'Aha!'
'That's right. Very nasty bit of work. Point is, who gave it to her? It must have been administered very shortly before death. First idea was it was given to her in her food at dinner - but, frankly, that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple tart.'
'Miss Barrowby, Mr Delafontaine and Mrs Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant - a half-Russian girl but she didn't eat with the family. She had the remains as they came out from the dining-room. There's a maid, but it was her night out. She left the soup on the stove and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was cold. All three of them ate the same thing - and, apart from that, I don't think you could get strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's as bitter as gall. The doctor told me you could taste it in a solution of one in a thousand, or something like that.'
'Coffee?'
'Coffee's more like it, but the old lady never took coffee.'
'I see your point. Yes, it seems an insuperable difficulty. What did she drink at the meal?'
'Water.'
'Worse and worse.'
'Bit of a teaser, isn't it?'
'She had money, the old lady?'
'Very well to do, I imagine. Of course, we haven't got exact details yet. The Delafontaines are pretty badly off, from what I can make out. The old lady helped with the upkeep of the house.'
Poirot smiled a little. He said, 'So you suspect the Delafontaines.
Which of them?'
'I don't exactly say I suspect either of them in particular. But there it is; they're her only near relations, and her death brings them a tidy sum of money, I've no doubt. We all know what human nature is!'
'Sometimes inhuman - yes, that is very true. And there was nothing else the old lady ate or drank?'
'Well, as a matter of fact -'
'Ah, voilà! I felt that you had something, as you say, up your sleeve the soup, the fish pie, the apple tart - des bêtises! Now we come to the hub of the affair.'
'I don't know about that. But as a matter of fact, the old girl took a cachet before meals. You know, not a pill or a tablet; one of those rice-paper things with a powder inside. Some perfectly harmless thing for the digestion.'
'Admirable. Nothing is easier than to fill a cachet with strychnine and substitute it for one of the others. It slips down the throat with a drink of water and is not tasted.'
'That's all right. The trouble is, the girl gave it to her.'
'The Russian girl?'
'Yes. Katrina Rieger. She was a kind of lady-help, nurse-companion to Miss Barrowby. Fairly ordered about by her, too, I gather. Fetch this, fetch that, fetch the other, rub my back, pour out my medicine, run round to the chemist - all that sort of business. You know how it is with these old women - they mean to be kind, but what they need is a sort of black slave!'
Poirot smiled.
'And there you are, you see,' continued Inspector Sims. 'It doesn't fit in what you might call nicely . Why should the girl poison her?
Miss Barrowby dies and now the girl will be out of a job, and jobs aren't so easy to find - she's not trained or anything.'
'Still,' suggested Poirot, 'if the box of cachets was left about, anyone in the house might have the opportunity.'
'Naturally we're on to that, M. Poirot. I don't mind telling you we're making our inquiries - quiet like, if you understand me. When the prescription was last made up, where it was usually kept; patience and a lot of spade work - that's what will do the trick in the end. And then there's Miss Barrowby's solicitor. I'm having an interview with him tomorrow. And the bank manager. There's a lot to be done still.'
Poirot rose. 'A little favour, Inspector Sims; you will send me a little word how the affair marches. I would esteem it a great favour. Here is my telephone number.'
'Why, certainly, M. Poirot. Two heads are better than one; and besides, you ought to be in on this, having had that letter and all.'
'You are too amiable, Inspector.' Politely, Poirot shook hands and took his leave.
He was called to the telephone on the following afternoon. 'Is that M. Poirot? Inspector Sims here. Things are beginning to sit up and look pretty in that little matter you and I know of.'
'In verity? Tell me, I pray of you.'
'Well, here's item No. 1 - and a pretty big item. Miss B. left a small legacy to her niece and everything else to K. In consideration of her great kindness and attention - that's the way it was put. That alters the complexion of things.'
A picture rose swiftly in Poirot's mind. A sullen face and a passionate voice saying, 'The money is mine. She wrote it down and so it shall be.' The legacy would not come as a surprise to Katrina she knew about it beforehand.
