pot of tea to the Missus, Nurse brought it down again and made it
fresh-said it hadn't been made with boiling water, but that was just my
eye, that wasl I thought it was just the sort of fussing way nurses have
at the time-but I dunnoit may have been more than that."
Poirot nodded.
He said, "Did you like Miss Moncrieffe, Beatrice?"
" I didn't mind her.... A bit standoffish. Of course, I always knew as
she was sweet on the doctor. You'd only to sce the way she looked at
him."
Again Poirot nodded his head.
He went back to the inn. There he gave certain instructions to George.
Dr. Alan Garcia, the Home Office Analyst, rubbed his hands and twinkled
at Hercule Poirot. He said:
.,Well, this suits you, M. Poirot, I suppose? The man who's always
right."
Poirot said, "You are too kind."
:'What put you onto it? Gossip?"
'As you say: Enter Rumor, painted full of tongues."
The following day Poirot once more took a train to Market Loughborough.
Market Loughborough was buzzing like a beehive. It had buzzed mildly
ever since the exhumation proceedings.
Now that the findings of the autopsy had leaked out, excitement had
reached fever lieat.
Poirot had been at the inn for about an hour and had just finished a
hearty lunch of steak-and-kidney pudding washed down by beer when word
was brought to him that a lady was waiting to see him.
It was Nurse Harrison. Her face was white and haggard.
She came straight to Poirot.
"Is this true? Is this really true, M. Poirot?"
He put her gently into a chair.
"Yes. More than sufficient arsenic to cause death has been found."
Nurse Harrison cried, "I never thought-I never for one monient thought-"
and burst into tears.
Poirot said gently, "The truth had to come out, you know."
She sobbed. "Will they hang him?"
Poirot said, "A lot has to be proved still. Opportunityaccess to
I)oison-the vehicle in which it was administered."
"But supposing, M. Poirot, that he had nothing to do with it-nothing at
all."
"In that case," Poirot shrugged his shoulders, "he will be ac(luitted."
Nui-se Harrison said slowly, "There is something-somethizig that, I
suppose, I ought to have told you beforebut I didn't think that there
was really anything in it. It was just queer."
" I knew there was something," said Poirot. "You had better tell it to
me now."
"It isn't much. It's just that one day when I went down to the
dispensary for something, jean Moncrieffe was doing something
rather-odd."
"Yes?"
"It sounds so silly. It's only that she was filling up her powder
compact-a pink enamel one-"
'Yes?"
'But she wasn't filling it up with powder-with face powder, I mean. She
was tipping something into it from one of the bottles out of the poison
cupboard. When she saw me she started and shut up the compact and
whipped it into her bag-and put back the bottle quickly into the
cupboard so that I couldn't see what it was. I dare say it doesn't mean
anything-but now that I know that Mrs. Oldfield really was poisoned-"
She broke off.
Poirot said, "You will excuse me?"
He went out and telephoned to Detective Sergeant Grey of the Berkshire
Police.
Hercule Poirot came back and he and Nurse Harrison sat in silence.
Poirot was seeing the face of a girl with red hair and hearing a clear
hard voice say: "I don't agree." jean Moncrieffe had not wanted an
autopsy. She had given a plausible enough excuse, but the fact
remained. A competent girl-efficient-resolute. In love with a man who
was tied to a complaining invalid wife, who might easily live for years
since, according to Nurse Harrison, she had very little the matter with
her.
Hercule Poirot sighed.
Nurse Harrison said, "What are you thinking of?"
Poirot answered, "The pity of things."
Nurse Harrison said, "I don't believe for a minute he knew anything
about it."
Poirot said, "No. I am sure he did not."
The door opened and Detective Sergeant Grey came in.
He had something in his hand, wrapped in a silk handkerchief. He
unwrapped it and set it carefully down. It was a bright rose-pink
enamel compact.
Nurse Harrison said, "That's the one I saw."
