After the Funeral - Agatha Christie [49]
He looked up at Susan. “What does that mean?”
“It might mean anything… It might be just about his health. Or it might be some gossip about a mutual friend.”
“Oh yes, it might be a lot of things. It isn’t conclusive—but it’s suggestive… What did he tell Cora? Does anyone know what he told her?”
“Miss Gilchrist might know,” said Susan thoughtfully. “I think she listened.”
“Oh, yes, the companion help. Where is she, by the way?”
“In hospital, suffering from arsenic poisoning.”
George stared.
“You don’t mean it?”
“I do. Someone sent her some poisoned wedding cake.”
George sat down on one of the bedroom chairs and whistled.
“It looks,” he said, “as though Uncle Richard was not mistaken.”
III
On the following morning Inspector Morton called at the cottage.
He was a quiet middle-aged man with a soft country burr in his voice. His manner was quiet and unhurried, but his eyes were shrewd.
“You realize what this is about, Mrs. Banks?” he said. “Dr. Proctor has already told you about Miss Gilchrist. The few crumbs of wedding cake that he took from here have been analysed to show traces of arsenic.”
“So someone deliberately wanted to poison her?”
“That’s what it looks like. Miss Gilchrist herself doesn’t seem able to help us. She keeps repeating that it’s impossible—that nobody would do such a thing. But somebody did. You can’t throw any light on the matter?”
Susan shook her head.
“I’m simply dumbfounded,” she said. “Can’t you find out anything from the postmark? Or the handwriting?”
“You’ve forgotten—the wrapping paper was presumably burnt. And there’s a little doubt whether it came through the post at all. Young Andrews, the driver of the postal van, doesn’t seem able to remember delivering it. He’s got a big round, and he can’t be sure—but there it is—there’s a doubt about it.”
“But—what’s the alternative?”
“The alternative, Mrs. Banks, is that an old piece of brown paper was used that already had Miss Gilchrist’s name and address on it and a cancelled stamp, and that the package was pushed through the letter box or deposited inside the door by hand to create the impression that it had come by post.”
He added dispassionately:
“It’s quite a clever idea, you know, to choose wedding cake. Lonely middle-aged women are sentimental about wedding cake, pleased at having been remembered. A box of sweets, or something of that kind might have awakened suspicion.”
Susan said slowly:
“Miss Gilchrist speculated a good deal about who could have sent it, but she wasn’t at all suspicious—as you say, she was pleased and yes—flattered.”
She added: “Was there enough poison in it to—kill?”
“That’s difficult to say until we get the quantitative analysis. It rather depends on whether Miss Gilchrist ate the whole of the wedge. She seems to think that she didn’t. Can you remember?”
“No—no, I’m not sure. She offered me some and I refused and then she ate some and said it was a very good cake, but I don’t remember if she finished it or not.”
“I’d like to go upstairs if you don’t mind, Mrs. Banks.”
“Of course.”
She followed him up to Miss Gilchrist’s room. She said apologetically:
“I’m afraid it’s in a rather disgusting state. But I didn’t have time to do anything about it with my aunt’s funeral and everything, and then after Dr. Proctor came I thought perhaps I ought to leave it as it was.”
“That was very intelligent of you, Mrs. Banks. It’s not everyone who would have been so intelligent.”
He went to the bed and slipping his hand under the pillow raised it carefully. A slow smile spread over his face.
“There you are,” he said.
A piece of wedding cake lay on the sheet looking somewhat the worse for wear.
“How extraordinary,” said Susan.
“Oh no, it’s not. Perhaps your generation doesn’t do it. Young ladies nowadays mayn’t set so much store on getting married. But it’s an old custom. Put a piece of wedding cake under your pillow and you’ll dream of your future husband.”
“But surely Miss Gilchrist—”
“She didn’t want to tell us about it because she felt foolish doing such a thing at her age. But I had