Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie
Hercule Poirot said:
“It is a pleasure to meet someone so full of health and vitality. Your patients, I am sure, must all recover.”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“I’m not one for pulling a long face, and not many of my patients die on me, I’m thankful to say.”
Poirot said:
“Of course, in Mrs. Welman’s case, it was a merciful release.”
“Ah! It was that, the poor dear.” Her eyes were shrewd as she looked at Poirot and asked:
“Is it about that you want to talk to me? I was after hearing that they’re digging her up.”
Poirot said:
“You yourself had no suspicion at the time?”
“Not 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 didn’t need! But he signed the certificate, for all that.”
Poirot began, “He had his reasons—” but she took the words out of his mouth.
“Indeed and he was right. It does a doctor no good to think things and offend the family, and then if he’s wrong it’s the end of him, and no one would be wishing to call him in any more. A doctor’s got to be sure!”
Poirot said:
“There is a suggestion that Mrs. Welman might have committed suicide.”
“She? And her lying there helpless? Just lift one hand, that was all she could do!”
“Someone might have helped her?”
“Ah! I see now what you’re meaning. Miss Carlisle, or Mr. Welman, or maybe Mary Gerrard?”
“It would be possible, would it not?”
Nurse O’Brien shook her head. She said:
“They’d not dare—any of them!”
Poirot said slowly:
“Perhaps not.”
Then he said:
“When was it Nurse Hopkins missed the tube of morphine?”
“It was that very morning. ‘I’m sure I had it here,’ 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 she’d left it at home.”
Poirot murmured:
“And even then you had no suspicion?”
“Not the least in the world! Sure, it never entered my head for a moment that things weren’t as they should be. And even now ’tis only a suspicion they have.”
“The thought of that missing tube never caused either you or Nurse Hopkins an uneasy moment?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that… I do remember that it came into my head—and into Nurse Hopkins’ head, too, I believe—in the Blue Tit Café, we were at the time. And I saw the thought pass into her mind from mine. ‘It couldn’t be any other way than that I left it on the mantelpiece and it fell into the dustbin, could it?’ she says. And ‘No, indeed, that was the way of it,’ I said to her; and neither of us saying what was in our minds and the fear that was on us.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“And what do you think now?”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“If they find morphine in her there’ll be little doubt who took that tube, nor what it was used for—though I’ll not be believing she sent the old lady the same road till it’s proved there’s morphine in her.”
Poirot said:
“You have no doubt at all that Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard?”
“There’s no question of it at all, in my opinion! Who else had the reason or the wish to do it?”
“That is the question,” said Poirot.
Nurse O’Brien went on dramatically:
“Wasn’t 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 didn’t I see her face looking after Mary as she went down the stairs one day, and the black hate that was on it? ’Twas murder she had in her heart that minute.”
Poirot said:
“If Elinor Carlisle killed Mrs. Welman, why did she do it?”
“Why? For the money, of course. Two hundred thousand pounds, no less. That’s what she got by it, and that’s why she did it—if she did it. She’s a bold, clever young lady, with no fear in her, and plenty of brains.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“If Mrs. Welman had lived to make a will, how do you think she’d have left her money?”
“Ah, it’s not for me to be saying that,” said Nurse O’Brien, betraying, however, every symptom of being about to do so. “But it’s my opinion that every penny the old lady had would have gone to Mary Gerrard.”
“Why?” said Hercule Poirot.
The simple monosyllable seemed to upset Nurse O’Brien.
“Why? Is it why you’re asking? Well—I’d say that that would be the way of it.”
Poirot murmured:
“Some 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.”
“They might that,” said Nurse O’Brien slowly.
Poirot asked:
“Was Mary Gerrard a clever, scheming girl?”
Nurse O’Brien said, still rather slowly:
“I’ll not think that of her… All she did was natural enough, with no thought of scheming. She wasn’t that kind. And there’s reasons often for these things that never get made public….”
Hercule Poirot said softly:
“You are, I think, a very discreet woman, Nurse O’Brien.”
