Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [64]
“But, Nigel, it was there in your drawer among your socks, where anybody could have found it.”
“Why should they? Nobody else goes rooting about among my socks except you.”
“Well, it seemed to me dreadful to leave it about like that, and I know you’d said you were going to get rid of it after you’d won your bet, but in the meantime there it was, still there.”
“Of course. I hadn’t got the third thing yet.”
“Well, I thought it was very wrong, and so I took the bottle out of the drawer and I emptied the poison out of it, and I replaced it with some ordinary bicarbonate of soda. It looked almost exactly the same.”
Nigel paused in his scramble for his lost notes.
“Good lord!” he said. “Did you really? You mean that when I was swearing to Len and old Colin that the stuff was morphine sulphate or tartrate or whatever it was, it was merely bicarbonate of soda all the time?”
“Yes. You see. . . .”
Nigel interrupted her. He was frowning.
“I’m not sure, you know, that that doesn’t invalidate the bet. Of course, I’d no idea—”
“But Nigel, it was really dangerous keeping it there.”
“Oh lord, Pat, must you always fuss so? What did you do with the actual stuff?”
“I put it in the soda bic bottle and I hid it at the back of my handkerchief drawer.”
Nigel looked at her in mild surprise.
“Really, Pat, your logical thought processes beggar description! What was the point?”
“I felt it was safer there.”
“My dear girl, either the morphia should have been under lock and key, or if it wasn’t, it couldn’t really matter whether it was among my socks or your handkerchiefs.”
“Well, it did matter. For one thing, I have a room to myself and you share yours.”
“Why, you don’t think poor old Len was going to pinch the morphia off me, do you?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you about it, ever, but I must now. Because, you see, it’s gone.”
“You mean the police have swiped it?”
“No. It disappeared before that.”
“Do you mean . . . ? ” Nigel gazed at her in consternation. “Let’s get this straight. There’s a bottle labelled ‘Soda Bic,’ containing morphine sulphate, which is knocking about the place somewhere, and at any time someone may take a heaping teaspoonful of it if they’ve got a pain in their middle? Good God, Pat! You have done it! Why the hell didn’t you throw the stuff away if you were so upset about it?”
“Because I thought it was valuable and ought to go back to the hospital instead of being just thrown away. As soon as you’d won your bet, I meant to give it to Celia and ask her to put it back.”
“You’re sure you didn’t give it to her?”
“No, of course not. You mean I gave it to her, and she took it and it was suicide, and it was all my fault?”
“Calm down. When did it disappear?”
“I don’t know exactly. I looked for it the day before Celia died. I couldn’t find it, but I just thought I’d perhaps put it somewhere else.”
“It was gone the day before she died?”
“I suppose,” said Patricia, her face white, “that I’ve been very stupid.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” said Nigel. “To what lengths can a muddled mind and an active conscience go!”
“Nigel. D’you think I ought to tell the police?”
“Oh, hell!” said Nigel. “I suppose so, yes. And it’s going to be all my fault.”
“Oh, no, Nigel darling, it’s me. I—”
“I pinched the damned stuff in the first place,” said Nigel. “It all seemed to be a very amusing stunt at the time. But now—I can already hear the vitriolic remarks from the bench.”
“I am sorry. When I took it I really meant it for—”
“You meant it for the best. I know! Look here, Pat, I simply can’t believe the stuff has disappeared. You’ve forgotten just where you put it. You do mislay things sometimes, you know.”
“Yes, but—”
She hesitated, a shade of doubt appearing on her frowning face.
Nigel rose briskly.
“Let’s go along to your room and have a thorough search.”
V
“Nigel, those are my underclothes.”
“Really, Pat, you can’t go all prudish on me at this stage. Down among the panties is just where you would hide a bottle, now, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I’m sure I—”
“We can’t be sure of anything until we’ve looked