Her eyes widened a little. She answered, "Why, yes – that more than anything. How did you know?"
Hercule Poirot said, "I knew."
Elinor said, "I shall be glad when it is – over."
Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said, "I have seen your – cousin, shall I call him for convenience? – Mr. Roderick Welman."
Into the white, proud face the colour crept slowly. He knew then that one question of his was answered without his asking it.
She said, and her voice shook very slightly, "You've seen Roddy?"
Poirot said, "He is doing all he can for you."
"I know." Her voice was quick and soft.
Poirot said, "Is he poor or rich?"
"Roddy? He has not very much money of his own."
"And he is extravagant?"
She said, almost absently, "Neither of us ever thought it mattered. We knew that some day -"
She stopped.
Poirot said quickly, "You counted on your inheritance? That is understandable."
He went on: "You have heard, perhaps, the result of the autopsy on your aunt's body. She died of morphine poisoning."
Elinor Carlisle said coldly, "I did not kill her."
"Did you help her to kill herself?"
"Did I help -? Oh, I see. No, I did not."
"Did you know that your aunt had not made a will?"
"No, I had no idea of that."
Her voice was flat now – dull. The answer was mechanical, uninterested.
Poirot said, "And you yourself, have you made a will?"
"Yes."
"Did you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke to you about it?"
"Yes." Again that swift wave of colour.
Poirot said, "How have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?"
Elinor said quietly, "I have left everything to Roddy – to Roderick Welman."
Poirot said, "Does he know that?"
She said quickly, "Certainly not."
"You didn't discuss it with him?"
"Of course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed and would have disliked what I was doing very much."
"Who else knows the contents of your will?"
"Only Mr. Seddon – and his clerks, I suppose."
"Did Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?"
"Yes. I wrote to him that same evening – I mean the evening of the day Dr. Lord spoke to me about it."
"Did you post your letter yourself?"
"No. It went in the box from the house with the other letters."
"You wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it, and put it in the box – comme ça? You did not pause to reflect? To read it over?"
Elinor said, staring at him, "I read it over – yes, I had gone to look for some stamps. When I came back with them, I just re-read the letter to be sure I had put it clearly."
"Was anyone in the room with you?"
"Only Roddy."
"Did he know what you were doing?"
"I told you- no."
"Could anyone have read that letter when you were out of the room?"
"I don't know. One of the servants, you mean? I suppose they could have if they had chanced to come in while I was out of the room."
"And before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?"
"Yes."
Poirot said, "And he could have read it, too?"
Elinor's voice was clear and scornful. She said, "I can assure you, Monsieur Poirot, that my 'cousin,' as you call him, does not read other people's letters."
Poirot said, "That is the accepted idea, I know. You would be surprised how many people do the things that 'are not done.'"
Elinor shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said in a casual voice, "Was it on that day that the idea of killing Mary Gerrard first came to you?"
For the third time colour swept over Elinor Carlisle's face. This time it was a burning tide. She said, "Did Peter Lord tell you that?"
Poirot said gently, "It was then, wasn't it? When you looked through the window and saw her making her will. It was then, was it not, that it struck you how funny it would be – and how convenient – if Mary Gerrard should happen to die?"
Elinor said in a low, suffocated voice, "He knew – he looked at me and he knew -"
Poirot said, "Dr. Lord knows a good deal. He is no fool, that young man with the freckled face and the sandy hair."
Elinor said in a low voice, "Is it true that he sent you to – help me?"
"It is true, Mademoiselle."
She sighed and said, "I don't understand. No, I don't understand."
Poirot said, "Listen, Miss Carlisle. It is necessary that you tell me just what happened that day when Mary Gerrard died – where you went, what you did. More than that, I want to know even what you thought."
She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to her lips. She said, "You must be an incredibly simple man. Don't you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?"
Hercule Poirot said placidly, "It does not matter."
She was puzzled. "Not matter?"
"No. For lies, Mademoiselle, tell a listener just as much as truth can. Sometimes they tell more. Come, now, commence. You met your housekeeper, the good Mrs. Bishop. She wanted to come and help you. You would not let her. Why?"
"I wanted to be alone."
"Why?"
"Why? Why? Because I wanted to – to think."
"You wanted to imagine – yes. And then what did you do next?"
Elinor, her chin raised defiantly, said, "I bought some paste for sandwiches."
"Two pots?"
"Two."
"And you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?"
"I went up to my aunt's room and began to go through her things."
"What did you find?"
"Find?" She frowned. "Clothes – old letters – photographs – jewellery."
Poirot said, "No secrets?"
"Secrets? I don't understand you."
"Then let us proceed. What next?"
Elinor said, "I came down to the pantry and I cut sandwiches."
Poirot said softly, "And you thought – what?"
Her blue eyes flashed suddenly. She said, "I thought of my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine."
Poirot said, "I understand perfectly."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes. I know the story. She offered Fair Rosamond, did she not, the choice of a dagger or a cup of poison. Rosamond chose the poison."
Elinor said nothing. She was white now.
