Hickory Dickory Dock: A Hercule Poirot Mystery

by Agatha Christie

  “No,” she said. “It was a horrible thing to happen. I can’t see anybody who could possibly have wanted Celia to die. She was a nice, harmless child, and she’d just got engaged to be married, and. . . .”

  “Yes. And?” the Inspector prompted.

  “I wondered if that was why,” said Valerie slowly. “Because she’d got engaged. Because she was going to be happy. But that means, doesn’t it, somebody—well—mad.”

  She said the word with a little shiver, and Inspector Sharpe looked at her thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” he said. “We can’t quite rule out madness.” He went on, “Have you any theory about the damage done to Elizabeth Johnston’s notes and papers?”

  “No. That was a spiteful thing, too. I don’t believe for a moment that Celia would do a thing like that.”

  “Any idea who it could have been?”

  “Well . . . Not a reasonable idea.”

  “But an unreasonable one?”

  “You don’t want to hear something that’s just a hunch, do you, Inspector?”

  “I’d like to hear a hunch very much. I’ll accept it as such, and it’ll only be between ourselves.”

  “Well, I may probably be quite wrong, but I’ve got a sort of idea that it was Patricia Lane’s work.”

  “Indeed! Now you do surprise me, Miss Hobhouse. I shouldn’t have thought of Patricia Lane. She seems a very well-balanced, amiable, young lady.”

  “I don’t say she did do it. I just had a sort of idea she might have done.”

  “For what reason in particular?”

  “Well, Patricia disliked Black Bess. Black Bess was always ticking off Patricia’s beloved Nigel, putting him right, you know, when he made silly statements in the way he does sometimes.”

  “You think it was more likely to have been Patricia Lane than Nigel himself?”

  “Oh, yes. I don’t think Nigel would bother, and he’d certainly not go using his own pet brand of ink. He’s got plenty of brains. But it’s just the sort of stupid thing that Patricia would do without thinking that it might involve her precious Nigel as a suspect.”

  “Or again, it might be somebody who had a down on Nigel Chapman and wanted to suggest that it was his doing?”

  “Yes, that’s another possibility.”

  “Who dislikes Nigel Chapman?”

  “Oh, well, Jean Tomlinson for one. And he and Len Bateson are always scrapping a good deal.”

  “Have you any ideas, Miss Hobhouse, how morphia could have been administered to Celia Austin?”

  “I’ve been thinking and thinking. Of course, I suppose the coffee is the most obvious way. We were all milling around in the common room. Celia’s coffee was on a small table near her and she always waited until her coffee was nearly cold before she drank it. I suppose anybody who had sufficient nerve could have dropped a tablet or something into her cup without being seen, but it would be rather a risk to take. I mean, it’s the sort of thing that might be noticed quite easily.”

  “The morphia,” said Inspector Sharpe, “was not in tablet form.”

  “What was it? Powder?”

  “Yes.”

  Valerie frowned.

  “That would be rather more difficult, wouldn’t it?”

  “Anything else besides coffee you can think of?”

  “She sometimes had a glass of hot milk before she went to bed. I don’t think she did that night, though.”

  “Can you describe to me exactly what happened that evening in the common room?”

  “Well, as I say, we all sat about, talked; somebody turned the wireless on. Most of the boys, I think, went out. Celia went up to bed fairly early and so did Jean Tomlinson. Sally and I sat on there fairly late. I was writing letters and Sally was mugging over some notes. I rather think I was the last to go up to bed.”

  “It was just a usual evening, in fact?”

  “Absolutely, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hobhouse. Will you send Miss Lane to me now?”

  Patricia Lane looked worried, but not apprehensive. Questions and answers elicited nothing very new. Asked about the damage to Elizabeth Johnston’s papers Patricia said that she had no doubt that Celia had been responsible.

  “But she denied it, Miss Lane, very vehemently.”

  “Well, of course,” said Patricia. “She would. I think she was ashamed of having done it. But it fits in, doesn’t it, with all the other things?”

  “Do you know what I find about this case, Miss Lane? That nothing fits in very well.”