'Item No. 2,' continued the voice of Inspector Sims. 'Nobody but K. handled that cachet.'
'You can be sure of that?'
'The girl herself doesn't deny it. What do you think of that?'
'Extremely interesting.'
'We only want one thing more - evidence of how the strychnine came into her possession. That oughtn't to be difficult.'
'But so far you haven't been successful?'
'I've barely started. The inquest was only this morning.'
'What happened at it?'
'Adjourned for a week.'
'And the young lady - K.?'
'I'm detaining her on suspicion. Don't want to run any risks. She might have some funny friends in the country who'd try to get her out of it.'
'No,' said Poirot. 'I do not think she has any friends.'
'Really? What makes you say that, M. Poirot?'
'It is just an idea of mine. There were no other "items", as you call them?'
'Nothing that's strictly relevant. Miss B. seems to have been monkeying about a bit with her shares lately - must have dropped quite a tidy sum. It's rather a funny business, one way and another, but I don't see how it affects the main issue - not at present, that is.'
'No, perhaps you are right. Well, my best thanks to you. It was most amiable of you to ring me up.'
'Not at all. I'm a man of my word. I could see you were interested.
Who knows, you may be able to give me a helping hand before the end.'
'That would give me great pleasure. It might help you, for instance, if I could lay my hand on a friend of the girl Katrina.'
'I thought you said she hadn't got any friends?' said Inspector Sims, surprised.
'I was wrong,' said Hercule Poirot. 'She has one.'
Before the inspector could ask a further question, Poirot had rung off.
With a serious face he wandered into the room where Miss Lemon sat at her typewriter. She raised her hands from the keys at her employer's approach and looked at him inquiringly.
'I want you,' said Poirot, 'to figure to yourself a little history.' Miss Lemon dropped her hands into her lap in a resigned manner. She enjoyed typing, paying bills, filing papers and entering up engagements. To be asked to imagine herself in hypothetical situations bored her very much, but she accepted it as a disagreeable part of a duty.
'You are a Russian girl,' began Poirot.
'Yes,' said Miss Lemon, looking intensely British.
'You are alone and friendless in this country. You have reasons for not wishing to return to Russia. You are employed as a kind of drudge, nurse-attendant and companion to an old lady. You are meek and uncomplaining.'
'Yes,' said Miss Lemon obediently, but entirely failing to see herself being meek to any old lady under the sun.
'The old lady takes a fancy to you. She decides to leave her money to you. She tells you so.' Poirot paused.
Miss Lemon said 'Yes' again.
'And then the old lady finds out something; perhaps it is a matter of money - she may find that you have not been honest with her. Or it might be more grave still - a medicine that tasted different, some food that disagreed. Anyway, she begins to suspect you of something and she writes to a very famous detective - enfin, to the most famous detect
ive - me! I am to call upon her shortly. And then, as you say, the dripping will be in the fire. The great thing is to act quickly. And so - before the great detective arrives - the old lady is dead. And the money comes to you... Tell me, does that seem to you reasonable?'
'Quite reasonable,' said Miss Lemon. 'Quite reasonable for a Russian, that is. Personally, I should never take a post as a companion. I like my duties clearly defined. And of course I should not dream of murdering anyone.'
Poirot sighed. 'How I miss my friend Hastings. He had such an imagination. Such a romantic mind! It is true that he always imagined wrong - but that in itself was a guide.'
Miss Lemon was silent. She had heard about Captain Hastings before, and was not interested. She looked longingly at the typewritten sheet in front of her.
'So it seems to you reasonable,' mused Poirot.
'Doesn't it to you?'
'I am almost afraid it does,' sighed Poirot.
The telephone rang and Miss Lemon went out of the room to answer it. She came back to say 'It's Inspector Sims again.'
Poirot hurried to the instrument. ''Allo, 'allo. What is that you say?'