“I’m not one to be talking of what doesn’t concern me.”
Watching her very closely, Poirot went on:
“You 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.”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“What would you be meaning by that?”
Poirot said quickly:
“Nothing to do with the crime—or crimes. I mean—the other matter.”
Nurse O’Brien said, nodding her head:
“What 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.”
Hercule Poirot nodded in assent. He said cautiously:
“As you say, Mrs. Welman was much respected in Maidensford.”
The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but his face expressed no surprise or puzzlement.
Nurse O’Brien went on:
“It’s so long ago, too. All dead and forgotten. I’ve a soft heart for a romance myself, and I do say and I always have said that it’s hard for a man who’s got a wife in an asylum to be tied all his life with nothing but death that can free him.”
Poirot murmured, still in bewilderment:
“Yes, it is hard….”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“Did Nurse Hopkins tell you how her letter crossed mine?”
Poirot said truthfully:
“She did not tell me that.”
“’Twas an odd coincidence. But there, that’s always the way of it! Once you hear a name, maybe, and a day or two later you’ll 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 doctor’s housekeeper.”
“That,” said Poirot, “is very interesting.”
He murmured tentatively:
“Did Mary Gerrard know—about this?”
“Who’d be telling her?” said Nurse O’Brien. “Not I—and not Hopkins. After all, what good would it be to her?”
She flung up her red head and gazed at him steadily.
Poirot said with a sigh:
“What, indeed?”
Eleven
Elinor Carlisle….
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 and—something else—a capacity for passion.
He said:
“I am Hercule Poirot. I have been sent to you by Dr. Peter Lord. He thinks that I can help you.”
Elinor Carlisle said:
“Peter Lord…” Her tone was reminiscent. For a moment she smiled a little wistfully. She went on formally: “It was kind of him, but I do not think there is anything you can do.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Will you answer my questions?”
She sighed. She said:
“Believe me—really—it 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.”
Poirot said:
“He is not so famous as I am!”
Elinor Carlisle said with a touch of weariness:
“He has a great reputation.”
“Yes, for defending criminals. I have a great reputation—for demonstrating innocence.”
She lifted her eyes at last—eyes of a vivid, beautiful blue. They looked straight into Poirot’s. She said:
“Do you believe I am innocent?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Are you?”
Elinor smiled, an ironic little smile. She said:
“Is that a sample of your questions? It is very easy, isn’t it, to answer Yes?”
He said unexpectedly:
“You are very tired, are you not?”
Her eyes widened a little. She answered:
“Why, yes—that more than anything. How did you know?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I knew….”
Elinor said:
“I shall be glad when it is—over.”
Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said:
“I have seen your—cousin, shall I call him for convenience?—Mr. Roderick Welman.”
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:
“You’ve seen Roddy?”
Poirot said:
“He is doing all he can for you.”
“I know.”
Her voice was quick and soft.
Poirot said:
“Is he poor or rich?”
“Roddy? He has not very much money of his own.”
“And he is extravagant?”
She said, almost absently:
“Neither of us ever thought it mattered. We knew that some day….”
She stopped.
Poirot said quickly:
“You counted on your inheritance? That is understandable.”
He went on:
“You have heard, perhaps, the result of the autopsy on your aunt’s body. She died of morphine poisoning.”
Elinor Carlisle said coldly:
“I did not kill her.”
“Did you help her to kill herself?”
“Did I help—? Oh, I see. No, I did not.”
“Did you know that your aunt had not made a will?”
“No, I had no idea of that.”
Her voice was flat now—dull. The answer was mechanical, uninterested.
Poirot said:
“And you yourself, have you made a will?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke to you about it?”
“Yes.”
Again that swift wave of colour.
Poirot said:
“How have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?”
Elinor said quietly:
“I have left everything to Roddy—to Roderick Welman.”
Poirot said:
“Does he know that?”
She said quickly:
“Certainly not.”
“You didn’t discuss it with him?”
“Of course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed and would have disliked what I was doing very much.”
“Who else knows the contents of your will?”
