. âSince Mrs. Welman died intestate, all her property goes to her next of kinâthat is, to Miss Elinor Carlisle.â

Elinor said slowly.

âAll to me?â

âThe Crown takes a certain percentage,â Mr. Seddon explained.

He went into details.

He ended:

âThere are no settlements or trusts. Mrs. Welmanâs money was hers absolutely to do with as she chose. It passes, therefore, straight to Miss Carlisle. Erâthe death duties, I am afraid, will be somewhat heavy, but even after their payment, the fortune will still be a considerable one, and it is very well invested in sound gilt-edged securities.â

Elinor said:

âBut Roderickââ

Mr. Seddon said with a little apologetic cough:

âMr. Welman is only Mrs. Welmanâs husbandâs nephew. There is no blood relationship.â

âQuite,â said Roddy.

Elinor said slowly:

âOf course, it doesnât much matter which of us gets it, as weâre going to be married.â

But she did not look at Roddy.

It was Mr. Seddonâs turn to say, âQuite!â

He said it rather quickly.

V

âBut it doesnât matter, does it?â Elinor said.

She spoke almost pleadingly.

Mr. Seddon had departed.

Roddyâs face twitched nervously.

He said:

âYou ought to have it. Itâs quite right you should. For heavenâs sake, Elinor, donât get it into your head that I grudge it to you. I donât want the damned money!â

Elinor said, her voice slightly unsteady:

âWe did agree, Roddy, in London that it wouldnât matter which of us it was, asâas we were going to be marriedâ¦?â

He did not answer. She persisted:

âDonât you remember saying that, Roddy?â

He said:

âYes.â

He looked down at his feet. His face was white and sullen, there was pain in the taut lines of his sensitive mouth.

Elinor said with a sudden gallant lift of the head:

âIt doesnât matterâif weâre going to be marriedâ¦ But are we, Roddy?â

He said:

âAre we what?â

âAre we going to marry each other?â

âI understood that was the idea.â

His tone was indifferent, with a slight edge to it. He went on:

âOf course, Elinor, if youâve other ideas nowâ¦.â

Elinor cried out:

âOh, Roddy, canât you be honest?â

He winced.

Then he said in a low, bewildered voice:

âI donât know whatâs happened to meâ¦.â

Elinor said in a stifled voice:

âI doâ¦.â

He said quickly:

âPerhaps itâs true, that. I donât after all, quite like the idea of living on my wifeâs moneyâ¦.â

Elinor, her face white, said:

âItâs not thatâ¦ Itâs something elseâ¦â She paused, then she said, âItâsâMary, isnât it?â

Roddy murmured unhappily:

âI suppose so. How did you know?â

Elinor said, her mouth twisting sideways in a crooked smile:

âIt wasnât difficultâ¦ Every time you look at herâitâs there in your face for anyone to readâ¦.â

Suddenly his composure broke.

âOh, ElinorâI donât know whatâs the matter! I think Iâm going mad! It happened when I saw herâthat first dayâin the woodâ¦just her faceâitâsâitâs turned everything upside down. You canât understand thatâ¦.â

Elinor said:

âYes, I can. Go on.â

Roddy said helplessly:

âI didnât want to fall in love with herâ¦ I was quite happy with you. Oh, Elinor, what a cad I am, talking like this to youâ¦.â

Elinor said:

âNonsense. Go on. Tell meâ¦.â

He said brokenly:

âYouâre wonderfulâ¦ Talking to you helps frightfully. Iâm so terribly fond of you, Elinor! You must believe that. This other thing is like an enchantment! Itâs upset everything: my conception of lifeâand my enjoyment of thingsâandâall the decent ordered reasonable thingsâ¦.â

Elinor said gently:

âLoveâisnât very reasonableâ¦.â

Roddy said miserably:

âNoâ¦.â

Elinor said, and her voice trembled a little:

âHave you said anything to her?â

Roddy said:

âThis morningâlike a foolâI lost my headââ

Elinor said:

âYes?â

Roddy said:

âOf course sheâshe shut me up at once! She was shocked. Because of Aunt Laura andâof youââ

Elinor drew the diamond ring off her finger. She said:

âYouâd better take it back, Roddy.â

Taking it, he murmured without looking at her:

âElinor, youâve no idea what a beast I feel.â

Elinor said in her calm voice:

âDo you think sheâll marry you?â

He shook his head.

âIâve no idea. Notânot for a long time. I donât think she cares for me now; but she might come to careâ¦.â

Elinor said:

âI think youâre right. You must give her time. Not see her for a bit, and thenâstart afresh.â

âDarling Elinor! Youâre the best friend anyone ever had.â He took her hand suddenly and kissed it. âYou know, Elinor, I do love youâjust as much as ever! Sometimes Mary seems just like a dream. I might wake up from itâand find she wasnât thereâ¦.â

Elinor said:

âIf Mary wasnât thereâ¦.â

Roddy said with sudden feeling:

âSometimes I wish she wasnâtâ¦ You and I, Elinor, belong. We do belong, donât we?â

Slowly she bent her head.

She said:

âOh, yesâwe belong.â

She thought:

âIf Mary wasnât thereâ¦.â

Five

Nurse Hopkins said with emotion:

âIt was a beautiful funeral!â

Nurse OâBrien responded:

âIt was, indeed. And the flowers! Did you ever see such beautiful flowers? A harp of white lilies there was, and a cross of yellow roses. Beautiful.â

Nurse Hopkins sighed and helped herself to buttered teacake. The two nurses were sitting in the Blue Tit CafÃ©.

Nurse Hopkins went on:

âMiss Carlisle is a generous girl. She gave me a nice present, though sheâd no call to do so.â

âSheâs a fine generous girl,â agreed Nurse OâBrien warmly. âI do detest stinginess.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âWell, itâs a grand fortune sheâs inherited.â

Nurse OâBrien said, âI wonderâ¦â and stopped.

Nurse Hopkins said, âYes?â encouragingly.

ââTwas strange the way the old lady made no will.â

âIt was wicked,â Nurse Hopkins said sharply. âPeople ought to be forced to make wills! It only leads to unpleasantness when they donât.â

âIâm wondering,â said Nurse OâBrien, âif she had made a will, how sheâd have left her money?â

Nurse Hopkins said firmly:

âI know one thing.â

âWhatâs that?â

âSheâd have left a sum of money to MaryâMary Gerrard.â

âYes, indeed, and thatâs true,â agreed the other. She added excitedly, âWasnât I after telling you that night of the state she was in, poor dear, and the doctor doing his best to calm her down. Miss Elinor was there holding her auntieâs hand and swearing by God Almighty,â said Nurse OâBrien, her Irish imagination suddenly running away with her, âthat the lawyer should be sent for and everything done accordingly. âMary! Mary!â the poor old lady said. âIs it Mary Gerrard youâre meaning?â says Miss Elinor, and straightaway she swore that Mary should have her rights!â

Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully:

âWas it like that?â

Nurse OâBrien replied firmly:

âThat was the way of it, and Iâll tell you this, Nurse Hopkins: In my opinion, if Mrs. Welman had lived to make that will, itâs likely there might have been surprises for all! Who knows she mightnât have left every penny she possessed to Mary Gerrard!â

Nurse Hopkins said dubiously:

âI donât think sheâd do that. I donât hold with leaving your money away from your own flesh and blood.â

Nurse OâBrien said oracularly:

âThereâs flesh and blood and flesh and blood.â

Nurse Hopkins responded instantly:

âNow, what might you mean by that?â

Nurse OâBrien said with dignity:

âIâm not one to gossip! And I wouldnât be blackening anyoneâs name thatâs dead.â

Nurse Hopkins nodded her head slowly and said:

âThatâs right. I agree with you. Least said soonest mended.â

She filled up the teapot.

Nurse OâBrien said:

âBy the way, now, did you find that tube of morphine all right when you got home?â

Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said:

âNo. It beats me to know what can have become of it, but I think it may have been this way: I might have set it down on the edge of the mantelpiece as I often do while I lock the cupboard, and it might have rolled and fallen into the wastepaper basket that was all full of rubbish and that was emptied out into the dustbin just as I left the house.â She paused. âIt must be that way, for I donât see what else could have become of it.â

âI see,â said Nurse OâBrien. âWell, dear, that must have been it. Itâs not as though youâd left your case about anywhere elseâonly just in the hall at Hunterburyâso it seems to me that what you suggested just now must be so. Itâs gone into the rubbish bin.â

âThatâs right,â said Nurse Hopkins eagerly. âIt couldnât be any other way, could it?â

She helped herself to a pink sugar cake. She said, âItâs not as thoughâ¦â and stopped.

The other agreed quicklyâperhaps a little too quickly.

âIâd not be worrying about it any more if I was you,â she said comfortably.

Nurse Hopkins said:

âIâm not worryingâ¦.â

II

Young and severe in her black dress, Elinor sat in front of Mrs. Welmanâs massive writing table in the library. Various papers were spread out in front of her. She had finished interviewing the servants and Mrs. Bishop. Now it was Mary Gerrard who entered the room and hesitated a minute by the doorway.

âYou wanted to see me, Miss Elinor?â she said.

Elinor looked up.

âOh, yes, Mary. Come here and sit down, will you?â

Mary came and sat in the chair Elinor indicated. It was turned a little towards the window, and the light from it fell on her face, showing the dazzling purity of the skin and bringing out the pale gold of the girlâs hair.

Elinor held one hand shielding her face a little. Between the fingers she could watch the other girlâs face.

She thought:

âIs it possible to hate anyone so much and not show it?â

Aloud she said in a pleasant, businesslike voice:

âI think you know, Mary, that my aunt always took a great interest in you and would have been concerned about your future.â

Mary murmured in her soft voice:

âMrs. Welman was very good to me always.â

Elinor went on, her voice cold and detached:

âMy aunt, if she had had time to make a will, would have wished, I know, to leave several legacies. Since she died without making a will, the responsibility of carrying out her wishes rests on me. I have consulted with Mr. Seddon, and by his advice we have drawn up a schedule of sums for the servants according to their length of service, etc.â She paused. âYou, of course, donât come quite into that class.â

She half-hoped, perhaps, that those words might hold a sting, but the face she was looking at showed no change. Mary accepted the words at their face value and listened to what more was to come.

Elinor said:

âThough it was difficult for my aunt to speak coherently, she was able to make her meaning understood that last evening. She definitely wanted to make some provision for your future.â

Mary said quietly:

âThat was very good of her.â

Elinor said brusquely:

âAs soon as probate is granted, I am arranging that two thousand pounds should be made over to youâthat sum to be yours to do with absolutely as you please.â

Maryâs colour rose.

âTwo thousand pounds? Oh, Miss Elinor, that is good of you! I donât know what to say.â

Elinor said sharply:

âIt isnât particularly good of me, and please donât say anything.â

Mary flushed.

âYou donât know what a difference it will make to me,â she murmured.

Elinor said:

âIâm glad.â

She hesitated. She looked away from Mary to the other side of the room. She said with a slight effort:

âI wonderâhave you any plans?â

Mary said quickly:

âOh, yes. I shall train for something. Massage, perhaps. Thatâs what Nurse Hopkins advises.â

Elinor said:

âThat sounds a very good idea. I will try and arrange with Mr. Seddon that some money shall be advanced to you as soon as possibleâat once, if that is feasible.â

âYouâre very, very good, Miss Elinor,â said Mary gratefully.

Elinor said curtly:

âIt was Aunt Lauraâs wish.â She hesitated, then said, âWell, thatâs all, I think.â

This time the definite dismissal in the words pierced Maryâs sensitive skin. She got up, said quietly, âThank you very much, Miss Elinor,â and left the room.

Elinor sat quite still, staring ahead of her. Her face was quite impassive. There was no clue in it as to what was going on in her mind. But she sat there, motionless, for a long timeâ¦.

III

Elinor went at last in search of Roddy. She found him in the morning room. He was standing staring out of the window. He turned sharply as Elinor came in.

She said:

âIâve got through it all! Five hundred for Mrs. Bishopâsheâs been here such years. A hundred for the cook and fifty each for Milly and Olive. Five pounds each to the others. Twenty-five for Stephens, the head gardener; and thereâs old Gerrard, of course, at the Lodge. I havenât done anything about him yet. Itâs awkward. Heâll have to be pensioned off, I suppose?â

She paused and then went on rather hurriedly:

âIâm settling two thousand on Mary Gerrard. Do you think thatâs what Aunt Laura would have wished? It seemed to me about the right sum.â

Roddy said without looking at her:

âYes, exactly right. Youâve always got excellent judgement, Elinor.â

He turned to look out of the window again.

Elinor held her breath for a minute, then she began to speak with nervous haste, the words tumbling out incoherently:

âThereâs something more: I want toâitâs only rightâI mean, youâve got to have your proper share, Roddy.â

As he wheeled round, anger on his face, she hurried on:

âNo, listen, Roddy. This is just bare justice! The money that was your uncleâsâthat he left to his wifeânaturally he always assumed it would come to you. Aunt Laura meant it to, too. I know she did, from lots of things she said. If I have her money, you should have the amount that was hisâitâs only right. IâI canât bear to feel Iâve robbed youâjust because Aunt Laura funked making a will. You mustâyou must see sense about this!â

Roderickâs long, sensitive face had gone dead white.

He said:

âMy God, Elinor, do you want to make me feel an utter cad? Do you think for one moment I couldâcould take this money from you?â

âIâm not giving it to you. Itâs justâfair.â

Roddy cried out:

âI donât want your money!â

âIt isnât mine!â

âItâs yours by lawâand thatâs all that matters! For Godâs sake, donât letâs be anything but strictly businesslike! I wonât take a penny from you. Youâre not going to do the Lady Bountiful to me!â

Elinor cried out:

âRoddy!â

He made a quick gesture.

âOh, my dear, Iâm sorry. I donât know what Iâm saying. I feel so bewilderedâso utterly lostâ¦.â

Elinor said gently:

âPoor Roddyâ¦.â

He had turned away again and was playing with the blind tassel of the window. He said in a different tone, a detached one:

âDo you know whatâMary Gerrard proposes doing?â

âSheâs going to train as a masseuse, so she says.â

He said, âI see.â

There was a silence. Elinor drew herself up; she flung back her head. Her voice when she spoke was suddenly compelling.

She said:

âRoddy, I want you to listen to me carefully!â

He turned to her, slightly surprised.

âOf course, Elinor.â

âI want you, if you will, to follow my advice.â

âAnd what is your advice?â

Elinor said calmly:

âYou are not particularly tied? You can always get a holiday, canât you?â

âOh, yes.â

âThen doâjust that. Go abroad somewhere forâsay, three months. Go by yourself. Make new friends and see new places. Letâs speak quite frankly. At this moment you think youâre in love with Mary Gerrard. Perhaps you are. But it isnât a moment for approaching herâyou know that only too well. Our engagement is definitely broken off. Go abroad, then, as a free man, and at the end of the three months, as a free man, make up your mind. Youâll know then whether youâreally love Mary or whether it was only a temporary infatuation. And if you are quite sure you do love herâwell, then, come back and go to her and tell her so, and that youâre quite sure about it, and perhaps then sheâll listen.â

Roddy came to her. He caught her hand in his.

âElinor, youâre wonderful! So clearheaded! So marvellously impersonal! Thereâs no trace of pettiness or meanness about you. I admire you more than I can ever say. Iâll do exactly what you suggest. Go away, cut free from everythingâand find out whether Iâve got the genuine disease or if Iâve just been making the most ghastly fool of myself. Oh, Elinor, my dear, you donât know how truly fond I am of you. I do realize you were always a thousand times too good for me. Bless you, dear, for all your goodness.â

Quickly, impulsively, he kissed her cheek and went out of the room.

It was as well, perhaps, that he did not look back and see her face.

IV

It was a couple of days later that Mary acquainted Nurse Hopkins with her improved prospects.

That practical woman was warmly congratulatory.

âThatâs a great piece of luck for you, Mary,â she said. âThe old lady may have meant well by you, but unless a thingâs down in black and white, intentions donât go for much! You might easily have got nothing at all.â

âMiss Elinor said that the night Mrs. Welman died she told her to do something for me.â

Nurse Hopkins snorted.

âMaybe she did. But thereâs many would have forgotten conveniently afterwards. Relations are like that. Iâve seen a few things, I can tell you! People dying and saying they know they can leave it to their dear son or their dear daughter to carry out their wishes. Nine times out of ten, dear son and dear daughter find some very good reason to do nothing of the kind. Human natureâs human nature, and nobody likes parting with money if theyâre not legally compelled to! I tell you, Mary, my girl, youâve been lucky. Miss Carlisleâs straighter than most.â

Mary said slowly:

âAnd yetâsomehowâI feel she doesnât like me.â

âWith good reason, I should say,â said Nurse Hopkins bluntly. âNow, donât look so innocent, Mary! Mr. Roderickâs been making sheepâs eyes at you for some time now.â

Mary went red.

Nurse Hopkins went on:

âHeâs got it badly, in my opinion. Fell for you all of a sudden. What about you, my girl? Got any feelings for him?â

Mary said hesitatingly:

âIâI donât know. I donât think so. But of course, heâs very nice.â

âHâm,â said Nurse Hopkins. âHe wouldnât be my fancy! One of those men who are finicky and a bundle of nerves. Fussy about their food, too, as likely as not. Men arenât much at the best of times. Donât be in too much of a hurry, Mary, my dear. With your looks you can afford to pick and choose. Nurse OâBrien passed the remark to me the other day that you ought to go on the films. They like blondes, Iâve always heard.â

Mary said, with a slight frown creasing her forehead:

âNurse, what do you think I ought to do about Father? He thinks I ought to give some of this money to him.â

âDonât you do anything of the kind,â said Nurse Hopkins wrathfully. âMrs. Welman never meant that money for him. Itâs my opinion heâd have lost his job years ago if it hadnât been for you. A lazier man never stepped!â

Mary said:

âIt seems funny when sheâd all that money that she never made a will to say how it was to go.â

Nurse Hopkins shook her head.

âPeople are like that. Youâd be surprised. Always putting it off.â

Mary said:

âIt seems downright silly to me.â

Nurse Hopkins said with a faint twinkle:

âMade a will yourself, Mary?â

Mary stared at her.

âOh, no.â

âAnd yet youâre over twenty-one.â

âBut IâI havenât got anything to leaveâat least I suppose I have now.â

Nurse Hopkins said sharply:

âOf course you have. And a nice tidy little sum, too.â

Mary said:

âOh, well, thereâs no hurryâ¦.â

âThere you go,â said Nurse Hopkins drily. âJust like everyone else. Because youâre a healthy young girl isnât a reason why you shouldnât be smashed up in a charabanc or a bus, or run over in the street any minute.â

Mary laughed. She said:

âI donât even know how to make a will.â

âEasy enough. You can get a form at the post office. Letâs go and get one right away.â

In Nurse Hopkinsâ cottage, the form was spread out and the important matter discussed. Nurse Hopkins was enjoying herself thoroughly. A will, as she said, was next best to a death, in her opinion.

Mary said:

âWhoâd get the money if I didnât make a will?â

Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully:

âYour father, I suppose.â

Mary said sharply:

âHe shanât have it. Iâd rather leave it to my auntie in New Zealand.â

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully:

âIt wouldnât be much use leaving it to your father, anywayâheâs not long for this world, I should say.â

Mary had heard Nurse Hopkins make this kind of pronouncement too often to be impressed by it.

âI canât remember my auntieâs address. Weâve not heard from her for years.â

âI donât suppose that matters,â said Nurse Hopkins. âYou know her Christian name?â

âMary. Mary Riley.â

âThatâs all right. Put down you leave everything to Mary Riley, sister of the late Eliza Gerrard of Hunterbury, Maidensford.â

Mary bent over the form, writing. As she came to the end she shivered suddenly. A shadow had come between her and the sun. She looked up to see Elinor Carlisle standing outside the window looking in. Elinor said:

âWhat are you doing so busily?â

Nurse Hopkins said with a laugh:

âSheâs making her will, thatâs what sheâs doing.â

âMaking her will?â Suddenly Elinor laughedâa strange laughâalmost hysterical.

She said:

âSo youâre making your will, Mary. Thatâs funny. Thatâs very funnyâ¦.â

Still laughing, she turned away and walked rapidly along the street.

Nurse Hopkins stared.

âDid you ever? Whatâs come to her?â

V

Elinor had not taken more than half a dozen stepsâshe was still laughingâwhen a hand fell on her arm from behind. She stopped abruptly and turned.

Dr. Lord looked straight at her, his brow creased into a frown.

He said peremptorily:

âWhat were you laughing at?â

Elinor said:

âReallyâI donât know.â

Peter Lord said:

âThatâs rather a silly answer!â

Elinor flushed. She said:

âI think I must be nervousâor something. I looked in at the District Nurseâs cottage andâand Mary Gerrard was writing out her will. It made me laugh; I donât know why!â

Lord said abruptly:

âDonât you?â

Elinor said:

âIt was silly of meâI tell youâIâm nervous.â

Peter Lord said:

âIâll write you out a tonic.â

Elinor said incisively:

âHow useful!â

He grinned disarmingly.

âQuite useless, I agree. But itâs the only thing one can do when people wonât tell one what is the matter with them!â

Elinor said:

âThereâs nothing the matter with me.â

Peter Lord said calmly:

âThereâs quite a lot the matter with you.â

Elinor said:

âIâve had a certain amount of nervous strain, I supposeâ¦.â

He said:

âI expect youâve had quite a lot. But thatâs not what Iâm talking about.â He paused. âAre youâare you staying down here much longer?â

âIâm leaving tomorrow.â

âYou wonâtâlive down here?â

Elinor shook her head.

âNoânever. I thinkâI thinkâI shall sell the place if I can get a good offer.â

Dr. Lord said rather flatly:

âI seeâ¦.â

Elinor said:

âI must be getting home now.â

She held out her hand firmly. Peter Lord took it. He held it. He said very earnestly:

âMiss Carlisle, will you please tell me what was in your mind when you laughed just now?â

She wrenched her hand away quickly.

âWhat should there be in my mind?â

âThatâs what Iâd like to know.â

His face was grave and a little unhappy.

Elinor said impatiently:

âIt just struck me as funny, that was all!â

âThat Mary Gerrard was making a will? Why? Making a will is a perfectly sensible procedure. Saves a lot of trouble. Sometimes, of course, it makes trouble!â

Elinor said impatiently:

âOf courseâeveryone should make a will. I didnât mean that.â

Dr. Lord said:

âMrs. Welman ought to have made a will.â

Elinor said with feeling:

âYes, indeed.â

The colour rose in her face.

Dr. Lord said unexpectedly:

âWhat about you?â

âMe?â

âYes, you said just now everyone should make a will! Have you?â

Elinor stared at him for a minute, then she laughed.

âHow extraordinary!â she said. âNo, I havenât. I hadnât thought of it! Iâm just like Aunt Laura. Do you know, Dr. Lord, I shall go home and write to Mr. Seddon about it at once.â

Peter Lord said:

âVery sensible.â

VI

In the library Elinor had just finished a letter:

Dear Mr. Seddon,âWill you draft a will for me to sign? Quite a simple one. I want to leave everything to Roderick Welman absolutely.

Yours sincerely,
Elinor Carlisle

She glanced at the clock. The post would be going in a few minutes.

She opened the drawer of the desk, then remembered she had used the last stamp that morning.

There were some in her bedroom, though, she was almost sure.

She went upstairs. When she reentered the library with the stamp in her hand, Roddy was standing by the window.

He said:

âSo we leave here tomorrow. Good old Hunterbury. Weâve had some good times here.â

Elinor said:

âDo you mind its being sold?â

âOh, no, no! I quite see itâs the best thing to be done.â

There was a silence. Elinor picked up her letter, glanced through it to see if it was all right. Then she sealed and stamped it.

Six

Letter from Nurse OâBrien to Nurse Hopkins, July 14th:

Laborough Court

Dear Hopkins,âHave been meaning to write to you for some days now. This is a lovely house and the pictures, I believe, quite famous. But I canât say itâs as comfortable as Hunterbury was, if you know what I mean. Being in the dead country itâs difficult to get maids, and the girls they have got are a raw lot, and some of them not too obliging, and though Iâm sure Iâm never one to give trouble, meals sent up on a tray should at least be hot, and no facilities for boiling a kettle, and the tea not always made with boiling water! Still, all thatâs neither here nor there. The patientâs a nice quiet gentlemanâdouble pneumonia, but the crisis is past and doctor says going on well.

What Iâve got to tell you that will really interest you is the very queerest coincidence you ever knew. In the drawing room, on the grand piano, thereâs a photograph in a big silver frame; and would you believe it, itâs the same photograph that I told you aboutâthe one signed Lewis that old Mrs. Welman asked for. Well, of course, I was intriguedâand who wouldnât be? And I asked the butler who it was, which he answered at once saying it was Lady Ratteryâs brotherâSir Lewis Rycroft. He lived, it seems, not far from here and he was killed in the War. Very sad, wasnât it? I asked casual like was he married, and the butler said yes, but that Lady Rycroft went into a lunatic asylum, poor thing, soon after the marriage. She was still alive, he said. Now, isnât that interesting? And we were quite wrong, you see, in all our ideas. They must have been very fond of each other, he and Mrs. W., and unable to marry because of the wife being in an asylum. Just like the pictures, isnât it? And her remembering all those years and looking at his photograph just before she died. He was killed in 1917, the butler said. Quite a romance, thatâs what I feel.

Have you seen that new picture with Myrna Loy? I saw it was coming to Maidensford this week. No cinema anywhere near here! Oh, itâs awful to be buried in the country. No wonder they canât get decent maids!

Well, goodbye for the present, dear, write and tell me all the news.

Yours sincerely,
Eileen OâBrien

Letter from Nurse Hopkins to Nurse OâBrien, July 14th:

Rose Cottage

Dear OâBrien,âEverything goes on here much as usual. Hunterbury is desertedâall the servants gone and a board up: For Sale. I saw Mrs. Bishop the other day, she is staying with her sister who lives about a mile away. She was very upset, as you can imagine, at the place being sold. It seems she made sure Miss Carlisle would marry Mr. Welman and live there. Mrs. B. says that the engagement is off! Miss Carlisle went away to London soon after you left. She was very peculiar in her manner once or twice. I really didnât know what to make of her! Mary Gerrard has gone to London and is starting to train for a masseuse. Very sensible of her, I think. Miss Carlisleâs going to settle two thousand pounds on her, which I call very handsome and more than what many would do.

By the way, itâs funny how things come about. Do you remember telling me something about a photograph signed Lewis that Mrs. Welman showed you? I was having a chat the other day with Mrs. Slattery (she was housekeeper to old Dr. Ransome who had the practice before Dr. Lord), and of course sheâs lived here all her life and knows a lot about the gentry round about. I just brought the subject up in a casual manner, speaking of Christian names and saying that the name of Lewis was uncommon and amongst others she mentioned Sir Lewis Rycroft over at Forbes Park. He served in the War in the 17th Lancers and was killed towards the end of the War. So I said he was a great friend of Mrs. Welmanâs at Hunterbury, wasnât he? And at once she gave me a look and said, Yes, very close friends theyâd been, and some said more than friends, but that she herself wasnât one to talkâand why shouldnât they be friends? So I said but surely Mrs. Welman was a widow at the time, and she said Oh yes, she was a widow. So, dear, I saw at once she meant something by that, so I said it was odd then, that theyâd never married, and she said at once, âThey couldnât marry. Heâd got a wife in a lunatic asylum!â So now, you see, we know all about it! Curious the way things come about, isnât it? Considering the easy way you get divorces nowadays, it does seem a shame that insanity shouldnât have been a ground for it then.

