The old man had a look.
“Aye, there’s more gone than I thought. No idea I’d used that much. I’ll be having to order some more.”
“Yes,” said Poirot smiling. “I’m afraid there’s hardly enough for you to spare me some for my wife!”
We all had another good laugh over this witticism.
“You’re not married, I take it, mister?”
“No.”
“Ah! it’s always them as isn’t that can afford to joke about it. Those that isn’t don’t know what trouble is!”
“I gather that your wife—?” Poirot paused delicately.
“She’s alive all right—very much so.”
Angus seemed a little depressed about it.
Complimenting him on his garden, we bade him farewell.
Twenty-one
THE CHEMIST; THE NURSE; THE DOCTOR
The tin of weed killer had started a new train of thought in my mind. It was the first definite suspicious circumstance that I had encountered. Charles’ interest in it, the old gardener’s obvious surprise at finding the tin almost empty—it all seemed to point in the right direction.
Poirot was, as usual when I am excited, very noncommittal.
“Even if some of the weed killer has been taken, there is as yet no evidence that Charles was the person to take it, Hastings.”
“But he talked so much to the gardener about it!”
“Not a very wise procedure if he was going to help himself to some.”
Then he went on:
“What is the first and simplest poison to come into your mind if you were asked to name one quickly?”
“Arsenic, I suppose.”
“Yes. You understand then, that very marked pause before the word strychnine when Charles was talking to us today.”
“You mean—?”
“That he was about to say ‘arsenic in the soup,’ and stopped himself.”
“Ah!” I said, “and why did he stop himself?”
“Exactly. Why? I may say, Hastings, that it was to find the answer to that particular ‘why?’ which made me go out into the garden in search of any likely source of weed killer.”
“And you found it!”
“And I found it.”
I shook my head.
“It begins to look rather bad for young Charles. You had a good talk with Ellen over the old lady’s illness. Did her symptoms resemble those of arsenic poisoning?”
Poirot rubbed his nose.
“It is difficult to say. There was abdominal pain—sickness.”
“Of course—that’s it!”
“H’m, I am not so sure.”
“What poison did it resemble?”
“Eh bien, my friend, it resembled not so much poison as disease of the liver and death from that cause!”
“Oh, Poirot,” I cried. “It can’t be natural death! It’s got to be murder!”
“Oh, là, là, we seem to have changed places, you and I.”
He turned abruptly into a chemist’s shop. After a long discussion of Poirot’s particular internal troubles, he purchased a small box of indigestion lozenges. Then, when his purchase was wrapped up and he was about to leave the shop, his attention was taken by an attractively-wrapped package of Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules.
“Yes, sir, a very good preparation.” The chemist was a middleaged man of a chatty disposition. “You’ll find them very efficacious.”
“Miss Arundell used to take them, I remember. Miss Emily Arundell.”
“Indeed she did, sir. Miss Arundell of Littlegreen House. A fine old lady, one of the old school. I used to serve her.”
“Did she take many patent medicines?”
“Not really, sir. Not so many as some elderly ladies I could name. Miss Lawson, now, her companion, the one that’s come into all the money—”
Poirot nodded.
“She was a one for this, that, and the other. Pills, lozenges, dyspepsia tablets, digestive mixtures, blood mixtures. Really enjoyed herself among the bottles.” He smiled ruefully. “I wish there were more like her. People nowadays don’t take to medicines as they used. Still, we sell a lot of toilet preparations to make up for it.”
“Did Miss Arundell take these Liver Capsules regularly?”
“Yes, she’d been taking them for three months, I think, before she died.”
“A relative of hers, a Dr. Tanios, came in to have a mixture made up one day, didn’t he?”
“Yes, of course, the Greek gentleman that married Miss Arundell’s niece. Yes, a very interesting mixture it was. One I’ve not previously become acquainted with.”
The man spoke as of a rare botanical trophy.