  “I suppose,” said Patricia, flushing, “that you would think it was Nigel who messed up Bess’s papers. Because of the ink. That’s such absolute nonsense. I mean, Nigel wouldn’t have used his own ink if he’d done a thing like that. He wouldn’t be such a fool. But anyway, he wouldn’t do it.”

  “He didn’t always get on very well with Miss Johnston, did he?”

  “Oh, she had an annoying manner sometimes, but he didn’t really mind.” Patricia Lane leaned forward earnestly. “I would like to try and make you understand one or two things, Inspector. About Nigel Chapman, I mean. You see, Nigel is really very much his own worst enemy. I’m the first to admit that he’s got a very difficult manner. It prejudices people against him. He’s rude and sarcastic and makes fun of people, and so he puts people’s backs up and they think the worst of him. But really he’s quite different from what he seems. He’s one of those shy, rather unhappy people who really want to be liked but who, from a kind of spirit of contradiction, find themselves saying and doing the opposite to what they mean to say and do.”

  “Ah,” said Inspector Sharpe. “Rather unfortunate for them, that.”

  “Yes, but they really can’t help it, you know. It comes from having had an unfortunate childhood. Nigel had a very unhappy home life. His father was very harsh and severe and never understood him. And his father treated his mother very badly. After she died they had the most terrific quarrel and Nigel flung out of the house, and his father said that he’d never give him a penny and he must get on as well as he could without any help from him. Nigel said he didn’t want any help from his father; and wouldn’t take it if it was offered. A small amount of money came to him under his mother’s will, and he never wrote to his father or went near him again. Of course, I think that was a pity in a way, but there’s no doubt that his father is a very unpleasant man. I don’t wonder that that’s made Nigel bitter and difficult to get on with. Since his mother died, he’s never had anyone to care for him and look after him. His health’s not been good, though his mind is brilliant. He is handicapped in life and he just can’t show himself as he really is.”

  Patricia Lane stopped. She was flushed and a little breathless as the result of her long earnest speech. Inspector Sharpe looked at her thoughtfully. He had come across many Patricia Lanes before. “In love with the chap,” he thought to himself. “Don’t suppose he cares twopence for her, but probably accepts being mothered. Father certainly sounds a cantankerous old cuss, but I dare say the mother was a foolish woman who spoilt her son and by doting on him, widened the breach between him and his father. I’ve seen enough of that kind of thing.” He wondered if Nigel Chapman had been attracted at all to Celia Austin. It seemed unlikely, but it might be so. “And if so,” he thought, “Patricia Lane might have bitterly resented the fact.” Resented it enough to do murder? Surely not—and in any case, the fact that Celia had got engaged to Colin McNabb would surely wash that out as a possible motive for murder. He dismissed Patricia Lane and asked for Jean Tomlinson.

  Chapter Ten

  Miss Tomlinson was a severe-looking young woman of twenty-seven, with fair hair, regular features and a rather pursed-up mouth. She sat down and said primly:

  “Yes, Inspector? What can I do for you?”

  “I wonder if you can help us at all, Miss Tomlinson, about this very tragic matter.”

  “It’s shocking. Really quite shocking,” said Jean. “It was bad enough when we thought Celia had committ
ed suicide, but now that it’s supposed to be murder . . .” She stopped and shook her head, sadly.

  “We are fairly sure that she did not poison herself,” said Sharpe. “You know where the poison came from?”

  Jean nodded.

  “I gather it came from St. Catherine’s Hospital, where she works. But surely that makes it seem more like suicide?”

  “It was intended to, no doubt,” said the inspector.

  “But who else could possibly have got that poison except Celia?”

  “Quite a lot of people,” said Inspector Sharpe, “if they were determined to do so. Even you, yourself, Miss Tomlinson,” he said, “might have managed to help yourself to it if you had wished to do so.”

  “Really, Inspector Sharpe!” Jean’s tones were sharp with indignation.

  “Well, you visited the Dispensary fairly often, didn’t you, Miss Tomlinson?”