Do you remember a good-looking young chap, Ted Bigland, who used to hang around after Mary Gerrard a lot? Heâs been at me for her address in London, but I havenât given it to him. In my opinion, Maryâs a cut above Ted Bigland. I donât know if you realized it, dear, but Mr. RâWâwas very taken with her. A pity, because itâs made trouble. Mark my words, thatâs the reason for the engagement between him and Miss Carlisle being off. And, if you ask me, itâs hit her badly. I donât know what she saw in him, Iâm sureâhe wouldnât have been my cup of tea, but I hear from a reliable source that sheâs always been madly in love with him. It does seem a mix-up, doesnât it? And sheâs got all that money, too. I believe he was always led to expect his aunt would leave him something substantial.

Old Gerrard at the Lodge is failing rapidlyâhas had several nasty dizzy spells. Heâs just as rude and cross-grained as ever. He actually said the other day that Mary wasnât his daughter. âWell,â I said, âIâd be ashamed to say a thing like that about your wife if I were you.â He just looked at me and said, âYouâre nothing but a fool. You donât understand.â Polite, wasnât it? I took him up pretty sharply, I can tell you. His wife was ladyâs maid to Mrs. Welman before her marriage, I believe.

I saw The Good Earth last week. It was lovely! Women have to put up with a lot in China, it seems.

Yours ever,
Jessie Hopkins

Post-card from Nurse Hopkins to Nurse OâBrien:

Fancy our letters just crossing! Isnât this weather awful?

Post-card from Nurse OâBrien to Nurse Hopkins:

Got your letter this morning. What a coincidence!

Letter from Roderick Welman to Elinor Carlisle, July 15th:

Dear Elinor,âJust got your letter. No, really, I have no feelings about Hunterbury being sold. Nice of you to consult me. I think youâre doing the wisest thing if you donât fancy living there, which you obviously donât. You may have some difficulty in getting rid of it, though. Itâs a biggish place for present-day needs, though, of course, itâs been modernized and is up to date, with good servantsâ quarters, and gas and electric light and all that. Anyway, I hope youâll have luck!

The heat here is glorious. I spend hours in the sea. Rather a funny crowd of people, but I donât mix much. You told me once that I wasnât a good mixer. Iâm afraid itâs true. I find most of the human race extraordinarily repulsive. They probably reciprocate this feeling.

I have long felt that you are one of the only really satisfactory representatives of humanity. Am thinking of wandering on to the Dalmatian coast in a week or two. Address c/o Thomas Cook, Dubrovnik, from the 22nd onwards. If thereâs anything I can do, let me know.

Yours, with admiration and gratitude,
Roddy

Letter from Mr. Seddon of Messrs Seddon, Blatherwick & Seddon to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 20th:

104 Bloomsbury Square

Dear Miss Carlisle,âI certainly think you should accept Major Somervellâs offer of twelve thousand five hundred (Â£12,500) for Hunterbury. Large properties are extremely difficult to sell at the moment, and the price offered seems to be most advantageous. The offer depends, however, on immediate possession, and I know Major Somervell has been seeing other properties in the neighbourhood, so I would advise immediate acceptance.

Major Somervell is willing, I understand, to take the place furnished for three months, by which time the legal formalities should be accomplished and the sale can go through.

As regards the lodge keeper, Gerrard, and the question of pensioning him off, I hear from Dr. Lord that the old man is seriously ill and not expected to live.

Probate has not yet been granted, but I have advanced one hundred pounds to Miss Mary Gerrard pending the settlement.

Yours sincerely,
Edmund Seddon

Letter from Dr. Lord to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 24th:

Dear Miss Carlisle,âOld Gerrard passed away today. Is there anything I can do for you in any way? I hear you have sold the house to our new MP, Major Somervell.

Yours sincerely,
Peter Lord

Letter from Elinor Carlisle to Mary Gerrard, July 25th:

Dear Mary,âI am so sorry to hear of your fatherâs death.

I have had an offer for Hunterburyâfrom a Major Somervell. He is anxious to get in as soon as possible. I am going down there to go through my auntâs papers and clear up generally. Would it be possible for you to get your fatherâs things moved out of the Lodge as quickly as possible? I hope you are doing well and not finding your massage training too strenuous.

Yours very sincerely,
Elinor Carlisle

Letter from Mary Gerrard to Nurse Hopkins, July 25th:

Dear Nurse Hopkins,âThank you so much for writing to me about Father. Iâm glad he didnât suffer. Miss Elinor writes me that the house is sold and that she would like the Lodge cleared out as soon as possible. Could you put me up if I came down tomorrow for the funeral? Donât bother to answer if thatâs all right.

Yours affectionately,
Mary Gerrard

Seven

Elinor Carlisle came out of the Kingâs Arms on the morning of Thursday, July 27th, and stood for a minute or two looking up and down the main street of Maidensford.

Suddenly, with an exclamation of pleasure, she crossed the road.

There was no mistaking that large dignified presence, that serene gait as of a galleon in full sail.

âMrs. Bishop!â

âWhy, Miss Elinor! This is a surprise! Iâd no notion you were in these parts! If Iâd known you were coming to Hunterbury Iâd have been there myself! Whoâs doing for you there? Have you brought someone down from London?â

Elinor shook her head.

âIâm not staying at the house. I am staying at the Kingâs Arms.â

Mrs. Bishop looked across the road and sniffed dubiously.

âIt is possible to stay there, Iâve heard,â she allowed. âItâs clean, I know. And the cooking, they say, is fair, but itâs hardly what youâre accustomed to, Miss Elinor.â

Elinor said, smiling:

âIâm really quite comfortable. Itâs only for a day or two. I have to sort out things at the house. All my auntâs personal things; and then there are a few pieces of furniture I should like to have in London.â

âThe house is really sold, then?â

âYes. To a Major Somervell. Our new Member. Sir George Kerr died, you know, and thereâs been a bye-election.â

âReturned unopposed,â said Mrs. Bishop grandly. âWeâve never had anyone but a Conservative for Maidenford.â

Elinor said:

âIâm glad someone has bought the house who really wants to live in it. I should have been sorry if it had been turned into a hotel or built upon.â

Mrs. Bishop shut her eyes and shivered all over her plump aristocratic person.

âYes, indeed, that would have been dreadfulâquite dreadful. Itâs bad enough as it is to think of Hunterbury passing into the hands of strangers.â

Elinor said:

âYes, but, you see, it would have been a very large house for me to live inâalone.â

Mrs. Bishop sniffed.

Elinor said quickly:

âI meant to ask you: Is there any especial piece of furniture that you might care to have? I should be very glad for you to have it, if so.â

Mrs. Bishop beamed. She said graciously:

âWell, Miss Elinor, that is very thoughtful of youâvery kind, Iâm sure. If itâs not taking a libertyâ¦?â

She paused and Elinor said:

âOh, no.â

âI have always had a great admiration for the secretaire in the drawing room. Such a handsome piece.â

Elinor remembered it, a somewhat flamboyant piece of inlaid marqueterie. She said quickly:

âOf course you shall have it, Mrs. Bishop. Anything else?â

âNo, indeed, Miss Elinor. You have already been extremely generous.â

Elinor said:

âThere are some chairs in the same style as the secretaire. Would you care for those?â

Mrs. Bishop accepted the chairs with becoming thanks. She explained:

âI am staying at the moment with my sister. Is there anything I can do for you up at the house, Miss Elinor? I could come up there with you, if you like.â

âNo, thank you.â

Elinor spoke quickly, rather abruptly.

Mrs. Bishop said:

âIt would be no trouble, I assure youâa pleasure. Such a melancholy task going through all dear Mrs. Welmanâs things.â

Elinor said:

âThank you, Mrs. Bishop, but I would rather tackle it alone. One can do some things better aloneââ

Mrs. Bishop said stiffly:

âAs you please, of course.â

She went on:

âThat daughter of Gerrardâs is down here. The funeral was yesterday. Sheâs staying with Nurse Hopkins. I did hear they were going up to the Lodge this morning.â

Elinor nodded. She said:

âYes, I asked Mary to come down and see to that. Major Somervell wants to get in as soon as possible.â

âI see.â

Elinor said:

âWell, I must be getting on now. So glad to have seen you, Mrs. Bishop. Iâll remember about the secretaire and the chairs.â

She shook hands and passed on.

She went into the bakerâs and bought a loaf of bread. Then she went into the dairy and bought half a pound of butter and some milk.

Finally she went into the grocerâs.

âI want some paste for sandwiches, please.â

âCertainly, Miss Carlisle.â Mr. Abbott himself bustled forward, elbowing aside his junior apprentice.

âWhat would you like? Salmon and shrimp? Turkey and tongue? Salmon and sardine? Ham and tongue?â

He whipped down pot after pot and arrayed them on the counter.

Elinor said with a faint smile:

âIn spite of their names, I always think they taste much alike.â

Mr. Abbott agreed instantly.

âWell, perhaps they do, in a way. Yes, in a way. But, of course, theyâre very tastyâvery tasty.â

Elinor said:

âOne used to be rather afraid of eating fish pastes. There have been cases of ptomaine poisoning from them, havenât there?â

Mr. Abbot put on a horrified expression.

âI can assure you this is an excellent brandâmost reliableâwe never have any complaints.â

Elinor said:

âIâll have one of salmon and anchovy and one of salmon and shrimp. Thank you.â

II

Elinor Carlisle entered the grounds of Hunterbury by the back gate.

It was a hot, clear summerâs day. There were sweetpeas in flower. Elinor passed close by a row of them. The undergardener, Horlick, who was remaining on to keep the place in order, greeted her respectfully.

âGood morning, miss. I got your letter. Youâll find the side door open, miss. Iâve unfastened the shutters and opened most of the windows.â

Elinor said:

âThank you, Horlick.â

As she moved on, the young man said nervously, his Adamâs apple jerking up and down in spasmodic fashion:

âExcuse me, missââ

Elinor turned back. âYes?â

âIs it true that the house is sold? I mean, is it really settled?â

âOh, yes!â

Horlick said nervously:

âI was wondering, miss, if you would say a word for meâto Major Somervell, I mean. Heâll be wanting gardeners. Maybe heâll think Iâm too young for head gardener, but Iâve worked under Mr. Stephens for four years now, and I reckon I know a tidyish bit, and Iâve kept things going fairly well since Iâve been here, single-handed.â

Elinor said quickly:

âOf course I will do all I can for you, Horlick. As a matter of fact, I intended to mention you to Major Somervell and tell him what a good gardener you are.â

Horlickâs face grew dusky red.

âThank you, miss. Thatâs very kind of you. You can understand itâs been a bit of a blow, likeâMrs. Welman dying, and then the place being sold off so quickâand Iâwell, the fact of the matter is I was going to get married this autumn, only oneâs got to be sureâ¦.â

He stopped.

Elinor said kindly:

âI hope Major Somervell will take you on. You can rely on me to do all I can.â

Horlick said again:

âThank you, miss. We all hoped, you see, as how the place would be kept on by the family. Thank you, miss.â

Elinor walked on.

Suddenly, rushing over her like the stream from a broken dam, a wave of anger, of wild resentment, swept over her.

âWe all hoped the place would be kept on by the familyâ¦.â

She and Roddy could have lived here! She and Roddyâ¦ Roddy would have wanted that. It was what she herself would have wanted. They had always loved Hunterbury, both of them. Dear Hunterburyâ¦ In the years before her parents had died, when they had been in India, she had come here for holidays. She had played in the woods, rambled by the stream, picked sweetpeas in great flowering armloads, eaten fat green gooseberries and dark red luscious raspberries. Later, there had been apples. There had been places, secret lairs, where she had curled up with a book and read for hours.

She had loved Hunterbury. Always, at the back of her mind, she had felt sure of living there permanently some day. Aunt Laura had fostered that idea. Little words and phrases:

âSome day, Elinor, you may like to cut down those yews. They are a little gloomy, perhaps!â

âOne might have a water garden here. Some day, perhaps, you will.â

And Roddy? Roddy, too, had looked forward to Hunterbury being his home. It had lain, perhaps, behind his feeling for her, Elinor. He had felt, subconsciously, that it was fitting and right that they two should be together at Hunterbury.

And they would have been together there. They would have been together hereânowânot packing up the house for selling, but redecorating it, planning new beauties in house and garden, walking side by side in gentle proprietary pleasure, happyâyes, happy togetherâbut for the fatal accident of a girlâs wild-rose beautyâ¦.

What did Roddy know of Mary Gerrard? Nothingâless than nothing! What did he care for herâfor the real Mary? She had, quite possibly, admirable qualities, but did Roddy know anything about them? It was the old storyâNatureâs hoary old joke!

Hadnât Roddy himself said it was an âenchantment?â

Didnât Roddy himselfâreallyâwant to be free of it?

If Mary Gerrard were toâdie, for instance, wouldnât Roddy some day acknowledge: âIt was all for the best. I see that now. We had nothing in commonâ¦.â

He would add, perhaps, with gentle melancholy:

âShe was a lovely creatureâ¦.â

Let her be that to himâyesâan exquisite memoryâa thing of beauty and a joy foreverâ¦.

If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard, Roddy would come back to herâElinorâ¦ She was quite sure of that!

If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrardâ¦

Elinor turned the handle of the side door. She passed from the warm sunlight into the shadow of the house. She shivered.

It felt cold in here, dark, sinisterâ¦ It was as though Something was there, waiting for her, in the houseâ¦.

She walked along the hall and pushed the baize door that led into the butlerâs pantry.

It smelt slightly musty. She pushed up the window, opening it wide.

She laid down her parcelsâthe butter, the loaf, the little glass bottle of milk. She thought:

âStupid! I meant to get coffee.â

She looked in the canisters on a shelf. There was a little tea in one of them, but no coffee.

She thought: âOh, well, it doesnât matter.â

She unwrapped the two glass jars of fish paste.

She stood staring at them for a minute. Then she left the pantry and went upstairs. She went straight to Mrs. Welmanâs room. She began on the big tallboy, opening drawers, sorting, arranging, folding clothes in little pilesâ¦.

III

In the Lodge Mary Gerrard was looking round rather helplessly.

She hadnât realized, somehow, how cramped it all was.

Her past life rushed back over her in a flood. Mum making clothes for her dolls. Dad always cross and surly. Disliking her. Yes, disliking herâ¦.

She said suddenly to Nurse Hopkins:

âDad didnât say anythingâsend me any message before he died, did he?â

Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully and callously:

âOh, dear me, no. He was unconscious for an hour before he passed away.â

Mary said slowly:

âI feel perhaps I ought to have come down and looked after him. After all, he was my father.â

Nurse Hopkins said with a trace of embarrassment:

âNow, just you listen to me, Mary: whether he was your father or not doesnât enter into it. Children donât care much about their parents in these days, from what I can see, and a good many parents donât care for their children, either. Miss Lambert, at the secondary school, says thatâs as it should be. According to her, family life is all wrong, and children should be brought up by the state. Thatâs as may beâjust a glorified orphanage, it sounds to meâbut, anyway, itâs a waste of breath to go back over the past and sentimentalize. Weâve got to get on with livingâthatâs our job and not too easy, either, sometimes!â

Mary said slowly:

âI expect youâre right. But I feel perhaps it was my fault we didnât get on better.â

Nurse Hopkins said robustly:

âNonsense.â

The word exploded like a bomb.

It quelled Mary. Nurse Hopkins turned to more practical matters.

âWhat are you going to do with the furniture? Store it? Or sell it?â

Mary said doubtfully:

âI donât know. What do you think?â

Running a practical eye over it, Nurse Hopkins said:

âSome of itâs quite good and solid. You might store it and furnish a little flat of your own in London some day. Get rid of the rubbish. The chairs are goodâsoâs the table. And thatâs a nice bureauâitâs the kind thatâs out of fashion, but itâs solid mahogany, and they say Victorian stuff will come in again one day. Iâd get rid of that great wardrobe, if I were you. Too big to fit in anywhere. Takes up half the bedroom as it is.â

They made a list between them of pieces to be kept or let go.

Mary said:

âThe lawyerâs been very kindâMr. Seddon, I mean. He advanced me some money, so that I could get started with my training fees and other expenses. It will be a month or so before the money can be definitely made over to me, so he said.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âHow do you like your work?â

âI think I shall like it very much. Itâs rather strenuous at first. I come home tired to death.â

Nurse Hopkins said grimly:

âI thought I was going to die when I was a probationer at St. Lukeâs. I felt I could never stick it for three years. But I did.â

They had sorted through the old manâs clothes. Now they came to a tin box full of papers.

Mary said:

âWe must go through these, I suppose.â

They sat down one on each side of the table.

Nurse Hopkins grumbled as she started with a handful.

âExtraordinary what rubbish people keep! Newspaper cuttings! Old letters. All sorts of things!â

Mary said, unfolding a document:

âHereâs Dadâs and Mumâs marriage certificate. At St. Albans, 1919.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âMarriage lines, thatâs the old-fashioned term. Lots of the people in this village use that term yet.â

Mary said in a stifled voice:

âBut, Nurseââ

âWhatâs the matter?â

Mary Gerrard said in a shaky voice:

âDonât you see? This is 1939. And Iâm twenty-one. In 1919 I was a year old. That meansâthat meansâthat my father and mother werenât married tillâtillâafterwards.â

Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said robustly:

âWell, after all, what of it? Donât go worrying about that, at this time of day!â

âBut, Nurse, I canât help it.â

Nurse Hopkins spoke with authority:

âThereâs many couples that donât go to church till a bit after they should do so. But so long as they do it in the end, whatâs the odds? Thatâs what I say!â

Mary said in a low voice:

âIs that whyâdo you thinkâmy father never liked me? Because, perhaps my mother made him marry her?â

Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She bit her lip, then she said:

âIt wasnât quite like that, I imagine.â She paused. âOh, well, if youâre going to worry about it, you may as well know the truth: You arenât Gerrardâs daughter at all.â

Mary said:

âThen that was why!â

Nurse Hopkins said: âMaybe.â

Mary said, a red spot suddenly burning in each cheek:

âI suppose itâs wrong of me, but Iâm glad! Iâve always felt uncomfortable because I didnât care for my father, but if he wasnât my father, well, that makes it all right! How did you know about it?â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âGerrard talked about it a good deal before he died. I shut him up pretty sharply, but he didnât care. Naturally, I shouldnât have said anything to you about it if this hadnât cropped up.â

Mary said slowly:

âI wonder who my real father wasâ¦.â

Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. She appeared to be finding it hard to make up her mind on some point.

Then a shadow fell across the room, and the two women looked round to see Elinor Carlisle standing at the window.

Elinor said:

âGood morning.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âGood morning, Miss Carlisle. Lovely day, isnât it?â

Mary said:

âOhâgood morning, Miss Elinor.â

Elinor said:

âIâve been making some sandwiches. Wonât you come up and have some? Itâs just on one oâclock, and itâs such a bother to have to go home for lunch. I got enough for three on purpose.â

Nurse Hopkins said in pleased surprise:

âWell, I must say, Miss Carlisle, thatâs extremely thoughtful of you. It is a nuisance to have to break off what youâre doing and come all the way back from the village. I hoped we might finish this morning. I went round and saw my cases early. But, there, turning out takes you longer than you think.â

Mary said gratefully:

âThank you, Miss Elinor, itâs very kind of you.â

The three of them walked up the drive to the house. Elinor had left the front door open. They passed inside into the cool of the hall. Mary shivered a little. Elinor looked at her sharply.

She said:

âWhat is it?â

Mary said:

âOh, nothingâjust a shiver. It was coming inâout of the sunâ¦.â

Elinor said in a low voice:

âThatâs queer. Thatâs what I felt this morning.â

Nurse Hopkins said in a loud, cheerful voice and with a laugh:

âCome, now, youâll be pretending there are ghosts in the house next. I didnât feel anything!â

Elinor smiled. She led the way into the morning room on the right of the front door. The blinds were up and the windows open. It looked cheerful.

Elinor went across the hall and brought back from the pantry a big plate of sandwiches. She handed it to Mary, saying:

âHave one?â

Mary took one. Elinor stood watching her for a moment as the girlâs even white teeth bit into the sandwich.

She held her breath for a minute, then expelled it in a little sigh.

Absentmindedly she stood for a minute with the plate held to her waist, then at the sight of Nurse Hopkinsâ slightly parted lips and hungry expression she flushed and quickly proffered the plate to the older woman.

Elinor took a sandwich herself. She said apologetically:

âI meant to make some coffee, but I forgot to get any. Thereâs some beer on that table, though, if anyone likes that?â

Nurse Hopkins said sadly:

âIf only Iâd thought to bring along some tea now.â

Elinor said absently:

âThereâs a little tea still in the canister in the pantry.â

Nurse Hopkinsâ face brightened.

âThen Iâll just pop out and put the kettle on. No milk, I suppose?â

Elinor said:

âYes, I brought some.â

âWell, then, thatâs all right,â said Nurse Hopkins and hurried out.

Elinor and Mary were alone together.

A queer tension crept into the atmosphere. Elinor, with an obvious effort, tried to make conversation. Her lips were dry. She passed her tongue over them. She said, rather stiffly:

âYouâlike your work in London?â

âYes, thank you. IâIâm very grateful to youââ

A sudden harsh sound broke from Elinor. A laugh so discordant, so unlike her that Mary stared at her in surprise.

Elinor said:

âYou neednât be so grateful!â

Mary, rather embarrassed, said:

âI didnât meanâthat isââ

She stopped.

Elinor was staring at herâa glance so searching, so, yes, strange that Mary flinched under it.

She said:

âIsâis anything wrong?â

Elinor got up quickly. She said, turning away:

âWhat should be wrong?â

Mary murmured.

âYouâyou lookedââ

Elinor said with a little laugh:

âWas I staring? Iâm so sorry. I do sometimesâwhen Iâm thinking of something else.â

Nurse Hopkins looked in at the door and remarked brightly, âIâve put the kettle on,â and went out again.

Elinor was taken with a sudden fit of laughter.

âPolly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle onâweâll all have tea! Do you remember playing that, Mary, when we were children?â

âYes, indeed I do.â

Elinor said:

âWhen we were childrenâ¦ Itâs a pity, Mary isnât it, that one can never go backâ¦?â

Mary said:

âWould you like to go back?â

Elinor said with force:

âYesâ¦ yesâ¦.â

Silence fell between them for a little while.

Then Mary said, her face flushing:

âMiss Elinor, you mustnât thinkââ

She stopped, warned by the sudden stiffening of Elinorâs slender figure, the uplifted line of her chin.

Elinor said in a cold, steel-like voice:

âWhat mustnât I think?â

Mary murmured:

âIâIâve forgotten what I was going to say.â

Elinorâs body relaxedâas at a danger past.

Nurse Hopkins came in with a tray. On it was a brown teapot, and milk and three cups.

She said, quite unconscious of anticlimax:

âHereâs the tea!â

She put the tray in front of Elinor. Elinor shook her head.

âI wonât have any.â

She pushed the tray along towards Mary.

Mary poured out two cups.

Nurse Hopkins sighed with satisfaction.

âItâs nice and strong.â

Elinor got up and moved over to the window. Nurse Hopkins said persuasively:

âAre you sure you wonât have a cup, Miss Carlisle? Do you good.â

Elinor murmured, âNo, thank you.â

Nurse Hopkins drained her cup, replaced it in the saucer and murmured:

âIâll just turn off the kettle. I put it on in case we needed to fill up the pot again.â

She bustled out.

Elinor wheeled round from the window.

She said, and her voice was suddenly charged with a desperate appeal:

âMaryâ¦â

Mary Gerrard answered quickly:

âYes?â

Slowly the light died out of Elinorâs face. The lips closed. The desperate pleading faded and left a mere maskâfrozen and still.

She said:

âNothing.â

The silence came down heavily on the room.

Mary thought:

âHow queer everything is today. As thoughâas though we were waiting for something.â

Elinor moved at last.

She came from the window and picked up the tea tray, placing on it the empty sandwich plate.

Mary jumped up.

âOh, Miss Elinor, let me.â

Elinor said sharply:

âNo, you stay here. Iâll do this.â

She carried the tray out of the room. She looked back, once, over her shoulder at Mary Gerrard by the window, young and alive and beautifulâ¦.

IV

Nurse Hopkins was in the pantry. She was wiping her face with a handkerchief. She looked up sharply as Elinor entered. She said:

âMy word, itâs hot in here!â

Elinor answered mechanically:

âYes, the pantry faces south.â

Nurse Hopkins relieved her of the tray.

âYou let me wash up, Miss Carlisle. Youâre not looking quite the thing.â

Elinor said:

âOh, Iâm all right.â

She picked up a dishcloth.

âIâll dry.â

Nurse Hopkins slipped off her cuffs. She poured hot water from the kettle into the papier-mÃ¢chÃ© basin.

Elinor said idly, looking at her wrist:

âYouâve pricked yourself.â

Nurse Hopkins laughed.

âOn the rose trellis at the Lodgeâa thorn. Iâll get it out presently.â

The rose trellis at the Lodgeâ¦ Memory poured in waves over Elinor. She and Roddy quarrellingâthe Wars of the Roses. She and Roddy quarrellingâand making it up. Lovely, laughing, happy days. A sick wave of revulsion passed over her. What had she come to now? What black abyss of hateâof evilâ¦ She swayed a little as she stood.

She thought:

âIâve been madâquite mad.â

Nurse Hopkins was staring at her curiously.

âDownright odd, she seemedâ¦â so ran Nurse Hopkinsâ narrative later. âTalking as if she didnât know what she was saying, and her eyes so bright and queer.â

The cups and saucers rattled in the basin. Elinor picked up an empty fish paste pot from the table and put it into the basin. As she did so she said, and marvelled at the steadiness of her voice:

âIâve sorted out some clothes upstairs, Aunt Lauraâs things. I thought, perhaps, Nurse, you could advise me where they would be useful in the village.â

Nurse Hopkins said briskly:

âI will indeed. Thereâs Mrs. Parkinson, and old Nellie, and that poor creature whoâs not quite all there at Ivy Cottage. Be a godsend to them.â

She and Elinor cleared up the pantry. Then they went upstairs together.

In Mrs. Welmanâs room clothes were folded in neat bundles: underclothing, dresses, and certain articles of handsome clothing, velvet tea gowns, a musquash coat. The latter, Elinor explained, she thought of giving to Mrs. Bishop. Nurse Hopkins nodded assent.

She noticed that Mrs. Welmanâs sables were laid on the chest of drawers.

âGoing to have them remodelled for herself,â she thought to herself.

She cast a look at the big tallboy. She wondered if Elinor had found that photograph signed âLewis,â and what she had made of it, if so.

âFunny,â she thought to herself, âthe way OâBrienâs letter crossed mine. I never dreamt a thing like that could happen. Her hitting on that photo just the day I wrote to her about Mrs. Slattery.â

She helped Elinor sort through the clothing and volunteered to tie it up in separate bundles for the different families and see to their distribution herself.

She said:

âI can be getting on with that while Mary goes down to the Lodge and finishes up there. Sheâs only got a box of papers to go through. Where is the girl, by the way? Did she go down to the Lodge?â

Elinor said:

âI left her in the morning roomâ¦.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âSheâd not be there all this time.â She glanced at her watch. âWhy, itâs nearly an hour weâve been up here!â

She bustled down the stairs. Elinor followed her.

They went into the morning room.

Nurse Hopkins exclaimed:

âWell, I never, sheâs fallen asleep.â

Mary Gerrard was sitting in a big armchair by the window. She had dropped down a little in it. There was a queer sound in the room: stertorous, laboured breathing.

Nurse Hopkins went across and shook the girl.

âWake up, my dearââ

She broke off. She bent lower, pulled down an eyelid. Then she started shaking the girl in grim earnest.

She turned on Elinor. There was something menacing in her voice as she said:

âWhatâs all this?â

Elinor said:

âI donât know what you mean. Is she ill?â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âWhereâs the phone? Get hold of Dr. Lord as soon as you can.â

Elinor said:

âWhatâs the matter?â

âThe matter? The girlâs ill. Sheâs dying.â

Elinor recoiled a step.

