Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  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.

  "Poirot, do you recognize this document?"

  "Certainly."

  "How did it originally come into your possession?"

  "It was given me by the District Nurse, Nurse Hopkins."

  Sir Edwin said, "With your permission, my lord, I will read this aloud, and it can then go to the jury."

  Chapter 24

  Closing speech for the Defence:

  "Gentlemen 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."

  "But 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."

  "You will have realized by now that the facts of the case are very different from what they originally appeared to be."

  "Yesterday, after the dramatic evidence given by Monsieur 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. Welman's 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. Welman's 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?"

  "All that we do know is this: That at Nurse Hopkins's instigation, Mary Gerrard made a will leaving everything she had to ‘Mary Riley, sister of Eliza Riley.' 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 color - comprehensible enough if she had just been violently sick."

  "I 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. Welman's belief that her unacknowledged daughter would be happier if she remained in another sphere of life."

  "It 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."

  "Looked at from that point of view, gentlemen of the jury, I submit to you that the case against Elinor Carlisle falls to the ground."

  II

  From Mr. Justice Beddingfeld's summing-up:

  "... 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."

  "The 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 Gerrard's 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."

  "The 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 Hopkins's wrist and why she should tell a lie about it. ..."

  "If the Prosecution has convinced you that the accused and no other committed the crime, then you must find the accused guilty."

  "If the alternative theory suggested by the Defence is possible and consistent with the evidence, the accused must be acquitted."

  "I will ask you to consider the verdict with courage and diligence, weighing only the evidence that has been put before you."

  III

  Elinor was brought back into the court.

  The jury filed in.

  "Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?"

  "Yes."

  "Look upon the prisoner at the bar, and say whether she is guilty or not guilty."

  "Not guilty."

  Chapter 25

  They had brought her out by a side door. She had been aware of faces welcoming her - Roddy - the detective with the big moustache. But it was to Peter Lord she had turned. "I want to get away."

  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 life.... That was what she wanted. ...A new life. She said suddenly, "I - I want to go somewhere quiet - where there won't be any faces."

  Peter Lord said quietly, "That's all arranged. You're going to a sanatorium. Quiet place. Lovely gardens. No one will bother you - or get at you."

  She said with a sigh, "Yes - that's what I want."

  It was being a doctor, she supposed, that made him understand. He knew - and didn't bother her. So blessedly peaceful to be here with him, going away from it all, out of London - to a place that was safe. She wanted to forget - forget everything. None of it was real any longer. It was all gone, vanished, finished with - the 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 afraid. But it was comforting to be with Peter Lord. They were out of London now, passing through suburbs. She said at last, "It was all you - all you."

  Peter Lord said, "It was Hercule Poirot. The fellow's a kind of magician!"

  But Elinor shook her head. She said obstinately, "It was you. You got hold of him and made him do it!"

  Peter grinned. "I made him do it, all right."

  Elinor said, "Did you know I hadn't done it, or weren't you sure?"

  Peter said simply, "I was never quite sure."

  Elinor said, "That's why I nearly said ‘guilty' right at the beginning - because, you see, I had thought of it.... I thought of it that day when I laughed outside the cottage."

  Peter said, "Yes, I knew."

  She said wonderingly, "It seems so queer now - like a kind of possession. That day I bought the paste and cut the s
andwiches I was pretending to myself, I was thinking, ‘I've mixed poison with this, and when she eats she will die - and then Roddy will come back to me.'"

  Peter Lord said, "It helps some people to pretend that sort of thing to themselves . It isn't a bad thing, really. You take it out of yourself in a fantasy. Like sweating a thing out of your system."

  Elinor said, "Yes, that's true. Because it went - suddenly! The blackness, I mean! When that woman mentioned the rose tree outside the lodge - it all swung back into - into being normal again."

  Then with a shiver she said, "Afterward when we went into the morning-room and she was dead - dying, at least - I felt then: Is there much difference between thinking and doing murder?"

  Peter Lord said, "All the difference in the world!"

  "Yes, but is there?"