Grey said, "Found it pushed right to the back of Miss Moncrieffe's
bureau drawer. Inside a handkerchief sachet.
As far as I can see there are no fingerprints on it, but I'll be
careful."
With the handkerchief over his hand he pressed the spring. The case
flew open.
Grey said, "This stuff isn't face powder."
He dipped a finger and tasted it gingerly on the tip of his tongue.
"No particular taste."
Poirot said, "White arsenic does not taste."
Grey said, "It will be analyzed at once." He- looked at Nurse Harrison.
"You can swear to this being the same case?"
"Yes. I'm positive. That's the case I saw Miss Moncrieffe with in the
dispensary about a week before Mrs. Oldfield's death."
Sergeant Grey sighed. He looked at Poirot and nodded.
The latter rang the bell.
"Send my servant here, please."
George, the perfect valet, discreet, unobtrusive, entered and looked
inquiringly at his master.
Hercule Poirot said, "You have identified this powder compact, Miss
Harrison, as one you saw in the possession of Miss Moncrieffe over a
year ago. Would you be surprised to learn that this particular case was
sold by Messrs. Woolworth only a few weeks ago and that, moreover, it
is of a pattern and color that has only been manufactured for the last
three months?"
Nurse Harrison gasped. She stared at Poirot, her eyes round and dark.
Poirot said, "Have you seen this compact before, Georges?"
George stepped forward.
"Yes, sir. I observed this person, Nurse Harrison, purchase it at
Woolworth's on Friday the ]8th. Pursuant to your instructions I
followed this lady whenever she went out. She took a bus over to
Darnington on the day I have mentioned and purchased this compact. She
took it home with her. Later the same day she came to the house in
which Miss Moncrieffe lodges. Acting as by your instructions, I was
already in the house. I observed her go into Miss Moncrieffe's bedroom
and hide this in the back of the bureau drawer. I had a good view
through the crack of the door. She then left the house, believing
herself unobserved. I may say that no one locks their front doors down
here and it was dusk."
Poirot said to Nurse Harrison, and his voice was hard and implacable:
"Can you explain these facts, Nurse Harrison? I think not. There was
no arsenic in that box when it left Messrs.
Woolworth, but there was when it left Miss Bristow's house." He added
softly, "It was unwise of you to keep a supply of arsenic in your
possession."
Nurse Harrison buried her face in her hands.
She
said in a low, dull voice, "It's true-it's all true. I killed her.
And all for nothing-nothing. I was mad."
jean Moncrieffe said, "I must ask you to forgive me, M.
Poirot. I have been so angry with you-so terribly angry with you. It
seemed to me that you were making every.
thing so much worse."
Poirot said with a smile, "So I was, to begin with. It is like in the
old legend of the Lernean Hydra. Every time a head was cut off, two
heads grew in its place. So, to begin with, the rumors grew and
multiplied. But you see, my task, like that of my namesake Hercules,
waf, to reach the first-the original head. Who had started this rumor?
It did not take me long to discover that the originator of the story was
Nurse Harrison. I went to see her. She appeared to be a very nice
woman-intelligent and sympathet?je. But almost at once she made a bad
mistake-she repeated to me a conversation which she had overheard taking
place' between you and the doctor, and that conversation, you see, was
all wrong. It was psychologically most unlikely. If you and the doctor
had planned together to kill Mrs. Oldfield, you are both of you far too
intelligent and levelheaded to hold such a conversation in a room with
an open door, easily overheard by someone on the stairs or someone in
the kitchen. Moreover, the words attributed to you did not fit in at
all with your mental make-up. They were the words of a much older woman
and of one of a quite different type. They were words such as would be
imagined by Nurse Harrison as being used by herself in like
circumStances.