âDying?â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âSheâs been poisonedâ¦.â

Her eyes, hard with suspicion, glared at Elinor.

PART II

One

Hercule Poirot, his egg-shaped head gently tilted to one side, his eyebrows raised inquiringly, his fingertips joined together, watched the young man who was striding so savagely up and down the room, his pleasant freckled face puckered and drawn.

Hercule Poirot said:

âEh bien, my friend, what is all this?â

Peter Lord stopped dead in his pacing.

He said:

âM. Poirot. Youâre the only man in the world who can help me. Iâve heard Stillingfleet talk about you; heâs told me what you did in that Benedict Farley case. How every mortal soul thought it was suicide and you showed that it was murder.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âHave you, then, a case of suicide among your patients about which you are not satisfied?â

Peter Lord shook his head.

He sat down opposite Poirot.

He said:

âThereâs a young woman. Sheâs been arrested and sheâs going to be tried for murder! I want you to find evidence that will prove that she didnât do it!â

Poirotâs eyebrows rose a little higher. Then he assumed a discreet and confidential manner.

He said:

âYou and this young ladyâyou are affiancedâyes? You are in love with each other?â

Peter Lord laughedâa sharp, bitter laugh.

He said:

âNo, itâs not like that! She has the bad taste to prefer a long-nosed supercilious ass with a face like a melancholy horse! Stupid of her, but there it is!â

Poirot said:

âI see.â

Lord said bitterly:

âOh, yes, you see all right! No need to be so tactful about it. I fell for her straightaway. And because of that I donât want her hanged. See?â

Poirot said:

âWhat is the charge against her?â

âSheâs accused of murdering a girl called Mary Gerrard, by poisoning her with morphine hydrochloride. Youâve probably read the account of the inquest in the papers.â

Poirot said:

âAnd the motive?â

âJealousy!â

âAnd in your opinion she didnât do it?â

âNo, of course not.â

Hercule Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a moment or two, then he said:

âWhat is it exactly that you want me to do? To investigate this matter?â

âI want you to get her off.â

âI am not a defending counsel, mon cher.â

âIâll put it more clearly: I want you to find evidence that will enable her counsel to get her off.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYou put this a little curiously.â

Peter Lord said:

âBecause I donât wrap it up, you mean? It seems simple enough to me. I want this girl acquitted. I think you are the only man who can do it!â

âYou wish me to look into the facts? To find out the truth? To discover what really happened?â

âI want you to find any facts that will tell in her favour.â

Hercule Poirot, with care and precision, lighted a very tiny cigarette. He said:

âBut is it not a little unethical what you say there? To arrive at the truth, yes, that always interests me. But the truth is a two-edged weapon. Supposing that I find facts against the lady? Do you demand that I suppress them?â

Peter Lord stood up. He was very white. He said:

âThatâs impossible! Nothing that you could find could be more against her than the facts are already! Theyâre utterly and completely damning! Thereâs any amount of evidence against her black and plain for all the world to see! You couldnât find anything that would damn her more completely than she is already! Iâm asking you to use all your ingenuityâStillfleet says youâre damned ingeniousâto ferret out a loophole, a possible alternative.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âSurely her lawyers will do that?â

âWill they?â the young man laughed scornfully. âTheyâre licked before they start! Think itâs hopeless! Theyâve briefed Bulmer, K.C.âthe forlorn hope man; thatâs a giveaway in itself! Big oratorâsob stuffâstressing the prisonerâs youthâall that! But the judge wonât let him get away with it. Not a hope!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âSupposing she is guiltyâdo you still want to get her acquitted?â

Peter Lord said quietly:

âYes.â

Hercule Poirot moved in his chair. He said:

âYou interest meâ¦.â

After a minute or two he said:

âYou had better, I think, tell me the exact facts of the case.â

âHavenât you read anything about it in the papers?â

Hercule Poirot waved a hand.

âA mention of itâyes. But the newspapers, they are so inaccurate, I never go by what they say.â

Peter Lord said:

âItâs quite simple. Horribly simple. This girl, Elinor Carlisle, had just come into a place near hereâHunterbury Hallâand a fortune from her aunt, who died intestate. Auntâs name was Welman. Aunt had a nephew by marriage Roderick Welman. He was engaged to Elinor Carlisleâlong-standing business, known each other since children. There was a girl down at Hunterbury: Mary Gerrard, daughter of the lodgekeeper. Old Mrs. Welman had made a lot of fuss about her, paid for her education, etc. Consequence is, girl was to outward seeming a lady. Roderick Welman, it seems, fell for her. In consequence, engagement was broken off.

âNow we come to the doings. Elinor Carlisle put up the place for sale and a man called Somervell bought it. Elinor came down to clear out her auntâs personal possessions and so on. Mary Gerrard, whose father had just died, was clearing out the Lodge. That brings us to the morning of July 27th.

âElinor Carlisle was staying at the local pub. In the street she met the former housekeeper, Mrs. Bishop. Mrs. Bishop suggested coming up to the house to help her. Elinor refusedârather over-vehemently. Then she went into the grocerâs shop and bought some fish paste, and there she made a remark about food poisoning. You see? Perfectly innocent thing to do; but, of course, it tells against her! She went up to the house, and about one oâclock she went down to the Lodge, where Mary Gerrard was busy with the District Nurse, a Nosey Parker of a woman called Hopkins, helping her, and told them that she had some sandwiches ready up at the house. They came up to the house with her, ate sandwiches, and about an hour or so later I was sent for and found Mary Gerrard unconscious. Did all I could, but it was no good. Autopsy revealed large dose of morphine had been taken a short time previously. And the police found a scrap of a label with morphia hydrochlor on it just where Elinor Carlisle had been spreading the sandwiches.â

âWhat else did Mary Gerrard eat or drink?â

âShe and the District Nurse drank tea with the sandwiches. Nurse made it and Mary poured it out. Couldnât have been anything there. Of course, I understand Counsel will make a song and dance about sandwiches, too, saying all three ate them, therefore impossible to ensure that only one person should be poisoned. They said that in the Hearne case, you remember.â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âBut actually it is very simple. You make your pile of sandwiches. In one of them is the poison. You hand the plate. In our state of civilization it is a foregone conclusion that the person to whom the plate is offered will take the sandwich that is nearest to them. I presume that Elinor Carlisle handed the plate to Mary Gerrard first?â

âExactly.â

âAlthough the nurse, who was an older woman, was in the room?â

âYes.â

âThat does not look very good.â

âIt doesnât mean a thing, really. You donât stand on ceremony at a picnic lunch.â

âWho cut the sandwiches?â

âElinor Carlisle.â

âWas there anyone else in the house?â

âNo one.â

Poirot shook his head.

âIt is bad, that. And the girl had nothing but the tea and the sandwiches?â

âNothing. Stomach contents tell us that.â

Poirot said:

âIt is suggested that Elinor Carlisle hoped the girlâs death would be taken for food poisoning? How did she propose to explain the fact that only one member of the party was affected?â

Peter Lord said:

âIt does happen that way sometimes. Also, there were two pots of pasteâboth much alike in appearance. The idea would be that one pot was all right and that by a coincidence all the bad paste was eaten by Mary.â

âAn interesting study in the laws of probability,â said Poirot. âThe mathematical chances against that happening would be high, I fancy. But another point, if food poisoning was to be suggested: Why not choose a different poison? The symptoms of morphine are not in the least like those of food poisoning. Atropine, surely, would have been a better choice!â

Peter Lord said slowly:

âYes, thatâs true. But thereâs something more. That damned District Nurse swears she lost a tube of morphine!â

âWhen?â

âOh, weeks earlier, the night old Mrs. Welman died. The nurse says she left her case in the hall and found a tube of morphine missing in the morning. All bunkum, I believe. Probably smashed it at home some time before and forgot about it.â

âShe has only remembered it since the death of Mary Gerrard?â

Peter Lord said reluctantly:

âAs a matter of fact, she did mention it at the timeâto the nurse on duty.â

Hercule Poirot was looking at Peter Lord with some interest.

He said gently:

âI think, mon cher, there is something elseâsomething that you have not yet told me.â

Peter Lord said:

âOh, well, I suppose youâd better have it all. Theyâre applying for an exhumation order and going to dig up old Mrs. Welman.â

Poirot said:

âEh bien?â

Peter Lord said:

âWhen they do, theyâll probably find what theyâre looking forâmorphine!â

âYou knew that?â

Peter Lord, his face white under the freckles, muttered:

âI suspected it.â

Hercule Poirot beat with his hand on the arm of his chair. He cried out:

âMon Dieu, I do not understand you! You knew when she died that she had been murdered?â

Peter Lord shouted:

âGood lord, no! I never dreamt of such a thing! I thought sheâd taken it herself.â

Poirot sank back in his chair.

âAh! You thought thatâ¦.â

âOf course I did! Sheâd talked to me about it. Asked me more than once if I couldnât âfinish her off.â She hated illness, the helplessness of itâtheâwhat she called the indignity of lying there tended like a baby. And she was a very determined woman.â

He was silent a moment, then he went on:

âI was surprised at her death. I hadnât expected it. I sent the nurse out of the room and made as thorough an investigation as I could. Of course, it was impossible to be sure without an autopsy. Well, what was the good of that? If sheâd taken a shortcut, why make a song and dance about it and create a scandal? Better sign the certificate and let her be buried in peace. After all, I couldnât be sure. I decided wrong, I suppose. But I never dreamed for one moment of foul play. I was quite sure sheâd done it herself.â

Poirot asked:

âHow do you think she had got hold of the morphine?â

âI hadnât the least idea. But, as I tell you, she was a clever, resourceful woman, with plenty of ingenuity and remarkable determination.â

âWould she have got it from the nurses?â

Peter Lord shook his head.

âNever on your life! You donât know nurses!â

âFrom her family?â

âPossibly. Might have worked on their feelings.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âYou have told me that Mrs. Welman died intestate. If she had lived, would she have made a will?â

Peter Lord grinned suddenly.

âPutting your finger with fiendish accuracy on all the vital spots, arenât you? Yes, she was going to make a will; very agitated about it. Couldnât speak intelligently, but made her wishes clear. Elinor Carlisle was to have telephoned the lawyer first thing in the morning.â

âSo Elinor Carlisle knew that her aunt wanted to make a will? And if her aunt died without making one, Elinor Carlisle inherited everything?â

Peter Lord said quickly:

âShe didnât know that. Sheâd no idea her aunt had never made a will.â

âThat, my friend, is what she says. She may have known.â

âLook here, Poirot, are you the Prosecuting Counsel?â

âAt the moment, yes. I must know the full strength of the case against her. Could Elinor Carlisle have taken the morphine from the attachÃ© case?â

âYes. So could anyone else. Roderick Welman. Nurse OâBrien. Any of the servants.â

âOr Dr. Lord?â

Peter Lordâs eyes opened wide. He said:

âCertainlyâ¦ But what would be the idea?â

âMercy, perhaps.â

Peter Lord shook his head.

âNothing doing there! Youâll have to believe me!â

Hercule Poirot leaned back in his chair. He said:

âLet us entertain a supposition. Let us say that Elinor Carlisle did take that morphine from the attachÃ© case and did administer it to her aunt. Was anything said about the loss of the morphine?â

âNot to the household. The two nurses kept it to themselves.â

Poirot said:

âWhat, in your opinion, will be the action of the Crown?â

âYou mean if they find morphine in Mrs. Welmanâs body?â

âYes.â

Peter Lord said grimly:

âItâs possible that if Elinor is acquitted of the present charge she will be rearrested and charged with the murder of her aunt.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âThe motives are different; that is to say, in the case of Mrs. Welman the motive would have been gain, whereas in the case of Mary Gerrard the motive is supposed to be jealousy.â

âThatâs right.â

Poirot said:

âWhat line does the defence propose to take?â

Peter Lord said:

âBulmer proposes to take the line that there was no motive. Heâll put forward the theory that the engagement between Elinor and Roderick was a family business, entered into for family reasons, to please Mrs. Welman, and that the moment the old lady was dead Elinor broke it off of her own accord. Roderick Welman will give evidence to that effect. I think he almost believes it!â

âBelieves that Elinor did not care for him to any great extent?â

âYes.â

âIn which case,â said Poirot, âshe would have no reason for murdering Mary Gerrard.â

âExactly.â

âBut in that case, who did murder Mary Gerrard?â

âAs you say.â

Poirot shook his head.

âCâest difficile.â

Peter Lord said vehemently:

âThatâs just it! If she didnât, who did? Thereâs the tea; but both Nurse Hopkins and Mary drank that. The defence will try to suggest that Mary Gerrard took the morphine herself after the other two had left the roomâthat she committed suicide, in fact.â

âHad she any reason for committing suicide?â

âNone whatever.â

âWas she of a suicidal type?â

âNo.â

Poirot said:

âWhat was she like, this Mary Gerrard?â

Peter Lord considered:

âShe wasâwell, she was a nice kid. Yes, definitely a nice kid.â

Poirot sighed. He murmured:

âThis Roderick Welman, did he fall in love with her because she was a nice kid?â

Peter Lord smiled.

âOh, I get what you mean. She was beautiful, all right.â

âAnd you yourself? You had no feeling for her?â

Peter Lord stared.

âGood lord, no.â

Hercule Poirot reflected for a moment or two, then he said:

âRoderick Welman says that there was affection between him and Elinor Carlisle, but nothing stronger. Do you agree to that?â

âHow the hell should I know?â

Poirot shook his head.

âYou told me when you came into this room that Elinor Carlisle had the bad taste to be in love with a long-nosed, supercilious ass. That, I presume, is a description of Roderick Welman. So, according to you, she does care for him.â

Peter Lord said in a low, exasperated voice:

âShe cares for him all right! Cares like hell!â

Poirot said:

âThen there was a motiveâ¦.â

Peter Lord swerved round on him, his face alight with anger.

âDoes it matter? She might have done it, yes! I donât care if she did.â

Poirot said:

âAha!â

âBut I donât want her hanged, I tell you! Supposing she was driven desperate? Loveâs a desperate and twisting business. It can turn a worm into a fine fellowâand it can bring a decent, straight man down to the dregs! Suppose she did do it. Havenât you got any pity?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âI do not approve of murder.â

Peter Lord stared at him, looked away, stared again and finally burst out laughing.

âOf all the things to sayâso prim and smug, too! Whoâs asking you to approve? Iâm not asking you to tell lies! Truthâs truth, isnât it? If you find something that tells in an accused personâs favour, you wouldnât be inclined to suppress it because sheâs guilty, would you?â

âCertainly not.â

âThen why the hell canât you do what I ask you?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âMy friend, I am perfectly prepared to do soâ¦.â

Two

Peter Lord stared at him, took out a handkerchief, wiped his face and threw himself down in a chair.

âWhoof!â he said. âYou got me all worked up! I didnât see in the least what you were getting at!â

Poirot said:

âI was examining the case against Elinor Carlisle. Now I know it. Morphine was administered to Mary Gerrard; and, as far as I can see, it must have been given in the sandwiches. Nobody touched those sandwiches except Elinor Carlisle. Elinor Carlisle had a motive for killing Mary Gerrard, and she is, in your opinion, capable of killing Mary Gerrard, and in all probability she did kill Mary Gerrard. I see no reason for believing otherwise.

âThat, mon ami, is one side of the question. Now we will proceed to stage two. We will dismiss all those considerations from our mind and we will approach the matter from the opposite angle: If Elinor Carlisle did not kill Mary Gerrard, who did? Or did Mary Gerrard commit suicide?â

Peter Lord sat up. A frown creased his forehead. He said:

âYou werenât quite accurate just now.â

âI? Not accurate?â

Poirot sounded affronted.

Peter Lord pursued relentlessly:

âNo. You said nobody but Elinor Carlisle touched those sandwiches. You donât know that.â

âThere was no one else in the house.â

âAs far as we know. But you are excluding a short period of time. There was a time during which Elinor Carlisle left the house to go down to the Lodge. During that period of time the sandwiches were on a plate in the pantry, and somebody could have tampered with them.â

Poirot drew a deep breath.

He said:

âYou are right, my friend. I admit it. There was a time during which somebody could have had access to the plate of sandwiches. We must try to form some idea who that somebody could be; that is to say, what kind of personâ¦.â

He paused.

âLet us consider this Mary Gerrard. Someone, not Elinor Carlisle, desires her death. Why? Did anyone stand to gain by her death? Had she money to leave?â

Peter Lord shook his head.

âNot now. In another month she would have had two thousand pounds. Elinor Carlisle was making that sum over to her because she believed her aunt would have wished it. But the old ladyâs estate isnât wound up yet.â

Poirot said:

âThen we can wash out the money angle. Mary Gerrard was beautiful, you say. With that there are always complications. She had admirers?â

âProbably. I donât know much about it.â

âWho would know?â

Peter Lord grinned.

âIâd better put you on to Nurse Hopkins. Sheâs the town crier. She knows everything that goes on in Maidensford.â

âI was going to ask you to give me your impressions of the two nurses.â

âWell, OâBrienâs Irish, good nurse, competent, a bit silly, could be spiteful, a bit of a liarâthe imaginative kind thatâs not so much deceitful, but just has to make a good story out of everything.â

Poirot nodded.

âHopkins is a sensible, shrewd, middle-aged woman, quite kindly and competent, but a sight too much interested in other peopleâs business!â

âIf there had been trouble over some young man in the village, would Nurse Hopkins know about it?â

âYou bet!â

He added slowly:

âAll the same, I donât believe there can be anything very obvious in that line. Mary hadnât been home long. Sheâd been away in Germany for two years.â

âShe was twenty-one?â

âYes.â

âThere may be some German complication.â

Peter Lordâs face brightened.

He said eagerly:

âYou mean that some German fellow may have had it in for her? He may have followed her over here, waited his time, and finally achieved his object?â

âIt sounds a little melodramatic,â said Hercule Poirot doubtfully.

âBut itâs possible?â

âNot very probable, though.â

Peter Lord said:

âI donât agree. Someone might get all het up about the girl, and see red when she turned him down. He may have fancied she treated him badly. Itâs an idea.â

âIt is an idea, yes,â said Hercule Poirot, but his tone was not encouraging.

Peter Lord said pleadingly:

âGo on, M. Poirot.â

âYou want me, I see, to be the conjurer. To take out of the empty hat rabbit after rabbit.â

âYou can put it that way if you like.â

âThere is another possibility,â said Hercule Poirot.

âGo on.â

âSomeone abstracted a tube of morphine from Nurse Hopkinsâ case that evening in June. Suppose Mary Gerrard saw the person who did it?â

âShe would have said so.â

âNo, no, mon cher. Be reasonable. If Elinor Carlisle, or Roderick Welman, or Nurse OâBrien, or even any of the servants, were to open that case and abstract a little glass tube, what would anyone think? Simply that the person in question had been sent by the nurse to fetch something from it. The matter would pass straight out of Mary Gerrardâs mind again, but it is possible that, later, she might recollect the fact and might mention it casually to the person in questionâoh, without the least suspicion in the world. But to the person guilty of the murder of Mrs. Welman, imagine the effect of that remark! Mary had seen: Mary must be silenced at all costs! I can assure you, my friend, that anyone who has once committed a murder finds it only too easy to commit another!â

Peter Lord said with a frown:

âIâve believed all along that Mrs. Welman took the stuff herselfâ¦.â

âBut she was paralysedâhelplessâshe had just had a second stroke.â

âOh, I know. My idea was that, having got hold of morphine somehow or other, she kept it by her in a receptacle close at hand.â

âBut in that case she must have got hold of the morphine before her second attack and the nurse missed it afterwards.â

âHopkins may only have missed the morphine that morning. It might have been taken a couple of days before, and she hadnât noticed it.â

âHow would the old lady have got hold of it?â

âI donât know. Bribed a servant, perhaps. If so, that servantâs never going to tell.â

âYou donât think either of the nurses were bribable?â

Lord shook his head.

âNot on your life! To begin with, theyâre both very strict about their professional ethicsâand in addition theyâd be scared to death to do such a thing. Theyâd know the danger to themselves.â

Poirot said:

âThat is so.â

He added thoughtfully:

âIt looks, does it not, as though we return to our muttons? Who is the most likely person to have taken that morphine tube? Elinor Carlisle. We may say that she wished to make sure of inheriting a large fortune. We may be more generous and say that she was actuated by pity, that she took the morphine and administered it in compliance with her auntâs often-repeated request; but she took itâand Mary Gerrard saw her do it. And so we are back at the sandwiches and the empty house, and we have Elinor Carlisle once moreâbut this time with a different motive: to save her neck.â

Peter Lord cried out:

âThatâs fantastic. I tell you, she isnât that kind of person! Money doesnât really mean anything to herâor to Roderick Welman, either, Iâm bound to admit. Iâve heard them both say as much!â

âYou have? That is very interesting. That is the kind of statement I always look upon with a good deal of suspicion myself.â

Peter Lord said:

âDamn you, Poirot, must you always twist everything round so that it comes back to that girl?â

âIt is not I that twist things round: they come round of themselves. It is like the pointer at the fair. It swings round, and when it comes to rest it points always at the same nameâElinor Carlisle.â

Peter Lord said:

âNo!â

Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly.

Then he said:

âHas she relations, this Elinor Carlisle? Sisters, cousins? A father or mother?â

âNo. Sheâs an orphanâalone in the worldâ¦.â

âHow pathetic it sounds! Bulmer, I am sure, will make great play with that! Who, then, inherits her money if she dies?â

âI donât know. I havenât thought.â

Poirot said reprovingly:

âOne should always think of these things. Has she made a will, for instance?â

Peter Lord flushed. He said uncertainly:

âIâI donât know.â

Hercule Poirot looked at the ceiling and joined his fingertips.

He remarked:

âIt would be well, you know, to tell me.â

âTell you what?â

âExactly what is in your mindâno matter how damaging it may happen to be to Elinor Carlisle.â

âHow do you knowâ?â

âYes, yes, I know. There is somethingâsome incident in your mind! It will be as well to tell me, otherwise I shall imagine it is something worse than it is!â

âItâs nothing, reallyââ

âWe will agree it is nothing. But let me hear what it is.â

Slowly, unwillingly, Peter Lord allowed the story to be dragged from himâthat scene of Elinor leaning in at the window of Nurse Hopkinsâ cottage, and of her laughter.

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âShe said that, did she, âSo youâre making your will, Mary? Thatâs funnyâthatâs very funny.â And it was very clear to you what was in her mindâ¦She had been thinking, perhaps, that Mary Gerrard was not going to live longâ¦.â

Peter Lord said:

âI only imagined that. I donât know.â

Poirot said:

âNo, you did not only imagine itâ¦.â

Three

Hercule Poirot sat in Nurse Hopkinsâ cottage.

Dr. Lord had brought him there, had introducd him and had then, at a glance from Poirot, left him to a tÃªte-Ã -tÃªte.

Having, to begin with, eyed his foreign appearance somewhat askance, Nurse Hopkins was now thawing rapidly.

She said with a faintly gloomy relish:

âYes, itâs a terrible thing. One of the most terrible things Iâve ever known. Mary was one of the most beautiful girls youâve ever seen. Might have gone on the films any time! And a nice steady girl, too, and not stuck-up, as she might have been with all the notice taken of her.â

Poirot, inserting a question adroitly, said:

âYou mean the notice taken of her by Mrs. Welman?â

âThatâs what I mean. The old lady had taken a tremendous fancy to herâreally, a tremendous fancy.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âSurprising, perhaps?â

âThat depends. It might be quite natural, really. I meanâ¦â Nurse Hopkins bit her lip and looked confused. âWhat I mean is, Mary had a very pretty way with her: nice soft voice and pleasant manners. And itâs my opinion it does an elderly person good to have a young face about.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âMiss Carlisle came down occasionally, I suppose, to see her aunt?â

Nurse Hopkins said sharply:

âMiss Carlisle came down when it suited her.â

Poirot murmured:

âYou do not like Miss Carlisle.â

Nurse Hopkins cried out:

âI should hope not, indeed! A poisoner! A cold-blooded poisoner!â

âAh,â said Hercule Poirot, âI see you have made up your mind.â

Nurse Hopkins said suspiciously:

âWhat do you mean? Made up my mind?â

âYou are quite sure that it was she who administered morphine to Mary Gerrard?â

âWho else could have done it, I should like to know? Youâre not suggesting that I did?â

âNot for a moment. But her guilt has not yet been proved, remember.â

Nurse Hopkins said with calm assurance:

âShe did it all right. Apart from anything else, you could see it in her face. Queer she was, all the time. And taking me away upstairs and keeping me thereâdelaying as long as possible. And then when I turned on her, after finding Mary like that, it was there in her face as plain as anything. She knew I knew!â

Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:

âIt is certainly difficult to see who else could have done it. Unless of course, she did it herself.â

âWhat do you mean, did it herself? Do you mean that Mary committed suicide? I never heard such nonsense!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âOne can never tell. The heart of a young girl, it is very sensitive, very tender.â He paused. âIt would have been possible, I suppose? She could have slipped something into her tea without your noticing her?â

âSlipped it into her cup, you mean?â

âYes. You werenât watching her all the time.â

âI wasnât watching herâno. Yes, I suppose she could have done thatâ¦ But itâs all nonsense! What would she want to do a thing like that for?â

Hercule Poirot shook his head with a resumption of his former manner.

âA young girlâs heartâ¦as I say, so sensitive. An unhappy love affair, perhapsââ

Nurse Hopkins gave a snort.

âGirls donât kill themselves for love affairsânot unless theyâre in the family wayâand Mary wasnât that, let me tell you!â She glared at him belligerently.

âAnd she was not in love?â

âNot she. Quite fancy free. Keen on her job and enjoying her life.â

âBut she must have had admirers, since she was such an attractive girl.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âShe wasnât one of these girls who are all S.A. and IT. She was a quiet girl!â

âBut there were young men, no doubt, in the village who admired her.â

âThere was Ted Bigland, of course,â said Nurse Hopkins.

Poirot extracted various details as to Ted Bigland.

âVery gone on Mary, he was,â said Nurse Hopkins. âBut, as I told her, she was a cut above him.â

Poirot said:

âHe must have been angry when she would not have anything to do with him?â

âHe was sore about it, yes,â admitted Nurse Hopkins. âBlamed me for it, too.â

âHe thought it was your fault?â

âThatâs what he said. Iâd a perfect right to advise the girl. After all, I know something of the world. I didnât want the girl to throw herself away.â

Poirot said gently:

âWhat made you take so much interest in the girl?â

âWell, I donât knowâ¦â Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She looked shy and a little ashamed of herself. âThere was somethingâwellâromantic about Mary.â

Poirot murmured:

âAbout her, perhaps, but not about her circumstances. She was the lodge keeperâs daughter, wasnât she?â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âYesâyes, of course. At leastââ

She hesitated, looked at Poirot, who was gazing at her in the most sympathetic manner.

âAs a matter of fact,â said Nurse Hopkins, in a burst of confidence, âshe wasnât old Gerrardâs daughter at all. He told me so. Her father was a gentleman.â

Poirot murmured:

âI seeâ¦ And her mother?â

Nurse Hopkins hesitated, bit her lip, and then went on:

âHer mother had been a ladyâs maid to old Mrs. Welman. She married Gerrard after Mary was born.â

âAs you say, quite a romanceâa mystery romance.â

Nurse Hopkinsâ face lit up.

âWasnât it? One canât help taking an interest in people when one knows something that nobody else does about them. Just by chance I happened to find out a good deal. As a matter of fact, it was Nurse OâBrien who set me on the track; but thatâs another story. But, as you say, itâs interesting knowing past history. Thereâs many a tragedy that goes unguessed at. Itâs a sad world.â

Poirot sighed and shook his head.