“Only Mr. Seddon—and his clerks, I suppose.”
“Did Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?”
“Yes. I wrote to him that same evening—I mean the evening of the day Dr. Lord spoke to me about it.”
“Did you post your letter yourself?”
“No. It went in the box from the house with the other letters.”
“You wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it and put it in the box—comme ça? You did not pause to reflect? To read it over?”
Elinor said, staring at him:
“I read it over—yes. 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.”
“Was anyone in the room with you?”
“Only Roddy.”
“Did he know what you were doing?”
“I told you—no.”
“Could anyone have read that letter when you were out of the room?”
“I don’t know… 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.”
“And before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?”
“Yes.”
Poirot said:
“And he could have read it, too?”
Elinor’s voice was clear and scornful. She said:
“I can assure you, M. Poirot, that my ‘cousin,’ as you call him, does not read other people’s letters.”
Poirot said:
“That is the accepted idea, I know. You would be surprised how many people do the things that ‘are not done.’”
Elinor shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said in a casual voice:
“Was it on that day that the idea of killing Mary Gerrard first came to you?”
For the third time colour swept over Elinor Carlisle’s face. This time it was a burning tide. She said:
“Did Peter Lord tell you that?”
Poirot said gently:
“It was then, wasn’t 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 be—and how convenient—if Mary Gerrard should happen to die….”
Elinor said in a low suffocated voice:
“He knew—he looked at me and he knew….”
Poirot said:
“Dr. Lord knows a good deal… He is no fool, that young man with the freckled face and the red hair….”
Elinor said in a low voice:
“Is it true that he sent you to—help me?”
“It is true, Mademoiselle.”
She sighed and said:
“I don’t understand. No, I don’t understand.”
Poirot said:
“Listen, 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.”
She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to her lips. She said:
“You must be an incredibly simple man. Don’t you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?”
Hercule Poirot said placidly:
“It does not matter.”
She was puzzled.
“Not matter?”
“No. 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?”
“I wanted to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why? Because I wanted to—to think.”
“You wanted to imagine—yes. And then what did you do next?”
Elinor, her chin raised defiantly, said:
“I
bought some paste for sandwiches.”
“Two pots?”
“Two.”
“And you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?”
“I went up to my aunt’s room and began to go through her things.”
“What did you find?”
“Find?” She frowned. “Clothes—old letters—photographs—jewellery.”
Poirot said:
“No secrets?”
“Secrets? I don’t understand you.”
“Then let us proceed. What next?”
Elinor said:
“I came down to the pantry and I cut sandwiches….”
Poirot said softly:
“And you thought—what?”
Her blue eyes flushed suddenly. She said:
“I thought of my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine….”
Poirot said:
“I understand perfectly.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, 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 poison….”
Elinor said nothing. She was white now.
Poirot said:
“But perhaps, this time, there was to be no choice… Go on, Mademoiselle, what next?”
Elinor said:
“I 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.”
Poirot was watching her. He said softly:
“Yes, and you all came up to the house together, did you not?”
“Yes. We—ate the sandwiches in the morning room.”
Poirot said in the same soft tone:
“Yes, yes—still in the dream… And then…”
“Then?” She stared. “I left her—standing by the window. I went out into the pantry. It was still like you say—in a dream… Nurse was there washing up… I gave her the paste pot.”
“Yes—yes. And what happened then? What did you think of next?”
Elinor said dreamily:
“There was a mark on Nurse’s wrist. I mentioned it and she said it was a thorn from the rose trellis by the Lodge. The roses by the Lodge… Roddy and I had a quarrel once—long ago—about the Wars of the Roses. I was Lancaster and he was York. He liked white roses. I said they weren’t real—they didn’t even smell! I liked red roses, big and dark and velvety and smelling of summer… We quarrelled in the most idiotic way. You see, it all came back to me—there in the pantry—and something—something broke—the black hate I’d had in my heart—it went away—with remembering how we were together as children. I didn’t hate Mary any more. I didn’t want her to die….”