Poirot said, "But perhaps, this time, there was to be no choice. Go on, Mademoiselle, what next?"
Elinor said, "I put the sandwiches ready on a plate and I went down to the lodge. Nurse Hopkins was there as well as Mary. I told them I had some sandwiches up at the house."
Poirot was watching her. He said softly, "Yes, and you all came up to the house together, did you not?"
"Yes. We – ate the sandwiches in the morning-room."
Poirot said in the same soft tone, "Yes, yes – still in the dream. And then – "
"Then?" She stared. "I left her – standing by the window. I went out into the pantry. It was still like you say – in a dream. Nurse was there washing up. I gave her the paste-pot."
"Yes – yes. And what happened then? What did you think of next?"
Elinor said dreamily, "There was a mark on Nurse's wrist. I mentioned it and she said it was a thorn from the rose trellis by the lodge. The roses by the lodge… Roddy and I had a quarrel once – long ago – about the Wars of the Roses. I was Lancaster and he was York. He liked white roses. I said they weren't real – they didn't even smell! I liked red roses, big and dark and velvety and smelling of summer. We quarrelled in the most idiotic way. You see, it all came back to me – there in the pantry – and something – something broke – the black hate I'd had in my heart – it went away – with remembering how we were together as children. I didn't hate Mary any more. I didn't want her to die."
She stopped.
"But later, when we went back into the morning-room, she was dying."
She stopped. Poirot was staring at her very intently. She flushed and said, "Will you ask me – again – did I kill Mary Gerrard?"
Poirot rose to his feet. He said quickly, "I shall ask you – nothing. There are things I do not want to know."
Chapter 19
I
Dr. Lord met the train at the station as requested.
Hercule Poirot alighted from it. He looked very Londonified and was wearing pointed patent-leather shoes. Peter Lord scrutinized his face anxiously, but Hercule Poirot was giving nothing away.
Peter Lord said, "I've done my best to get answers to your questions. First, Mary Gerrard left here for London on July 10th. Second, I haven't got a housekeeper – a couple of giggling girls run my house. I think you must mean Mrs. Slattery, who was Ransome's (my predecessor's) housekeeper. I can take you to her this morning if you like. I've arranged that she shall be in."
Poirot said, "Yes, I think it would be as well if I saw her first."
"Then you said you wanted to go to Hunterbury. I could come with you there. It beats me why you haven't been there already. I can't think why you wouldn't go when you were down here before. I should have thought the first thing to be done in a case like this was to visit the place where the crime took place."
Holding his head a little on one side, Hercule Poirot inquired, "Why?"
"Why?" Peter Lord was rather disconcerted by the question. "Isn't it the usual thing to do?"
Hercule Poirot said, "One does not practice detection with a textbook! One uses one's natural intelligence."
Peter Lord said, "You might find a clue of some sort there."
Poirot sighed. "You read too much detective fiction. Your police force in this country is quite admirable. I have no doubt that they searched the house and grounds most carefully."
"For evidence against Elinor Carlisle – not for evidence in her favour."
Poirot sighed. "My dear friend, it is not a monster – this police force! Elinor Carlisle was arrested because sufficient evidence was found to make out a case against her – a very strong case, I may say. It was useless for me to go over ground when the police had gone over it already."
"But you do want to go there now?" objected Peter.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He said, "Yes – now it is necessary. Because now I know exactly what I am looking for. One must understand with the cells of one's brain before one uses one's eyes."
"Then you do think there might be – something – there still?"
Poirot said gently, "I have a little idea we shall find something – yes."
"Something to prove Elinor's innocence?"
"Ah, I did not say that."
Peter Lord stopped dead. "You don't mean you still think she's guilty?"
Poirot said gravely, "You must wait, my friend, before you get an answer to that question."
II
Poirot lunched with the doctor in a pleasant square room with a window open on to the garden.
Lord said, "Did you get what you wanted out of old Slattery?"
"Yes."
"What did you want with her?"
"Gossip! Talk about old days. Some crimes have their roots in the past. I think this one had."
Peter Lord said irritably, "I don't understand a word you are talking about."
Poirot smiled. He said, "This fish is deliciously fresh."
Lord said impatiently, "I dare say. I caught it myself before breakfast this morning. Look here, Poirot, am I to have any idea what you're driving at? Why keep me in the dark?"
The other shook his head. "Because as yet there is no light. I am always brought up short by the fact that there was no one who had any reason to kill Mary Gerrard – except Elinor Carlisle."
Peter Lord said, "You can't be sure of that. She'd been abroad for some time, remember."
"Yes, yes, I have made the inquiries."
"You've been to Germany yourself?"
"Myself, no." With a slight chuckle he added, "I have my spies!"
"Can you depend on other people?"
"Certainly. It is not for me to run here and there, doing amateurishly the things that for a small sum someone else can do with professional skill. I can assure you, mon cher, I have several irons on the fire. I have some useful assistants – one of them a former burglar."
"What do you use him for?"
"The last thing I have used him for was a very thorough search of Mr. Welman's flat."
"What was he looking for?"
Poirot said, "One always likes to know exactly what lies have been told one."