Nurse Hopkins said with sudden alarm:

âBut I oughtnât to have gone talking like this. I wouldnât have a word of this get out for anything! After all, itâs nothing to do with the case. As far as the world is concerned, Mary was Gerrardâs daughter, and there mustnât be a hint of anything else. Damaging her in the eyes of the world after sheâs dead! He married her mother, and thatâs enough.â

Poirot murmured:

âBut you know, perhaps, who her real father was?â

Nurse Hopkins said reluctantly:

âWell, perhaps I do; but, then again, perhaps I donât. That is, I donât know anything. I could take a guess. Old sins have long shadows, as they say! But Iâm not one to talk, and I shanât say another word.â

Poirot tactfully retired from the fray and attacked another subject.

âThere is something elseâa delicate matter. But I am sure I can rely on your discretion.â

Nurse Hopkins bridled. A broad smile appeared on her homely face.

Poirot continued:

âI speak of Mr. Roderick Welman. He was, so I hear, attracted by Mary Gerrard.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âBowled over by her!â

âAlthough at the time he was engaged to Miss Carlisle?â

âIf you ask me,â said Nurse Hopkins, âhe was never really sweet on Miss Carlisle. Not what Iâd call sweet on her.â

Poirot asked, using an old-fashioned term:

âDid Mary Gerrardâerâencourage his advances?â

Nurse Hopkins said sharply:

âShe behaved very well. Nobody could say she led him on!â

Poirot said:

âWas she in love with him?â

Nurse Hopkins said sharply:

âNo, she wasnât.â

âBut she liked him?â

âOh, yes, she liked him well enough.â

âAnd I suppose, in time, something might have come of it?â

Nurse Hopkins admitted that.

âThat may be. But Mary wouldnât have done anything in a hurry. She told him down here he had no business to speak like that to her when he was engaged to Miss Elinor. And when he came to see her in London she said the same.â

Poirot asked with an air of engaging candour:

âWhat do you think yourself of Mr. Roderick Welman?â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âHeâs a nice enough young fellow. Nervy, though. Looks as though he might be dyspeptic later on. Those nervy ones often are.â

âWas he very fond of his aunt?â

âI believe so.â

âDid he sit with her much when she was so ill?â

âYou mean when she had that second stroke? The night before she died when they came down? I donât believe he even went into her room!â

âReally.â

Nurse Hopkins said quickly:

âShe didnât ask for him. And, of course, weâd no idea the end was so near. There are a lot of men like that, you know: fight shy of a sickroom. They canât help it. And itâs not heartlessness. They just donât want to be upset in their feelings.â

Poirot nodded comprehendingly.

He said:

âAre you sure Mr. Welman did not go into his auntâs room before she died?â

âWell not while I was on duty! Nurse OâBrien relieved me at 3 a.m., and she may have fetched him before the end; but, if so, she didnât mention it to me.â

Poirot suggested:

âHe may have gone into her room when you were absent?â

Nurse Hopkins snapped:

âI donât leave my patients unattended, Mr. Poirot.â

âA thousand apologies. I did not mean that. I thought perhaps you might have had to boil water, or to run downstairs for some necessary stimulant.â

Mollified, Nurse Hopkins said:

âI did go down to change the bottles and get them refilled. I knew thereâd be a kettle on the boil down in the kitchen.â

âYou were away long?â

âFive minutes, perhaps.â

âAh, yes, then Mr. Welman may have just looked in on her then?â

âHe must have been very quick about it if he did.â

Poirot sighed. He said:

âAs you say, men fight shy of illness. It is the women who are the ministering angels. What should we do without them? Especially women of your professionâa truly noble calling.â

Nurse Hopkins, slightly red in the face, said:

âItâs very kind of you to say that. Iâve never thought of it that way myself. Too much hard work in nursing to think about the noble side of it.â

Poirot said:

âAnd there is nothing else you can tell me about Mary Gerrard?â

There was an appreciable pause before Nurse Hopkins answered:

âI donât know of anything.â

âAre you quite sure?â

Nurse Hopkins said rather incoherently:

âYou donât understand. I was fond of Mary.â

âAnd there is nothing more you can tell me?â

âNo, there is not! And thatâs flat.â

Four

In the awesome majesty of Mrs. Bishopâs black-clad presence Hercule Poirot sat humbly insignificant.

The thawing of Mrs. Bishop was no easy matter. For Mrs. Bishop, a lady of Conservative habits and views, strongly disapproved of foreigners. And a foreigner most indubitably Hercule Poirot was. Her responses were frosty and she eyed him with disfavour and suspicion.

Dr. Lordâs introduction of him had done little to soften the situation.

âI am sure,â said Mrs. Bishop when Dr. Lord had gone, âDr. Lord is a very clever doctor and means well. Dr. Ransome, his predecessor, had been here many years!â

Dr. Ransome, that is to say, could be trusted to behave in a manner suitable to the county. Dr. Lord, a mere irresponsible youngster, an upstart who had taken Dr. Ransomeâs place, had only one recommendation: âclevernessâ in his profession.

Cleverness, the whole demeamour of Mrs. Bishop seemed to say, is not enough!

Hercule Poirot was persuasive. He was adroit. But charm he never so wisely, Mrs. Bishop remained aloof and implacable.

The death of Mrs. Welman had been very sad. She had been much respected in the neighbourhood. The arrest of Miss Carlisle was âDisgraceful!â and believed to be the result of âthese newfangled police methods.â The views of Mrs. Bishop upon the death of Mary Gerrard were vague in the extreme. âI couldnât say, Iâm sure,â being the most she could be brought to say.

Hercule Poirot played his last card. He recounted with naÃ¯ve pride a recent visit of his to Sandringham. He spoke with admiration of the graciousness and delightful simplicity and kindness of Royalty.

Mrs. Bishop, who followed daily in the court circular the exact movements of Royalty, was overborne. After all, if They had sent for Mr. Poirotâ¦ Well, naturally, that made All the Difference. Foreigner or no foreigner, who was she, Emma Bishop, to hold back where Royalty had led the way?

Presently she and M. Poirot were engaged in pleasant conversation on a really interesting themeâno less than the selection of a suitable future husband for Princess Elizabeth.

Having finally exhausted all possible candidates as Not Good Enough, the talk reverted to less exalted circles.

Poirot observed sententiously:

âMarriage, alas, is fraught with dangers and pitfalls!â

Mrs. Bishop said:

âYes, indeedâwith this nasty divorce,â rather as though she were speaking of a contagious disease such as chickenpox.

âI expect,â said Poirot, âthat Mrs. Welman, before her death, must have been anxious to see her niece suitably settled in life?â

Mrs. Bishop bowed her head.

âYes, indeed. The engagement between Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick was a great relief to her. It was a thing she had always hoped for.â

Poirot ventured:

âThe engagement was perhaps entered into partly from a wish to please her?â

âOh, no, I wouldnât say that, Mr. Poirot. Miss Elinor has always been devoted to Mr. Roddyâalways was, as a tiny totâquite beautiful to see. Miss Elinor has a very loyal and devoted nature!â

Poirot murmured:

âAnd he?â

Mrs. Bishop said austerely:

âMr. Roderick was devoted to Miss Elinor.â

Poirot said:

âYet the engagement, I think, was broken off?â

The colour rose in Mrs. Bishopâs face. She said:

âOwing, Mr. Poirot, to the machinations of a snake in the grass.â

Poirot said, appearing suitably impressed:

âIndeed?â

Mrs. Bishop, her face becoming redder still, explained:

âIn this country, Mr. Poirot, there is a certain Decency to be observed when mentioning the Dead. But that young woman, Mr. Poirot, was Underhand in her Dealings.â

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

Then he said with an apparent lack of guile:

âYou surprise me. I had been given the impression that she was a very simple and unassuming girl.â

Mrs. Bishopâs chin trembled a little.

âShe was Artful, Mr. Poirot. People were Taken In by her. That Nurse Hopkins, for instance! Yes, and my poor dear mistress too!â

Poirot shook his head sympathetically and made a clacking noise with his tongue.

âYes, indeed,â said Mrs. Bishop, stimulated by these encouraging noises. âShe was failing, poor dear, and that young woman Wormed her way into her Confidence. She knew which side of her bread was buttered. Always hovering about, reading to her, bringing her little nosegays of flowers. It was Mary this and Mary that and âWhereâs Mary?â all the time! The money she spent on the girl, too! Expensive schools and finishing places abroadâand the girl nothing but old Gerrardâs daughter! He didnât like it, I can tell you! Used to complain of her Fine Lady ways. Above Herself, thatâs what She was.â

This time Poirot shook his head and said commiseratingly:

âDear, dear.â

âAnd then Making Up to Mr. Roddy the way she did! He was too simple to see through Her. And Miss Elinor, a nice-minded young lady as she is, of course she wouldnât realize what was Going On. But Men, they are all alike: easily caught by flattery and a pretty face!â

Poirot sighed.

âShe had, I suppose, admirers of her own class?â he asked.

âOf course she had. There was Rufus Biglandâs son Tedâas nice a boy as you could find. But oh, no, my fine lady was too good for him! Iâd no patience with such airs and graces!â

Poirot said:

âWas he not angry about her treatment of him?â

âYes, indeed. He accused her of carrying on with Mr. Roddy. I know that for a fact. I donât blame the boy for feeling sore!â

âNor I,â said Poirot. âYou interest me extremely, Mrs. Bishop. Some people have the knack of presenting a character clearly and vigorously in a few words. It is a great gift. I have at last a clear picture of Mary Gerrard.â

âMind you,â said Mrs. Bishop, âIâm not saying a word against the girl! I wouldnât do such a thingâand she in her grave. But thereâs no doubt that she caused a lot of trouble!â

Poirot murmured:

âWhere would it have ended, I wonder?â

âThatâs what I say!â said Mrs. Bishop. âYou can take it from me, Mr. Poirot, that if my dear mistress hadnât died when she didâawful as the shock was at the time, I see now that it was a Mercy in DisguiseâI donât know what might have been the end of it!â

Poirot said invitingly:

âYou mean?â

Mrs. Bishop said solemnly:

âIâve come across it time and again. My own sister was in service where it happened. Once when old Colonel Randolph died and left every penny away from his poor wife to a hussy living at Eastbourneâand once old Mrs. Dacresâleft it to the organist of the churchâone of those long-haired young menâand she with married sons and daughters.â

Poirot said:

âYou mean, I take it, that Mrs. Welman might have left all her money to Mary Gerrard?â

âIt wouldnât have surprised me!â said Mrs. Bishop. âThatâs what the young woman was working up to, Iâve no doubt. And if I ventured to say a word, Mrs. Welman was ready to bite my head off, though Iâd been with her nearly twenty years. Itâs an ungrateful world, Mr. Poirot. You try to do your duty and it is not appreciated.â

âAlas,â sighed Poirot, âhow true that is!â

âBut Wickedness doesnât always flourish,â said Mrs. Bishop.

Poirot said:

âTrue. Mary Gerrard is deadâ¦.â

Mrs. Bishop said comfortably:

âSheâs gone to her reckoning, and we mustnât judge her.â

Poirot mused:

âThe circumstances of her death seem quite inexplicable.â

âThese police and their newfangled ideas,â said Mrs. Bishop. âIs it likely that a well-bred, nicely brought up young lady like Miss Elinor would go about poisoning anyone? Trying to drag me into it, too, saying I said her manner was peculiar!â

âBut was it not peculiar?â

âAnd why shouldnât it be?â Mrs. Bishopâs bust heaved with a flash of jet. âMiss Elinorâs a young lady of feelings. She was going to turn out her auntâs thingsâand thatâs always a painful business.â

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

He said:

âIt would have made it much easier for her if you had accompanied her.â

âI wanted to, Mr. Poirot, but she took me up quite sharp. Oh, well, Miss Elinor was always a very proud and reserved young lady. I wish, though, that I had gone with her.â

Poirot murmured:

âYou did not think of following her up to the house?â

Mrs. Bishop reared her head majestically.

âI donât go where Iâm not wanted, Mr. Poirot.â

Poirot looked abashed. He murmured:

âBesides, you had doubtless matters of importance to attend to that morning?â

âIt was a very warm day, I remember. Very sultry.â She sighed. âI walked to the cemetery to place a few flowers on Mrs. Welmanâs grave, a token of respect, and I had to rest there quite a long time. Quite overcome by the heat, I was. I got home late for lunch, and my sister was quite upset when she saw the State of Heat I was in! Said I never should have done it on a day like that.â

Poirot looked at her with admiration.

He said:

âI envy you, Mrs. Bishop. It is pleasant indeed to have nothing with which to reproach oneself after a death. Mr. Roderick Welman, I fancy, must blame himself for not going in to see his aunt that night, though naturally he could not know she was going to pass away so soon.â

âOh, but youâre quite wrong, Mr. Poirot. I can tell you that for a fact. Mr. Roddy did go into his auntâs room. I was just outside on the landing myself. Iâd heard that nurse go off downstairs, and I thought maybe Iâd better make sure the mistress wasnât needing anything, for you know what nurses are: always staying downstairs to gossip with the maids, or else worrying them to death by asking them for things. Not that Nurse Hopkins was as bad as that red-haired Irish nurse. Always chattering and making trouble, she was! But, as I say, I thought Iâd just see everything was all right, and it was then that I saw Mr. Roddy slip into his auntâs room. I donât know whether she knew him or not; but anyway he hasnât got anything to reproach himself with!â

Poirot said:

âI am glad. He is of a somewhat nervous disposition.â

âJust a trifle cranky. He always has been.â

Poirot said:

âMrs. Bishop, you are evidently a woman of great understanding. I have formed a high regard for your judgement. What do you think is the truth about the death of Mary Gerrard?â

Mrs. Bishop snorted.

âClear enough, I should think! One of those nasty pots of paste of Abbottâs. Keeps them on those shelves for months! My second cousin was took ill and nearly died once, with tinned crab!â

Poirot objected:

âBut what about the morphine found in the body?â

Mrs. Bishop said grandly:

âI donât know anything about morphine! I know what doctors are: Tell them to look for something, and theyâll find it! Tainted fish paste isnât good enough for them!â

Poirot said:

âYou do not think it possible that she committed suicide?â

âShe?â Mrs. Bishop snorted. âNo indeed. Hadnât she made up her mind to marry Mr. Roddy? Catch her committing suicide!â

Five

Since it was a Sunday, Hercule Poirot found Ted Bigland at his fatherâs farm.

There was little difficulty in getting Ted Bigland to talk. He seemed to welcome the opportunityâas though it was a relief.

He said thoughtfully:

âSo youâre trying to find out who killed Mary? Itâs a black mystery, that.â

Poirot said:

âYou do not believe that Miss Carlisle killed her, then?â

Ted Bigland frownedâa puzzled, almost childlike frown it was.

He said slowly:

âMiss Elinorâs a lady. Sheâs the kindâwell, you couldnât imagine her doing anything like thatâanything violent, if you know what I mean. After all, âtisnât likely, is it, sir, that a nice young lady would go and do a thing of that kind?â

Hercule Poirot nodded in a contemplative manner.

He said:

âNo, it is not likelyâ¦ But when it comes to jealousyââ

He paused, watching the good-looking, fair young giant before him.

Ted Bigland said:

âJealousy? I know things happen that way; but itâs usually drink and getting worked up that makes a fellow see red and run amok. Miss Elinorâa nice quiet young lady like thatââ

Poirot said:

âBut Mary Gerrard diedâ¦and she did not die a natural death. Have you any ideaâis there anything you can tell me to help me find outâwho killed Mary Gerrard?â

Slowly the other shook his head.

He said:

âIt doesnât seem right. It doesnât seem possible, if you take my meaning, that anyone could have killed Mary. She wasâshe was like a flower.â

And suddenly, for a vivid minute, Hercule Poirot had a new conception of the dead girlâ¦ In that halting rustic voice the girl Mary lived and bloomed again. âShe was like a flower.â

II

There was suddenly a poignant sense of loss, of something exquisite destroyedâ¦.

In his mind phrase after phrase succeeded each other. Peter Lordâs âShe was a nice kid.â Nurse Hopkinsâ âShe could have gone on the films any time.â Mrs. Bishopâs venomous âNo patience with her airs and graces.â And now last, putting to shame, laying aside those other views, the quiet wondering: âShe was like a flower.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âBut, thenâ¦?â

He spread out his hands in a wide, appealing foreign gesture.

Ted Bigland nodded his head. His eyes had still the dumb, glazed look of an animal in pain.

He said:

âI know, sir. I know what you sayâs true. She didnât die natural. But Iâve been wonderingâ¦.â

He paused.

Poirot said:

âYes?â

Ted Bigland said slowly:

âIâve been wondering if in some way it couldnât have been an accident?â

âAn accident? But what kind of an accident?â

âI know, sir. I know. It doesnât sound like sense. But I keep thinking and thinking, and it seems to me it must have been that way. Something that wasnât meant to happen or something that was all a mistake. Justâwell, just an accident!â

He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own lack of eloquence.

Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be considering. He said at last:

âIt is interesting that you feel that.â

Ted Bigland said deprecatingly:

âI dare say it doesnât make sense to you, sir. I canât figure out any how and why about it. Itâs just a feeling Iâve got.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âFeeling is sometimes an important guideâ¦ You will pardon me, I hope, if I seem to tread on painful ground, but you cared very much for Mary Gerrard, did you not?â

A little dark colour came up in the tanned face.

Ted said simply:

âEveryone knows that around here, I reckon.â

âYou wanted to marry her?â

âYes.â

âBut sheâwas not willing?â

Tedâs face darkened a little. He said, with a hint of surpressed anger:

âMean well, people do, but they shouldnât muck up peopleâs lives by interfering. All this schooling and going abroad! It changed Mary. I donât mean spoilt her, or that she was stuck-upâshe wasnât. But itâ¦oh, it bewildered her! She didnât know where she was any more. She wasâwell, put it crudelyâshe was too good for me; but she still wasnât good enough for a real gentleman like Mr. Welman.â

Hercule Poirot said, watching him:

âYou donât like Mr. Welman?â

Ted Bigland said with simple violence:

âWhy the hell should I? Mr. Welmanâs all right. Iâve nothing against him. Heâs not what I call much of a man! I could pick him up and break him in two. Heâs got brains, I supposeâ¦ But thatâs not much help to you if your car breaks down, for instance. You may know the principle that makes a car run; but it doesnât stop you from being as helpless as a baby when all thatâs needed is to take the mag out and give it a wipe.â

Poirot said:

âOf course, you work in a garage?â

Ted Bigland nodded.

âHendersonâs, down the road.â

âYou were there on the morning whenâthis thing happened?â

Ted Bigland said:

âYes, testing out a car for a gentleman. A choke somewhere, and I couldnât locate it. Ran it round for a bit. Seems odd to think of now. It was a lovely day, some honeysuckle still in the hedgesâ¦ Mary used to like honeysuckle. We used to go picking it together before she went away abroadâ¦.â

Again there was that puzzled child-like wonder on his face.

Hercule Poirot was silent.

With a start Ted Bigland came out of his trance.

He said:

âSorry, sir, forget what I said about Mr. Welman. I was soreâbecause of his hanging round after Mary. He ought to have left her alone. She wasnât his sortânot really.â

Poirot said:

âDo you think she cared for him?â

Again Ted Bigland frowned.

âI donâtânot really. But she might have done. I couldnât say.â

Poirot asked:

âWas there any other man in Maryâs life? Anyone, for instance, she had met abroad?â

âI couldnât say, sir. She never mentioned anybody.â

âAny enemiesâhere in Maidensford?â

âYou mean anyone who had it in for her?â He shook his head. âNobody knew her very well. But they all liked her.â

Poirot said:

âDid Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper at Hunterbury, like her?â

Ted gave a sudden grin. He said:

âOh, that was just spite! The old dame didnât like Mrs. Welman taking such a fancy to Mary.â

Poirot asked:

âWas Mary Gerrard happy when she was down here? Was she fond of old Mrs. Welman?â

âSheâd have been happy enough, I dare say, if Nurse had let her alone. Nurse Hopkins, I mean. Putting ideas into her head of earning a living and going off to do massage.â

âShe was fond of Mary, though?â

âOh, yes, she was fond enough of her; but sheâs the kind who always knows whatâs best for everyone!â

Poirot said slowly:

âSupposing that Nurse Hopkins knows somethingâsomething, let us say, that would throw a discreditable light on Maryâdo you think she would keep it to herself?â

Ted Bigland looked at him curiously.

âI donât quite get your meaning, sir?â

âDo you think that if Nurse Hopkins knew something against Mary Gerrard she would hold her tongue about it?â

Ted Bigland said:

âI doubt if that woman could hold her tongue about anything! Sheâs the greatest gossip in the village. But if sheâd hold her tongue about anybody, it would probably be about Mary.â He added, his curiosity getting the better of him, âIâd like to know why you ask that?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âOne has, in talking to people, a certain impression. Nurse Hopkins was, to all seeming, perfectly frank and outspoken, but I formed the impressionâvery stronglyâthat she was keeping something back. It is not necessarily an important thing. It may have no bearing on the crime. But there is something that she knows which she has not told. I also formed the impression that this somethingâwhatever it isâis something definitely damaging or detrimental to the character of Mary Gerrardâ¦.â

Ted shook his head helplessly.

Hercule Poirot sighed:

âAh, well. I shall learn what it is in time.â

Six

Poirot looked with interest at the long, sensitive face of Roderick Welman.

Roddyâs nerves were in a pitiable condition. His hands twitched, his eyes were bloodshot, his voice was husky and irritable.

He said, looking down at the card:

âOf course, I know your name, M. Poirot. But I donât see what Dr. Lord thinks you can do in this matter! And, anyway, what business is it of his? He attended my aunt, but otherwise heâs a complete stranger. Elinor and I had not even met him until we went down there this June. Surely it is Seddonâs business to attend to all this sort of thing?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âTechnically that is correct.â

Roddy went on unhappily:

âNot that Seddon gives me much confidence. Heâs so confoundedly gloomy.â

âIt is a habit, that, of lawyers.â

âStill,â said Roddy, cheering up a little, âweâve briefed Bulmer. Heâs supposed to be pretty well at the top of the tree, isnât he?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âHe has a reputation for leading forlorn hopes.â

Roddy winced palpably.

Poirot said:

âIt does not displease you, I hope, that I should endeavour to be of assistance to Miss Elinor Carlisle?â

âNo, no, of course not. Butââ

âBut what can I do? It is that, that you would ask?â

A quick smile flashed across Roddyâs worried faceâa smile so suddenly charming that Hercule Poirot understood the subtle attraction of the man.

Roddy said apologetically:

âIt sounds a little rude, put like that. But, really, of course, that is the point. I wonât beat about the bush. What can you do, M. Poirot?â

Poirot said:

âI can search for the truth.â

âYes.â Roddy sounded a little doubtful.

Poirot said:

âI might discover facts that would be helpful to the accused.â

Roddy sighed.

âIf you only could!â

Hercule Poirot went on:

âIt is my earnest desire to be helpful. Will you assist me by telling me just exactly what you think of the whole business?â

Roddy got up and walked restlessly up and down.

âWhat can I say? The whole thingâs so absurdâso fantastic! The mere idea of ElinorâElinor, whom Iâve known since she was a childâactually doing such a melodramatic thing as poisoning someone. Itâs quite laughable, of course! But how on earth explain that to a jury?â

Poirot said stolidly:

âYou consider it quite impossible that Miss Carlisle should have done such a thing?â

âOh quite! That goes without saying! Elinorâs an exquisite creatureâbeautifully poised and balancedâno violence in her nature. Sheâs intellectual, sensitive and altogether devoid of animal passions. But get twelve fatheaded fools in a jury box, and God knows what they can be made to believe! After all, letâs be reasonable: theyâre not there to judge character; theyâre there to sift evidence. Factsâfactsâfacts. And the facts are unfortunate!â

Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

He said:

âYou are a person, Mr. Welman, of sensibility and intelligence. The facts condemn Miss Carlisle. Your knowledge of her acquits her. What, then, really happened? What can have happened?â

Roddy spread out his hands in exasperation.

âThatâs the devil of it all! I suppose the nurse couldnât have done it?â

âShe was never near the sandwichesâoh, I have made the inquiries very minutelyâand she could not have poisoned the tea without poisoning herself as well. I have made quite sure of that. Moreover, why should she wish to kill Mary Gerrard?â

Roddy cried out:

âWhy should anyone wish to kill Mary Gerrard?â

âThat,â said Poirot, âseems to be the unanswerable question in this case. No one wished to kill Mary Gerrard.â (He added in his own mind: âExcept Elinor Carlisle.â) âTherefore, the next step logically would seem to be: Mary Gerrard was not killed! But that, alas, is not so. She was killed!â

He added, slightly melodramatically:

âBut she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!â

âI beg your pardon,â said Roddy.

Hercule Poirot explained:

âWordsworth. I read him much. Those lines express, perhaps, what you feel?â

âI?â

Roddy looked stiff and unapproachable.

Poirot said:

âI apologizeâI apologize deeply! It is so hardâto be a detective and also a pukka sahib. As it is so well expressed in your language, there are things that one does not say. But, alas, a detective is forced to say them! He must ask questions: about peopleâs private affairs, about their feelings!â

Roddy said:

âSurely all this is quite unnecessary?â

Poirot said quickly and humbly:

âIf I might just understand the position? Then we will pass from the unpleasant subject and not refer to it again. It is fairly widely known, Mr. Welman, that youâadmired Mary Gerrard? That is, I think, true?â

Roddy got up and stood by the window. He played with the blind tassel. He said:

âYes.â

âYou fell in love with her?â

âI suppose so.â

âAh, and you are now heartbroken by her deathââ

âIâI supposeâI meanâwell, really, M. Poirotââ

He turnedâa nervous, irritable, sensitive creature at bay.

Hercule Poirot said:

âIf you could just tell meâjust show me clearlyâthen it would be finished with.â

Roddy Welman sat down in a chair. He did not look at the other man. He spoke in a series of jerks.

âItâs very difficult to explain. Must we go into it?â

Poirot said:

âOne cannot always turn aside and pass by from the unpleasantnesses of life, Mr. Welman! You say you suppose you cared for this girl. You are not sure, then?â

Roddy said:

âI donât knowâ¦ She was so lovely. Like a dreamâ¦ Thatâs what it seems like now. A dream! Not real! All thatâmy seeing her firstâmyâwell, my infatuation for her! A kind of madness! And now everything is finishedâgoneâ¦as thoughâas though it had never happened.â

Poirot nodded his headâ¦.

He said:

âYes, I understandâ¦.â

He added:

âYou were not in England yourself at the time of her death?â

âNo, I went abroad on July 9th and returned on August 1st. Elinorâs telegram followed me about from place to place. I hurried home as soon as I got the news.â

Poirot said:

âIt must have been a great shock to you. You had cared for the girl very much.â

Roddy said, and there was bitterness and exasperation in his voice:

âWhy should these things happen to one? Itâs not as though one wished them to happen! It is contrary to allâto all oneâs ordered expectation of life!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAh, but life is like that! It does not permit you to arrange and order it as you will. It will not permit you to escape emotion, to live by the intellect and by reason! You cannot say, âI will feel so much and no more.â Life, Mr. Welman, whatever else it is, is not reasonable!â

Roderick Welman murmured:

âSo it seemsâ¦.â

Poirot said:

âA spring morning, a girlâs faceâand the well-ordered sequence of existence is routed.â

Roddy winced and Poirot went on:

âSometimes it is little more than thatâa face. What did you really know of Mary Gerrard, Mr. Welman?â

Roddy said heavily:

âWhat did I know? So little; I see that now. She was sweet, I think, and gentle; but really, I know nothingânothing at allâ¦ Thatâs why, I suppose, I donât miss herâ¦.â

His antagonism and resentment were gone now. He spoke naturally and simply. Hercule Poirot, as he had a knack of doing, had penetrated the otherâs defences. Roddy seemed to feel a certain relief in unburdening himself.