“It is a pleasure to meet someone so full of health and vitality. Your patients, I am sure, must all recover.”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“I’m not one for pulling a long face, and not many of my patients die on me, I’m thankful to say.”
Poirot said:
“Of course, in Mrs. Welman’s case, it was a merciful release.”
“Ah! It was that, the poor dear.” Her eyes were shrewd as she looked at Poirot and asked:
“Is it about that you want to talk to me? I was after hearing that they’re digging her up.”
Poirot said:
“You yourself had no suspicion at the time?”
“Not 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 didn’t need! But he signed the certificate, for all that.”
Poirot began, “He had his reasons—” but she took the words out of his mouth.
“Indeed and he was right. It does a doctor no good to think things and offend the family, and then if he’s wrong it’s the end of him, and no one would be wishing to call him in any more. A doctor’s got to be sure!”
Poirot said:
“There is a suggestion that Mrs. Welman might have committed suicide.”
“She? And her lying there helpless? Just lift one hand, that was all she could do!”
“Someone might have helped her?”
“Ah! I see now what you’re meaning. Miss Carlisle, or Mr. Welman, or maybe Mary Gerrard?”
“It would be possible, would it not?”
Nurse O’Brien shook her head. She said:
“They’d not dare—any of them!”
Poirot said slowly:
“Perhaps not.”
Then he said:
“When was it Nurse Hopkins missed the tube of morphine?”
“It was that very morning. ‘I’m sure I had it here,’ 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 she’d left it at home.”
Poirot murmured:
“And even then you had no suspicion?”
“Not the least in the world! Sure, it never entered my head for a moment that things weren’t as they should be. And even now ’tis only a suspicion they have.”
“The thought of that missing tube never caused either you or Nurse Hopkins an uneasy moment?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that… I do remember that it came into my head—and into Nurse Hopkins’ head, too, I believe—in the Blue Tit Café, we were at the time. And I saw the thought pass into her mind from mine. ‘It couldn’t be any other way than that I left it on the mantelpiece and it fell into the dustbin, could it?’ she says. And ‘No, indeed, that was the way of it,’ I said to her; and neither of us saying what was in our minds and the fear that was on us.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“And what do you think now?”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“If they find morphine in her there’ll be little doubt who took that tube, nor what it was used for—though I’ll not be believing she sent the old lady the same road till it’s proved there’s morphine in her.”
Poirot said:
“You have no doubt at all that Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard?”
“There’s no question of it at all, in my opinion! Who else had the reason or the wish to do it?”
“That is the question,” said Poirot.
Nurse O’Brien went on dramatically:
“Wasn’t 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 didn’t I see her face looking after Mary as she went down the stairs one day, and the black hate that was on it? ’Twas murder she had in her heart that minute.”
Poirot said:
“If Elinor Carlisle killed Mrs. Welman, why did she do it?”
“Why? For the money, of course. Two hundred thousand pounds, no less. That’s what she got by it, and that’s why she did it—if she did it. She’s a bold, clever young lady, with no fear in her, and plenty of brains.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“If Mrs. Welman had lived to make a will, how do you think she’d have left her money?”
“Ah, it’s not for me to be saying that,” said Nurse O’Brien, betraying, however, every symptom of being about to do so. “But it’s my opinion that every penny the old lady had would have gone to Mary Gerrard.”
“Why?” said Hercule Poirot.
The simple monosyllable seemed to upset Nurse O’Brien.
“Why? Is it why you’re asking? Well—I’d say that that would be the way of it.”
Poirot murmured:
“Some 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.”
“They might that,” said Nurse O’Brien slowly.
Poirot asked:
“Was Mary Gerrard a clever, scheming girl?”
Nurse O’Brien said, still rather slowly:
“I’ll not think that of her… All she did was natural enough, with no thought of scheming. She wasn’t that kind. And there’s reasons often for these things that never get made public….”
Hercule Poirot said softly:
“You are, I think, a very discreet woman, Nurse O’Brien.”
“I’m not one to be talking of what doesn’t concern me.”
