Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [71]
Poirot did not reply to her question.
He said:
‘Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried at all?’
‘No, I don’t think so, sir. She was tired—and I think she was in pain. She hasn’t been well lately, sir.’
‘No, I know.’
The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.
‘She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been worried about her for some time. She couldn’t do as much as she used to do, and things tired her. I think, perhaps, the young lady coming after you left was a bit too much for her.’
With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.
‘The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?’
‘Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was.’
‘Did she stay long?’
‘About an hour, sir.’
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
‘And afterwards?’
‘The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired.’
Again Poirot was silent; then he said:
‘Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?’
‘Do you mean after she went to bed? I don’t think so, sir.’
‘But you are not sure?’
‘There were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day.’
‘How many were there?’
‘Two or three—I’m not quite sure, sir. Three, I think.’
‘You—or cook—whoever posted them—did not happen to notice to whom they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost importance.’
‘I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one—it was to Fortnum and Mason’s. I couldn’t say as to the others.’
The woman’s tone was earnest and sincere.
‘Are you sure there were not more than three letters?’
‘Yes, sir, I’m quite certain of that.’
Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then he said:
‘You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor’s orders. Dr Lang.’
‘Where was this sleeping medicine kept?’
‘In the little cupboard in the mistress’s room.’
Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very grave.
On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried and harassed.
‘I’m glad you’ve come, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr Davidson.’
The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall, melancholy man.
‘The luck was against us,’ he said. ‘An hour or two earlier, and we might have saved her.’
‘H’m,’ said Battle. ‘I mustn’t say so officially, but I’m not sorry. She was a—well, she was a lady. I don’t know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but she may just conceivably have been justified.’
‘In any case,’ said Poirot, ‘it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her trial. She was a very ill woman.’
The surgeon nodded in agreement.
‘I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best.’
He started down the stairs.
Battle moved after him.
‘One minute, doctor.’
Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, ‘I may enter—yes?’
Battle nodded over his shoulder. ‘Quite all right. We’re through.’ Poirot passed into the room, closing the door behind him…
He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet, dead face.
He was very disturbed.
Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl from death and disgrace—or was there a different, a more sinister explanation?
There were certain facts…
Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark, discoloured bruise on the dead woman’s arm.
He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, cat-like gleam in his eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognized.
He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said:
‘He hasn’t come back, sir.’
Battle said:
‘Despard. I’ve been