He said:

âSweetâgentleânot very clever. Sensitive, I think, and kind. She had a refinement that you would not expect to find in a girl of her class.â

âWas she the kind of girl who would make enemies unconsciously?â

Roddy shook his head vigorously.

âNo, no, I canât imagine anyone disliking herâreally disliking her, I mean. Spite is different.â

Poirot said quickly.

âSpite? So there was spite, you think?â

Roddy said absently:

âMust have beenâto account for that letter.â

Poirot said sharply:

âWhat letter?â

Roddy flushed and looked annoyed. He said:

âOh, nothing important.â

Poirot repeated:

âWhat letter?â

âAn anonymous letter.â

He spoke reluctantly.

âWhen did it come? To whom was it written?â

Rather unwillingly Roddy explained.

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âIt is interesting, that. Can I see it, this letter?â

âAfraid you canât. As a matter of fact, I burnt it.â

âNow, why did you do that, Mr. Welman?â

Roddy said rather stiffly:

âIt seemed the natural thing to do at the time.â

Poirot said:

âAnd in consequence of this letter, you and Miss Carlisle went hurriedly down to Hunterbury?â

âWe went down, yes. I donât know about hurriedly.â

âBut you were a little uneasy, were you not? Perhaps even, a little alarmed?â

Roddy said even more stiffly:

âI wonât admit that.â

Hercule Poirot cried:

âBut surely that was only natural! Your inheritanceâthat which was promised youâwas in jeopardy! Surely it is natural that you should be unquiet about the matter! Money, it is very important!â

âNot as important as you make out.â

Poirot said:

âSuch unworldliness is indeed remarkable!â

Roddy flushed. He said:

âOh, of course, the money did matter to us. We werenât completely indifferent to it. But our main object was toâto see my aunt and make sure she was all right.â

Poirot said:

âYou went down there with Miss Carlisle. At that time your aunt had not made a will. Shortly afterwards she had another attack of her illness. She then wished to make a will, but, conveniently for Miss Carlisle, perhaps, she dies that night before that will can be made.â

âLook here, what are you hinting at?â

Roddyâs face was wrathful.

Poirot answered him like a flash:

âYou have told me, Mr. Welman, as regards the death of Mary Gerrard, that the motive attributed to Elinor Carlisle is absurdâthat she was, emphatically, not that kind of a person. But there is now another interpretation. Elinor Carlisle had reason to fear that she might be disinherited in favour of an outsider. The letter has warned herâher auntâs broken murmurings confirm that fear. In the hall below is an attachÃ© case with various drugs and medical supplies. It is easy to abstract a tube of morphine. And afterwards, so I have learned, she sits in the sick room alone with her aunt while you and the nurses are at dinnerâ¦.â

Roddy cried:

âGood God, M. Poirot, what are you suggesting now? That Elinor killed Aunt Laura? Of all the ridiculous ideas!â

Poirot said:

âBut you know, do you not, that an order to exhume Mrs. Welmanâs body has been applied for?â

âYes, I know. But they wonât find anything!â

âSuppose they do?â

âThey wonât!â Roddy spoke positively.

Poirot shook his head.

âI am not so sure. And there was only one person, you realize, who would benefit by Mrs. Welmanâs dying at that momentâ¦.â

Roddy sat down. His face was white and he was shaking a little. He stared at Poirot. Then he said:

âI thoughtâyou were on her sideâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âWhatever side one is on, one must face facts! I think, Mr. Welman, that you have so far preferred in life to avoid facing an awkward truth whenever it is possible.â

Roddy said:

âWhy harrow oneself by looking on the worst side?â

Hercule Poirot replied gravely:

âBecause it is something necessaryâ¦.â

He paused a minute and then said:

âLet us face the possibility that your auntâs death may be found to be due to the administration of morphine. What then?â

Roddy shook his head helplessly.

âI donât know.â

âBut you must try to think. Who could have given it to her? You must admit that Elinor Carlisle had the best opportunity to do so?â

âWhat about the nurses?â

âEither of them could have done so, certainly. But Nurse Hopkins was concerned about the disappearance of the tube at the time and mentioned it openly. There was no need for her to do so. The death certificate had been signed. Why call attention to the missing morphine if she were guilty? It will probably bring her censure for carelessness as it is, and if she poisoned Mrs. Welman it was surely idiotic to draw attention to the morphine. Besides, what could she gain by Mrs. Welmanâs death? Nothing. The same applies to Nurse OâBrien. She could have administered morphine, could have taken it from Nurse Hopkinsâ case; but, againâwhy should she?â

Roddy shook his head.

âAll thatâs true enough.â

Poirot said:

âThen there is yourself.â

Roddy started like a nervous horse.

âMe?â

âCertainly. 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.â

Roddyâs eyes brightened.

âTwo people?â

âYes. One was Elinor Carlisle.â

âAnd the other?â

Poirot said slowly:

âThe other was the writer of that anonymous letter.â

Roddy looked incredulous.

Poirot said:

âSomebody wrote that letterâsomebody who hated Mary Gerrard or at least disliked herâsomebody who was, as they say, âon your side.â Somebody, that is, who did not want Mary Gerrard to benefit at Mrs. Welmanâs death. Now, have you any idea, Mr. Welman, who the writer of that letter could be?â

Roddy shook his head.

âIâve no idea at all. It was an illiterate letter, misspelt, cheap-looking.â

Poirot waved a hand.

âThere 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.â

Roddy said thoughtfully:

âElinor and I thought it might be one of the servants.â

âHad you any idea which of them?â

âNoâno idea whatsoever.â

âCould it, do you think, have been Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper?â

Roddy looked shocked.

âOh, no, sheâs a most respectable, high-and-mighty creature. Writes beautifully involved and ornate letters with long words in them. Besides, Iâm sure she would neverââ

As he hesitated, Poirot cut in:

âShe did not like Mary Gerrard!â

âI suppose she didnât. I never noticed anything, though.â

âBut perhaps, Mr. Welman, you do not notice very much?â

Roddy said slowly:

âYou donât think, M. Poirot, that my aunt could have taken that morphine herself?â

Poirot said slowly:

âIt is an idea, yes.â

Roddy said:

âShe hated herâher helplessness, you know. Often said she wished she could die.â

Poirot said:

âBut, then, she could not have risen from her bed, gone downstairs and helped herself to the tube of morphine from the nurseâs case?â

Roddy said slowly:

âNo, but somebody could have got it for her.â

âWho?â

âWell, one of the nurses.â

âNo, neither of the nurses. They would understand the danger to themselves far too well! The nurses are the last people to suspect.â

âThenâsomebody elseâ¦.â

He started, opened his mouth, shut it again.

Poirot said quietly:

âYou have remembered something, have you not?â

Roddy said doubtfully:

âYesâbutââ

âYou wonder if you ought to tell me?â

âWell, yesâ¦.â

Poirot said, a curious smile tilting the corners of his mouth:

âWhen did Miss Carlisle say it?â

Roddy drew a deep breath.

âBy Jove, you are a wizard! It was in the train coming down. Weâd 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, âOne does feel that people ought to be set free if they themselves really want it.ââ

âAnd you saidâwhat?â

âI agreed.â

Poirot spoke very gravely:

âJust 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?â

Roddy said:

âIâIâno, I canâtâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot bowed his head.

He said:

âYes, I thoughtâI was sureâthat you would say thatâ¦.â

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.

âYour name is familiar to me, M. Poirot, of course. But I am at a loss to understand your position in this case.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âI am acting, Monsieur, in the interests of your client.â

âAhâindeed? And whoâerâengaged you in that capacity?â

âI am here at the request of Dr. Lord.â

Mr. Seddonâs eyebrows rose very high.

âIndeed! That seems to me very irregularâvery irregular. Dr. Lord, I understand, has been subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution.â

Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âDoes that matter?â

Mr. Seddon said:

âThe arrangements for Miss Carlisleâs defence are entirely in our hands. I really do not think we need any outside assistance in this case.â

Poirot asked:

âIs that because your clientâs innocence will be so easily proved?â

Mr. Seddon winced. Then he became wrathful in a dry legal fashion.

âThat,â he said, âis a most improper question. Most improper.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âThe case against your client is a very strong oneâ¦.â

âI really fail to see, M. Poirot, how you know anything about it.â

Poirot said:

âAlthough I am actually retained by Dr. Lord, I have here a note from Mr. Roderick Welman.â

He handed it over with a bow.

Mr. Seddon perused the few lines it contained and remarked grudgingly:

âThat, of course, throws a new complexion on the matter. Mr. Welman has made himself responsible for Miss Carlisleâs defence. We are acting at his request.â

He added with visible distaste:

âOur firm does very little inâerâcriminal procedure, but I felt it my duty to myâerâlate clientâto undertake the defence of her niece. I may say we have already briefed Sir Edwin Bulmer, K.C.â

Poirot said, and his smile was suddenly ironic:

âNo expense will be spared. Very right and proper!â

Looking over his glasses, Mr. Seddon said:

âReally, M. Poirotââ

Poirot cut into his protest.

âEloquence and emotional appeal will not save your client. It will need more than that.â

Mr. Seddon said drily:

âWhat do you advise?â

âThere is always the truth.â

âQuite so.â

âBut in this case will the truth help us?â

Mr. Seddon said sharply:

âThat, again, is a most improper remark.â

Poirot said:

âThere are certain questions to which I should like answers.â

Mr. Seddon said cautiously:

âI cannot, of course, guarantee to answer without the consent of my client.â

âNaturally. I understand that.â He paused and then said, âHas Elinor Carlisle any enemies?â

Mr. Seddon showed a faint surprise.

âAs far as I know, none.â

âDid the late Mrs. Welman, at any period of her life, make a will?â

âNever. She always put it off.â

âHas Elinor Carlisle made a will?â

âYes.â

âRecently? Since her auntâs death?â

âYes.â

âTo whom has she left her property?â

âThat, M. Poirot, is confidential. I cannot tell you without authorization from my client.â

Poirot said:

âThen I shall have to interview your client!â

Mr. Seddon said with a cold smile:

âThat, I fear, will not be easy.â

Poirot rose and made a gesture.

âEverything,â he said, âis easy to Hercule Poirot.â

Eight

Chief Inspector Marsden was affable.

âWell, M. Poirot,â he said. âCome to set me right about one of my cases?â

Poirot murmured deprecatingly:

âNo, no. A little curiosity on my part, that is all.â

âOnly too happy to satisfy it. Which case is it?â

âElinor Carlisle.â

âOh, yes, girl who poisoned Mary Gerrard. Coming up for trial in two weeksâ time. Interesting case. She did in the old woman too, by the way. Final report isnât in yet, but it seems thereâs 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 weâve got the goods on her all right. Sheâs for it.â

âYou think she did it?â

Marsden, an experienced, kindly looking man, nodded his head affirmatively.

âNot a doubt of it. Put the stuff in the top sandwich. Sheâs a cool customer.â

âYou have no doubts? No doubts at all?â

âOh, no! Iâm quite sure. Itâs a pleasant feeling when you are sure! We donât like making mistakes any more than anyone else would. Weâre not just out to get a conviction, as some people think. This time I can go ahead with a clear conscience.â

Poirot said slowly:

âI see.â

The Scotland Yard man looked at him curiously.

âIs there anything on the other side?â

Slowly Poirot shook his head.

âAs yet, no. So far everything I have found out about the case points to Elinor Carlisleâs being guilty.â

Inspector Marsden said with cheerful certainty:

âSheâs guilty, all right.â

Poirot said:

âI should like to see her.â

Inspector Marsden smiled indulgently. He said:

âGot the present Home Secretary in your pocket, havenât you? That will be easy enough.â

Nine

Peter Lord said:

âWell?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âNo, it is not very well.â

Peter Lord said heavily:

âYou havenât got hold of anything?â

Poirot said slowly:

âElinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard out of jealousyâ¦ Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt so as to inherit her moneyâ¦ Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt out of compassionâ¦ My friend, you may make your choice!â

Peter Lord said:

âYouâre talking nonsense!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAm I?â

Lordâs freckled face looked angry. He said:

âWhat is all this?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âDo you think it is possible, that?â

âDo I think what is possible?â

âThat Elinor Carlisle was unable to bear the sight of her auntâs misery and helped her out of existence.â

âNonsense!â

âIs it nonsense? You have told me yourself that the old lady asked you to help her.â

âShe didnât mean it seriously. She knew I wouldnât do anything of the sort.â

âStill, the idea was in her mind. Elinor Carlisle might have helped her.â

Peter Lord strolled up and down. He said at last:

âOne canât deny that that sort of thing is possible. But Elinor Carlisle is a levelheaded, clear-thinking kind of young woman. I donât think sheâd be so carried away by pity as to lose sight of the risk. And sheâd realize exactly what the risk was. Sheâd be liable to stand accused of murder.â

âSo you donât think she would do it?â

Peter Lord said slowly:

âI think a woman might do such a thing for her husband; or for her child; or for her mother, perhaps. I donât think sheâd do it for an aunt, though she might be fond of that aunt. And I think in any case sheâd only do it if the person in question was actually suffering unbearable pain.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âPerhaps you are right.â

Then he added:

âDo you think Roderick Welmanâs feelings could have been sufficiently worked upon to induce him to do such a thing?â

Peter Lord replied scornfully:

âHe wouldnât have the guts!â

Poirot murmured:

âI wonder. In some ways, mon cher, you underestimate that young man.â

âOh, heâs clever and intellectual and all that, I dare say.â

âExactly,â said Poirot. âAnd he has charm, tooâ¦ Yes, I felt that.â

âDid you? I never have!â

Then Peter Lord said earnestly:

âLook here, Poirot, isnât there anything?â

Poirot said:

âThey are not fortunate so far, my investigations! They lead always back to the same place. No one stood to gain by Mary Gerrardâs death. No one hated Mary Gerrardâexcept Elinor Carlisle. There is only one question that we might perhaps ask ourselves. We might say, perhaps: Did anyone hate Elinor Carlisle?â

Slowly Dr. Lord shook his head.

âNot that I know ofâ¦ You meanâthat someone might have framed her for the crime?â

Poirot nodded. He said:

âIt is a very far-fetched speculation, that, and there is nothing to support itâ¦except, perhaps, the very completeness of the case against her.â

He told the other of the anonymous letter.

âYou see,â he said, âthat makes it possible to outline a very strong case against her. She was warned that she might be completely cut out of her auntâs willâthat 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!â

Peter Lord cried:

âWhat about Roderick Welman? He stood to lose, too!â

Poirot shook his head.

âNo, 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.â

Lord said:

âBut he was going to marry Elinor!â

Poirot said, âTrue. But remember that immediately afterwards the engagement was broken offâthat he showed her clearly that he wished to be released from it.â

Peter Lord groaned and held his head. He said:

âIt comes back to her, then. Every time!â

âYes. Unlessâ¦.â

He was silent for a minute. Then he said:

âThere is somethingâ¦.â

âYes?â

âSomethingâsome little piece of the puzzle that is missing. It is somethingâof that I am certainâthat concerns Mary Gerrard. My friend, you hear a certain amount of gossip, of scandal, down here. Have you ever heard anything against her?â

âAgainst Mary Gerrard? Her character, you mean?â

âAnything. Some bygone story about her. Some indiscretion on her part. A hint of scandal. A doubt of her honesty. A malicious rumour concerning her. Anythingâanything at allâbut something that definitely is damaging to herâ¦.â

Peter Lord said slowly:

âI hope youâre not going to suggest that lineâ¦ Trying to rake up things about a harmless young woman whoâs dead and canât defend herselfâ¦ And, anyway, I donât believe you can do it!â

âShe was like the female Sir Galahadâa blameless life?â

âAs far as I know, she was. I never heard anything else.â

Poirot said gently:

âYou must not think, my friend, that I would stir the mud where no mud isâ¦ 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.â

Peter Lord said:

âBut surely, in that case, Nurse Hopkins would realize that, too.â

Poirot said:

âNurse 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!â

Peter Lord said, shaking his head:

âIâm sorry. I donât know anything.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âNo more does Ted Biglandâand he has lived here all his life and Maryâs. 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.â

âYes?â

âI am seeing the other nurse, Nurse OâBrien, today.â

Peter Lord said, shaking his head:

âShe doesnât know much about this part of the world. She was only here for a month or two.â

Poirot said:

âI 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 OâBrien may know something.â

Ten

Nurse OâBrien tossed her red head and smiled widely across the tea table at the little man opposite her.

She thought to herself:

âItâs the funny little fellow he isâand his eyes green like any catâs, and with all that Dr. Lord saying heâs the clever one!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âIt is a pleasure to meet someone so full of health and vitality. Your patients, I am sure, must all recover.â

Nurse OâBrien said:

âIâm not one for pulling a long face, and not many of my patients die on me, Iâm thankful to say.â

Poirot said:

âOf course, in Mrs. Welmanâs case, it was a merciful release.â

âAh! It was that, the poor dear.â Her eyes were shrewd as she looked at Poirot and asked:

âIs it about that you want to talk to me? I was after hearing that theyâre digging her up.â

Poirot said:

âYou yourself had no suspicion at the time?â

âNot the least in the world, though indeed I might have had, with the face Dr. Lord had on him that morning, and him sending me here, there and everywhere for things he didnât need! But he signed the certificate, for all that.â

Poirot began, âHe had his reasonsââ but she took the words out of his mouth.

âIndeed and he was right. It does a doctor no good to think things and offend the family, and then if heâs wrong itâs the end of him, and no one would be wishing to call him in any more. A doctorâs got to be sure!â

Poirot said:

âThere is a suggestion that Mrs. Welman might have committed suicide.â

âShe? And her lying there helpless? Just lift one hand, that was all she could do!â

âSomeone might have helped her?â

âAh! I see now what youâre meaning. Miss Carlisle, or Mr. Welman, or maybe Mary Gerrard?â

âIt would be possible, would it not?â

Nurse OâBrien shook her head. She said:

âTheyâd not dareâany of them!â

Poirot said slowly:

âPerhaps not.â

Then he said:

âWhen was it Nurse Hopkins missed the tube of morphine?â

âIt was that very morning. âIâm sure I had it here,â she said. Very sure she was at first; but you know how it is, after a while your mind gets confused, and in the end she made sure sheâd left it at home.â

Poirot murmured:

âAnd even then you had no suspicion?â

âNot the least in the world! Sure, it never entered my head for a moment that things werenât as they should be. And even now âtis only a suspicion they have.â

âThe thought of that missing tube never caused either you or Nurse Hopkins an uneasy moment?â

âWell, I wouldnât say thatâ¦ I do remember that it came into my headâand into Nurse Hopkinsâ head, too, I believeâin the Blue Tit CafÃ©, we were at the time. And I saw the thought pass into her mind from mine. âIt couldnât be any other way than that I left it on the mantelpiece and it fell into the dustbin, could it?â she says. And âNo, indeed, that was the way of it,â I said to her; and neither of us saying what was in our minds and the fear that was on us.â

Hercule Poirot asked:

âAnd what do you think now?â

Nurse OâBrien said:

âIf they find morphine in her thereâll be little doubt who took that tube, nor what it was used forâthough Iâll not be believing she sent the old lady the same road till itâs proved thereâs morphine in her.â

Poirot said:

âYou have no doubt at all that Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard?â

âThereâs no question of it at all, in my opinion! Who else had the reason or the wish to do it?â

âThat is the question,â said Poirot.

Nurse OâBrien went on dramatically:

âWasnât I there that night when the old lady was trying to speak, and Miss Elinor promising her that everything should be done decently and according to her wishes? And didnât I see her face looking after Mary as she went down the stairs one day, and the black hate that was on it? âTwas murder she had in her heart that minute.â

Poirot said:

âIf Elinor Carlisle killed Mrs. Welman, why did she do it?â

âWhy? For the money, of course. Two hundred thousand pounds, no less. Thatâs what she got by it, and thatâs why she did itâif she did it. Sheâs a bold, clever young lady, with no fear in her, and plenty of brains.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âIf Mrs. Welman had lived to make a will, how do you think sheâd have left her money?â

âAh, itâs not for me to be saying that,â said Nurse OâBrien, betraying, however, every symptom of being about to do so. âBut itâs my opinion that every penny the old lady had would have gone to Mary Gerrard.â

âWhy?â said Hercule Poirot.

The simple monosyllable seemed to upset Nurse OâBrien.

âWhy? Is it why youâre asking? WellâIâd say that that would be the way of it.â

Poirot murmured:

âSome people might say that Mary Gerrard had played her cards very cleverly, that she had managed so to ingratiate herself with the old woman, as to make her forget the ties of blood and affection.â

âThey might that,â said Nurse OâBrien slowly.

Poirot asked:

âWas Mary Gerrard a clever, scheming girl?â

Nurse OâBrien said, still rather slowly:

âIâll not think that of herâ¦ All she did was natural enough, with no thought of scheming. She wasnât that kind. And thereâs reasons often for these things that never get made publicâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot said softly:

âYou are, I think, a very discreet woman, Nurse OâBrien.â

âIâm not one to be talking of what doesnât concern me.â

Watching her very closely, Poirot went on:

âYou and Nurse Hopkins, you have agreed together, have you not, that there are some things which are best not brought out into the light of day.â

Nurse OâBrien said:

âWhat would you be meaning by that?â

Poirot said quickly:

âNothing to do with the crimeâor crimes. I meanâthe other matter.â

Nurse OâBrien said, nodding her head:

âWhat would be the use of raking up mud and an old story, and she a decent elderly woman with never a breath of scandal about her, and dying respected and looked up to by everybody.â

Hercule Poirot nodded in assent. He said cautiously:

âAs you say, Mrs. Welman was much respected in Maidensford.â

The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but his face expressed no surprise or puzzlement.

Nurse OâBrien went on:

âItâs so long ago, too. All dead and forgotten. Iâve a soft heart for a romance myself, and I do say and I always have said that itâs hard for a man whoâs got a wife in an asylum to be tied all his life with nothing but death that can free him.â

Poirot murmured, still in bewilderment:

âYes, it is hardâ¦.â

Nurse OâBrien said:

âDid Nurse Hopkins tell you how her letter crossed mine?â

Poirot said truthfully:

âShe did not tell me that.â

ââTwas an odd coincidence. But there, thatâs always the way of it! Once you hear a name, maybe, and a day or two later youâll come across it again, and so on and so on. That I should be seeing the selfsame photograph on the piano and at the same minute Nurse Hopkins was hearing all about it from the doctorâs housekeeper.â

âThat,â said Poirot, âis very interesting.â

He murmured tentatively:

âDid Mary Gerrard knowâabout this?â

âWhoâd be telling her?â said Nurse OâBrien. âNot Iâand not Hopkins. After all, what good would it be to her?â

She flung up her red head and gazed at him steadily.

Poirot said with a sigh:

âWhat, indeed?â

Eleven

Elinor Carlisleâ¦.

Across the width of the table that separated them Poirot looked at her searchingly.

They were alone together. Through a glass wall a warder watched them.

Poirot noted the sensitive intelligent face with the square, white forehead, and the delicate modelling of the ears and nose. Fine lines; a proud, sensitive creature, showing breeding, self-restraint andâsomething elseâa capacity for passion.

He said:

âI am Hercule Poirot. I have been sent to you by Dr. Peter Lord. He thinks that I can help you.â

Elinor Carlisle said:

âPeter Lordâ¦â Her tone was reminiscent. For a moment she smiled a little wistfully. She went on formally: âIt was kind of him, but I do not think there is anything you can do.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âWill you answer my questions?â

She sighed. She said:

âBelieve meâreallyâit would be better not to ask them. I am in good hands. Mr. Seddon has been most kind. I am to have a very famous counsel.â

Poirot said:

âHe is not so famous as I am!â

Elinor Carlisle said with a touch of weariness:

âHe has a great reputation.â

âYes, for defending criminals. I have a great reputationâfor demonstrating innocence.â

She lifted her eyes at lastâeyes of a vivid, beautiful blue. They looked straight into Poirotâs. She said:

âDo you believe I am innocent?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAre you?â

Elinor smiled, an ironic little smile. She said:

âIs that a sample of your questions? It is very easy, isnât it, to answer Yes?â

He said unexpectedly:

âYou are very tired, are you not?â

Her eyes widened a little. She answered:

âWhy, yesâthat more than anything. How did you know?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âI knewâ¦.â

Elinor said:

âI shall be glad when it isâover.â

Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said:

âI have seen yourâcousin, shall I call him for convenience?âMr. Roderick Welman.â

Into the white proud face the colour crept slowly up. He knew then that one question of his was answered without his asking it.

She said, and her voice shook very slightly:

âYouâve seen Roddy?â

Poirot said:

âHe is doing all he can for you.â

âI know.â

Her voice was quick and soft.

Poirot said:

âIs he poor or rich?â

âRoddy? He has not very much money of his own.â

âAnd he is extravagant?â

She said, almost absently:

âNeither of us ever thought it mattered. We knew that some dayâ¦.â

She stopped.

Poirot said quickly:

âYou counted on your inheritance? That is understandable.â

He went on:

âYou have heard, perhaps, the result of the autopsy on your auntâs body. She died of morphine poisoning.â

Elinor Carlisle said coldly:

âI did not kill her.â

âDid you help her to kill herself?â

âDid I helpâ? Oh, I see. No, I did not.â

âDid you know that your aunt had not made a will?â

âNo, I had no idea of that.â

Her voice was flat nowâdull. The answer was mechanical, uninterested.

Poirot said:

âAnd you yourself, have you made a will?â

âYes.â

âDid you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke to you about it?â

âYes.â

Again that swift wave of colour.

Poirot said:

âHow have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?â

Elinor said quietly:

âI have left everything to Roddyâto Roderick Welman.â

Poirot said:

âDoes he know that?â

She said quickly:

âCertainly not.â

âYou didnât discuss it with him?â

âOf course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed and would have disliked what I was doing very much.â

âWho else knows the contents of your will?â

âOnly Mr. Seddonâand his clerks, I suppose.â

âDid Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?â

âYes. I wrote to him that same eveningâI mean the evening of the day Dr. Lord spoke to me about it.â

âDid you post your letter yourself?â

âNo. It went in the box from the house with the other letters.â

âYou wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it and put it in the boxâcomme Ã§a? You did not pause to reflect? To read it over?â

Elinor said, staring at him:

âI read it overâyes. I had gone to look for some stamps. When I came back with them, I just reread the letter to be sure I had put it clearly.â

âWas anyone in the room with you?â

âOnly Roddy.â

âDid he know what you were doing?â

âI told youâno.â

âCould anyone have read that letter when you were out of the room?â

âI donât knowâ¦ One of the servants, you mean? I suppose they could have if they had chanced to come in while I was out of the room.â

âAnd before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?â

âYes.â

Poirot said:

âAnd he could have read it, too?â

Elinorâs voice was clear and scornful. She said:

âI can assure you, M. Poirot, that my âcousin,â as you call him, does not read other peopleâs letters.â

Poirot said:

âThat is the accepted idea, I know. You would be surprised how many people do the things that âare not done.ââ

Elinor shrugged her shoulders.

Poirot said in a casual voice:

âWas it on that day that the idea of killing Mary Gerrard first came to you?â

For the third time colour swept over Elinor Carlisleâs face. This time it was a burning tide. She said:

âDid Peter Lord tell you that?â

Poirot said gently:

âIt was then, wasnât it? When you looked through the window and saw her making her will. It was then, was it not, that it struck you how funny it would beâand how convenientâif Mary Gerrard should happen to dieâ¦.â

Elinor said in a low suffocated voice:

âHe knewâhe looked at me and he knewâ¦.â

Poirot said:

âDr. Lord knows a good dealâ¦ He is no fool, that young man with the freckled face and the red hairâ¦.â

Elinor said in a low voice:

âIs it true that he sent you toâhelp me?â

âIt is true, Mademoiselle.â

She sighed and said:

âI donât understand. No, I donât understand.â

Poirot said:

âListen, Miss Carlisle. It is necessary that you tell me just what happened that day when Mary Gerrard died: where you went, what you did; more than that, I want to know even what you thought.â

She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to her lips. She said:

âYou must be an incredibly simple man. Donât you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?â

Hercule Poirot said placidly:

âIt does not matter.â

She was puzzled.

