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that I’d been trying to shoot the old boy in cold blood— for the love of her, if you please! We had the devil of a scene—she insisting that we should say he died of fever. I was sorry for her—especially as I saw she didn’t realize what she’d done. But she’d have to realize it if the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted—partly for the sake of peace, I’ll admit. After all, it didn’t seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didn’t want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness—even if she was a damned fool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devoted to me and I knew that what I said they’d swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and got back to civilization. Since then I’ve spent a good deal of time dodging the woman.’

He paused, then said quietly:

‘That’s my story, M. Poirot.’

Poirot said slowly:

‘It was to that incident that Mr Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at dinner that night?’

Despard nodded.

‘He must have heard it from Mrs Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him.’

‘It might have been a dangerous story—to you—in the hands of a man like Shaitana.’

Despard shrugged his shoulders.

‘I wasn’t afraid of Shaitana.’

Poirot didn’t answer.

Despard said quietly:

‘That again you have to take my word for. It’s true enough, I suppose, that I had a kind of motive for Shaitana’s death. Well, the truth’s out now—take it or leave it.’

Poirot held out a hand.

‘I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South America happened exactly as you have described.’

Despard’s face lit up.

‘Thanks,’ he said laconically.

And he clasped Poirot’s hand warmly.

Chapter 22

Evidence from Combeacre

Superintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre.

Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire voice.

‘That’s how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The doctor was satisfied. Everyone was satisfied. Why not?’

‘Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite clear.’

‘Syrup of Figs—that’s what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then there was this hat paint she’d been using—or rather the young lady, her companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs Benson herself said, “Put it in that old bottle—the Syrup of Figs bottle.” That’s all right. The servants heard her. The young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaid—they all agree on that. The paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends.’

‘Not re-labelled?’

‘No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that.’

‘Go on.’

‘On this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realized what she’d done and they sent off at once for the doctor. He was out on a case, and it was some time before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died.’

‘She herself believed it to be an accident?’

‘Oh, yes—everyone thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got mixed up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but she swears she didn’t.’

Superintendent Battle was silent—thinking. Such an easy business. A bottle taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a mistake like that to its source. Handled with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the last prints would be those of Mrs Benson herself. Yes, so easy—so simple. But, all the same, murder! The perfect crime.

But why? That still puzzled him—why?

‘This young lady-companion,