Big Four - Agatha Christie [59]
‘I’m always doing what I can. But, of course, sometimes Mrs Templeton insists on bringing him his food herself, and then there are the times when I am off duty.’
‘Exactly. And you are not sure enough of your ground to go to the police?’
The nurse’s face showed her horror at the mere idea.
‘What I have done, M. Poirot, is this. Mr Templeton had a very bad attack after partaking of a bowl of soup. I took a little from the bottom of the bowl afterwards, and have brought it up with me. I have been spared for the day to visit a sick mother, as Mr Templeton was well enough to be left.’
She drew out a little bottle of dark fluid and handed it to Poirot.
‘Excellent, mademoiselle. We will have this analysed immediately. If you will return here in, say, an hour’s time I think that we shall be able to dispose of your suspicions one way or another.’
First extracting from our visitor her name and qualifications, he ushered her out. Then he wrote a note and sent it off together with the bottle of soup. Whilst we waited to hear the result, Poirot amused himself by verifying the nurse’s credentials, somewhat to my surprise.
‘No, no, my friend,’ he declared. ‘I do well to be careful. Do not forget the Big Four are on our track.’
However, he soon elicited the information that a nurse of the name of Mabel Palmer was a member of the Lark Institute and had been sent to the case in question.
‘So far, so good,’ he said, with a twinkle. ‘And now here comes Nurse Palmer back again, and here also is our analyst’s report.
‘Is there arsenic in it?’ she asked breathlessly.
Poirot shook his head, refolding the paper.
‘No.’
We were both immeasurably surprised.
‘There is no arsenic in it,’ continued Poirot. ‘But there is antimony, and that being the case, we will start immediately for Hertfordshire. Pray Heaven that we are not too late.’
It was decided that the simplest plan was for Poirot to represent himself truly as a detective, but that the ostensible reason of his visit should be to question Mrs Templeton about a servant formerly in her employment whose name he obtained from Nurse Palmer, and whom he could represent as being concerned in a jewel robbery.
It was late when we arrived at Elmstead, as the house was called. We had allowed Nurse Palmer to precede us by about twenty minutes, so that there should be no question of our all arriving together.
Mrs Templeton, a tall dark woman, with sinuous movements and uneasy eyes, received us. I noticed that as Poirot announced his profession, she drew in her breath with a sudden hiss, as though badly startled, but she answered his question about the maidservant readily enough. And then, to test her, Poirot embarked upon a long history of a poisoning case in which a guilty wife had figured. His eyes never left her face as he talked, and try as she would, she could hardly conceal her rising agitation. Suddenly, with an incoherent word of excuse, she hurried from the room.
We were not long left alone. A squarely-built man with a small red moustache and pince-nez came in.
‘Dr Treves,’ he introduced himself. ‘Mrs Templeton asked me to make her excuses to you. She’s in a very bad state, you know. Nervous strain. Worry over her husband and all that. I’ve prescribed bed and bromide. But she hopes you’ll stay and take pot luck, and I’m to do host. We’ve heard of you down here, M. Poirot, and we mean to make the most of you. Ah, here’s Micky!’
A shambling young man entered the room. He had a very round face, and foolish-looking eyebrows raised as though in perpetual surprise. He grinned awkwardly as he shook hands. This was clearly the ‘wanting’ son.
Presently we all went in to dinner. Dr Treves left the room—to open some wine, I think—and suddenly the boy’s physiognomy underwent a startling change. He leant forward, staring at Poirot.
‘You’ve come about Father,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘I know. I know lots of things—but nobody thinks I do. Mother will be glad when Father’s dead and she can marry Dr Treves. She isn’t my own