âNot matter?â

âNo. For lies, Mademoiselle, tell a listener just as much as truth can. Sometimes they tell more. Come, now, commence. You met your housekeeper, the good Mrs. Bishop. She wanted to come and help you. You would not let her. Why?â

âI wanted to be alone.â

âWhy?â

âWhy? Why? Because I wanted toâto think.â

âYou wanted to imagineâyes. And then what did you do next?â

Elinor, her chin raised defiantly, said:

âI bought some paste for sandwiches.â

âTwo pots?â

âTwo.â

âAnd you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?â

âI went up to my auntâs room and began to go through her things.â

âWhat did you find?â

âFind?â She frowned. âClothesâold lettersâphotographsâjewellery.â

Poirot said:

âNo secrets?â

âSecrets? I donât understand you.â

âThen let us proceed. What next?â

Elinor said:

âI came down to the pantry and I cut sandwichesâ¦.â

Poirot said softly:

âAnd you thoughtâwhat?â

Her blue eyes flushed suddenly. She said:

âI thought of my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaineâ¦.â

Poirot said:

âI understand perfectly.â

âDo you?â

âOh, yes. I know the story. She offered Fair Rosamund, did she not, the choice of a dagger or a cup of poison. Rosamund chose the poisonâ¦.â

Elinor said nothing. She was white now.

Poirot said:

âBut perhaps, this time, there was to be no choiceâ¦ Go on, Mademoiselle, what next?â

Elinor said:

âI put the sandwiches ready on a plate and I went down to the Lodge. Nurse Hopkins was there as well as Mary. I told them I had some sandwiches up at the house.â

Poirot was watching her. He said softly:

âYes, and you all came up to the house together, did you not?â

âYes. Weâate the sandwiches in the morning room.â

Poirot said in the same soft tone:

âYes, yesâstill in the dreamâ¦ And thenâ¦â

âThen?â She stared. âI left herâstanding by the window. I went out into the pantry. It was still like you sayâin a dreamâ¦ Nurse was there washing upâ¦ I gave her the paste pot.â

âYesâyes. And what happened then? What did you think of next?â

Elinor said dreamily:

âThere was a mark on Nurseâs wrist. I mentioned it and she said it was a thorn from the rose trellis by the Lodge. The roses by the Lodgeâ¦ Roddy and I had a quarrel onceâlong agoâabout the Wars of the Roses. I was Lancaster and he was York. He liked white roses. I said they werenât realâthey didnât even smell! I liked red roses, big and dark and velvety and smelling of summerâ¦ We quarrelled in the most idiotic way. You see, it all came back to meâthere in the pantryâand somethingâsomething brokeâthe black hate Iâd had in my heartâit went awayâwith remembering how we were together as children. I didnât hate Mary any more. I didnât want her to dieâ¦.â

She stopped.

âBut later, when we went back into the morning room, she was dyingâ¦.â

She stopped. Poirot was staring at her very intently. She flushed and said:

âWill you ask meâagainâdid I kill Mary Gerrard?â

Poirot rose to his feet. He said quickly:

âI shall ask youânothing. There are things I do not want to knowâ¦.â

Twelve

Dr. Lord met the train at the station as requested.

Hercule Poirot alighted from it. He looked very Londonified and was wearing pointed patent leather shoes.

Peter Lord scrutinized his face anxiously, but Hercule Poirot was giving nothing away.

Peter Lord said:

âIâve done my best to get answers to your questions. First, Mary Gerrard left here for London on July 10th. Second, I havenât got a housekeeperâa couple of giggling girls run my house. I think you must mean Mrs. Slattery, who was Ransomeâs (my predecessorâs) housekeeper. I can take you to her this morning if you like. Iâve arranged that she shall be in.â

Poirot said:

âYes, I think it would be as well if I saw her first.â

âThen you said you wanted to go to Hunterbury, I could come with you there. It beats me why you havenât been there already. I canât think why you wouldnât go when you were down here before. I should have thought the first thing to be done in a case like this was to visit the place where the crime took place.â

Holding his head a little on one side, Hercule Poirot inquired:

âWhy?â

âWhy?â Peter Lord was rather disconcerted by the question. âIsnât it the usual thing to do?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âOne does not practise detection with a textbook! One uses oneâs natural intelligence.â

Peter Lord said:

âYou might find a clue of some sort there.â

Poirot sighed:

âYou read too much detective fiction. Your police force in this country is quite admirable. I have no doubt that they searched the house and grounds most carefully.â

âFor evidence against Elinor Carlisleânot for evidence in her favour.â

Poirot sighed:

âMy dear friend, it is not a monsterâthis police force! Elinor Carlisle was arrested because sufficient evidence was found to make out a case against herâa very strong case, I may say. It was useless for me to go over ground when the police had gone over it already.â

âBut you do want to go there now?â objected Peter.

Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He said:

âYesânow it is necessary. Because now I know exactly what I am looking for. One must understand with the cells of oneâs brain before one uses oneâs eyes.â

âThen you do think there might beâsomethingâthere still?â

Poirot said gently:

âI have a little idea we shall find somethingâyes.â

âSomething to prove Elinorâs innocence?â

âAh, I did not say that.â

Peter Lord stopped dead.

âYou donât mean you still think sheâs guilty?â

Poirot said gravely:

âYou must wait, my friend, before you get an answer to that question.â

II

Poirot lunched with the doctor in a pleasant square room with a window open on to the garden.

Lord said:

âDid you get what you wanted out of old Slattery?â

Poirot nodded.

âYes.â

âWhat did you want with her?â

âGossip! Talk about old days. Some crimes have their roots in the past. I think this one had.â

Peter Lord said irritably:

âI donât understand a word you are talking about.â

Poirot smiled. He said:

âThis fish is deliciously fresh.â

Lord said impatiently:

âI dare say. I caught it myself before breakfast this morning. Look here, Poirot, am I to have any idea what youâre driving at? Why keep me in the dark?â

The other shook his head.

âBecause as yet there is no light. I am always brought up short by the fact that there was no one who had any reason to kill Mary Gerrardâexcept Elinor Carlisle.â

Peter Lord said:

âYou canât be sure of that. Sheâd been abroad for some time, remember.â

âYes, yes, I have made the inquiries.â

âYouâve been to Germany yourself?â

âMyself, no.â With a slight chuckle he added: âI have my spies!â

âCan you depend on other people?â

âCertainly. It is not for me to run here and there, doing amateurishly the things that for a small sum someone else can do with professional skill. I can assure you, mon cher, I have several irons on the fire. I have some useful assistantsâone of them a former burglar.â

âWhat do you use him for?â

âThe last thing I have used him for was a very thorough search of Mr. Welmanâs flat.â

âWhat was he looking for?â

Poirot said:

âOne always likes to know exactly what lies have been told one.â

âDid Welman tell you a lie?â

âDefinitely.â

âWho else has lied to you?â

âEverybody, I think: Nurse OâBrien romantically; Nurse Hopkins stubbornly; Mrs. Bishop venomously. You yourselfââ

âGood God!â Peter Lord interrupted him unceremoniously. âYou donât think Iâve lied to you, do you?â

âNot yet,â Poirot admitted.

Dr. Lord sank back in his chair. He said:

âYouâre a disbelieving sort of fellow, Poirot.â

Then he said:

âIf youâve finished, shall we set off for Hunterbury? Iâve got some patients to see later, and then thereâs the surgery.â

âI am at your disposal, my friend.â

They set off on foot, entering the grounds by the back drive. Halfway up it they met a tall, good-looking young fellow wheeling a barrow. He touched his cap respectfully to Dr. Lord.

âGood morning, Horlick. This is Horlick, the gardener, Poirot. He was working here that morning.â

Horlick said:

âYes, sir, I was. I saw Miss Elinor that morning and talked to her.â

Poirot asked:

âWhat did she say to you?â

âShe told me the house was as good as sold, and that rather took me aback, sir; but Miss Elinor said as how sheâd speak for me to Major Somervell, and that maybe heâd keep me onâif he didnât think me too young, perhaps, as headâseeing as how Iâd had good training under Mr. Stephens, here.â

Dr. Lord said:

âDid she seem much the same as usual, Horlick?â

âWhy, yes, sir, except that she looked a bit excited likeâand as though she had something on her mind.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âDid you know Mary Gerrard?â

âOh, yes, sir. But not very well.â

Poirot said:

âWhat was she like?â

Horlick looked puzzled.

âLike sir? Do you mean to look at?â

âNot exactly. I mean, what kind of a girl was she?â

âOh, well, sir, she was a very superior sort of a girl. Nice spoken and all that. Thought a lot of herself, I should say. You see, old Mrs. Welman had made a lot of fuss over her. Made her father wild, that did. He was like a bear with a sore head about it.â

Poirot said:

âBy all that Iâve heard, he had not the best of tempers, that old one?â

âNo, indeed, he hadnât. Always grumbling, and crusty as they make them. Seldom had a civil word for you.â

Poirot said:

âYou were here on that morning. Whereabouts were you working?â

âMostly in the kitchen garden, sir.â

âYou cannot see the house from there?â

âNo, sir.â

Peter Lord said:

âIf anybody had come up to the houseâup to the pantry windowâyou wouldnât have seen them?â

âNo, I wouldnât, sir.â

Peter Lord said:

âWhen did you go to your dinner?â

âOne oâclock, sir.â

âAnd you didnât see anythingâany man hanging aboutâor a car outsideâanything like that?â

The manâs eyebrows rose in slight surprise.

âOutside the back gate, sir? There was your car thereânobody elseâs.â

Peter Lord cried:

âMy car: It wasnât my car! I was over Withenbury direction that morning. Didnât get back till after two.â

Horlick looked puzzled.

âI made sure it was your car, sir,â he said doubtfully.

Peter Lord said quickly:

âOh, well, it doesnât matter. Good morning, Horlick.â

He and Poirot moved on. Horlick stared after them for a minute or two, then slowly resumed his progress with the wheelbarrow.

Peter Lord said softlyâbut with great excitement:

âSomethingâat last. Whose car was it standing in the lane that morning?â

Poirot said:

âWhat make is your car, my friend?â

âA Ford tenâsea-green. Theyâre pretty common, of course.â

âAnd you are sure that it was not yours? You havenât mistaken the day?â

âAbsolutely certain. I was over at Withenbury, came back late, snatched a bit of lunch, and then the call came through about Mary Gerrard and I rushed over.â

Poirot said softly:

âThen it would seem, my friend, that we have come upon something tangible at last.â

Peter Lord said:

âSomeone was here that morningâ¦someone who was not Elinor Carlisle, nor Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse Hopkinsâ¦.â

Poirot said:

âThis is very interesting. Come, let us make our investigations. Let us see, for instance, supposing a man (or woman) were to wish to approach the house unseen, how they would set about it.â

Halfway along the drive a path branched off through some shrubbery. They took this and at a certain turn in it Peter Lord clutched Poirotâs arm, pointing to a window.

He said:

âThatâs the window of the pantry where Elinor Carlisle was cutting the sandwiches.â

Poirot murmured:

âAnd from here, anyone could see her cutting them. The window was open, if I remember rightly?â

Peter Lord said:

âIt was wide open. It was a hot day, remember.â

Hercule Poirot said musingly:

âThen if anyone wished to watch unseen what was going on, somewhere about here would be a good spot.â

The two men cast about. Peter Lord said:

âThereâs a place hereâbehind these bushes. Some stuffâs been trampled down here. Itâs grown up again now, but you can see plainly enough.â

Poirot joined him. He said thoughtfully:

âYes, this is a good place. It is concealed from the path, and that opening in the shrubs gives one a good view of the window. Now, what did he do, our friend who stood here? Did he perhaps smoke?â

They bent down, examining the ground and pushing aside the leaves and branches.

Suddenly Hercule Poirot uttered a grunt.

Peter Lord straightened up from his own search.

âWhat is it?â

âA matchbox, my friend. An empty matchbox, trodden heavily into the ground, sodden and decayed.â

With care and delicacy he salved the object. He displayed it at last on a sheet of notepaper taken from his pocket.

Peter Lord said:

âItâs foreign. My god! German matches!â

Hercule Poirot said:

âAnd Mary Gerrard had recently come from Germany!â

Peter Lord said exultantly:

âWeâve got something now! You canât deny it.â

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

âPerhapsâ¦.â

âBut, damn it all, man. Who on earth round here would have had foreign matches?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âI knowâI know.â

His eyes, perplexed eyes, went to the gap in the bushes and the view of the window.

He said:

âIt is not quite so simple as you think. There is one great difficulty. Do you not see it yourself?â

âWhat? Tell me.â

Poirot sighed.

âIf you do not see for yourselfâ¦ But come, let us go on.â

They went on to the house. Peter Lord unlocked the back door with a key.

He led the way through the scullery to the kitchen, through that, along a passage where there was a cloakroom on one side and the butlerâs pantry on the other. The two men looked round the pantry.

It had the usual cupboards with sliding glass doors for glass and china. There was a gas ring and two kettles and canisters marked Tea and Coffee on a shelf above. There was a sink and draining board and a papier-mÃ¢chÃ© washing-up bowl. In front of the window was a table.

Peter Lord said:

âIt was on this table that Elinor Carlisle cut the sandwiches. The fragment of the morphine label was found in this crack in the floor under the sink.â

Poirot said thoughtfully:

âThe police are careful searchers. They do not miss much.â

Peter Lord said violently:

âThereâs no evidence that Elinor ever handled that tube! I tell you, someone was watching her from the shrubbery outside. She went down to the Lodge and he saw his chance and slipped in, uncorked the tube, crushed some tablets of morphine to powder and put them into the top sandwich.

He never noticed that heâd torn a bit off the label of the tube, and that it had fluttered down the crack. He hurried away, started up his car and went off again.â

Poirot sighed.

âAnd still you do not see! It is extraordinary how dense an intelligent man can be.â

Peter Lord demanded angrily:

âDo you mean to say that you donât believe someone stood in those bushes watching the window?â

Poirot said:

âYes, I believe thatâ¦.â

âThen weâve got to find whoever it was!â

Poirot murmured:

âWe shall not have to look far, I fancy.â

âDo you mean you know?â

âI have a very shrewd idea.â

Peter Lord said slowly:

âThen your minions who made inquiries in Germany did bring you somethingâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot said, tapping his forehead:

âMy friend, it is all here, in my headâ¦ Come, let us look over the house.â

III

They stood at last in the room where Mary Gerrard had died.

The house had a strange atmosphere in it: it seemed alive with memories and forebodings.

Peter Lord flung up one of the windows.

He said with a slight shiver:

âThis place feels like a tombâ¦.â

Poirot said:

âIf walls could speakâ¦ It is all here, is it not, here in the houseâthe beginning of the whole story.â

He paused and then said softly:

âIt was here in this room that Mary Gerrard died.â

Peter Lord said:

âThey found her sitting in that chair by the windowâ¦.â

Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully:

âA young girlâbeautifulâromantic? Did she scheme and intrigue? Was she a superior person who gave herself airs? Was she gentle and sweet, with no thought of intrigueâ¦just a young thing beginning lifeâ¦a girl like a flower?â¦â

âWhatever she was,â said Peter Lord, âsomeone wished her dead.â

Hercule Poirot murmured:

âI wonderâ¦.â

Lord stared at him.

âWhat do you mean?â

Poirot shook his head.

âNot yet.â

He turned about.

âWe have been all through the house. We have seen all that there is to be seen here. Let us go down to the Lodge.â

Here again all was in order: the rooms dusty, but neat and emptied of personal possessions. The two men stayed only a few minutes. As they came out into the sun, Poirot touched the leaves of a pillar rose growing up a trellis. It was pink and sweet-scented.

He murmured:

âDo you know the name of this rose? It is Zephyrine Drouhin, my friend.â

Peter Lord said irritably:

âWhat of it?â

Hercule Poirot said:

âWhen I saw Elinor Carlisle, she spoke to me of roses. It was then that I began to seeânot daylight, but the little glimpse of light that one gets in a train when one is about to come out of a tunnel. It is not so much daylight, but the promise of daylight.â

Peter Lord said harshly:

âWhat did she tell you?â

âShe told me of her childhood, of playing here in this garden, and of how she and Roderick Welman were on different sides. They were enemies, for he preferred the white rose of Yorkâcold and austereâand she, so she told me, loved red roses, the red rose of Lancaster. Red roses that have scent and colour and passion and warmth. And that, my friend, is the difference between Elinor Carlisle and Roderick Welman.â

Peter Lord said:

âDoes that explainâanything?â

Poirot said:

âIt explains Elinor Carlisleâwho is passionate and proud and who loved desperately a man who was incapable of loving herâ¦.â

Peter Lord said:

âI donât understand youâ¦.â

Poirot said:

âBut I understand herâ¦ I understand both of them. Now my friend, we will go back once more to that little clearing in the shrubbery.â

They went there in silence. Peter Lordâs freckled face was troubled and angry.

When they came to the spot, Poirot stood motionless for some time, and Peter Lord watched him.

Then suddenly the little detective gave a vexed sigh.

He said:

âIt is so simple, really. Do you not see, my friend, the fatal fallacy in your reasoning? According to your theory someone, a man, presumably, who had known Mary Gerrard in Germany came here intent on killing her. But look, my friend, look! Use the two eyes of your body, since the eyes of the mind do not seem to serve you. What do you see from here: a window, is it not? And at that windowâa girl. A girl cutting sandwiches. That is to say, Elinor Carlisle. But think for a minute of this: What on earth was to tell the watching man that those sandwiches were going to be offered to Mary Gerrard? No one knew that but Elinor Carlisleâherselfânobody! Not even Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse Hopkins.

âSo what followsâif a man stood here watching, and if he afterwards went to that window and climbed in and tampered with the sandwiches? What did he think and believe? He thought, he must have thought, that the sandwiches were to be eaten by Elinor Carlisle herselfâ¦.â

Thirteen

Poirot knocked at the door of Nurse Hopkinsâ cottage. She opened it to him with her mouth full of Bath bun.

She said sharply:

âWell, Mr. Poirot, what do you want now?â

âI may enter?â

Somewhat grudgingly Nurse Hopkins drew back and Poirot was permitted to cross the threshold. Nurse Hopkins was hospitable with the teapot, and a minute later Poirot was regarding with some dismay a cup of inky beverage.

âJust madeânice and strong!â said Nurse Hopkins.

Poirot stirred his tea cautiously and took one heroic sip.

He said:

âHave you any idea why I have come here?â

âI couldnât say, Iâm sure, until you tell me. I donât profess to be a mind reader.â

âI have come to ask you for the truth.â

Nurse Hopkins uprose in wrath.

âAnd whatâs the meaning of that, I should like to know? A truthful woman Iâve always been. Not one to shield myself in any way. I spoke up about that missing tube of morphine at the inquest when many a one in my place would have sat tight and said nothing. For well enough did I know that I should get censured for carelessness in leaving my case about; and, after all, itâs a thing might happen to anybody! I was blamed for thatâand it wonât do me any good in my profession, I can tell you. But that didnât make any difference to me! I knew something that had a bearing on the case, and so I spoke out. And Iâll thank you, Mr. Poirot, to keep any nasty insinuations to yourself! Thereâs not a thing about Mary Gerrardâs death that I havenât been open and aboveboard as daylight about, and if you think differently, Iâd be obliged if youâd give chapter and verse for it! Iâve concealed nothingânothing at all! And Iâm prepared to take the oath and stand up in court and say so.â

Poirot did not attempt to interrupt. He knew only too well the technique of dealing with an angry woman. He allowed Nurse Hopkins to flare up and simmer down. Then he spokeâquietly and mildly.

He said:

âI did not suggest that there is anything about the crime which you have not told.â

âThen what did you suggest, Iâd like to know?â

âI asked you to tell the truthânot about the death, but about the life of Mary Gerrard.â

âOh!â Nurse Hopkins seemed momentarily taken aback. She said, âSo thatâs what youâre getting at? But itâs got nothing to do with the murder.â

âI did not say that it had, I said that you were withholding knowledge concerning her.â

âWhy shouldnât Iâif itâs nothing to do with the crime?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âWhy should you?â

Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said:

âBecause itâs common decency! Theyâre all dead nowâeveryone concerned. And itâs no business of anyone elseâs!â

âIf it is only surmiseâperhaps not. But if you have actual knowledge, that is different.â

Nurse Hopkins said slowly:

âI donât know exactly what you meanâ¦.â

Poirot said:

âI will help you. I have had hints from Nurse OâBrien and I have had a long conversation with Mrs. Slattery, who has a very good memory for events that happened over twenty years ago. I will tell you exactly what I have learned. Well, over twenty years ago there was a love affair between two people. One of them was Mrs. Welman, who had been a widow for some years and who was a woman capable of a deep and passionate love. The other party was Sir Lewis Rycroft, who had the great misfortune to have a wife who was hopelessly insane. The law in those days gave no promise of relief by divorce, and Lady Rycroft, whose physical health was excellent, might live to be ninety. The liaison between those two people was, I think, guessed at, but they were both discreet and careful to keep up appearances. Then Sir Lewis Rycroft was killed in action.â

âWell?â said Nurse Hopkins.

âI suggest,â said Poirot, âthat there was a child born after his death, and that that child was Mary Gerrard.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âYou seem to know all about it!â

Poirot said:

âThat is what I think. But it is possible that you have got definite proof that that is so.â

Nurse Hopkins sat silent a minute or two, frowning, then abruptly she rose, went across the room, opened a drawer and took out an envelope. She brought it across to Poirot.

She said:

âIâll tell you how this came into my hands. Mind, Iâd had my suspicions. The way Mrs. Welman looked at the girl, for one thing, and then hearing the gossip on top of it. And old Gerrard told me when he was ill that Mary wasnât his daughter.

âWell, after Mary died I finished clearing up the Lodge, and in a drawer amongst some of the old manâs things I came across this letter. You see whatâs written on it.â

Poirot read the superscription written in faded ink:

Â 

âFor Maryâto be sent to her after my death.â

Â 

Poirot said:

âThis writing is not recent?â

âIt wasnât Gerrard who wrote that,â explained Nurse Hopkins. âIt was Maryâs mother, who died fourteen years ago. She meant this for the girl, but the old man kept it among his things and so she never saw itâand Iâm thankful she didnât! She was able to hold up her head to the end, and sheâd no cause to feel ashamed.â

She paused and then said:

âWell, it was sealed up, but when I found it Iâll admit to you that I opened it and read it then and there, which I dare say I should not have done. But Mary was dead, and I guessed more or less at what was inside it and I didnât see that it was any concern of anyone elseâs. All the same, I havenât liked to destroy it, because I didnât feel somehow it would be right to do that. But, there, youâd better read it yourself.â

Poirot drew out the sheet of paper covered in small angular writing:

This is the truth Iâve written down here in case it should ever be needed. I was ladyâs maid to Mrs. Welman at Hunterbury, and very kind to me she was. I got into trouble, and she stood by me and took me back into her service when it was all over; but the baby died. My mistress and Sir Lewis Rycroft were fond of each other, but they couldnât marry, because he had a wife already and she was in a madhouse, poor lady. He was a fine gentleman and devoted to Mrs. Welman. He was killed, and she told me soon after that she was going to have a child. After that she went up to Scotland and took me with her. The child was born thereâat Ardlochrie. Bob Gerrard, who had washed his hands of me and flung me off when I had my trouble, had been writing to me again. The arrangement was that we should marry and live at the Lodge and he should think that the baby was mine. If we lived on the place it would seem natural that Mrs. Welman should be interested in the child and sheâd see to educating her and giving her a place in the world. She thought it would be better for Mary never to know the truth. Mrs. Welman gave us both a handsome sum of money; but I would have helped her without that. Iâve been quite happy with Bob, but he never took to Mary. Iâve held my tongue and never said anything to anybody, but I think itâs right in case I die that I should put this down in black and white.

Eliza Gerrard (born Eliza Riley)

Hercule Poirot drew a deep breath and folded up the letter again.

Nurse Hopkins said anxiously:

âWhat are you going to do about it? Theyâre all dead now! Itâs no good raking up these things. Everyone looked up to Mrs. Welman in these parts; thereâs never been anything said against her. All this old scandalâit would be cruel. The same with Mary. She was a sweet girl. Why should anyone have to know she was a bastard? Let the dead rest in peace in their graves, thatâs what I say.â

Poirot said:

âOne has to consider the living.â

Nurse Hopkins said:

âBut this has got nothing to do with the murder.â

Hercule Poirot said gravely:

âIt may have a great deal to do with it.â

He went out of the cottage, leaving Nurse Hopkins with her mouth open, staring after him.

He had walked some way when he became aware of hesitating footsteps just behind him. He stopped and turned round.

It was Horlick, the young gardener from Hunterbury. He was looking the picture of embarrassment and twisting his cap round and round in his hands.

âExcuse me, sir. Could I have a word with you?â

Horlick spoke with a kind of gulp.

âCertainly. What is it?â

Horlick twisted the cap even more fiercely. He said, averting his eyes and looking the picture of misery and embarrassment:

âItâs about that car.â

âThe car that was outside the back gate that morning?â

âYes, sir. Dr. Lord said this morning that it wasnât his carâbut it was, sir.â

âYou know that for a fact?â

âYes, sir. Because of the number, sir. It was MSS 2022. I noticed it particularâMSS 2022. You see, we know it in the village, and always call it Miss Tou-Tou! Iâm quite sure of it, sir.â

Poirot said with a faint smile:

âBut Dr. Lord says he was over at Withenbury that morning.â

Horlick said miserably:

âYes, sir. I heard him. But it was his car, sirâ¦ Iâll take my oath on that.â

Poirot said gently:

âThank you, Horlick, thatâs just exactly what you may have to doâ¦.â

PART III

One

Was it very hot in the court? Or very cold? Elinor Carlisle could not be quite sure. Sometimes she felt burning, as though with fever, and immediately after she shivered.

She had not heard the end of the Prosecuting Counselâs speech. She had gone back to the pastâgone slowly through the whole business again, from the day when that miserable letter came to the moment when that smooth-faced police officer had said with horrible fluency:

âYou are Elinor Katharine Carlisle. I have here a warrant for your arrest upon the charge of murdering Mary Gerrard by administering poison to her on the 27th of July last, and I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence at your trial.â

Horrible, frightening fluencyâ¦ She felt caught up in a smooth-running, well-oiled machineâinhuman, passionless.

And now here she was, standing in the dock in the open glare of publicity, with hundreds of eyes that were neither impersonal nor inhuman, feasting upon her and gloatingâ¦.

Only the jury did not look at her. Embarrassed, they kept their eyes studiously turned awayâ¦ She thought: âItâs becauseâsoonâthey know what theyâre going to sayâ¦.â

II

Dr. Lord was giving evidence. Was this Peter Lordâthat freckled, cheery young doctor who had been so kind and so friendly at Hunterbury? He was very stiff now. Sternly professional. His answers came monotonously: He had been summoned by telephone to Hunterbury Hall; too late for anything to be done; Mary Gerrard had died a few minutes after his arrival; death consistent, in his opinion, with morphia poisoning in one of its less common formsâthe âfoudroyanteâ variety.

Sir Edwin Bulmer rose to cross-examine.