“It makes a change sir, when you get something new. Very interesting combination of drugs, I remember. Of course, the gentleman is a doctor. Very nice he was—a pleasant way with him.”
“Did his wife do any shopping here?”
“Did she now? I don’t recall. Oh, yes, came in for a sleeping draught—chloral it was, I remember. A double quantity the prescription was for. It’s always a little difficult for us with hypnotic drugs. You see, most doctors don’t prescribe much at a time.”
“Whose prescription was it?”
“Her husband’s I think. Oh, of course, it was quite all right—but, you know, we have to be careful nowadays. Perhaps you don’t know the fact, but if a doctor makes a mistake in a prescription and we make it up in all good faith and anything goes wrong it’s we who have to have the blame—not the doctor.”
“That seems very unfair!”
“It’s worrying, I’ll admit. Ah, well, I can’t complain. No trouble has come my way—touching wood.”
He rapped the counter sharply with his knuckles.
Poirot decided to buy a package of Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules.
“Thank you, sir. Which size? 25, 50, 100?”
“I suppose the larger ones are better value—but still—”
“Have the 50, sir. That’s the size Miss Arundell had. Eight and six.”
Poirot agreed, paid over eight and six and received the parcel.
Then we left the shop.
“So Mrs. Tanios bought a sleeping draught,” I exclaimed as we got out into the street. “An overdose of that would kill anyone, wouldn’t it?”
“With the greatest of ease.”
“Do you think old Miss Arundell—”
I was remembering Miss Lawson’s words, “I daresay she’d murder someone if he told her to!”
Poirot shook his head.
“Chloral is a narcotic, and a hypnotic. Used to alleviate pain and as a sleeping draught. It can also become a habit.”
“Do you think Mrs. Tanios had acquired the habit?”
Poirot shook his head perplexedly.
“No, I hardly think so. But it is curious. I can think of one explanation. But that would mean—”
He broke off and looked at his watch.
“Come, let us see if we can find this nurse Carruthers who was with Miss Arundell in her last illness.”
Nurse Carruthers proved to be a sensible-looking, middle-aged woman.
Poirot now appeared in yet another rôle and with one more fictitious relative. This time he had an aged mother for whom he was anxious to find a sympathetic hospital nurse.
“You comprehend—I am going to speak to you quite frankly. My mother, she is difficult. We have had some excellent nurses, young women, fully competent, but the very fact that they are young has been against them. My mother dislikes young women, she insults them, she is rude and fractious, she fights against open windows and modern hygiene. It is very difficult.”
He sighed mournfully.
“I know,” said Nurse Carruthers sympathetically. “It’s very trying sometimes. One has to use a lot of tact. It’s no use upsetting a patient. Better to give in to them as far as you can. And once they feel you’re not trying to force things on them, they very often relax and give in like lambs.”
“Ah, I see that you wo
uld be ideal in the part. You understand old ladies.”
“I’ve had to do with a few in my time,” said Nurse Carruthers with a laugh. “You can do a lot with patience and good humour.”
“That is so wise. You nursed Miss Arundell, I believe. Now, she could not have been an easy old lady.”
“Oh, I don’t know. She was strong willed, but I didn’t find her difficult at all. Of course, I wasn’t there any length of time. She died on the fourth day.”
“I was talking to her niece, Miss Theresa Arundell, only yesterday.”
“Really. Fancy that now! What I always say is—the world’s a small place!”
“You know her, I expect?”
“Well, of course, she came down after her aunt’s death and she was here for the funeral. And, of course, I’ve seen her about before when she’s been staying down here. A very handsome girl.”
“Yes, indeed—but too thin—definitely too thin.”
Nurse Carruthers, conscious of her own comfortable plumpness, preened herself slightly.
“Of course,” she said, “one shouldn’t be too thin.”
“Poor girl,” continued Poirot. “I am sorry for her. Entre nous,” he leaned forward confidentially, “her aunt’s will was a great blow.”
“I suppose it must have been,” said Nurse Carruthers. “I know it caused a good deal of talk.”