  "Of course there is! Thinking murder doesn't really do any harm. People have silly ideas about that; they think it's the same as planning murder! It isn't. If you think murder long enough, you suddenly come through the blackness and feel that it's all rather silly!"

  Elinor cried, "Oh! you are a comforting person."

  Peter Lord said rather incoherently, "Not at all. Just common sense." Elinor said, and there were suddenly tears in her eyes, "Every now and then - in court - I looked at you. It gave me courage. You looked so - so ordinary." Then she laughed. "That's rude!"

  He said, "I understand. When you're in the middle of a nightmare something ordinary is the only hope. Anyway, ordinary things are the best. I've always thought so."

  For the first time since she had entered the car she turned her head and looked at him. The sight of his face didn't hurt her as Roddy's 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, how nice his face is - nice and funny - and, yes, comforting. They drove on. They came at last to a gateway and a drive that wound upward till it reached a quiet white house on the side of a hill.

  He said, "You'll be quite safe here. No one will bother you."

  Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. She said, "You - you'll come and see me?"

  "Of course."

  "Often?"

  Peter Lord said, "As often as you want me."

  She said, "Please come - very often."

  The Kidnapping Of

  Johnny Waverly

  BY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  “You can understand the feelings of a mother” said Mrs Waverly for perhaps the sixth time. She looked appealingly at Poirot. My little friend, always sympathetic to motherhood in distress, gesticulated reassuringly. “But yes, but yes, I comprehend perfectly. Have faith in Papa Poirot.”

  “The police” began Mr Waverly. His wife waved the interruption aside. “I won't have anything more to do with the police. We trusted to them and look what happened! But I'd heard so much of M. Poirot and the wonderful things he'd done, that I felt he might possibly be able to help us.”

  “Mother's feelings..”

  Poirot hastily stemmed the reiteration with an eloquent gesture. Mrs Waverly's emotion was obviously genuine, but it assorted strangely with her shrewd, rather hard type of countenance. When I heard later that she was the daughter of a prominent steel manufacturer of Birmingham who had worked his way up in the world from an office boy to his present eminence, I realized that she had inherited many of the paternal qualities. Mr Waverly was a big, florid, jovial-looking man. He stood with his legs straddled wide apart and looked the type of the country squire.

  “I suppose you know all about this business, M. Poirot?”

  The question was almost superfluous. For some days past the paper had been full of the sensational kidnapping of little Johnnie Waverly, the three-year-old son and heir of Marcus Waverly, Esq., of Waverly Court, Surrey, one of the oldest families in England.

  “The main facts I know, of course, but recount to me the whole story, monsieur, I beg of you, and in detail if you please.”

  “Well, I suppose the beginning of the whole thing was about ten days ago when I got an anonymous letter - beastly things, anyway - that I couldn't make head or tail of. The writer had the impudence to demand that I should pay him twenty-five thousand pounds - twenty-five thousand pounds, M. Poirot! Failing my agreement, he threatened to kidnap Johnnie. Of course I threw the thing into the wastepaper basket without more ado. Thought it was some silly joke. Five days later I got another letter.”

  "Unless you pay, your son will be kidnapped on the twenty-ninth."

  “That was on the twenty-seventh. Ada was worried, but I couldn't bring myself to treat the matter seriously. Damn it all, we're in England. Nobody goes about kidnapping children and holding them up to ransom.”

  “It is not a common practice, certainly” said Poirot. “Proceed, monsieur.”

  “Well, Ada gave me no peace, so - feeling a bit of a fool - I laid the matter before Scotland Yard. They didn't seem to take the thing very seriously - inclined to my view that it was some silly joke. On the twenty-eighth I got a third letter. ‘You have not paid. Your son will be taken from you at twelve o'clock noon tomorrow, the twenty-ninth. It will cost you fifty thousand pounds to recover him.’ Up I drove to Scotland Yard again. This time they were more impressed. They inclined to the view that the letters were written by a lunatic, and that in all probability an attempt of some kind would be made at the hour stated. They assured me that they would take all due precautions. Inspector McNeil and a sufficient force would come down to Waverly on the morrow and take charge. I went home much relieved in my mind. Yet we already had the feeling of being in a state of siege. I gave orders that no stranger was to be admitted, and that no one was to leave the house. The evening passed off without any untoward incident, but on the following morning my wife was seriously unwell. Alarmed by her condition, I sent for Doctor Dakers. Her symptoms appeared to puzzle him. While hesitating to suggest that she had been poisoned, I could see that that was what was in his mind. There was no danger, he assured me, but it would be a day or two before she would be able to get about again. Returning to my own room, I was startled and amazed to find a note pinned to my pillow. It was in the same handwriting as the others and contained just three words: ‘At twelve o'clock.’

