Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [71]
“Did his wife do any shopping here?”
“Did she now? I don’t recall. Oh, yes, came in for a sleeping draught—chloral it was, I remember. A double quantity the prescription was for. It’s always a little difficult for us with hypnotic drugs. You see, most doctors don’t prescribe much at a time.”
“Whose prescription was it?”
“Her husband’s I think. Oh, of course, it was quite all right—but, you know, we have to be careful nowadays. Perhaps you don’t know the fact, but if a doctor makes a mistake in a prescription and we make it up in all good faith and anything goes wrong it’s we who have to have the blame—not the doctor.”
“That seems very unfair!”
“It’s worrying, I’ll admit. Ah, well, I can’t complain. No trouble has come my way—touching wood.”
He rapped the counter sharply with his knuckles.
Poirot decided to buy a package of Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules.
“Thank you, sir. Which size? 25, 50, 100?”
“I suppose the larger ones are better value—but still—”
“Have the 50, sir. That’s the size Miss Arundell had. Eight and six.”
Poirot agreed, paid over eight and six and received the parcel.
Then we left the shop.
“So Mrs. Tanios bought a sleeping draught,” I exclaimed as we got out into the street. “An overdose of that would kill anyone, wouldn’t it?”
“With the greatest of ease.”
“Do you think old Miss Arundell—”
I was remembering Miss Lawson’s words, “I daresay she’d murder someone if he told her to!”
Poirot shook his head.
“Chloral is a narcotic, and a hypnotic. Used to alleviate pain and as a sleeping draught. It can also become a habit.”
“Do you think Mrs. Tanios had acquired the habit?”
Poirot shook his head perplexedly.
“No, I hardly think so. But it is curious. I can think of one explanation. But that would mean—”
He broke off and looked at his watch.
“Come, let us see if we can find this nurse Carruthers who was with Miss Arundell in her last illness.”
Nurse Carruthers proved to be a sensible-looking, middle-aged woman.
Poirot now appeared in yet another rôle and with one more fictitious relative. This time he had an aged mother for whom he was anxious to find a sympathetic hospital nurse.
“You comprehend—I am going to speak to you quite frankly. My mother, she is difficult. We have had some excellent nurses, young women, fully competent, but the very fact that they are young has been against them. My mother dislikes young women, she insults them, she is rude and fractious, she fights against open windows and modern hygiene. It is very difficult.”
He sighed mournfully.
“I know,” said Nurse Carruthers sympathetically. “It’s very trying sometimes. One has to use a lot of tact. It’s no use upsetting a patient. Better to give in to them as far as you can. And once they feel you’re not trying to force things on them, they very often relax and give in like lambs.”
“Ah, I see that you would be ideal in the part. You understand old ladies.”
“I’ve had to do with a few in my time,” said Nurse Carruthers with a laugh. “You can do a lot with patience and good humour.”
“That is so wise. You nursed Miss Arundell, I believe. Now, she could not have been an easy old lady.”
“Oh, I don’t know. She was strong willed, but I didn’t find her difficult at all. Of course, I wasn’t there any length of time. She died on the fourth day.”
“I was talking to her niece, Miss Theresa Arundell, only yesterday.”
“Really. Fancy that now! What I always say is—the world’s a small place!”
“You know her, I expect?”
“Well, of course, she came down after her aunt’s death and she was here for the funeral. And, of course, I’ve seen her about before when she’s been staying down here. A very handsome girl.”
“Yes, indeed—but too thin—definitely too thin.”
Nurse Carruthers, conscious of her own comfortable plumpness, preened herself slightly.
“Of course,” she said, “one shouldn’t be too thin.”
“Poor girl,” continued Poirot. “I am sorry for her. Entre nous,” he leaned forward confidentially, “her aunt’s will was a great blow.