Sims repeated his statement. 'We've found a packet of strychnine in the girl's bedroom - tucked underneath the mattress. The sergeant's just come in with the news. That about clinches it, I think.'
'Yes,' said Poirot, 'I think that clinches it.' His voice had changed. It rang with sudden confidence.
When he had rung off, he sat down at his writing table and arranged the objects on it in a mechanical manner. He murmured to himself, 'There was something wrong. I felt it - no, not felt. It must have been something I saw. En avant, the little grey cells. Ponder - reflect.
Was everything logical and in order? The girl - her anxiety about the money; Mme Delafontaine; her husband his suggestion of Russians - imbecile, but he is an imbecile; the room; the garden - ah! Yes, the garden.'
He sat up very stiff. The green light shone in his eyes. He sprang up and went into the adjoining room.
'Miss Lemon, will you have the kindness to leave what you are doing and make an investigation for me?'
'An investigation, M. Poirot? I'm afraid I'm not very good -'
Poirot interrupted her. 'You said one day that you knew all about tradesmen.'
'Certainly I do,' said Miss Lemon with confidence.
'Then the matter is simple. You are to go to Charman's Green and you are to discover a fishmonger.'
'A fishmonger?' asked Miss Lemon, surprised.
'Precisely. The fishmonger who supplied Rosebank with fish. When you have found him you will ask him a certain question.'
He handed her a slip of paper. Miss Lemon took it, noted its contents without interest, then nodded and slipped the lid on her typewriter.
'We will go to Charman's Green together,' said Poirot. 'You go to the fishmonger and I to the police station. It will take us but half an hour from Baker Street.'
On arrival at his destination, he was greeted by the surprised Inspector Sims. 'Well, this is quick work, M. Poirot. I was talking to you on the phone only an hour ago.'
'I have a request to make to you; that you allow me to see this girl Katrina - what is her name?'
'Katrina Rieger. Well, I don't suppose there's any objection to that.'
The girl Katrina looked even more sallow and sullen than ever.
Poirot spoke to her very gently. 'Mademoiselle, I want you to believe that I am not your enemy. I want you to tell me the truth.'
Her eyes snapped defiantly. 'I have told the truth. To everyone I have told the truth! If the old lady was poisoned, it was not I who poisoned her. It is all a mistake. You wish to prevent me having the money.' Her voice was rasping. She looked, he thought, like a miserable little cornered rat.
'Tell me about this cachet, mademoiselle,' M. Poirot went on. 'Did no one handle it but you?'
'I have said so, have I not? They were made up at the chemist's that afternoon. I brought them back with me in my bag - that was just before supper. I opened the box and gave Miss Barrowby one with a glass of water.'
'No one touched them but you?'
"No.' A cornered rat - with courage!
'And Miss Barrowby had for supper only what we have been told.
The soup, the fish pie, the tart?'
'Yes.' A hopeless 'yes' - dark, smouldering eyes that saw no light anywhere.
Poirot patted her shoulder. 'Be of good courage, mademoiselle.
There may yet be freedom - yes, and money - a life of ease.'
She looked at him suspiciously.
As he went out Sims said to him, 'I didn't quite get what you said through the telephone - something about the girl having a friend.'
'She has one. Me!' said Hercule Poirot, and had left the police station before the inspector could pull his wits together.
At the Green Cat tearooms, Miss Lemon did not keep her employer waiting. She went straight to the point.
'The man's name is Rudge, in the High Street, and you were quite right. A dozen and a half exactly. I've made a note of what he said.'
She handed it to him.
'Arrr.' It was a deep, rich sound like the purr of a cat.
Hercule Poirot betook himself to Rosebank. As he stood in the front garden, the sun setting behind him, Mary Delafontaine came out to him.
'M. Poirot?' Her voice sounded surprised. 'You have come back?'
'Yes, I have come back.' He paused and then said, 'When I first came here, madame, the children's nursery rhyme came into my head:
Mistress Mary, quite contrary, How does your garden grow?
With cockle-shells, and silver bells, And pretty maids all in a row.
