The death of Mrs. Welman had been very sad. She had been much respected in the neighbourhood. The arrest of Miss Carlisle was "Disgraceful!" and believed to be the result of "these new-fangled police methods." The views of Mrs. Bishop upon the death of Mary Gerrard were vague in the extreme, "I couldn't say, I'm sure," being the most she could be brought to say.
Hercule Poirot played his last card. He recounted with naive pride a recent visit of his to Sandringham. He spoke with admiration of the graciousness and delightful simplicity and kindness of Royalty.
Mrs. Bishop, who followed daily in the court circular the exact movements of Royalty, was overborne. After all, if They had sent for Mr. Poirot – Well, naturally, that made All the Difference. Foreigner or no foreigner, who was she, Emma Bishop, to hold back where Royalty had led the way?
Presently she and M. Poirot were engaged in pleasant conversation on a really interesting theme – no less than the selection of a suitable future husband for the Princess. Having finally exhausted all possible candidates as Not Good Enough, the talk reverted to less exalted circles.
Poirot observed sententiously, "Marriage, alas, is fraught with dangers and pitfalls!"
Mrs. Bishop said, "Yes, indeed – with this nasty divorce," rather as though she were speaking of a contagious disease such as chicken pox.
"I suspect," said Poirot, "that Mrs. Welman, before her death, must have been anxious to see her niece suitably settled for life?"
Mrs. Bishop bowed her head. "Yes, indeed. The engagement between Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick was a great relief to her. It was a thing she had always hoped for."
Poirot ventured, "The engagement was perhaps entered into partly from a wish to please her?"
"Oh, no, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Poirot. Miss Elinor has always been devoted to Mr. Roddy – always was, as a tiny tot – quite beautiful to see. Miss Elinor has a very loyal and devoted nature!"
Poirot murmured, "And he?"
Mrs. Bishop said austerely, "Mr. Roderick was devoted to Miss Elinor."
Poirot said, "Yet the engagement, I think, was broken off?"
The color rose in Mrs. Bishop's face. She said, "Owing, Mr. Poirot, to the machinations of a snake in the grass."
Poirot said, appearing suitably impressed, "Indeed?"
Mrs. Bishop, her face becoming redder still, explained, "In this country, Mr. Poirot, there is a certain Decency to be observed when mentioning the Dead, But that young woman, Mr. Poirot, was Underhand in her Dealings."
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said with an apparent lack of guile, "You surprise me. I had been given the impression that she was a very simple and unassuming girl."
Mrs. Bishop's chin trembled a little. "She was Artful, Mr. Poirot. People were Taken In by her. That Nurse Hopkins, for instance! Yes, and my poor dear mistress, too!"
Poirot shook his head sympathetically and made a clacking noise with his tongue.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Bishop, stimulated by these encouraging noises. "She was failing, poor dear, and that young woman Wormed her way into her Confidence. She knew which side of her bread was buttered. Always hovering about, reading to her, bringing her little nosegays of flowers. It was Mary this and Mary that and 'Where's Mary?' all the time! The money she spent on the girl, too! Expensive schools and finishing places abroad – and the girl nothing but old Gerrard's daughter! He didn't like it, I can tell you! Used to complain of her Fine Lady ways. Above Herself, that's what She was."
This time Poirot shook his head and said commiseratingly, "Dear, dear."
"And then Making Up to Mr. Roddy the way she did! He was too simple to See Through her. And Miss Elinor, a nice minded young lady as she is, of course she wouldn't realize what was Going On. But Men, they are all alike: easily caught by flattery and a pretty face!"
Poirot sighed. "She had, I suppose, admirers of her own class?" he asked.
"Of course she had. There was Rufus Bigland's son Ted – as nice a boy as you could find. But, oh, no, my fine lady was too good for him! I'd no patience with such airs and graces!"
Poirot said, "Was he not angry about her treatment of him?"
"Yes, indeed. He accused her of carrying on with Mr. Roddy. I know that for a fact. I don't blame the boy for feeling sore!"
"Nor I," said Poirot. "You interest me extremely, Mrs. Bishop. Some people have the knack of presenting a character clearly and vigorously in a few words. It is a great gift. I have at last a clear picture of Mary Gerrard."
