Dumb Witness - Agatha Christie [74]
It seemed rather an anticlimax when, somewhat apologetically, Poirot produced the package of Liver Capsules he had bought at the chemists.
“Miss Arundell took these, I believe?” he said. “I suppose they could not be injurious in any way?”
“That stuff? No harm at all. Aloes—podophyllin—all quite mild and harmless,” said Grainger. “She liked trying the stuff. I didn’t mind.”
He got up.
“You dispensed certain medicines for her yourself?” asked Poirot.
“Yes—a mild liver pill to be taken after food.” His eyes twinkled. “She could have taken a boxful without hurting herself. I’m not given to poisoning my patients, M. Poirot.”
Then, with a smile, he shook hands with us both and departed.
Poirot undid the package he had purchased at the chemists. The medicament consisted of transparent capsules, three-quarters full of dark brown powder.
“They look like a seasick remedy I once took,” I remarked.
Poirot opened a capsule, examined its contents and tasted it gingerly with his tongue. He made a grimace.
“Well,” I said, throwing myself back in my chair and yawning, “everything seems harmless enough. Dr. Loughbarrow’s specialities, and Dr. Grainger’s pills! And Dr. Grainger seems definitely to negative the arsenic theory. Are you convinced at last, my stubborn Poirot?”
“It is true that I am pigheaded—that is your expression, I think?—Yes, definitely I have the head of the pig,” said my friend, meditatively.
“Then, in spite of having the chemist, the nurse and the doctor, against you, you still think that Miss Arundell was murdered?”
Poirot said, quietly:
“That is what I believe. No—more than believe. I am sure of it, Hastings.”
“There’s one way of proving it, I suppose,” I said slowly. “Exhumation.”
Poirot nodded.
“Is that the next step?”
“My friend, I have to go carefully.”
“Why?”
“Because,” his voice dropped, “I am afraid of a second tragedy.”
“You mean—?”
“I am afraid, Hastings, I am afraid. Let us leave it at that.”
Twenty-two
THE WOMAN ON THE STAIRS
On the following morning a note arrived by hand. It was in a rather weak, uncertain handwriting slanting very much uphill.
Dear M. Poirot,
I hear from Ellen that you were at Littlegreen House yesterday. I shall be much obliged if you would call and see me sometime today.
Yours truly,
Wilhelmina Lawson.
“So she’s down here,” I remarked.
“Yes.”
“Why has she come, I wonder?”
Poirot smiled.
“I do not suppose there is any sinister reason. After all, the house belongs to her.”
“Yes, that’s true, of course. You know, Poirot, that’s the worst of this game of ours. Every single little thing that anyone does is open to the most sinister constructions.”
“It is true that I myself have enjoined upon you the motto, ‘suspect everyone.’”
“Are you still in that state yourself?”
“No—for me it has boiled down to this. I suspect one particular person.”
“Which one?”
“Since, at the moment, it is only suspicion and there is no definite proof, I think I must leave you to draw your own deductions, Hastings. And do not neglect the psychology—that is important. The character of the murder—implying as it does a certain temperament in the murderer—that is an essential clue to the crime.”
“I can’t consider the character of the murderer if I don’t know who the murderer is!”
“No, no, you have not paid attention to what I have just said. If you reflect sufficiently on the character—the necessary character of the murder—then you will realize who the murderer is!”
“Do you really know, Poirot?” I asked, curiously.
“I cannot say I know because I have no proofs. That is why I cannot say more at the present. But I am quite sure—yes, my friend, in my own mind I am very sure.”
“Well,” I said, laughing, “mind he doesn’t get you! That would be a tragedy!”
Poirot started a little. He did not take the matter as a joke. Instead he murmured: “You are right. I must be careful—extremely careful.”