"I had, up to then, regarded the whole matter as fairly simple. Nurse
Harrison, I realized, was a fairly young and stilf handsome woman-she
had been thrown closely with Dr. Oldfield for nearly three years-the
doctor had been very fond of her and grateful to her for her tact and
sympathy. She had formed the impression that if Mrs. Oldfield died,
the doctor would probably ask her to marry him.
Instead of that, after Mrs. Oldfield's death she learns that Dr.
Oldfield is in love with you. Straightaway, driven by anger and
jealousy, she starts spreading the rumor that Dr. Oldfield has poisoned
his wife.
"That, as I say, was how I had visualized the position at
first. It was a case of a jealous woman and a lying rumor.
But the old trite phrase 'no smoke without fire,' recurred to me
significantly. I wondered if Nurse Harrison had done more than spread a
rumor. Certain things she said rang strangely. She told me that Mrs.
Oldfield's illness was largely imaginary-that she did not really suffer
much pain. But the doctor himself had been in no doubt about the
reality of his wife's suffering. He had not been surprised by' her
death. He had called in another doctor shortly before her death and the
other doctor had realized the gravity of her condition. Tentatively, I
brought forward the suggestion of exhumation. Nurse Harrison was -at
first frightened out of her wits by the idea. Then, almost at once, her
jealousy and hatred took command of her. Let them fin(f arsenic-no
suspicion would attach to her. It would be the doctor and jean
Moncrieffe who would suffer.
"There was only one hope. To make Nurse Harrison overreach herself. 'If
there was a chance that jean Moncrieffe would escape, I fancied that
Nurse Harrison would strain every nerve to involve her in the crime. I
gave instructions to my faithful Georges-the most unobtrusive of men,
whom she did not know by sight. He was to follow her closely. And
so-all ended well."
jean Moncrieffe said, "You've been wonderful."
Dr. Oldfield chimed in. He said, "Yes, indeed. I can never thank you
enough. What a blind fool I wasl"
Poirot asked curiously, "Were you as blind, Mademoiselle?"
jean Moncrieffe said slowly, "I have been terribly worried. You see,
the arsenic in the poison cupboard didn't tally-"
Oldfield cried, "Jean-you didn't think-?"
"No, no-not you. What I did think was that Mrs. Oldfield had somehow
or other got hold of it-and that she was taking it so as to make herself
ill and get sympathy and that she had inadvertently taken too much. But
I was afraid that if there was an autopsy and arsenic was found they
would never consider that theory and would leap to the conclusion that
you'd done it. That's why I never said
anything about the missing arsenic. I even cooked the poison book] But
the last person I would ever have suspected was Nurse Harrison." ,
Oldfield said, "I, too. She was such a gentle, womanly creature. Like
a Madonna."
Poirot said sadly, "Yes, she would have made, probably, a good wife and
mother. But her emotions were just a little too strong for lier." He
sighed and murmured once more under his breath, "The pity of it."
Then he smiled at thi happy-looking middle-aged man and the ager-faced
girl opposite him. He said to himself:
These two have come out of its shadow z'nto the sun ...
and H have performed the second Labor of Hercules.
HERCULE POIROT STAMPED HIS FEET, seeking to warm them.
He blew upon his fingers. Flakes of snow melted and dripped from the
corners of his mustache.
There was a knock at the door and a chambermaid appeared. She was a
slow-breathing, thickset country girl and she stared with a good deal of
curiosity at Hercule Poirot. It was possible that she had never seen
anything quite like him before.
She asked, "Did you ring?"
"I did. Will you be so good as to light the fire?"
She went out and came back again immediately with paper and sticks. She
knelt down in front of the big Victorian grate and began to lay a fire.
Hercule Poirot continued to stamp his feet, swing his arms, and blow on
his fingers.