Watching her very closely, Poirot went on:
“You 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.”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“What would you be meaning by that?”
Poirot said quickly:
“Nothing to do with the crime—or crimes. I mean—the other matter.”
Nurse O’Brien said, nodding her head:
“What 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.”
Hercule Poirot nodded in assent. He said cautiously:
“As you say, Mrs. Welman was much respected in Maidensford.”
The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but his face expressed no surprise or puzzlement.
Nurse O’Brien went on:
“It’s so long ago, too. All dead and forgotten. I’ve a soft heart for a romance myself, and I do say and I always have said that it’s hard for a man who’s got a wife in an asylum to be tied all his life with nothing but death that can free him.”
Poirot murmured, still in bewilderment:
“Yes, it is hard….”
Nurse O’Brien said:
“Did Nurse Hopkins tell you how her letter crossed mine?”
Poirot said truthfully:
“She did not tell me that.”
“’Twas an odd coincidence. But there, that’s always the way of it! Once you hear a name, maybe, and a day or two later you’ll 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 doctor’s housekeeper.”
“That,” said Poirot, “is very interesting.”
He murmured tentatively:
“Did Mary Gerrard know—about this?”
“Who’d be telling her?” said Nurse O’Brien. “Not I—and not Hopkins. After all, what good would it be to her?”
She flung up her red head and gazed at him steadily.
Poirot said with a sigh:
“What, indeed?”
Eleven
Elinor Carlisle….
Across the width of the table that separated them Poirot looked at her searchingly.
They were alone together. Through a glass
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 and—something else—a capacity for passion.
He said:
“I am Hercule Poirot. I have been sent to you by Dr. Peter Lord. He thinks that I can help you.”
Elinor Carlisle said:
“Peter Lord…” Her tone was reminiscent. For a moment she smiled a little wistfully. She went on formally: “It was kind of him, but I do not think there is anything you can do.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Will you answer my questions?”
She sighed. She said:
“Believe me—really—it 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.”
Poirot said:
“He is not so famous as I am!”
Elinor Carlisle said with a touch of weariness:
“He has a great reputation.”
“Yes, for defending criminals. I have a great reputation—for demonstrating innocence.”
She lifted her eyes at last—eyes of a vivid, beautiful blue. They looked straight into Poirot’s. She said:
“Do you believe I am innocent?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Are you?”
Elinor smiled, an ironic little smile. She said:
“Is that a sample of your questions? It is very easy, isn’t it, to answer Yes?”
He said unexpectedly:
“You are very tired, are you not?”
Her eyes widened a little. She answered:
“Why, yes—that more than anything. How did you know?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I knew….”
Elinor said:
“I shall be glad when it is—over.”
Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said:
“I have seen your—cousin, shall I call him for convenience?—Mr. Roderick Welman.”
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:
“You’ve seen Roddy?”
Poirot said:
“He is doing all he can for you.”
“I know.”
Her voice was quick and soft.
Poirot said:
“Is he poor or rich?”
“Roddy? He has not very much money of his own.”
“And he is extravagant?”
She said, almost absently:
“Neither of us ever thought it mattered. We knew that some day….”
She stopped.
Poirot said quickly:
“You counted on your inheritance? That is understandable.”
He went on:
“You have heard, perhaps, the result of the autopsy on your aunt’s body. She died of morphine poisoning.”
Elinor Carlisle said coldly:
“I did not kill her.”
“Did you help her to kill herself?”
“Did I help—? Oh, I see. No, I did not.”
“Did you know that your aunt had not made a will?”
“No, I had no idea of that.”
Her voice was flat now—dull. The answer was mechanical, uninterested.
Poirot said:
“And you yourself, have you made a will?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke to you about it?”
“Yes.”
Again that swift wave of colour.
Poirot said:
“How have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?”
Elinor said quietly:
“I have left everything to Roddy—to Roderick Welman.”
Poirot said:
“Does he know that?”
She said quickly:
“Certainly not.”
“You didn’t discuss it with him?”
“Of course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed and would have disliked what I was doing very much.”