"Mind you," said Mrs. Bishop, "I'm not saying a word against the girl! I wouldn't do such a thing – and she in her grave. But there's no doubt that she caused a lot of trouble!"
Poirot murmured, "Where would it have ended, I wonder?"
"That's what I say!" said Mrs. Bishop. "You can take it from me, Mr. Poirot, that if my dear mistress hadn't died when she did – awful as the shock was at the time, I see now that it was a Mercy in Disguise – I don't know what might have been the end of it!"
Poirot said invitingly, "You mean?"
Mrs. Bishop said solemnly, "I've come across it time and again. My own sister was in service where it happened. Once when old Colonel Randolph died and left every penny away from his poor wife to a hussy living at Eastbourne – and once old Mrs. Dacres – left it to the organist of the church – one of those long-haired young men – and she with married sons and daughters."
Poirot said, "You mean, I take it, that Mrs. Welman might have left all her money to Mary Gerrard?"
"It wouldn't have surprised me!" said Mrs. Bishop. "That's what the young woman was working up to, I've no doubt. And if I ventured to say a word, Mrs. Welman was ready to bite my head off, though I'd been with her nearly twenty years. It's an ungrateful world, Mr. Poirot. You try to do your duty and it is not appreciated."
"Alas," sighed Poirot, "how true that is!"
"But Wickedness doesn't always flourish," said Mrs. Bishop.
Poirot said, "True. Mary Gerrard is dead."
Mrs. Bishop said comfortably, "She's gone to her reckoning, and we mustn't judge her."
Poirot mused, "The circumstances of her death seem quite inexplicable."
"These police and their new-fangled ideas," said Mrs. Bishop. "Is it likely that a well-bred, nicely brought-up young lady like Miss Elinor would go about poisoning anyone? Trying to drag me into it, too, saying I said her manner was peculiar!"
"But was it not peculiar?"
"And why shouldn't it be?" Mrs. Bishop's bust heaved with a flash of jet. "Miss Elinor's a young lady of feelings. She was going to turn out her aunt's things – and that's always a painful business."
Poirot nodded sympathetically. He said, "It would have made it much easier for her if you had accompanied her."
"I wanted to, Mr. Poirot, but she took me up quite sharp. Oh, well, Miss Elinor was always a very proud and reserved young lady. I wish, though, that I had gone with her."
Poirot murmured, "You did not think of following her up to the house?"
Mrs. Bishop reared her head majestically. "I don't go where I'm not wanted, Mr. Poirot."
Poirot looked abashed. He murmured, "Besides, you had doubtless matters of importance to attend to that morning?"
"It was a very warm day, I remember. Very sultry." She sighed. "I walked to the cemetery to place a few flowers on Mrs. Welman's grave, a token of respect, and I had to rest there quite a long time. Quite overcome by the heat, I was. I got home late for lunch, and my sister was quite upset when she saw the State of Heat I was in! Said I never should have done it on a day like that."
Poirot looked at her with admiration. He said, "I envy you, Mrs. Bishop. It is pleasant indeed to have nothing with which to reproach oneself after a death. Mr. Roderick Welman, I fancy, must blame himself for not going in to see his aunt that night, though naturally he could not know she was going to pass away so soon."
"Oh, but you're quite wrong, Mr. Poirot. I can tell you that for a fact. Mr. Roddy did go into his aunt's room. I
was just outside on the landing myself. I'd heard that nurse go off downstairs, and I thought maybe I'd better make sure the mistress wasn't needing anything, for you know what nurses are – always staying downstairs to gossip with the maids, or else worrying them to death by asking them for things. Not that Nurse Hopkins was as bad as that red-haired Irish nurse. Always chattering and making trouble, she was! But, as I say, I thought I'd just see everything was all right, and it was then that I saw Mr. Roddy slip into his aunt's room. I don't know whether she knew him or not; but anyway he hasn't got anything to reproach himself with!"
Poirot said, "I am glad. He is of a somewhat nervous disposition."
"Just a trifle cranky. He always has been."
Poirot said, "Mrs. Bishop, you are evidently a woman of great understanding. I have formed a high regard for your judgment. What do you think is the truth about the death of Mary Gerrard?"
