"Ça se peut," said Hercule Poirot.
"Pardon? Anyway, he went into this Sanitorium and they treated him and discharged him as cured, and he met Miss Abernethie as she was then. And he got a job in this respectable but rather obscure little chemist's shop. Told them he'd been out of England for a year and a half, and gave them his former reference from some shop in Eastbourne. Nothing against him in that shop, but a fellow dispenser said he had a very queer temper and was odd in his manner sometimes. There's a story about a customer saying once as a joke, 'Wish you'd sell me something to poison my wife, ha ha!' And Banks says to him, very soft and quiet: 'I could… It would cost you two hundred pounds.' The man felt uneasy and laughed it off. May have been all a joke, but it doesn't seem to me that Banks is the joking kind."
"Mon ami," said Hercule Poirot. "It really amazes me how you get your information! Medical and highly confidential most of it!"
Mr Goby's eyes swivelled right round the room and he murmured, looking expectantly at the door, that there were ways…
"Now we come to the country department. Mr and Mrs Timothy Abernethie. Very nice place they've got, but sadly needing money spent on it. Very straitened they seem to be, very straitened. Taxation and unfortunate investments. Mr Abernethie enjoys ill health and the emphasis is on the enjoyment. Complains a lot and has everyone running and fetching and carrying. Eats hearty meals, and seems quite strong physically if he likes to make the effort. There's no one in the house after the daily woman goes and no one's allowed into Mr Abernethie's room unless he rings his bell. He was in a very bad temper the morning of the day after the funeral. Swore at Mrs Jones. Ate only a little of his breakfast and said he wouldn't have any lunch – he'd had a bad night. He said the supper she had left out for him was unfit to eat and a good deal more. He was alone in the house and unseen by anybody from 9.30 that morning until the following morning."
"And Mrs Abernethie?"
"She started off from Enderby by car at the time you mentioned. Arrived on foot at a small local garage in a place called Cathstone and explained her car had broken down a couple of miles away.
"A mechanic drove her out to it, made an investigation and said they'd have to tow it in and it would be a long job – couldn't promise to finish it that day. The lady was very put out, but went to a small inn, arranged to stay the night, and asked for some sandwiches as she said she'd like to see something of the countryside – it's on the edge of the moorland country. She didn't come back to the inn till quite late that evening. My informant said he didn't wonder. It's a sordid little place!"
"And the times?"
"She got the sandwiches at eleven. If she'd walked to the main road, a mile, she could have hitch-hiked into Wallcaster and caught a special South Coast express which stops at Reading West. I won't go into details of buses etcetera. It could just have been done if you could make the – er – attack fairly late in the afternoon."
"I understand the doctor stretched the time limit to possibly 4.30."
"Mind you," said Mr Goby," I shouldn't say it was likely. She seems to be a nice lady, liked by everybody. She's devoted to her husband, treats him like a child."
"Yes, yes, the maternal complex."
"She's strong and hefty, chops the wood and often hauls in great baskets of logs. Pretty good with the inside of a car, too."
"I was coming to that. What exactly was wrong with the car?"
"Do you want the exact details, M. Poirot?"
"Heaven forbid. I have no mechanical knowledge."
"It was a difficult thing to spot. And also to put right. And it could have been done maliciously by someone without very much trouble. By someone who was familiar with the insides of a car."
"C'est magnifique!" said Poirot with bitter enthusiasm. "All so convenient, all so possible. Bon dieu, can we eliminate nobody? And Mrs Leo Abernethie?"
"She's a very nice lady, too. Mr Abernethie deceased was very fond of her. She came there to stay about a fortnight before he died."
"After he had been to Lytchett St Mary to see his sister?"
"No, just before. Her income is a good deal reduced since the war. She gave up her house in England and took a small flat in London. She has a villa in Cyprus and spends part of the year there. She has a young nephew whom she is helping to educate, and there seems to be one or two, young artists whom she helps financially from time to time."
"St Helen of the blameless life," said Poirot, shutting his eyes. "And it was quite impossible for her to have left Enderby that day without the servants knowing? Say that that is so, I implore you!"
Mr Goby brought his glance across to rest apologetically on Poirot's polished patent leather shoe, the nearest he had come to a direct encounter, and murmured:
"I'm afraid I can't say that, M. Poirot. Mrs Abernethie went to London to fetch some extra clothes and belongings as she had agreed with Mr Entwhistle to stay on and see to things."
"Il ne manquait que ça!" said Poirot with strong feeling.
Chapter 13
When the card of Inspector Morton of the Berkshire County Police was brought to Hercule Poirot, his eyebrows went up.
"Show him in, Georges, show him in. And bring – what is it that the police prefer?"
"I would suggest beer, sir."
"How horrible! But how British. Bring beer, then."
Inspector Morton came straight to the point.
"I had to come to London," he said. "And I got hold of your address, M. Poirot. I was interested to see you at the inquest on Thursday."
"So you saw me there?"
"Yes. I was surprised – and, as I say, interested. You won't remember me but I remember you very well. In that Pangbourne Case."
"Ah, you were connected with that?"