He was annoyed. His car-an expensive Messarro Gratz -had not behaved
with that mechanical perfection which he expected of a car. His
chauffeur, a young man who enjoyed a handsome salary, had not succeeded
in putting things right. The car had staged a final refusal in a
secondary road a mile and a half from anywhere with a fall of snow
beginning. Hercule Poirot, wearing his usual smart patent leather
shoes, had been forced to walk that mile and a half to reach the
riverside village of Hartly Denea village which, though showing every
sign of animation in summertime, was completely moribund in winter. The
Black Swan had registered something like dismay at the arrival of a
guest. The landlord had been almost eloquent as he pointed out that the
local garage could supply a car in which the gentleman could continue
his journey.
Hercule Poirot repudiated the suggestion. His Latin tlirift was
offended. Hire a car? He already had a car-a
large car-an expensive car. In that car and no other he proposed to
continue his journey back to town. And in any case, even if repairs to
it could be quickly effected, he was not going on in this snow until
next morning. He demanded a room, a fire, and a meal. Sig
hing, the
landlord showed him to the room, sent the maid to supply the fire, and
then retired to discuss with his wife the problem of the meal.
An hour later, his feet stretched out toward the comforting blaze,
Hercule Poirot reflected leniently on the dinner he had just eaten.
True, the steak had been both tough and full of gristle, the Brussels
sprouts had been large, pale, and definitely watery, the potatoes had
had hearts of stone. Nor was there much to be said for the portion of
stewed apple and custard which had followed. The cheese had been hard
and the biscuits soft. Nevertheless, thought Hercule Poirot, looking
graciously at the leaping flames, and sipping delicately at a cup of
liquid mud euphemistically called coffee, it was better to be full than
empty, and after tramping snowbound lanes in patent leather shoes, to
sit in front of a fire was Paradiset
There was a knock on the door and the chambermaid appeared.
"Please, sir, the man from the garage is here and would like to see
you."
Hercule Poirot replied amiably, "Let him mount."
The girl giggled and retired. Poirot reflected kindly that her account
of him to her friends would provide entertainment for many winter days
to come.
There was another knock-a different knock-and Poirot called:
"Come in."
He looked up with approval at the young man who entered and stooa there
looking ill at ease, twisting his cap in his hands.
Here, he thought, was one of the handsomest specimens of humanity he had
ever seen, a simple young man with the outward semblance of a Greek god.
The young man said in a low, husky voice, "AI)out the
car, sir, we've brought it in. And we've got at the trouble.
It's a matter of an hour's work or so."
Poirot said, "What is wrong with it?"
The young man plunged eagerly into technical details.
Poirot nodded his head gently, but he was not listening.
Perfect physique was a thing he admired greatly. There were, he
considered, too many rats in spectacles about.
He said to himself approvingly, Yes, a Greek God-a young shepherd in
Arcady.
The young man stopped abruptly. It was then that Hercule Poirot's brows
knitted themselves for a second. His first reaction had been esthetic,
his second was mental. His eyes narrowed themselves curiously as he
looked up.
He said, "I comprehend. Yes, I comprehend." He paused and then added,
"My chauffeur, he has already told me that which you have just said."
He saw the flush that came to the other's cheek, saw the fingers grip
the cap nervously.
The young man stammered, "Yes-er-yes, sir. I know."
Hercule Poirot went on smoothly: "But you thought that you would also
come and tell me yourself?"
"Er-yes, sir, I thought I'd better."
"That," said Hercule Poirot, " was very conscientious of you. Thank
you."
There was a faint but unmistakable note of dismissal in the last words
but he did not expect the other to go and he was right. The young man
did not move.
His fingers moved convulsively, crushing the tweed cap, and he said in a
still lower, embarrassed voice: "Er-excuse me, sir-but it's true, isn't
it, that you're the detective gentleman-you're Mr. Hercules Pwarrit?"
He said the name carefully.
Poirot said, "That is so."
Red crept up the young man's face.
He said, "I read a piece about you in the paper."
"Yes?"
The boy was now scarlet. There was distress in his eyes -distress and
Mrs McGinty's Dead / the Labours of Hercules (Agatha Christie Collected Works) Page 6