Mrs. Bishop snorted. "Clear enough, I should think! One of those nasty pots of paste of Abbott's. Keeps them on those shelves for months! My second cousin was took ill and nearly died once, with tinned crab!"
Poirot objected, "But what about the morphine found in the body?"
Mrs. Bishop said grandly, "I don't know anything about morphine! I know what doctors are. Tell them to look for something, and they'll find it! Tainted fish paste isn't good enough for them! "
Poirot said, "You do not think it possible that she committed suicide?"
"She?" Mrs. Bishop snorted. "No, indeed. Hadn't she made up her mind to marry Mr. Roddy? Catch her committing suicide!"
Chapter 12
Since it was Sunday, Hercule Poirot found Ted Bigland at his father's farm.
There was little difficulty in getting Ted Bigland to talk. He seemed to welcome the opportunity – as though it was a relief.
He said thoughtfully, "So you're trying to find out who killed Mary? It's a black mystery, that."
Poirot said, "You do not believe that Miss Carlisle killed her, then?" Ted Bigland frowned – a puzzled, almost child-like frown it was.
He said slowly, "Miss Elinor's a lady. She's the kind – well, you couldn't imagine her doing anything like that – anything violent, if you know what I mean. After all, it isn't likely, is it, sir, that a nice young lady would go and do a thing of that kind?"
Hercule Poirot nodded in a contemplative manner. He said, "No, it is not likely. But when it comes to jealousy-"
He paused, watching the good-looking, fair young giant before him.
Ted Bigland said, "Jealousy? I know things happen that way, but it's usually drink and getting worked up that makes a fellow see red and run amuck. Miss Elinor – a nice quiet young lady like that -"
Poirot said, "But Mary Gerrard died – and she did not die a natural death. Have you any idea – is there anything you can tell me to help me find out – who killed Mary Gerrard?"
Slowly the boy shook his head. He said, "It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem possible, if you take my meaning, that anyone could have killed Mary. She was – she was like a flower."
And suddenly, for a vivid minute, Hercule Poirot had a new conception of the dead girl. In that halting rustic voice the girl Mary lived and bloomed again. "She was like a flower."
There was suddenly a poignant sense of loss, of something exquisite destroyed. In his mind phrase after phrase succeeded each other. Peter Lord's "She was a nice kid." Nurse Hopkins's "She could have gone on the films any time." Mrs. Bishop's venomous "No patience with her airs and graces." And now last, putting to shame, laying aside those other views, the quiet, wondering, "She was like a flower."
Hercule Poirot said, "But then -?" He spread out his hands in a wide, appealing foreign gesture.
Ted Bigland nodded his head. His eyes had still the dumb, glazed look of an animal in pain. He said, "I know, sir. I know what you say's true. She didn't die natural. But I've been wondering -"
He paused. Poirot said, "Yes?"
Ted Bigland said slowly, "I've been wondering if in some way it couldn't have been an accident!"
"An accident? But what kind of an accident?"
"I know, sir. I know. It doesn't sound like sense. But I keep thinking and thinking, and it seems to me it must have been that way. Something that wasn't meant to happen or something that was all a mistake. Just – well, just an accident!"
He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own lack of eloquence. Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be considering. He said at last, "It is interesting that you feel that."
Ted Bigland said deprecatingly, "I dare say it doesn't make sense to you, sir. I can't figure out how and why about it. It's just a feeling I've got."
Hercule Poirot said, "Feeling is sometimes an important guide. You will pardon me, I hope, if I seem to tread on painful ground, but you cared very much for Mary Gerrard, did you not?"
A little dark colour came up in the tanned face. Ted said simply, "Everyone knows that around here, I reckon."
"You wanted to marry her?"
"Yes."
"But she – was not willing?"
Ted's face darkened a little. He said, with a hint of suppressed anger, "Mean well, people do, but they shouldn't muck up people's lives by interfering. All this schooling and going abroad! It changed Mary. I don't mean it spoiled her, or that she was stuck-up – she wasn't. But it – oh, it bewildered her! She didn't know where she was any more. She was – well, put it crudely – she was too good for me, but she still wasn't good enough for a real gentleman like Mr. Welman."