"Only in a very junior, capacity. It's a long time ago but I've never forgotten you."
"And you recognised me at once the other day?"
"That wasn't difficult, sir." Inspector Morton repressed a slight smile. "Your appearance is – rather unusual."
His gaze took in Poirot's sartorial perfection and rested finally on the curving moustaches.
"You stick out in a country place," he said.
"It is possible, it is possible," said Poirot with complacency.
"It interested me why you should be there. That sort of crime – robbery – assault – doesn't usually interest you."
"Was it the usual ordinary brutal type of crime?"
"That's what I've been wondering."
"You have wondered from the beginning, have you not?"
"Yes, M. Poirot. There were some unusual features. Since then we've worked along the routine lines. Pulled in one or two people for questioning, but everyone has been able to account quite satisfactorily for his time that afternoon. It wasn't what you'd call an ordinary crime, M. Poirot – we're quite sure of that. The Chief Constable agrees. It was done by someone who wished to make it appear that way. It could have been the Gilchrist woman, but there doesn't seem to be any motive – and there wasn't any emotional background. Mrs Lansquenet was perhaps a bit mental – or 'simple,' if yon like to put it that way, but it was a household of mistress and dogsbody with no feverish feminine friendship about it. There are dozens of Miss Gilchrists about, and the're not usually the murdering type."
He paused.
"So it looks as though we'd have to look farther afield. I came to ask if you could help us at all. Something must have brought you down there, M. Poirot."
"Yes, yes, something did. An excellent Daimler car. But not only that."
"You had – information?"
"Hardly in your sense of the word. Nothing that could be used as evidence."
"But something that could be a pointer?"
"Yes."
"You see, M. Poirot, there have been developments."
Meticulously, in detail, he told of the poisoned wedge of wedding cake.
Poirot took a deep, hissing breath.
"Ingenious – yes, ingenious… I war
ned Mr Entwhistle to look after Miss Gilchrist. An attack on her was always a possibility. But I must confess that I did not expect poison. I anticipated a repetition of the hatchet motif. I merely thought that it would be inadvisable for her to walk alone in unfrequented lanes after dark."
"But why did you anticipate an attack on her? I think M. Poirot, you ought to tell me that."
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
"Yes I will tell you. Mr Entwhistle will not tell you, because he is a lawyer and lawyers do not like to speak of suppositions, of inferences made from the character of a dead woman, or from a few irresponsible words. But he will not be averse to my telling you – no, he will be relieved. He does not wish to appear foolish or or fanciful, but he wants to know what may – only may – be the facts."
Poirot paused as Georges entered with a glass of beer.
"Some refreshment, Inspector. No, no, I insist."
"Won't you join me?"
"I do not drink the beer. But I will myself have a glass of sirop de cassis – the English they do not care for it, I have noticed."
Inspector Morton looked gratefully at his beer.
Poirot, sipping delicately from his glass of dark purple fluid, said:
"It begins, all this, at a funeral. Or rather, to be exact, after the funeral."
Graphically, with many gestures he set forth the story as Mr Entwhistle had told it to him, but with such embellishments as his exuberant nature suggested. One almost felt that Hercule Poirot had himself been an eye-witness of the scene.
Inspector Morton had an excellent clear-cut brain. He seized at once on what were, for his purposes, the salient points.
"This Mr Abernethie may have been poisoned?"
"It is a possibility."
"And the body has been cremated and there is no evidence?"
"Exactly."
Inspector Morton ruminated.
"Interesting. There's nothing in it for us. Nothing, that is, to make Richard Abernethie's death worth investigating. It would be waste of time."
"Yes."
"But there are the people – the people who were there – the people who heard Cora Lansquenet say what she did, and one of whom may have thought that she might say it again and with more detail."
"As she undoubtedly would have. There are, Inspector, as you say, the people. And now you see why I was at the inquest, why I interest myself in the case – because it is, always, people in whom I interest myself."
"Then the attack on Miss Gilchrist -"
"Was always indicated. Richard Abernethie had been down to the cottage. He had talked to Cora. He had, perhaps, actually mentioned a name. The only person who might possibly have known or overheard something was Miss Gilchrist. After Cora is silenced, the murderer might continue to be anxious. Does the other woman know something – anything? Of course, if the murderer is wise he will let well alone, but murderers, Inspector, are seldom wise. Fortunately for us. They brood, they feel uncertain, they desire to make sure – quite sure. They are pleased with their own cleverness. And so, in the end, they protrude their necks, as you say."
Inspector Morton smiled faintly.
Poirot went on:
"This attempt to silence Miss Gilchrist, already it is a mistake. For now there are two occasions about which you make inquiry. There is the handwriting on the wedding label also. It is a pity the wrapping paper was burnt."
"Yes, I could have been certain, then, whether it came by post or whether it didn't."
"You have reason for thinking the latter, you say?"