âYou were the late Mrs. Welmanâs regular medical attendant?â

âI was.â

âDuring your visits to Hunterbury in June last, you had occasion to see the accused and Mary Gerrard together?â

âSeveral times.â

âWhat would you say was the manner of the accused to Mary Gerrard?â

âPerfectly pleasant and natural.â

Sir Edwin Bulmer said with a slight disdainful smile:

âYou never saw any signs of this âjealous hatredâ we have heard so much about?â

Peter Lord, his jaw set, said firmly:

âNo.â

Elinor thought:

âBut he didâhe didâ¦ He told a lie for me thereâ¦ He knewâ¦â

Peter Lord was succeeded by the police surgeon. His evidence was longer, more detailed. Death was due to morphia poisoning of the âfoudroyanteâ variety. Would he kindly explain that term? With some enjoyment he did so. Death from morphine poisoning might occur in several different ways. The most common was a period of intense excitement followed by drowsiness and narcosis, pupils of eyes contracted. Another not so common form had been named by the French, âfoudroyante.â In these cases deep sleep supervened in a very short timeâabout ten minutes; the pupils of the eyes were usually dilatedâ¦.

III

The court had adjourned and sat again. There had been some hours of expert medical testimony.

Dr. Alan Garcia, the distinguished analyst, full of learned terms, spoke with gusto of the stomach contents: Bread, fish paste, tea, presence of morphiaâ¦more learned terms and various decimal points. Amount taken by the deceased estimated to be about four grains. Fatal dose could be as low as one grain.

Sir Edwin rose, still bland.

âI should like to get it quite clear. You found in the stomach nothing but bread, butter, fish paste, tea and morphia. There were no other foodstuffs?â

âNone.â

âThat is to say, the deceased had eaten nothing but sandwiches and tea for some considerable time?â

âThat is so.â

âWas there anything to show in what particular vehicle the morphia had been administered?â

âI donât quite understand.â

âI will simplify that question. The morphia could have been taken in the fish paste, or in the bread, or in the butter on the bread, or in the tea, or in the milk that had been added to the tea?â

âCertainly.â

âThere was no special evidence that the morphia was in the fish paste rather than in any of the other mediums?â

âNo.â

âAnd, in fact, the morphia might have been taken separatelyâthat is to say, not in any vehicle at all? It could have been simply swallowed in its tablet form?â

âThat is so, of course.â

âSir Edwin sat down.

Sir Samuel re-examined.

âNevertheless, you are of the opinion that, however the morphia was taken, it was taken at the same time as the other food and drink?â

âYes.â

âThank you.â

IV

Inspector Brill had taken the oath with mechanical fluency. He stood there, soldierly and stolid, reeling off his evidence with practised ease.

âSummoned to the houseâ¦ The accused said, âIt must have been bad fish paste.ââ¦search of the premisesâ¦one jar of fish paste washed out was standing on the draining board in the pantry, another half fullâ¦further search of pantry kitchenâ¦.â

âWhat did you find?â

âIn a crack behind the table, between the floorboards, I found a tiny scrap of paper.â

The exhibit went to the jury.

âWhat did you take it to be?â

âA fragment torn off a printed labelâsuch as are used on glass tubes of morphia.â

Counsel for the Defence arose with leisurely ease.

He said:

âYou found this scrap in a crack in the flooring?â

âYes.â

âPart of a label?â

âYes.â

âDid you find the rest of that label?â

âNo.â

âYou did not find any glass tube or any bottle to which that label might have been affixed?â

âNo.â

âWhat was the state of that scrap of paper when you found it? Was it clean or dirty?â

âIt was quite fresh.â

âWhat do you mean, quite fresh?â

âThere was surface dust on it from the flooring, but it was quite clean otherwise.â

âIt could not have been there for any length of time?â

âNo, it had found its way there quite recently.â

âYou would say, then, that it had come there on the actual day you found itânot earlier?â

âYes.â

With a grunt Sir Edwin sat down.

V

Nurse Hopkins in the box, her face red and self-righteous.

All the same, Elinor thought, Nurse Hopkins was not so frightening as Inspector Brill. It was the inhumanity of Inspector Brill that was so paralysing. He was so definitely part of a great machine. Nurse Hopkins had human passions, prejudices.

âYour name is Jessie Hopkins?â

âYes.â

âYou are a certificated District Nurse and you reside at Rose Cottage, Hunterbury?â

âYes.â

âWhere were you on the 28th of June last?â

âI was at Hunterbury Hall.â

âYou had been sent for?â

âYes. Mrs. Welman had had a strokeâthe second. I went to assist Nurse OâBrien until a second nurse could be found.â

âDid you take a small attachÃ© case with you?â

âYes.â

âTell the jury what was in it.â

âBandages, dressings, a hypodermic syringe and certain drugs, including a tube of morphine hydrochloride.â

âFor what purpose was it there?â

âOne of the cases in the village had to have hypodermic injections of morphia morning and evening.â

âWhat were the contents of the tube?â

âThere were twenty tablets, each containing half grain morphine hydrochloride.â

âWhat did you do with your attachÃ© case?â

âI laid it down in the hall.â

âThat was on the evening of the 28th. When did you next have occasion to look in the case?â

âThe following morning about nine oâclock, just as I was preparing to leave the house.â

âWas anything missing?â

âThe tube of morphine was missing.â

âDid you mention this loss?â

âI spoke of it to Nurse OâBrien, the nurse in charge of the patient.â

âThis case was lying in the hall, where people were in the habit of passing to and fro?â

âYes.â

Sir Samuel paused. Then he said:

âYou knew the dead girl Mary Gerrard intimately?â

âYes.â

âWhat was your opinion of her?â

âShe was a very sweet girlâand a good girl.â

âWas she of a happy disposition?â

âVery happy.â

âShe had no troubles that you know of?â

âNo.â

âAt the time of her death was there anything whatever to worry her or make her unhappy about the future?â

âNothing.â

âShe would have had no reason to have taken her own life?â

âNo reason at all.â

It went on and onâthe damning story. How Nurse Hopkins had accompanied Mary to the Lodge, the appearance of Elinor, her excitable manner, the invitation to sandwiches, the plate being handed first to Mary. Elinorâs suggestion that everything be washed up, and her further suggestion that Nurse Hopkins should come upstairs with her and assist in sorting out clothes.

There were frequent interruptions and objections from Sir Edwin Bulmer.

Elinor thought:

âYes, itâs all trueâand she believes it. Sheâs certain I did it. And every word she says is the truthâthatâs whatâs so horrible. Itâs all true.â

Once more, as she looked across the court, she saw the face of Hercule Poirot regarding her thoughtfullyâalmost kindly. Seeing her with too much knowledgeâ¦.

The piece of cardboard with the scrap of label pasted on to it was handed to the witness.

âDo you know what this is?â

âItâs a bit of a label.â

âCan you tell the jury what label?â

âYesâitâs a part of a label off a tube of hypodermic tablets. Morphine tablets half grainâlike the one I lost.â

âYou are sure of that?â

âOf course Iâm sure. Itâs off my tube.â

The judge said:

âIs there any special mark on it by which you can identify it as the label of the tube you lost?â

âNo, my lord, but it must be the same.â

âActually, all you can say is that it is exactly similar?â

âWell, yes, thatâs what I mean.â

The court adjourned.

Two

It was another day.

Sir Edwin Bulmer was on his feet cross-examining. He was not at all bland now. He said sharply:

âThis attachÃ© case weâve heard so much about. On June 28th it was left in the main hall of Hunterbury all night?â

Nurse Hopkins agreed:

âYes.â

âRather a careless thing to do, wasnât it?â

Nurse Hopkins flushed.

âYes, I suppose it was.â

âAre you in the habit of leaving dangerous drugs lying about where anyone could get at âem?â

âNo, of course not.â

âOh! youâre not? But you did it on this occasion?â

âYes.â

âAnd itâs a fact, isnât it, that anybody in the house could have got at that morphia if theyâd wanted to?â

âI suppose so.â

âNo suppose about it. It is so, isnât it?â

âWellâyes.â

âIt wasnât only Miss Carlisle who could have got at it? Any of the servants could. Or Dr. Lord. Or Mr. Roderick Welman. Or Nurse OâBrien. Or Mary Gerrard herself.â

âI suppose soâyes.â

âIt is so, isnât it?â

âYes.â

âWas anyone aware youâd got morphia in that case?â

âI donât know.â

âWell, did you talk about it to anyone?â

âNo.â

âSo, as a matter of fact, Miss Carlisle couldnât have known that there was any morphia there?â

âShe might have looked to see.â

âThatâs very unlikely, isnât it?â

âI donât know, Iâm sure.â

âThere were people whoâd be more likely to know about the morphia than Miss Carlisle. Dr. Lord, for instance. Heâd know. You were administering this morphia under his orders, werenât you?â

âOf course.â

âMary Gerrard knew you had it there, too?â

âNo, she didnât.â

âShe was often in your cottage, wasnât she?â

âNot very often.â

âI suggest to you that she was there very frequently, and that she, of all the people in the house, would be the most likely to guess that there was morphia in your case.â

âI donât agree.â

Sir Edwin paused a minute.

âYou told Nurse OâBrien in the morning that the morphia was missing?â

âYes.â

âI put it to you that what you really said was: âI have left the morphia at home. I shall have to go back for it.ââ

âNo, I didnât.â

âYou didnât suggest that the morphia had been left on the mantelpiece in your cottage?â

âWell, when I couldnât find it I thought that must have been what had happened.â

âIn fact, you didnât really know what youâd done with it!â

âYes, I did. I put it in the case.â

âThen why did you suggest on the morning of June 29th that you had left it at home?â

âBecause I thought I might have done.â

âI put it to you that youâre a very careless woman.â

âThatâs not true.â

âYou make rather inaccurate statements sometimes, donât you?â

âNo, I donât. Iâm very careful what I say.â

âDid you make a remark about a prick from a rose tree on July 27thâthe day of Mary Gerrardâs death?â

âI donât see what thatâs got to do with it!â

The judge said:

âIs that relevant, Sir Edwin?â

âYes, my lord, it is an essential part of the defence, and I intend to call witnesses to prove that that statement was a lie.â

He resumed:

âDo you still say you pricked your wrist on a rose tree on July 27th?â

âYes, I did.â

Nurse Hopkins looked defiant.

âWhen did you do that?â

âJust before leaving the Lodge and coming up to the house on the morning of July 27th.â

Sir Edwin said sceptically:

âAnd what rose tree was this?â

âA climbing one just outside the Lodge, with pink flowers.â

âYouâre sure of that?â

âIâm quite sure.â

Sir Edwin paused and then asked:

âYou persist in saying the morphia was in the attachÃ© case when you came to Hunterbury on June 28th?â

âI do. I had it with me.â

âSupposing that presently Nurse OâBrien goes into the box and swears that you said you had probably left it at home?â

âIt was in my case. Iâm sure of it.â

Sir Edwin sighed.

âYou didnât feel at all uneasy about the disappearance of the morphia?â

âNotâuneasyâno.â

âOh, so you were quite at ease, notwithstanding the fact that a large quantity of a dangerous drug had disappeared?â

âI didnât think at the time anyone had taken it.â

âI see. You just couldnât remember for the moment what you had done with it?â

âNot at all. It was in the case.â

âTwenty half grain tabletsâthat is, ten grains of morphia. Enough to kill several people, isnât it?â

âYes.â

âBut you are not uneasyâand you donât even report the loss officially?â

âI thought it was all right.â

âI put it to you that if the morphia had really disappeared the way it did you would have been bound, as a conscientious person, to report the loss officially.â

Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said:

âWell, I didnât.â

âThat was surely a piece of criminal carelessness on your part? You donât seem to take your responsibilities very seriously. Did you often mislay these dangerous drugs?â

âIt never happened before.â

It went on for some minutes. Nurse Hopkins, flustered, red in the face, contradicting herselfâ¦an easy prey to Sir Edwinâs skill.

âIs it a fact that on Thursday, July 6th, the dead girl, Mary Gerrard, made a will?â

âShe did.â

âWhy did she do that?â

âBecause she thought it was the proper thing to do. And so it was.â

âAre you sure it wasnât because she was depressed and uncertain about her future?â

âNonsense.â

âIt showed, though, that the idea of death was present in her mindâthat she was brooding on the subject.â

âNot at all. She just thought it was the proper thing to do.â

âIs this the will? Signed by Mary Gerrard, witnessed by Emily Biggs and Roger Wade, confectionersâ assistants, and leaving everything of which she died possessed to Mary Riley, sister of Eliza Riley?â

âThatâs right.â

It was handed to the jury.

âTo your knowledge, had Mary Gerrard any property to leave?â

âNot then, she hadnât.â

âBut she was shortly going to have?â

âYes.â

âIs it not a fact that a considerable sum of moneyâtwo thousand poundsâwas being given to Mary by Miss Carlisle?â

âYes.â

âThere was no compulsion on Miss Carlisle to do this? It was entirely a generous impulse on her part?â

âShe did it of her own free will, yes.â

âBut surely, if she had hated Mary Gerrard, as is suggested, she would not of her own free will have handed over to her a large sum of money.â

âThatâs as may be.â

âWhat do you mean by that answer?â

âI donât mean anything.â

âExactly. Now, had you heard any local gossip about Mary Gerrard and Mr. Roderick Welman?â

âHe was sweet on her.â

âHave you any evidence of that?â

âI just knew it, thatâs all.â

âOhâyou âjust knew it.â Thatâs not very convincing to the jury, Iâm afraid. Did you say on one occasion Mary would have nothing to do with him because he was engaged to Miss Elinor and she said the same to him in London?â

âThatâs what she told me.â

Sir Samuel Attenbury re-examined:

âWhen Mary Gerrard was discussing with you the wording of this will, did the accused look in through the window?â

âYes, she did.â

âWhat did she say?â

âShe said, âSo youâre making your will, Mary. Thatâs funny.â And she laughed. Laughed and laughed. And itâs my opinion,â said the witness viciously, âthat it was at that moment the idea came into her head. The idea of making away with the girl! Sheâd murder in her heart that very minute.â

The judge spoke sharply:

âConfine yourself to answering the questions that are asked you. The last part of that answer is to be struck outâ¦.â

Elinor thought:

âHow queerâ¦ When anyone says whatâs true, they strike it outâ¦.â

She wanted to laugh hysterically.

II

Nurse OâBrien was in the box.

âOn the morning of June 29th did Nurse Hopkins make a statement to you?â

âYes. She said she had a tube of morphine hydrochloride missing from her case.â

âWhat did you do?â

âI helped her to hunt for it.â

âBut you could not find it?â

âNo.â

âTo your knowledge, was the case left overnight in the hall?â

âIt was.â

âMr. Welman and the accused were both staying in the house at the time of Mrs. Welmanâs deathâthat is, on June 28th to 29th?â

âYes.â

âWill you tell us of an incident that occurred on June 29thâthe day after Mrs. Welmanâs death?â

âI saw Mr. Roderick Welman with Mary Gerrard. He was telling her he loved her, and he tried to kiss her.â

âHe was at the time engaged to the accused?â

âYes.â

âWhat happened next?â

âMary told him to think shame of himself, and him engaged to Miss Elinor!â

âIn your opinion, what was the feeling of the accused towards Mary Gerrard?â

âShe hated her. She would look after her as though sheâd like to destroy her.â

Sir Edwin jumped up.

Elinor thought: âWhy do they wrangle about it? What does it matter?â

Sir Edwin Bulmer cross-examined.

âIs it not a fact that Nurse Hopkins said she thought she had left the morphia at home?â

âWell, you see, it was this way: Afterââ

âKindly answer my question. Did she not say that she had probably left the morphia at home?â

âYes.â

âShe was not really worried at the time about it?â

âNo, not then.â

âBecause she thought she had left it at home. So naturally she was not uneasy.â

âShe couldnât imagine anyone taking it.â

âExactly. It wasnât till after Mary Gerrardâs death from morphia that her imagination got to work.â

The judge interrupted:

âI think, Sir Edwin, that you have already been over that point with the former witness.â

âAs your lordship pleases.â

âNow, regarding the attitude of the accused to Mary Gerrard, there was no quarrel between them at any time?â

âNo quarrel, no.â

âMiss Carlisle was always quite pleasant to the girl?â

âYes. âTwas the way she looked at her.â

âYesâyesâyes. But we canât go by that sort of thing. Youâre Irish, I think?â

âI am that.â

âAnd the Irish have rather a vivid imagination, havenât they?â

Nurse OâBrien cried excitedly:

âEvery word Iâve told you is the truth.â

III

Mr. Abbott, the grocer, in the box. Flusteredâunsure of himself (slightly thrilled, though, at his importance). His evidence was short. The purchase of two pots of fish paste. The accused had said, âThereâs a lot of food poisoning with fish paste.â She had seemed excited and queer.

No cross-examination.

Three

Opening speech for the Defence:

âGentlemen of the Jury, I might, if I like, submit to you that there is no case against the accused. The onus of proof is on the Prosecution, and so far, in my opinionâand, I have no doubt, yoursâthey have proved exactly nothing at all! The Prosecution avers that Elinor Carlisle, having obtained possession of morphine (which everyone else in the house had had equal opportunity of purloining, and as to which there exists considerable doubt whether it was ever in the house at all), proceeds to poison Mary Gerrard. Here the Prosecution has relied solely on opportunity. It has sought to prove motive, but I submit that that is just what it has not been able to do. For, members of the jury, there is no motive! The Prosecution has spoken of a broken engagement. I ask youâa broken engagement! If a broken engagement is a cause for murder, why are we not having murders committed every day? And this engagement, mark you, was not an affair of desperate passion, it was an engagement entered into mainly for family reasons. Miss Carlisle and Mr. Welman had grown up together; they had always been fond of each other, and gradually they drifted into a warmer attachment; but I intend to prove to you it was at best a very lukewarm affair.â

(Oh RoddyâRoddy. A lukewarm affair?)

âMoreover, this engagement was broken off, not by Mr. Welmanâbut by the prisoner. I submit to you that the engagement between Elinor Carlisle and Roderick Welman was entered into mainly to please old Mrs. Welman. When she died, both parties realized that their feelings were not strong enough to justify them in entering upon matrimony. They remained, however, good friends. Moreover, Elinor Carlisle, who had inherited her auntâs fortune, in the kindliness of her nature, was planning to settle a considerable sum of money on Mary Gerrard. And this is the girl she is accused of poisoning! The thing is farcical.

âThe only thing that there is against Elinor Carlisle is the circumstances under which the poisoning took place.

âThe Prosecution has said in effect:

âNo one but Elinor Carlisle could have killed Mary Gerrard. Therefore they have had to search about for a possible motive. But, as I have said to you, they have been unable to find any motive because there was none.

âNow, is it true that no one but Elinor Carlisle could have killed Mary Gerrard? No, it is not. There is the possibility that Mary Gerrard committed suicide. There is the possibility that someone tampered with the sandwiches while Elinor Carlisle was out of the house at the Lodge. There is a third possibility. It is a fundamental law of evidence that if it can be shown that there is an alternative theory which is possible and consistent with the evidence, the accused must be acquitted. I propose to show you that there was another person who had not only an equal opportunity to poison Mary Gerrard, but who had a far better motive for doing so. I propose to call evidence to show you that there was another person who had access to the morphine, and who had a very good motive for killing Mary Gerrard, and I can show that that person had an equally good opportunity of doing so. I submit to you that no jury in the world will convict this woman of murder when there is no evidence against her except that of opportunity, and when it can be shown that there is not only evidence of opportunity against another person, but an overwhelming motive. I shall also call witness to prove that there has been deliberate perjury on the part of one of the witnesses for the Crown. But first I will call the prisoner, that she may tell you her own story, and that you may see for yourself how entirely unfounded the charges against her are.â

II

She had taken the oath. She was answering Sir Edwinâs questions in a low voice. The judge leaned forward. He told her to speak louderâ¦.

Sir Edwin was talking gently and encouraginglyâall the questions to which she had rehearsed the answers.

âYou were fond of Roderick Welman?â

âVery fond. He was like a brother to meâor a cousin. I always thought of him as a cousin.â

The engagementâ¦drifted into itâ¦very pleasant to marry someone you had known all your lifeâ¦.

âNot, perhaps, what might be called a passionate affair?â

(Passionate? Oh, Roddyâ¦)

âWell, noâ¦you see we knew each other so wellâ¦.â

âAfter the death of Mrs. Welman was there a slightly strained feeling between you?â

âYes, there was.â

âHow did you account for this?â

âI think it was partly the money.â

âThe money?â

âYes. Roderick felt uncomfortable. He thought people might think he was marrying me for thatâ¦.â

âThe engagement was not broken off on account of Mary Gerrard?â

âI did think Roderick was rather taken with her, but I didnât believe it was anything serious.â

âWould you have been upset if it had been?â

âOh, no. I should have thought it rather unsuitable, that is all.â

âNow, Miss Carlisle. Did you or did you not take a tube of morphine from Nurse Hopkinsâ attachÃ© case on June 28th?â

âI did not.â

âHave you at any time had morphine in your possession?â

âNever.â

âWere you aware that your aunt had not made a will?â

âNo. It came as a great surprise to me.â

âDid you think she was trying to convey to you a message on the night of June 28th when she died?â

âI understood that she had made no provision for Mary Gerrard, and was anxious to do so.â

âAnd in order to carry out her wishes, you yourself were prepared to settle a sum of money on the girl?â

âYes. I wanted to carry out Aunt Lauraâs wishes. And I was grateful for the kindness Mary had shown to my aunt.â

âOn July 26th did you come down from London to Maidensford and stay at the Kingâs Arms?â

âYes.â

âWhat was your purpose in coming down?â

âI had an offer for the house, and the man who had bought it wanted possession as quickly as possible. I had to look through my auntâs personal things and settle things up generally.â

âDid you buy various provisions on your way to the Hall on July 27th?â

âYes. I thought it would be easier to have a picnic lunch there than to come back to the village.â

âDid you then go on to the house, and did you sort through your auntâs personal effects?â

âI did.â

âAnd after that?â

âI came down to the pantry and cut some sandwiches. I then went down to the Lodge and invited the District Nurse and Mary Gerrard to come up to the house.â

âWhy did you do this?â

âI wished to save them a hot walk back to the village and back again to the Lodge.â

âIt was, in fact, a natural and kindly action on your part. Did they accept the invitation?â

âYes. They walked up to the house with me.â

âWhere were the sandwiches you had cut?â

âI left them in the pantry on a plate.â

âWas the window open?â

âYes.â

âAnyone could have got into the pantry while you were absent?â

âCertainly.â

âIf anybody had observed you from outside while you were cutting the sandwiches, what would they have thought?â

âI suppose that I was preparing to have a picnic lunch.â

âThey could not know, could they, that anyone was to share the lunch?â

âNo. The idea of inviting the other two only came to me when I saw what a quantity of food I had.â

âSo that if anyone had entered the house during your absence and placed morphine in one of those sandwiches, it would be you they were attempting to poison?â

âWell, yes, it would.â

âWhat happened when you had all arrived back at the house?â

âWe went into the morning room. I fetched the sandwiches and handed them to the other two.â

âDid you drink anything with them?â

âI drank water. There was beer on a table; but Nurse Hopkins and Mary preferred tea. Nurse Hopkins went into the pantry and made it. She brought it in on a tray and Mary poured it out.â

âDid you have any?â

âNo.â

âBut Mary Gerrard and Nurse Hopkins both drank tea?â

âYes.â

âWhat happened next?â

âNurse Hopkins went and turned the gas ring off.â

âLeaving you alone with Mary Gerrard?â

âYes.â

âWhat happened next?â

âAfter a few minutes I picked up the tray and the sandwich plate and carried them into the pantry. Nurse Hopkins was there, and we washed them together.â

âDid Nurse Hopkins have her cuffs off at the time?â

âYes. She was washing the things, while I dried them.â

âDid you make a certain remark to her about a scratch on her wrist?â

âI asked her if she had pricked herself.â

âWhat did she reply?â

âShe said, âIt was a thorn from the rose tree outside the Lodge. Iâll get it out presently.ââ

âWhat was her manner at the time?â

âI think she was feeling the heat. She was perspiring and her face was a queer colour.â

âWhat happened after that?â

âWe went upstairs, and she helped me with my auntâs things.â

âWhat time was it when you went downstairs again?â

âIt must have been an hour later.â

âWhere was Mary Gerrard?â

âShe was sitting in the morning room. She was breathing very queerly and was in a coma. I rang up the doctor on Nurse Hopkinsâ instructions. He arrived just before she died.â

Sir Edwin squared his shoulders dramatically.

âMiss Carlisle, did you kill Mary Gerrard?â

(Thatâs your cue! Head up, eyes straight.)

âNo!â

III

Sir Samuel Attenbury. A sick beating at oneâs heart. Nowânow she was at the mercy of an enemy! No more gentleness, no more questions to which she knew the answers!

But he began quite mildly.

âYou were engaged to be married, you have told us, to Mr. Roderick Welman?â

âYes.â

âYou were fond of him?â

âVery fond.â

âI put it to you that you were deeply in love with Roderick Welman and that you were wildly jealous of his love for Mary Gerrard?â

âNo.â (Did it sound properly indignant, that âno?â)

Sir Samuel said menacingly:

âI put it to you that you deliberately planned to put this girl out of the way, in the hope that Roderick Welman would return to you.â

âCertainly not.â (Disdainfulâa little weary. That was better.)

The questions went on. It was just like a dreamâ¦a bad dream â¦ a nightmare â¦.

Question after question â¦ horrible, hurting questionsâ¦ Some of them she was prepared for, some took her unawaresâ¦.

Always trying to remember her part. Never once to let go, to say:

âYes, I did hate herâ¦ Yes, I did want her deadâ¦ Yes, all the time I was cutting the sandwiches I was thinking of her dyingâ¦.â

To remain calm and cool and answer as briefly and passionlessly as possibleâ¦.

Fightingâ¦.

Fighting every inch of the wayâ¦.

Over nowâ¦ The horrible man with the Jewish nose was sitting down. And the kindly, unctuous voice of Sir Edwin Bulmer was asking a few more questions. Easy, pleasant questions, designed to remove any bad impression she might have made under cross-examinationâ¦.

She was back again in the dock. Looking at the jury, wonderingâ¦.

IV

Roddy. Roddy standing there, blinking a little, hating it all. Roddyâlooking somehowânot quite real.

But nothingâs real any more. Everything is whirling round in a devilish way. Blackâs white, and top is bottom and east is westâ¦ And Iâm not Elinor Carlisle; Iâm âthe accused.â And, whether they hang me or whether they let me go, nothing will ever be the same again. If there were just somethingâjust one sane thing to hold on toâ¦.

(Peter Lordâs face, perhaps, with its freckles and its extraordinary air of being just the same as usualâ¦)

Where had Sir Edwin got to now?

âWill you tell us what were the state of Miss Carlisleâs feelings towards you?â

Roddy answered in his precise voice:

âI should say she was deeply attached to me, but certainly not passionately in love with me.â

âYou considered your engagement satisfactory?â

âOh, quite. We had a good deal in common.â

âWill you tell the jury, Mr. Welman, exactly why that engagement was broken off?â

âWell, after Mrs. Welman died it pulled us up, I think, with a bit of a shock. I didnât like the idea of marrying a rich woman when I myself was penniless. Actually the engagement was dissolved by mutual consent. We were both rather relieved.â

âNow, will you tell us just what your relations were with Mary Gerrard?â

(Oh, Roddy, poor Roddy, how you must hate all this!)

âI thought her very lovely.â

âWere you in love with her?â

âJust a little.â

âWhen was the last time you saw her?â

âLet me see. It must have been the 5th or 6th of July.â

Sir Edwin said, a touch of steel in his voice:

âYou saw her after that, I think.â

âNo, I went abroadâto Venice and Dalmatia.â

âYou returned to Englandâwhen?â

âWhen I received a telegramâlet me seeâon the 1st of August, it must have been.â

âBut you were actually in England on July 27th, I think.â

âNo.â

âCome, now, Mr. Welman. You are on oath, remember. Is it not a fact that your passport shows that you returned to England on July 25th and left it again on the night of the 27th?â

Sir Edwinâs voice held a subtly menacing note. Elinor frowned, suddenly jerked back to reality. Why was Counsel bullying his own witness?