  “I admit, M. Poirot, that then I saw red! Someone in the house was in this - one of the servants. I had them all up, blackguarded them right and left. They never split on each other; it was Miss Collins, my wife's companion, who informed me that she had seen Johnnie's nurse slip down the drive early that morning. I taxed her with it, and she broke down. She had left the child with the nursery maid and stolen out to meet a friend of hers - a man! Pretty goings on! She denied having pinned the note to my pillow - she may have been speaking the truth, I don't know. I felt I couldn't take the risk of the child's own nurse being in the plot. One of the servants was implicated - of that I was sure. Finally I lost my temper and sacked the whole bunch, nurse and all. I gave them an hour to pack their boxes and get out of the house.” Mr Waverly's red face was quite two shades redder as he remembered his just wrath.

  “Was not that a little injudicious, monsieur?” suggested Poirot. “For all you know, you might have been playing into the enemy's hands.”

  Mr Waverly stared at him. “I don't see that. Send the whole lot packing, that was my idea. I wired to London for a fresh lot to be sent down that evening. In the meantime, there'd be only people I could trust in the house: my wife's secretary, Miss Collins, and Tredwell, the butler, who has been with me since I was a boy.”

  “And this Miss Collins, how long has she been with you?”

  “Just a year” said Mrs Waverly. “She has been invaluable to me as a secretary-companion, and is also a very efficient housekeeper.”

  “The nurse?”

  “'She has been with me six months. She came to me with excellent references. All the same, I never really liked her, although Johnnie was quite devoted to her.”

  “Still, I gather she had already left when the catast
rophe occurred. Perhaps, Monsieur Waverly, you will be so kind as to continue.”

  Mr Waverly resumed his narrative. “Inspector McNeil arrived about ten-thirty. The servants had all left by then. He declared himself quite satisfied with the internal arrangements. He had various men posted in the park outside, guarding all the approaches to the house, and he assured me that if the whole thing were not a hoax, we should undoubtedly catch my mysterious correspondent. I had Johnnie with me, and he and I and the inspector went together into a room we call the council chamber. The inspector locked the door. There is a big grandfather clock there, and as the hands drew near to twelve, I don't mind confessing that I was as nervous as a cat. There was a whirring sound, and the clock began to strike. I clutched Johnnie. I had a feeling a man might drop from the skies. The last stroke sounded, and as it did so, there was a great commotion outside - shouting and running. The inspector flung up the window, and a constable came running up.” “We've got him, sir” he panted. “He was sneaking up through the bushes. He's got a whole dope outfit on him.”

  “We hurried out on the terrace where two constables were holding a ruffianly looking fellow in shabby clothes, who was twisting and turning in a vain endeavour to escape. One of the policemen held out an unrolled parcel which they had wrested from their captive. It contained a pad of cotton wool and a bottle of chloroform. It made my blood boil to see it. There was a note, too, addressed to me. I tore it open. It bore the following words: "You should have paid up. To ransom your son will now cost you fifty thousand. In spite of all your precautions he has been abducted at twelve o'clock on the twenty-ninth as I said.”

  “I gave a great laugh, the laugh of relief, but as I did so I heard the hum of a motor and a shout. I turned my head. Racing down the drive towards the south lodge at a furious speed was a low, long grey car. It was the man who drove it who had shouted, but that was not what gave me a shock of horror. It was the sight of Johnnie's flaxen curls. The child was in the car beside him. The inspector ripped out an oath. "The child was here not a minute ago," he cried. His eyes swept over us. We were all there: myself, Tredwell, Miss Collins.”