“I cannot imagine what induced Miss Arundell to disinherit all her family. It seems an extraordinary procedure.”
“Most extraordinary. I agree with you. And, of course, people say there must have been something behind it all.”
“Did you ever get any idea of the reason? Did old Miss Arundell say anything?”
“No. Not to me, that is.”
“But to somebody else?”
“Well, I rather fancy she mentioned something to Miss Lawson because I heard Miss Lawson say, ‘Yes, dear, but you see it’s at the lawyer’s.’ And Miss Arundell said, ‘I’m sure it’s in the drawer downstairs.’ And Miss Lawson said, ‘No, you sent it to Mr. Purvis. Don’t you remember?’ And then my patient had an attack of nausea again and Miss Lawson went away while I saw to her, but I’ve often wondered if it was the will they were talking about.”
“It certainly seems probable.”
Nurse Carruthers went on:
“If so, I expect Miss Arundell was worried and perhaps wanted to alter it—but there, she was so ill, poor dear, after that—that she was past thinking of anything.”
“Did Miss Lawson take part in the nursing at all?” asked Poirot.
“Oh, dear no, she was no manner of good! Too fussy, you know. She only irritated my patient.”
“Did you, then, do all the nursing yourself? C’est formidable ça.”
“The maid—what was her name—Ellen, helped me. Ellen was very good. She was used to illness and used to looking after the old lady. We managed pretty well between us. As a matter of fact, Dr. Grainger was sending in a night nurse on the Friday, but Miss Arundell died before the night nurse arrived.”
“Perhaps Miss Lawson helped to prepare some of the invalid’s food?”
“No, she didn’t do anything at all. There wasn’t really anything to prepare. I had the Valentine and the brandy—and the Brand’s and glucose and all that. All Miss Lawson did was to go about the house crying and getting in everyone’s way.”
The nurse’s tone held distinct acrimony.
“I can see,” said Poirot smiling, “that you have not a very high opinion of Miss Lawson’s usefulness.”
“Companions are usually a poor lot, in my opinion. They’re not trained, you see, in any way. Just amateurs. And usually they’re women who wouldn’t be any good at anything else.”
“Do you think Miss Lawson was very attached to Miss Arundell?”
“She seemed to be. Very upset and took on terribly when the old lady died. More than the relatives did, in my opinion,” Nurse Carruthers finished with a sniff.
“Perhaps, then,” said Poirot nodding his head sagely, “Miss Arundell knew what she was doing when she left her money as she did.”
“She was a very shrewd old lady,” said the nurse. “There wasn’t much she didn’t take in and know about, I must say!”
“Did she mention the dog, Bob, at all?”
“It’s funny you should say that! She talked about him a lot—when she was delirious. Something about his ball and a fall she’d had. A nice dog, Bob was—I’m very fond of dogs. Poor fellow, he was very miserable when she died. Wonderful, aren’t they? Quite human.”
And on the note of the humanity of dogs, we parted.
“There is one who had clearly no suspicions,” remarked Poirot after we had left.
He sounded slightly discouraged.
We had a bad dinner at the George—Poirot groaning a good deal, especially over the soup.
“And it is so easy, Hastings, to make good soup. Le pot au feu—”
I avoided a disquisition on cookery with some difficulty.
After dinner we had a surprise.
We were sitting in the “lounge” which we had to ourselves. There had been one other man at dinner—a commercial traveller by his appearance—but he had gone out. I was just idly turning over the pages of an antiquated Stock Breeder’s Gazette or some such periodical when I suddenly heard Poirot’s name being mentioned.
The voice in question was somewhere outside.
“Where is he? In here? Right—I can find him.”
The door was flung violently open, and Dr. Grainger, his face rather red, his eyebrows working irritably, strode into the room. He paused to close the door and then advanced upon us in no uncertain fashion.
“Oh, here you are! Now then, M. Hercule Poirot, what the devil do you mean by coming round to see me and telling me a pack of lies?”