Hercule Poirot said, watching him, "You don't like Mr. Welman?"
Ted Bigland said with simple violence, "Why the hell should I? Mr. Welman's all right. I've nothing against him. He's not what I call much of a man! I could pick him up and break him in two. He's got brains, I suppose… But that's not much help to you if your car breaks down, for instance. You may know the principle that makes a car run, but it doesn't stop you from being as helpless as a baby when all that's needed is to take the mag out and give it a wipe."
Poirot said, "Of course, you work in a garage?"
Ted Bigland nodded. " Henderson 's, down the road."
"You were there on the morning when – this thing happened?"
Ted Bigland said, "Yes, testing out a car for a gentleman. A choke somewhere, and I couldn't locate it. Ran it round for a bit. Seems odd to think of now. It was a lovely day, some honeysuckle still in the hedges… Mary used to like honeysuckle. We used to go picking it together before she went away abroad."
Again there was that puzzled, child-like wonder on his face. Hercule Poirot was silent. With a start Ted Bigland came out of his trance.
He said, "Sorry, sir. Forget what I said about Mr. Welman. I was sore – because of his hanging round after Mary. He ought to have let her alone. She wasn't his sort – not really."
Poirot said, "Do you think she cared for him?"
Again Ted Bigland frowned. "I don't – not really. But she might have. I couldn't say."
Poirot asked, "Was there any other man in Mary's life? Anyone, for instance, she had met abroad?"
"I couldn't say, sir. She never mentioned anybody."
"Any enemies – here in Maidensford?"
"You mean anyone who had it in for her?" He shook his head. "Nobody knew her very well. But they all liked her."
Poirot said, "Did Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper at Hunterbury, like her?"
Ted gave a sudden grin. He said, "Oh, that was just spite! The old dame didn't like Mrs. Welman taking such a fancy to Mary."
Poirot asked, "Was Mary Gerrard happy when she was down here? Was she fond of old Mrs. Welman?"
Ted Bigland said, "She'd have been happy enough, I dare say, if Nurse had let her alone. Nurse Hopkins, I mean. Putting ideas into her head of earning her living and going off to do massage."
"She was fond of Mary, though?"
"Oh, yes, she was fond enough of her; but she's the kind who always knows what's best for everyone!"
Poi
rot said slowly, "Supposing that Nurse Hopkins knows something -something, let us say, that would throw a discreditable light on Mary – do you think she would keep it to herself?"
Ted Bigland looked at him curiously. "I don't quite get your meaning, sir."
"Do you think that if Nurse Hopkins knew something against Mary Gerrard she would hold her tongue about it?"
Ted Bigland said, "I doubt if that woman could hold her tongue about anything! She's the greatest gossip in the village. But if she'd hold her tongue about anybody, it would probably be about Mary."
He added, his curiosity getting the better of him, "I'd like to know why you ask that?"
Hercule Poirot said, "One has, in talking to people, a certain impression. Nurse Hopkins was, to all seeming, perfectly frank and outspoken, but I formed the impression – and very strongly – that she was keeping something back. It is not necessarily an important thing. It may have no bearing on the crime. But, there is something that she knows which she has not told. I also formed the impression that this something – whatever it is – is something definitely damaging or detrimental to the character of Mary Gerrard."
Ted shook his head helplessly.
Hercule Poirot sighed. "Ah, well, I shall learn what it is in time.
Chapter 13
Poirot looked with interest at the long, sensitive face of Roderick Welman.
Roddy's nerves were in a pitiable condition. His hands twitched, his eyes were bloodshot, his voice was husky and irritable.
He said, looking down at the card, "Of course, I know your name, Monsieur Poirot. But I don't see what Dr. Lord thinks you can do in this matter! And, anyway, what business is it of his? He attended my aunt, but otherwise he's a complete stranger. Elinor and I had not even met him until we went down there this June. Surely it is Seddon's business to attend to all this sort of thing?"
Hercule Poirot said, "Technically that is correct."
Roddy went on unhappily, "Not that Seddon gives me much confidence. He's so confoundedly gloomy."
"It is a habit, that, of lawyers."
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