"Did Welman tell you a lie?"
"Definitely."
"Who else has lied to you?"
"Everybody, I think: Nurse O'Brien romantically; Nurse Hopkins stubbornly; Mrs. Bishop venomously. You yourself -"
"Good God!" Peter Lord interrupted him unceremoniously. "You don't think I've lied to you, do you?"
"Not yet," Poirot admitted.
Dr. Lord sank back in his chair. He said, "You're a disbelieving sort of fellow, Poirot." Then he said, "If you've finished, shall we set off for Hunterbury? I've got some patients to see later, and then there's the surgery."
"I am at your disposal, my friend."
They set off on foot, entering the grounds by the back gate. Halfway to the house they met a tall, good-looking young fellow wheeling a barrow. He touched his cap respectfully to Dr. Lord.
"Good morning, Horlick. This is Horlick, the gardener, Poirot. He was working here that morning,"
Horlick said, "Yes, sir, I was. I saw Miss Elinor that morning and talked to her."
Poirot asked, "What did she say to you?"
"She told me the house was as good as sold, and that rather took me aback, sir; but Miss Elinor said as how she'd speak for me to Major Somervell, and that maybe he'd keep me on – if he didn't think me too young, perhaps, as head – seeing as how I'd had good training under Mr. Stephens, here."
Dr. Lord said, "Did she seem much the same as usual, Horlick?"
"Why, yes, sir, except that she looked a bit excited like – and as though she had something on her mind."
Hercule Poirot said, "Did you know Mary Gerrard?"
"Oh, yes, sir. But not very well."
Poirot said, "What was she like?"
Horlick looked puzzled. "Like, sir? Do you mean to look at?"
"Not exactly. I mean, what kind of a girl was she?"
"Oh, well, sir, she was a very superior sort of a girl. Nice spoken and all that. Thought a lot of herself, I should say. You see, old Mrs. Welman had made a lot of fuss over her. Made her father wild, that did. He was like a bear with a sore head about it."
Poirot said, "By all that I've heard, he had not the best of tempers, that old one?"
"No, indeed, he hadn't. Always grumbling, and crusty as they make them. Seldom had a civil word for you."
Poirot said, "You were here on that morning. Whereabouts were you working?"
"Mostly in the kitchen garden, sir."
"You cannot see the house from there?"
"No, sir."
Peter Lord said, "If anybody had come up to the house – up to the pantry window – you wouldn't have seen them?"
"No, I wouldn't, sir."
Peter Lord said, "When did you go to your dinner?"
"One o'clock, sir."
"And you didn't see anything – any man hanging about – or a car outside -anything like that?"
The man's eyebrows rose in slight surprise. "Outside the back gate, sir? There was your car there – nobody else's."
Peter Lord cried, "My car? It wasn't my car! I was over Withenbury direction that morning. Didn't get back till after two."
Horlick looked puzzled. "I made sure it was your car, sir," he said doubtfully.
Peter Lord said quickly, "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Good morning, Horlick."
He and Poirot moved on.
Horlick stared after them for a minute or two, then slowly resumed his progress with the wheelbarrow.
Peter Lord said softly – but with great excitement, "Something – at last. Whose car was it standing in the lane that morning?"
Poirot said, "What make is your car, my friend?"
"A Ford ten – sea-green. They're pretty common, of course."
"And you are sure that it was not yours? You haven't mistaken the day?"
"Absolutely certain. I was over at Withenbury, came back late, snatched a bit of lunch, and then the call came through about Mary Gerrard and I rushed over."
Poirot said softly, "Then it would seem, my friend, that we have come upon something tangible at last."
Peter Lord said, "Someone was here that morning – someone who was not Elinor Carlisle, nor Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse Hopkins."
Poirot said, "This is very interesting. Come, let us make our investigations. Let us see, for instance, supposing a man (or woman) were to wish to approach the house unseen, how they would set about it."
Halfway along the drive a path branched off through some shrubbery. They took this and at a certain turn in it Peter Lord clutched Poirot's arm, pointing to a window.
He said, "That's the window of the pantry where Elinor Carlisle was cutting the sandwiches."
Poirot murmured, "And from here, anyone could see her cutting them. The window was open, if I remember rightly?"
Peter Lord said, "It was wide open. It was a hot day, remember."
Hercule Poirot said musingly, "Then if anyone wished to watch unseen what was going on, somewhere about here would be a good spot."
The two men cast about. Peter Lord said, "There's a place here – behind these bushes. Some stuff's been trampled down here. It's grown up again now, but you can see plainly enough."
Poirot joined him. He said thoughtfully, "Yes, this is a good place. It is concealed from the path, and that opening in the shrubs gives one a good view of the window. Now, what did he do, our friend who stood here? Did he perhaps smoke?"
They bent down, examining the ground and pushing aside the leaves and branches. Suddenly Hercule Poirot uttered a grunt.
Peter Lord straightened up from his own search. "What is it?"
"A match box, my friend. An empty match box, trodden heavily into the ground, sodden and decayed."
Sad Cypress hp-21 Page 13