“One of the juggler’s balls?” I murmured maliciously.
Poirot said in his oiliest voice:
“My dear doctor, you must allow me to explain—”
“Allow you? Allow you? Damn it, I’ll force you to explain! You’re a detective, that’s what you are! A nosing, prying detective! Coming round to me and feeding me up with a pack of lies about writing old General Arundell’s biography! More fool me to be taken in by such a damn’ fool story.”
“Who told you of my identity?” asked Poirot.
“Who told me? Miss Peabody told me. She saw through you all right!”
“Miss Peabody—yes.” Poirot sounded reflective. “I rather thought—”
Dr. Grainger cut in angrily.
“Now then, sir, I’m waiting for your explanation!”
“Certainly. My explanation is very simple. Attempted murder.”
“What? What’s that?”
Poirot said quietly:
“Miss Arundell had a fall, did she not? A fall down the stairs shortly before her death?”
“Yes, what of it? She slipped on that damned dog’s ball.”
Poirot shook his head.
“No, Doctor, she did not. A thread was fastened across the top of the stairs so as to trip her up.”
Dr. Grainger stared.
“Then why didn’t she tell me so?” he demanded. “Never said a word to me about it.”
“That is perhaps understandable—if it were a member of her own family who placed that thread there!”
“H’m—I see.” Grainger cast a sharp glance at Poirot, then threw himself into a chair. “Well?” he said. “How did you come to be mixed up in this affair?”
“Miss Arundell wrote to me, stressing the utmost secrecy. Unfortunately the letter was delayed.”
Poirot proceeded to give certain carefully edited details and explained the finding of the nail driven into the skirting board.
The doctor listened with a grave face. His anger had abated. “You can comprehend my position was a difficult one,” Poirot finished. “I was employed, you see, by a dead woman. But I counted the obligation none the less strong for that.”
Dr. Grain
ger’s brows were drawn together in thought.
“And you’ve no idea who it was stretched that thread across the head of the stairs?” he asked.
“I have no evidence as to who it was. I will not say I have no idea.”
“It’s a nasty story,” said Grainger, his face grim.
“Yes. You can understand, can you not, that to begin with I was uncertain whether there had or had not been a sequel?”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“To all intents and purposes Miss Arundell died a natural death, but could one be sure of that? There had been one attempt on her life. How could I be sure that there had not been a second? And this time a successful one!”
Grainger nodded thoughtfully.
“I suppose you are sure, Dr. Grainger—please do not get angry—that Miss Arundell’s death was a natural one? I have come across certain evidence today—”
He detailed the conversation he had had with old Angus, Charles Arundell’s interest in the weed killer, and finally the old man’s surprise at the emptiness of the tin.
Grainger listened with keen attention. When Poirot had finished he said, quietly:
“I see your point. Many a case of arsenical poisoning has been diagnosed as acute gastro enteritis and a certificate given—especially when there are no suspicious contributing circumstances. In any case, arsenical poisoning presents certain difficulties—it has so many different forms. It may be acute, subacute, nervous or chronic. There may be vomiting and abdominal pain—these symptoms may be entirely absent—the person may fall suddenly to the ground and expire shortly afterwards—there may be narcotism and paralysis. The symptoms vary widely.”
Poirot said:
“Eh bien, taking the facts into account, what is your opinion?”
Dr. Grainger was silent for a minute or two. Then he said slowly:
“Taking everything into account, and without any bias whatever, I am of the opinion that no form of arsenical poisoning could account for the symptoms in Miss Arundell’s case. She died, I am quite convinced, of yellow atrophy of the liver. I have, as you know, attended her for many years, and she has suffered previously from attacks similar to that which caused her death. That is my considered opinion, M. Poirot.” And there, perforce, the matter had to rest.
It seemed rather an anticlimax when, somewhat apologetically, Poirot produced the package of Liver Capsules he had bought at the chemists.
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