"It's only what the postman thinks – he's not sure. If the parcel had gone through a village post office, it's ten to one the postmistress would have noticed it, but nowadays the mail is delivered by van from Market Keynes and of course the young chap does quite a round and delivers a lot of things. He thinks it was letters only and no parcel at the cottage – but he isn't sure. As a matter of fact he's having a bit of girl trouble and he can't think about anything else. I've tested his memory and he isn't reliable in any way. If he did deliver it, it seems to me odd that the parcel shouldn't have been noticed until after this Mr – whats-his-name – Guthrie -"
"Ah, Mr Guthrie."
Inspector Morton smiled.
"Yes, M. Poirot. We're checking up on him. After all, it would be easy, wouldn't it, to come along with a plausible tale of having been a friend of Mrs Lansquenet's. Mrs Banks wasn't to know if he was or he wasn't. He could have dropped that little parcel, you know. It's easy to make a thing look as though it's been through the post. Lamp black a little smudged, makes quite a good postmark cancellation mark over a stamp."
He paused and then added:
"And there are other possibilities."
Poirot nodded.
"You think -?"
"Mr George Crossfield was down in that part of the world – but not until the next day. Meant to attend the funeral, but had a little engine trouble on the way. Know anything about him, M. Poirot?"
"A little. But not as much as I would like to know."
"Like that, is it? Quite a little bunch interested in the late Mr Abernethie's will, I understand. I hope it doesn't mean going after all of them."
"I have accumulated a little information. It is at your disposal. Naturally I have no authority to ask these people questions. In, fact it would not be wise for me to do so."
"I shall go slowly myself. You don't want to fluster your bird too soon. But when you do fluster it, you want to fluster it well."
"A very sound technique. For you then, my friend, the routine – with all the machinery you have at your disposal. It is slow – but sure. For myself -"
"Yes, M. Poirot?"
"For myself, I go North. As I have told you, it is people in whom I interest myself. Yes – a little preparatory camouflage – and I go North.
"I intend," added Hercule Poirot, "to purchase a country mansion for foreign refugees. I represent UNARCO."
"And what's UNARCO?"
"United Nations Aid for Refugee Centres Organisation. It sounds well, do you not think?"
Inspector Morton grinned.
Chapter 14
Hercule Poirot said to a grim-faced Janet:
"Thank you very much. You have been most kind."
Janet, her lips still fixed in a sour line, left the room. These foreigners! The questions they asked. Their impertinence! All very well to say that he was a specialist interested in unsuspected heart conditions such as Mr Abernethie must have suffered from. That was very likely true – gone very sudden the master had, and the doctor had been surprised. But what business was it of some foreign doctor coming along and nosing around?
All very well for Mrs Leo to say: "Please answer Monsieur Pontarlier's questions. He has a good reason for asking."
Questions. Always questions. Sheets of them sometimes to fill in as best you could – and what did the Government or anyone else want to know about your private affairs for? Asking your age at that census – downright impertinent and she hadn't told them, either! Cut off five years she had. Why not? If she only felt fifty-four, she'd call herself fifty-four!
At any rate Monsieur Pontarlier hadn't wanted to know her age. He'd had some decency. Just questions about the medicines the master had taken, and where they were kept, and if, perhaps, he might have taken too much of them if he was feeling not quite the thing – or if he'd been forgetful. As though she could remember all that rubbish – the master knew what he was doing! And asking if any of the medicines he took were still in the house. Naturally they'd all been thrown away. Heart condition – and some long word he'd used. Always thinking of something new they were, these doctors. Look at them telling old Rogers he had a disc or some such in his spine. Plain lumbago, that was all that was the matter with him. Her father had been a gardener and he'd suffered from lumbago. Doctors!
The self-appointed medical man sighed and went downstairs in search of Lanscombe. He had not got very much out of Janet but he had hardly expected to do
so. All he had really wanted to do was to check such information as could unwillingly be extracted from her with that given him by Helen Abernethie and which had been obtained from the same source – but with much less difficulty, since Janet was ready to admit that Mrs Leo had a perfect right to ask such questions and indeed Janet herself had enjoyed dwelling at length on the last few weeks of her master's life. Illness and death were congenial subjects to her.
Yes, Poirot thought, he could have relied on the information that Helen had got for him. He had done so really. But by nature and long habit he trusted nobody until he himself had tried and proved them.
In any case the evidence was slight and unsatisfactory. It boiled down to the fact that Richard Abernethie had been prescribed vitamin oil capsules. That these had been in a large bottle which had been nearly finished at the time of his death. Anybody who had wanted to, could have operated on one or more of those capsules with a hypodermic syringe and could have rearranged the bottle so that the fatal dose would only be taken some weeks after that somebody had left the house. Or someone might have slipped into the house on the day before Richard Abernethie died and have doctored a capsule then – or, which was more likely – have substituted something else for a sleeping tablet in the little bottle that stood beside the bed. Or again might have quite simply tampered with the food or drink.
Hercule Poirot had made his own experiments. The front door was kept locked, but there was a side door giving on the garden which was not locked until evening. At about quarter-past one, when the gardeners had gone to lunch and when the household was in the dining-room, Poirot had entered the grounds, come to the side door, and mounted the stairs to Richard Abernethie's bedroom without meeting anybody. As a variant he had pushed through a baize door and slipped into the larder. He had heard voices from the kitchen at the end of the passage but no one had seen him.
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