  “I went in there to see Mildred Carey, yes. But naturally I would never have dreamed of tampering with the poison cupboard.”

  “But you could have done so?”

  “I certainly couldn’t have done anything of the kind!”

  “Oh, come now, Miss Tomlinson. Say that your friend was busy packing up the ward baskets and the other girl was at the outpatients’ window. There are frequent times when there are only two dispensers in the front room. You could have wandered casually round the back of the shelves of bottles that run across the middle of the floor. You could have nipped a bottle out of the cupboard and into your pocket, and neither of the two dispensers would have dreamed of what you had done.”

  “I resent what you say very much, Inspector Sharpe. It’s—it’s a—disgraceful accusation.”

  “But it’s not an accusation, Miss Tomlinson. It’s nothing of the kind. You mustn’t misunderstand me. You said to me that it wasn’t possible for you to do such a thing, and I’m trying to show you that it was possible. I’m not suggesting for a moment that you did so. After all,” he added, “why should you?”

  “Quite so. You don’t seem to realise, Inspector Sharpe, that I was a friend of Celia’s.”

  “Quite a lot of people get poisoned by their friends. There’s a certain question we have to ask ourselves sometimes. ‘When is a friend not a friend?’ ”

  “There was no disagreement between me and Celia; nothing of the kind. I liked her very much.”

  “Had you any reason to suspect it was she who had been responsible for these thefts in the house?”

  “No, indeed. I was never so surprised in my life. I always thought Celia had high principles. I wouldn’t have dreamed of her doing such a thing.”

  “Of course,” said Sharpe, watching her carefully, “kleptomaniacs can’t really help themselves, can they?”

  Jean Tomlinson’s lips pursed themselves together even more closely. Then she opened them and spoke.

  “I can’t say I can quite subscribe to that idea, Inspector Sharpe. I’m old-fashioned in my views and believe that stealing is stealing.”

  “You think that Celia stole things because, frankly, she wanted to take them?”

  “Certainly I do.”

  “Plain dishonest, in fact?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Ah!” said Inspector Sharpe, shaking his head. “That’s bad.”

  “Yes, it’s always upsetting when you feel you’re disappointed in anyone.”

  “There was a question, I understand, of our being called in—the police, I mean.”

  “Yes. That would have been the right thing to do in my opinion.”

  “Perhaps you think it ought to have been done anyway?”

  “I think it would have been the right thing. Yes, I don’t think, you know, people ought to be allowed to get away with these things.”

  “With calling oneself a kleptomaniac when one is really a thief, do you mean?”

  “Well, more or less, yes—that is what I mean.”

  “Instead of which everything was ending happily and Miss Austin had wedding bells ahead.”

  “Of course, one isn’t surprised at anything Colin McNabb does,” said Jean Tomlinson viciously. “I’m sure he’s an atheist and a most disbelieving, mocking, unpleasant young man. He’s rude to everybody. It’s my opinion that he’s a communist!”

  “Ah!” said Inspector Sharpe. “Bad!” He shook his head.

  “He backed up Celia, I think, because he hasn’t got any proper feeling about property. He probably thinks everyone should help themselves to everything they want.”

  “Still, at any rate,” said Inspector Sharpe, “Miss Austin did own up.”

  “After she was found out. Yes,” said Jean sharply.

  “Who found her out?”

  “That Mr.—what-was-his-name . . . Poirot, who came.”

  “But why do you think he found her out, Miss Tomlinson? He didn’t say so. He just advised calling in the police.”

  “He must have shown her that he knew. She obviously knew the game was up and rushed off to confess.”

  “What about the ink on Elizabeth Johnston’s papers? Did she confess to that?”

  “I really don’t know. I suppose so.”

  “You suppose wrong,” said Sharpe. “She denied most vehemently that she had anything to do with that.”

  “Well, perhaps that may be so. I must say it doesn’t seem very likely.”

  “You think it is more likely that it was Nigel Chapman?”

  “No, I don’t think Nigel would do that either. I think it’s much more likely to be Mr. Akibombo.”