Roderick had turned rather pale. He was silent for a minute or two, then he said with an effort:

âWellâyes, that is so.â

âDid you go and see this girl Mary Gerrard in London on the 25th at her lodgings?â

âYes, I did.â

âDid you ask her to marry you?â

âErâerâyes.â

âWhat was her answer?â

âShe refused.â

âYou are not a rich man, Mr. Welman?â

âNo.â

âAnd you are rather heavily in debt?â

âWhat business is that of yours?â

âWere you not aware of the fact that Miss Carlisle had left all her money to you in the event of her death?â

âThis is the first I have heard of it.â

âWere you in Maidensford on the morning of July 27th?â

âI was not.â

Sir Edwin sat down.

Counsel for the Prosecution said:

âYou say that in your opinion the accused was not deeply in love with you.â

âThat is what I said.â

âAre you a chivalrous man, Mr. Welman?â

âI donât know what you mean.â

âIf a lady were deeply in love with you and you were not in love with her, would you feel it incumbent upon you to conceal the fact?â

âCertainly not.â

âWhere did you go to school, Mr. Welman?â

âEton.â

Sir Samuel said with a quiet smile:

âThat is all.â

V

Alfred James Wargrave.

âYou are a rose grower and live at Emsworth, Berks?â

âYes.â

âDid you on October 20th go to Maidensford and examine a rose tree growing at the Lodge at Hunterbury Hall?â

âI did.â

âWill you describe this tree?â

âIt was a climbing roseâZephyrine Drouhin. It bears a sweetly scented pink flower. It has no thorns.â

âIt would be impossible to prick oneself on a rose tree of this description?â

âIt would be quite impossible. It is a thornless tree.â

No cross-examination.

VI

âYou are James Arthur Littledale. You are a qualified chemist and employed by the wholesale chemists, Jenkins & Hale?â

âI am.â

âWill you tell me what this scrap of paper is?â

The exhibit was handed to him.

âIt is a fragment of one of our labels.â

âWhat kind of label?â

âThe label we attach to tubes of hypodermic tablets.â

âIs there enough here for you to say definitely what drug was in the tube to which this label was attached?â

âYes. I should say quite definitely that the tube in question contained hypodermic tablets of apomorphine hydrochloride 1/20 grain.â

âNot morphine hydrochloride?â

âNo, it could not be that.â

âWhy not?â

âOn such a tube the word Morphine is spelt with a capital M. The end of the line of the m here, seen under my magnifying glass, shows plainly that it is part of a small m, not a capital M.â

âPlease let the jury examine it with the glass. Have you labels here to show what you mean?â

The labels were handed to the jury.

Sir Edwin resumed:

âYou say this is from a tube of apomorphine hydrochloride? What exactly is apomorphine hydrochloride?â

âThe formula is C₁₇H₁₇NO2. It is a derivative of morphine prepared by saponifying morphine by heating it with dilute hydrochloric acid in sealed tubes. The morphine loses one molecule of water.â

âWhat are the special properties of apomorphine?â

Mr. Littledale said quietly:

âApomorphine is the quickest and most powerful emetic known. It acts within a few minutes.â

âSo if anybody had swallowed a lethal dose of morphine and were to inject a dose of apomorphine hypodermically within a few minutes, what would result?â

âVomiting would take place almost immediately and the morphine would be expelled from the system.â

âTherefore, if two people were to share the same sandwich or drink from the same pot of tea, and one of them were then to inject a dose of apomorphine hypodermically, what would be the result, supposing the shared food or drink to have contained morphine?â

âThe food or drink together with the morphine would be vomited by the person who injected the apomorphine.â

âAnd that person would suffer no ill results?â

âNo.â

There was suddenly a stir of excitement in court and order for silence from the judge.

VII

âYou are Amelia Mary Sedley and you reside ordinarily at 17 Charles Street, Boonamba, Auckland?â

âYes.â

âDo you know a Mrs. Draper?â

âYes. I have known her for over twenty years.â

âDo you know her maiden name?â

âYes. I was at her marriage. Her name was Mary Riley.â

âIs she a native of New Zealand?â

âNo, she came out from England.â

âYou have been in court since the beginning of these proceedings?â

âYes, I have.â

âHave you seen this Mary Rileyâor Draperâin court?â

âYes.â

âWhere did you see her?â

âGiving evidence in this box.â

âUnder what name?â

âJessie Hopkins.â

âAnd you are quite sure that this Jessie Hopkins is the woman you know as Mary Riley or Draper?â

âNot a doubt of it.â

A slight commotion at the back of the court.

âWhen did you last see Mary Draperâuntil today?â

âFive years ago. She went to England.â

Sir Edwin said with a bow:

âYour witness.â

Sir Samuel, rising with a slightly perplexed face, began:

âI suggest to you, Mrs.âSedley, that you may be mistaken.â

âIâm not mistaken.â

âYou may have been misled by a chance resemblance.â

âI know Mary Draper well enough.â

âNurse Hopkins is a certificated District Nurse.â

âMary Draper was a hospital nurse before her marriage.â

âYou understand, do you not, that you are accusing a Crown witness of perjury?â

âI understand what Iâm saying.â

VIII

âEdward John Marshall, you lived for some years in Auckland, New Zealand, and now reside at 14 Wren Street, Deptford?â

âThatâs right.â

âDo you know Mary Draper?â

âIâve known her for years in New Zealand.â

âHave you seen her today in court?â

âI have. She called herself Hopkins; but it was Mrs. Draper all right.â

The judge lifted his head. He spoke in a small, clear, penetrating voice:

âIt is desirable, I think, that the witness Jessie Hopkins should be recalled.â

A pause, a murmur.

âYour lordship, Jessie Hopkins left the court a few minutes ago.â

IX

âHercule Poirot.â

Hercule Poirot entered the box, took the oath, twirled his moustache and waited, with his head a little on one side. He gave his name and address and calling.

âM. Poirot, do you recognize this document?â

âCertainly.â

âHow did it originally come into your possession?â

âIt was given me by the District Nurse, Nurse Hopkins.â

Sir Edwin said:

âWith your permission, my lord, I will read this aloud, and it can then go to the jury.â

Four

Closing speech for the Defence.

âGentlemen of the jury, the responsibility now rests with you. It is for you to say if Elinor Carlisle is to go forth free from the court. If, after the evidence you have heard, you are satisfied that Elinor Carlisle poisoned Mary Gerrard, then it is your duty to pronounce her guilty.

âBut if it should seem to you that there is equally strong evidence, and perhaps far stronger evidence against another person, then it is your duty to free the accused without more ado.

âYou will have realized by now that the facts of the case are very different from what they originally appeared to be.

âYesterday, after the dramatic evidence given by M. Hercule Poirot, I called other witnesses to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the girl Mary Gerrard was the illegitimate daughter of Laura Welman. That being true, it follows, as his lordship will doubtless instruct you, that Mrs. Welmanâs next of kin was not her niece, Elinor Carlisle, but her illegitimate daughter who went by the name of Mary Gerrard. And therefore Mary Gerrard at Mrs. Welmanâs death inherited a vast fortune. That, gentlemen, is the crux of the situation. A sum in the neighbourhood of two hundred thousand pounds was inherited by Mary Gerrard. But she herself was unaware of the fact. She was also unaware of the true identity of the woman Hopkins. You may think, gentlemen, that Mary Riley or Draper may have had some perfectly legitimate reason for changing her name to Hopkins. If so, why has she not come forward to state what the reason was?

âAll that we do know is this: That at Nurse Hopkinsâ instigation, Mary Gerrard made a will leaving everything she had to âMary Riley, sister of Eliza Riley.â We know that Nurse Hopkins, by reason of her profession, had access to morphine and to apomorphine and was well acquainted with their properties. Furthermore, it has been proved that Nurse Hopkins was not speaking the truth when she said that her wrist had been pricked by a thorn from a thornless rose tree. Why did she lie, if it were not that she wanted hurriedly to account for the mark just made by the hypodermic needle? Remember, too, that the accused has stated on oath that Nurse Hopkins, when she joined her in the pantry, was looking ill, and her face was of a greenish colourâcomprehensible enough if she had just been violently sick.

âI will underline yet another point: If Mrs. Welman had lived twenty-four hours longer, she would have made a will; and in all probability that will would have made a suitable provision for Mary Gerrard, but would not have left her the bulk of her fortune, since it was Mrs. Welmanâs belief that her unacknowledged daughter would be happier if she remained in another sphere of life.

âIt is not for me to pronounce on the evidence against another person, except to show that this other person had equal opportunities and a far stronger motive for the murder.

âLooked at from that point of view, gentlemen of the jury, I submit to you that the case against Elinor Carlisle falls to the groundâ¦.â

II

From Mr. Justice Beddingfieldâs summing-up:

ââ¦You must be perfectly satisfied that this woman did, in fact, administer a dangerous dose of morphia to Mary Gerrard on July 27th. If you are not satisfied, you must acquit the prisoner.

âThe Prosecution has stated that the only person who had the opportunity to administer poison to Mary Gerrard was the accused. The Defence has sought to prove that there were other alternatives. There is the theory that Mary Gerrard committed suicide, but the only evidence in support of that theory is the fact that Mary Gerrard made a will shortly before she died. There is not the slightest proof that she was depressed or unhappy or in a state of mind likely to lead her to take her own life. It has also been suggested that the morphine might have been introduced into the sandwiches by someone entering the pantry during the time that Elinor Carlisle was at the Lodge. In that case, the poison was intended for Elinor Carlisle, and Mary Gerrardâs death was a mistake. The third alternative suggested by the Defence is that another person had an equal opportunity to administer morphine, and that in the latter case the poison was introduced into the tea and not into the sandwiches. In support of that theory the Defence has called the witness Littledale, who has sworn that the scrap of paper found in the pantry was part of a label on a tube containing tablets of apomorphine hydrochloride, a very powerful emetic. You have had an example of both types of labels submitted to you. In my view, the police were guilty of gross carelessness in not checking the original fragment more closely and in jumping to the conclusion that it was a morphine label.

âThe witness Hopkins has stated that she pricked her wrist on a rose tree at the Lodge. The witness Wargrave has examined that tree, and it has no thorns on it. You have to decide what caused the mark on Nurse Hopkinsâ wrist and why she should tell a lie about itâ¦.

âIf the Prosecution has convinced you that the accused and no other committed the crime, then you must find the accused guilty.

âIf the alternative theory suggested by the Defence is possible and consistent with the evidence, the accused must be acquitted.

âI will ask you to consider the verdict with courage and diligence, weighing only the evidence that has been put before you.â

III

Elinor was brought back into the court.

The jury filed in.

âGentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?â

âYes.â

âLook upon the prisoner at the bar, and say whether she is guilty or not guilty.â

âNot guiltyâ¦.â

Five

They had brought her out by a side door.

She had been aware of faces welcoming herâ¦ Roddyâ¦the detective with the big moustachesâ¦.

But it was to Peter Lord that she turned.

âI want to get awayâ¦.â

She was with him now in the smooth Daimler, driving rapidly out of London.

He had said nothing to her. She had sat in the blessed silence.

Every minute taking her farther and farther away.

A new lifeâ¦.

That was what she wantedâ¦.

A new life.

She said suddenly:

âIâI want to go somewhere quietâ¦where there wonât be any facesâ¦.â

Peter Lord said quietly:

âThatâs all arranged. Youâre going to a sanatorium. Quiet place. Lovely gardens. No one will bother youâor get at you.â

She said with a sigh:

âYesâthatâs what I wantâ¦.â

It was being a doctor, she supposed, that made him understand. He knewâand didnât bother her. So blessedly peaceful to be here with him, going away from it all, out of Londonâ¦to a place that was safeâ¦.

She wanted to forgetâforget everythingâ¦ None of it was real any longer. It was all gone, vanished, finished withâthe old life and the old emotions. She was a new, strange, defenceless creature, very crude and raw, beginning all over again. Very strange and very afraidâ¦.

But it was comforting to be with Peter Lordâ¦.

They were out of London now, passing through suburbs.

She said at last:

âIt was all youâall youâ¦.â

Peter Lord said:

âIt was Hercule Poirot. The fellowâs a kind of magician!â

But Elinor shook her head. She said obstinately:

âIt was you. You got hold of him and made him do it!â

Peter grinned.

âI made him do it all rightâ¦.â

Elinor said:

âDid you know I hadnât done it, or werenât you sure?â

Peter said simply:

âI was never quite sure.â

Elinor said:

âThatâs why I nearly said: âguiltyâ right at the beginningâ¦because, you see, I had thought of itâ¦ I thought of it that day when I laughed outside the cottage.â

Peter said:

âYes, I knew.â

She said wonderingly:

âIt seems so queer nowâ¦like a kind of possession. That day I bought the paste and cut the sandwiches I was pretending to myself, I was thinking: âIâve mixed poison with this, and when she eats she will dieâand then Roddy will come back to me.ââ

Peter Lord said:

âIt helps some people to pretend that sort of thing to themselves. It isnât a bad thing, really. You take it out of yourself in a fantasy. Like sweating a thing out of your system.â

Elinor said:

âYes, thatâs true. Because it wentâsuddenly! The blackness, I mean! When that woman mentioned the rose tree outside the Lodgeâit all swung back intoâinto being normal againâ¦.â

Then with a shiver she said:

âAfterwards when we went into the morning room and she was deadâdying, at leastâI felt then: Is there much difference between thinking and doing murder?â

Peter Lord said:

âAll the difference in the world!â

âYes, but is there?â

âOf course there is! Thinking murder doesnât really do any harm. People have silly ideas about that; they think itâs the same as planning murder! It isnât. If you think murder long enough, you suddenly come through the blackness and feel that itâs all rather silly!â

Elinor cried:

âOh! you are a comforting personâ¦.â

Peter Lord said rather incoherently:

âNot at all. Just common sense.â

Elinor said, and there were suddenly tears in her eyes:

âEvery now and thenâin courtâI looked at you. It gave me courage. You looked soâso ordinary.â

Then she laughed. âThatâs rude!â

He said:

âI understand. When youâre in the middle of a nightmare something ordinary is the only hope. Anyway, ordinary things are the best, Iâve always thought so.â

For the first time since she had entered the car she turned her head and looked at him.

The sight of his face didnât hurt her as Roddyâs face always hurt her; it gave her no sharp pang of pain and pleasure mixed; instead, it made her feel warm and comforted.

She thought:

âHow nice his face isâ¦nice and funnyâand, yes, comfortingâ¦.â

They drove on.

They came at last to a gateway and a drive that wound upwards till it reached a quiet white house on the side of a hill.

He said:

âYouâll be quite safe here. No one will bother you.â

Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm.

She said:

âYouâyouâll come and see me?â

âOf course.â

âOften?â

Peter Lord said:

âAs often as you want me.â

She said:

âPlease comeâvery oftenâ¦.â

Six

Hercule Poirot said:

âSo you see, my friend, the lies people tell are just as useful as the truth?â

Peter Lord said:

âDid everyone tell you lies?â

Hercule Poirot nodded.

âOh, yes! For one reason or another, you comprehend. The one person to whom truth was an obligation and who was sensitive and scrupulous concerning itâthat person was the one who puzzled me most!â

Peter Lord murmured:

âElinor herself!â

âPrecisely. The evidence pointed to her as the guilty party. And she herself, with her sensitive and fastidious conscience, did nothing to dispel that assumption. Accusing herself of the will, if not the deed, she came very near to abandoning a distasteful and sordid fight and pleading guilty in court to a crime she had not committed.â

Peter Lord breathed a sigh of exasperation.

âIncredible.â

Poirot shook his head.

âNot at all. She condemned herselfâbecause she judged herself by a more exacting standard than ordinary humanity applies!â

Peter Lord said thoughtfully:

âYes, sheâs like that.â

Hercule Poirot went on:

âFrom the moment that I started my investigations there was always the strong possibility that Elinor Carlisle was guilty of the crime of which she was accused. But I fulfilled my obligations towards you and I discovered that a fairly strong case could be made out against another person.â

âNurse Hopkins?â

âNot to begin with. Roderick Welman was the first person to attract my attention. In his case, again, we start with a lie. He told me that he left England on July 9th and returned on August 1st. But Nurse Hopkins had mentioned casually that Mary Gerrard had rebuffed Roderick. Welmanâs advances both in Maidensford âand again when she saw him in London.â Mary Gerrard, you informed me, went to London on July 10thâa day after Roderick Welman had left England. When then did Mary Gerrard have an interview with Roderick Welman in London? I set my burglarious friend to work, and by an examination of Welmanâs passport I discovered that he had been in England from July 25th to the 27th. And he had deliberately lied about it.

âThere had always been that period of time in my mind when the sandwiches were on a plate in the pantry and Elinor Carlisle was down at the Lodge. But all along I realized that in that case Elinor must have been the intended victim, not Mary. Had Roderick Welman any motive for killing Elinor Carlisle? Yes, a very good one. She had made a will leaving him her entire fortune; and by adroit questioning I discovered that Roderick Welman could have made himself acquainted with that fact.â

Peter Lord said:

âAnd why did you decide that he was innocent?â

âBecause of one more lie. Such a silly stupid negligible little lie, too. Nurse Hopkins said that she had scratched her wrist on a rose tree, that she had got a thorn in it. And I went and saw the rose tree, and it had no thornsâ¦ So clearly Nurse Hopkins had told a lieâand the lie was so silly and so seemingly pointless that it focused my attention upon her.

âI began to wonder about Nurse Hopkins. Up till then she had struck me as a perfectly credible witness, consistent throughout, with a strong bias against the accused arising naturally enough out of her affection for the dead girl. But now, with that silly pointless little lie in my mind, I considered Nurse Hopkins and her evidence very carefully, and I realized something that I had not been clever enough to see before. Nurse Hopkins knew something about Mary Gerrard which she was very anxious should come out.â

Peter Lord said in surprise:

âI thought it was the other way round?â

âOstensibly, yes. She gave a very fine performance of someone who knows something and isnât going to tell! But when I thought it over carefully I realized that every word she had said on the subject had been uttered with diametrically the opposite end in view. My conversation with Nurse OâBrien confirmed that belief. Hopkins had used her very cleverly without Nurse OâBrien being conscious of the fact.

âIt was clear then that Nurse Hopkins had a game of her own to play. I contrasted the two lies, her and Roderick Welmanâs. Was either of them capable of an innocent explanation?

âIn Roderickâs case, I answered immediately: Yes. Roderick Welman is a very sensitive creature. To admit that he had been unable to keep to his plan of staying abroad, and had been compelled to slink back and hang round the girl, who would have nothing to do with him, would have been most hurtful to his pride. Since there was no question of his having been near the scene of the murder or of knowing anything about it, he took the line of least resistance and avoided unpleasantness (a most characteristic trait!) by ignoring that hurried visit to England and simply stating that he returned on August 1st when the news of the murder reached him.

âNow as to Nurse Hopkins, could there be an innocent explanation of her lie? The more I thought of it, the more extraordinary it seemed to me. Why should Nurse Hopkins find it necessary to lie because she had a mark on her wrist? What was the significance of that mark?

âI began to ask myself certain questions. Who did the morphine that was stolen belong to? Nurse Hopkins. Who could have administered that morphine to old Mrs. Welman? Nurse Hopkins. Yes, but why call attention to its disappearance? There could be only one answer to that if Nurse Hopkins was guilty: because the other murder, the murder of Mary Gerrard, was already planned, and a scapegoat had been selected, but that scapegoat must be shown to have had a chance of obtaining morphine.

âCertain other things fitted in. The anonymous letter written to Elinor. That was to create bad feeling between Elinor and Mary. The idea doubtless was that Elinor would come down and object to Maryâs influence over Mrs. Welman. The fact that Roderick Welman fell violently in love with Mary was, of course, a totally unforeseen circumstanceâbut one that Nurse Hopkins was quick to appreciate. Here was a perfect motive for the scapegoat, Elinor.

âBut what was the reason for the two crimes? What motive could there be for Nurse Hopkins to do away with Mary Gerrard? I began to see a lightâoh, very dim as yet. Nurse Hopkins had a good deal of influence over Mary, and one of the ways she had used that influence was to induce the girl to make a will. But the will did not benefit Nurse Hopkins. It benefited an aunt of Maryâs who lived in New Zealand. And then I remembered a chance remark that someone in the village had made to me. That aunt had been a hospital nurse.

âThe light was not quite so dim now. The patternâthe design of the crimeâwas becoming apparent. The next step was easy. I visited Nurse Hopkins once more. We both played the comedy very prettily. In the end she allowed herself to be persuaded to tell what she had been aiming to tell all along! Only she tells it, perhaps, just a little sooner than she meant to do! But the opportunity is so good that she cannot resist. And, after all, the truth has got to be known some time. So, with well-feigned reluctance, she produces the letter. And then, my friend, it is no longer conjecture. I know! The letter gives her away.â

Peter Lord frowned and said:

âHow?â

âMon cher! The superscription on that letter was as follows: âFor Mary, to be sent to her after my death.â But the gist of the contents made it perfectly plain that Mary Gerrard was not to know the truth. Also, the word sent (not given) on the envelope was illuminating. It was not Mary Gerrard to whom that letter was written, but another Mary. It was to her sister, Mary Riley, in New Zealand, that Eliza Riley wrote the truth.

âNurse Hopkins did not find that letter at the Lodge after Mary Gerrardâs death. She had had it in her possession for many years. She received it in New Zealand, where it was sent to her after her sisterâs death.â

He paused.

âOnce one had seen the truth with the eyes of the mind the rest was easy. The quickness of air travel made it possible for a witness who knew Mary Draper well in New Zealand to be present in court.â

Peter Lord said:

âSupposing you had been wrong and Nurse Hopkins and Mary Draper had been two entirely different people?â

Poirot said coldly:

âI am never wrong!â

Peter Lord laughed:

Hercule Poirot went on:

âMy friend, we know something now of this woman Mary Riley or Draper. The police of New Zealand were unable to get sufficient evidence for a conviction, but they had been watching her for some time when she suddenly left the country. There was a patient of hers, an old lady, who left her âdear Nurse Rileyâ a very snug little legacy, and whose death was somewhat of a puzzle to the doctor attending her. Mary Draperâs husband insured his life in her favour for a considerable sum, and his death was sudden and unaccountable. Unfortunately for her, though he had made out a cheque to the Insurance Company, he had forgotten to post it. Other deaths may lie at her door. It is certain she is a remorseless and unscrupulous woman.

âOne can imagine that her sisterâs letter suggested possibilities to her resourceful mind. When New Zealand became too hot, as you say, to hold her, and she came to this country and resumed her profession in the name of Hopkins (a former colleague of hers in hospital who died abroad), Maidensford was her objective. She may perhaps have contemplated some form of blackmail. But old Mrs. Welman was not the kind of woman to allow herself to be blackmailed, and Nurse Riley, or Hopkins, very wisely did not attempt anything of the sort. Doubtless she made inquiries and discovered that Mrs. Welman was a very wealthy woman, and some chance word of Mrs. Welmanâs may have revealed the fact that the old lady had not made a will.

âSo, on that June evening, when Nurse OâBrien retailed to her colleague that Mrs. Welman was asking for her lawyer, Hopkins did not hesitate. Mrs. Welman must die intestate so that her illegitimate daughter would inherit her money. Hopkins had already made friends with Mary Gerrard and acquired a good deal of influence over the girl. All that she had to do now was to persuade the girl to make a will leaving her money to her motherâs sister; and she inspired the wording of that will very carefully. There was no mention of the relationship: just âMary Riley, sister of the late Eliza Riley.â Once that was signed, Mary Gerrard was doomed. The woman only had to wait for a suitable opportunity. She had, I fancy, already planned the method of the crime, with the use of the apomorphine to secure her own alibi. She may have meant to get Elinor and Mary to her cottage, but when Elinor came down to the Lodge and asked them both to come up and have sandwiches she realized at once that a perfect opportunity had arisen. The circumstances were such that Elinor was practically certain to be convicted.â

Peter Lord said slowly:

âIf it hadnât been for youâshe would have been convicted.â

Hercule Poirot said quickly:

âNo, it is you, my friend, she has to thank for her life.â

âI? I didnât do anything. I triedââ

He broke off. Hercule Poirot smiled a little.

âMais oui, you tried very hard, did you not? You were impatient because I did not seem to you to be getting anywhere. And you were afraid, too, that she might, after all, be guilty. And so, with great impertinence, you also told me the lies! But, mon cher, you were not very clever about it. In future I advise you to stick to the measles and the whooping cough and leave crime detection alone.â

Peter Lord blushed.

He said:

âDid you knowâall the time?â

Poirot said severely:

âYou lead me by the hand to a clearing in the shrubs, and you assist me to find a German matchbox that you have just put there! Câest lâenfantillage!â

Peter Lord winced.

He groaned:

âRub it in!â

Poirot went on:

âYou converse with the gardener and lead him to say that he saw your car in the road; and then you give a start and pretend that it was not your car. And you look hard at me to make sure that I realize that someone, a stranger, must have been there that morning.â

âI was a damned fool,â said Peter Lord.

âWhat were you doing at Hunterbury that morning?â

Peter Lord blushed.

âIt was just sheer idiocyâ¦ IâIâd heard she was down. I went up to the house on the chance of seeing her. I didnât mean to speak to her. IâI just wanted toâwellâsee her. From the path in the shrubbery I saw her in the pantry cutting bread and butterââ

âCharlotte and the poet Werther. Continue, my friend.â

âOh, thereâs nothing to tell. I just slipped into the bushes and stayed there watching her till she went away.â

Poirot said gently:

âDid you fall in love with Elinor Carlisle the first time you saw her?â

There was a long silence.

âI suppose so.â

Then Peter Lord said:

âOh, well, I suppose she and Roderick Welman will live happy ever afterwards.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âMy dear friend, you suppose nothing of the sort!â

âWhy not? Sheâll forgive him the Mary Gerrard business. It was only a wild infatuation on his part, anyway.â

Hercule Poirot said:

âIt goes deeper than thatâ¦ There is, sometimes, a deep chasm between the past and the future. When one has walked in the valley of the shadow of death, and come out of it into the sunshineâthen, mon cher, it is a new life that beginsâ¦ The past will not serveâ¦.â

He waited a minute and then went on:

âA new lifeâ¦ That is what Elinor Carlisle is beginning nowâand it is you who have given her that life.â

âNo.â

âYes. It was your determination, your arrogant insistence that compelled me to do as you asked. Admit now, it is to you she turns in gratitude, is it not?â

Peter Lord said slowly:

âYes, sheâs very gratefulânowâ¦ She asked me to go and see herâoften.â

âYes, she needs you.â

Peter Lord said violently:

âNot as she needsâhim!â

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

âShe never needed Roderick Welman. She loved him, yes, unhappilyâeven desperately.â

Peter Lord, his face set and grim, said harshly:

âShe will never love me like that.â

Hercule Poirot said softly:

âPerhaps not. But she needs you, my friend, because it is only with you that she can begin the world again.â

Peter Lord said nothing.

Hercule Poirotâs voice was very gentle as he said:

âCan you not accept facts? She loved Roderick Welman. What of it? With you, she can be happyâ¦.â

Â 

The
Agatha Christie
Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The
Agatha Christie
Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from
St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving
couple from young adventurers ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

Â 

The
Agatha Christie
Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of agatha christieâ€™s
stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and
Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and
Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete
Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® SAD CYPRESSâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1940 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

SAD CYPRESS Â© 1940. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207394-5

EPub Edition Â© AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-175345-9

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