Only they are not cockle shells, are they, madame? They are oyster shells.' His hand pointed.
He heard her catch her breath and then stay very still. Her eyes asked a question.
He nodded. 'Mais, oui, I know! The maid left the dinner ready - she will swear and Katrina will swear that that is all you had. Only you and your husband know that you brought back a dozen and a half oysters - a little treat pour la bonne tante. So easy to put the strychnine in an oyster. It is swallowed - comme ça! But there remain the shells - they must not go in the bucket. The maid would see them. And so you thought of making an edging of them to a bed.
But there were not enough - the edging is not complete. The effect is bad - it spoils the symmetry of the otherwise charming garden.
Those few oyster shells struck an alien note - they displeased my eye on my first visit.'
Mary Delafontaine said, 'I suppose you guessed from the letter. I knew she had written - but I didn't know how much she'd said.'
Poirot answered evasively, 'I knew at least that it was a family matter. If it had been a question of Katrina there would have been no point in hushing things up. I understand that you or your husband handled Miss Barrowby's securities to your own profit, and that she found out -'
Mary Delafontaine nodded. 'We've done it for years - a little here and there. I never realized she was sharp enough to find out. And then I learned she had sent for a detective; and I found out, too, that she was leaving her money to Katrina - that miserable little creature!'
'And so the strychnine was put in Katrina's bedroom? I comprehend. You save yourself and your husband from what I may discover, and you saddle an innocent child with murder. Had you no pity, madame?'
Mary Delafontaine shrugged her shoulders - her blue forget-me-not eyes looked into Poirot's. He remembered the perfection of her acting the first day he had come and the bungling attempts of her husband. A woman above the average - but inhuman.
She said, 'Pity? For that miserable intriguing little rat?' Her contempt rang out.
Hercule Poirot said slowly, 'I think, madame, that you have cared in your life for two things only. One is your husband.'
He saw her lips tremble.
'And the other - is your garden.'
He looked round him. His glance seemed to apologize to the flow
ers for that which he had done and was about to do.
Contents Sanctuary Strange Jest Tape-Measure Murder The Case of the Caretaker The Case of the Perfect Maid Miss Marple Tells a Story The Dressmaker's Doll In a Glass Darkly
SANCTUARY
The vicar's wife came round the corner of the vicarage full of chrysanthemums. A good deal of rich garden soil attached to her strong brogue shoes and a few fragments of earth were adhering to her nose, but of that fact she was perfectly unconscious.
She had a slight struggle in opening the vicarage gate which hung, rustily, half off its hinges. A puff of wind caught at her battered felt hat, causing it to sit even more rakishly than it had done before.
'Bother!' said Bunch.
Christened by her optimistic parents Diana, Mrs Harmon had become Bunch at an early age for somewhat obvious reasons and the name had stuck to her ever since. Clutching the chrysanthemums, she made her way through the gate to the churchyard, and so to the church door.
The November air was mild and damp. Clouds scudded across the sky with patches of blue here and there. Inside, the church was dark and cold: it was unheated except at service times. 'Brrrrrh!' said Bunch expressively. 'I'd better get on with this quickly.
I don't want to die of cold.'
With the quickness born of practice she collected the necessary paraphernalia: vases, water, flower-holders. 'I wish we had lilies,' thought Bunch to herself. 'I get so tired of these scraggy chrysanthemums.' Her nimble fingers arranged the blooms in their holders.
There was nothing particularly original or artistic about the decorations, for Bunch Harmon herself was neither original nor artistic, but it was a homely and pleasant arrangement. Carrying the vases carefully, Bunch stepped up the aisle and made her way towards the altar. As she did so the sun came out.
It shone through the east window of somewhat crude coloured glass, mostly blue and red - the gift of a wealthy Victorian churchgoer. The effect was almost startling in its sudden opulence. 'Like jewels,' thought Bunch. Suddenly she stopped, staring ahead of her. On the chancel steps was a huddled dark form.
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