  “Really? Why should he do it?”

  “Jealousy. All these coloured people are very jealous of each other and very hysterical.”

  “That’s interesting, Miss Tomlinson. When was the last time you saw Celia Austin?”

  “After dinner on Friday night.”

  “Who went up to bed first? Did she or did you?”

  “I did.”

  “You did not go to her room or see her after you’d left the common room?”

  “No.”

  “And you’ve no idea who could have introduced morphia into her coffee—if it was given that way?”

  “No idea at all.”

  “You never saw morphia lying about the house or in anyone’s room?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? What do you mean by that, Miss Tomlinson?”

  “Well, I just wondered. There was that silly bet, you know.”

  “What bet?”

  “One—oh, two or three of the boys were arguing—”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Murder, and ways of doing it. Poisoning in particular.”

  “Who was concerned in the discussion?”

  “Well, I think Colin and Nigel started it, and then Len Bateson chipped in and Patricia was there too—”

  “Can you remember, as closely as possible, what was said on that occasion—how the argument went?”

  Jean Tomlinson reflected a few moments.

  “Well, it started, I think, with a discussion on murdering by poisoning, saying that the difficulty was to get hold of the poison, that the murderer was usually traced by either the sale of the poison or having an opportunity to get it, and Nigel said that wasn’t at all necessary. He said that he could think of three distinct ways by which anyone could get hold of poison, and nobody would ever know they had it. Len Bateson said then that he was talking through his hat. Nigel said no he wasn’t, and he was quite prepared to prove it. Pat said that of course Nigel was quite right. She said that either Len or Colin could probably help themselves to poison any time they liked from a hospital, and so could Celia, she said. And Nigel said that wasn’t what he meant at all. He said it would be noticed if Celia took anything from the Dispensary. Sooner or later they’d look for it and find it gone. And Pat said no, not if she took the bottle and emptied some stuff out and filled it up with something else. Colin laughed then and said there’d be very serious complaints fro
m the patients one of these days, in that case. But Nigel said of course he didn’t mean special opportunities. He said that he himself, who hadn’t got any particular access, either as a doctor or dispenser, could jolly well get three different kinds of poison by three different methods. Len Bateson said, ‘All right, then, but what are your methods?’ and Nigel said, ‘I shan’t tell you, now, but I’m prepared to bet you that within three weeks I can produce samples of three deadly poisons here,’ and Len Bateson said he’d bet him a fiver he couldn’t do it.”

  “Well?” said Inspector Sharpe, when Jean stopped.

  “Well, nothing more came of it, I think, for some time and then, one evening in the common room, Nigel said, ‘Now then, chaps, look here—I’m as good as my word,’ and he threw down three things on the table. He had a tube of hyoscine tablets, and a bottle of tincture of digitalin, and a tiny bottle of morphine tartrate.”

  The inspector said sharply:

  “Morphine tartrate. Any label on it?”

  “Yes, it had St. Catherine’s Hospital on it. I do remember that because, naturally, it caught my eye.”

  “And the others?”

  “I didn’t notice. They were not hospital stores, I should say.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, of course, there was a lot of talk and jawing, and Len Bateson said, ‘Come now, if you’d done a murder this would be traced to you soon enough,’ and Nigel said, ‘Not a bit of it. I’m a layman. I’ve no connection with any clinic or hospital and nobody will connect me for one moment with these. I didn’t buy them over the counter,’ and Colin McNabb took his pipe out of his teeth and said, ‘No, you’d certainly not be able to do that. There’s no chemist would sell you those three things without a doctor’s prescription.’ Anyway, they argued a bit but in the end Len said he’d pay up. He said, ‘I can’t do it now, because I’m a bit short of cash, but there’s no doubt about it; Nigel’s proved his point,’ and then he said, ‘What are we going to do with the guilty spoils?’ Nigel grinned and said we’d better get rid of them before any accidents occurred, so they emptied out the tube and threw the tablets on the fire and emptied out the powder from the morphine tartrate and threw that on the fire too. The tincture of digitalis they poured down the lavatory.”