“Who else knows the contents of your will?”
“Only Mr. Seddon—and his clerks, I suppose.”
“Did Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?”
“Yes. I wrote to him that same evening—I mean the evening of the day Dr. Lord spoke to me about it.”
“Did you post your letter yourself?”
“No. It went in the box from the house with the other letters.”
“You wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it and put it in the box—comme ça? You did not pause to reflect? To read it over?”
Elinor said, staring at him:
“I read it over—yes. 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.”
“Was anyone in the room with you?”
“Only Roddy.”
“Did he know what you were doing?”
“I told you—no.”
“Could anyone have read that letter when you were out of the room?”
“I don’t know… 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.”
“And before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?”
“Yes.”
Poirot said:
“And he could have read it, too?”
Elinor’s voice was clear and scornful. She said:
“I can assure you, M. Poirot, that my ‘cousin,’ as you call him, does not read other people’s letters.”
Poirot said:
“That is the accepted idea, I know. You would be surprised how many people do the things that ‘are not done.’”
Elinor shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said in a casual voice:
“Was it on that day that the idea of killing Mary Gerrard first came to you?”
For the third time colour swept over Elinor Carlisle’s face. This time it was a burning tide. She said:
“Did Peter Lord tell you that?”
Poirot said gently:
“It was then, wasn’t 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 be—and how convenient—if Mary Gerrard should happen to die….”
Elinor said in a low suffocated voice:
“He knew—he looked at me and he knew….”
Poirot said:
“Dr. Lord knows a good deal… He is no fool, that young man with the freckled face and the red hair….”
Elinor said in a low voice:
“Is it true that he sent you to—help me?”
“It is true, Mademoiselle.”
She sighed and said:
“I don’t understand. No, I don’t understand.”
Poirot said:
“Listen, 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.”
She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to her lips. She said:
“You must be an incredibly simple man. Don’t you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?”
Hercule Poirot said placidly:
“It does not matter.”
She was puzzled.
“Not matter?”
“No. 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?”
“I wanted to be alone.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why? Because I wanted to—to think.”
“You wanted to imagine—yes. And then what did you do next?”
Elinor, her chin raised defiantly, said:
“I
“Two pots?”
“Two.”
“And you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?”
“I went up to my aunt’s room and began to go through her things.”
“What did you find?”
“Find?” She frowned. “Clothes—old letters—photographs—jewellery.”
Poirot said:
“No secrets?”
“Secrets? I don’t understand you.”
“Then let us proceed. What next?”
Elinor said:
“I came down to the pantry and I cut sandwiches….”
Poirot said softly:
“And you thought—what?”
Her blue eyes flushed suddenly. She said:
“I thought of my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine….”
Poirot said:
“I understand perfectly.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, 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 poison….”
Elinor said nothing. She was white now.
Poirot said:
“But perhaps, this time, there was to be no choice… Go on, Mademoiselle, what next?”
Elinor said:
“I 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.”
Poirot was watching her. He said softly:
“Yes, and you all came up to the house together, did you not?”
“Yes. We—ate the sandwiches in the morning room.”
Poirot said in the same soft tone:
“Yes, yes—still in the dream… And then…”
“Then?” She stared. “I left her—standing by the window. I went out into the pantry. It was still like you say—in a dream… Nurse was there washing up… I gave her the paste pot.”
“Yes—yes. And what happened then? What did you think of next?”
Elinor said dreamily:
“There was a mark on Nurse’s wrist. I mentioned it and she said it was a thorn from the rose trellis by the Lodge. The roses by the Lodge… Roddy and I had a quarrel once—long ago—about the Wars of the Roses. I was Lancaster and he was York. He liked white roses. I said they weren’t real—they didn’t even smell! I liked red roses, big and dark and velvety and smelling of summer… We quarrelled in the most idiotic way. You see, it all came back to me—there in the pantry—and something—something broke—the black hate I’d had in my heart—it went away—with remembering how we were together as children. I didn’t hate Mary any more. I didn’t want her to die….”