Hickory Dickory Dock - Agatha Christie [74]
“But why, M. Poirot? Why murder? Celia Austin, perhaps, but why Patricia Lane?”
“That,” said Poirot, “we have got to find out.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” said old Mr. Endicott to Hercule Poirot. He peered at the other keenly. “It’s very nice of you to drop in.”
“Not really,” said Hercule Poirot. “I want something.”
“Well, as you know, I’m deeply in your debt. You cleared up that nasty Abernethy business for me.”
“I am surprised really to find you here. I thought you had retired.”
The old lawyer smiled grimly. His firm was a most respectable and old-established one.
“I came in specially today to see a very old client. I still attend to the affairs of one or two old friends.”
“Sir Arthur Stanley was an old friend and client, was he not?”
“Yes. We’ve undertaken all his legal work since he was quite a young man. A very brilliant man, Poirot—quite an exceptional brain.”
“His death was announced on the six o’clock news yesterday, I believe.”
“Yes. The funeral’s on Friday. He’s been ailing some time. A malignant growth, I understand.”
“Lady Stanley died some years ago?”
“Two and a half years ago, roughly.”
The keen eyes below the bushy brows looked sharply at Poirot.
“How did she die?”
The lawyer replied promptly.
“Overdose of sleeping stuff. Medinal as far as I remember.”
“There was an inquest?”
“Yes. The verdict was that she took it accidentally.”
“Did she?”
Mr. Endicott was silent for a moment.
“I won’t insult you,” he said. “I’ve no doubt you’ve got a good reason for asking. Medinal’s a rather dangerous drug, I understand, because there’s not a big margin between an effective dose and a lethal one. If the patient gets drowsy and forgets she’s taken a dose and takes another—well, it can have a fatal result.”
Poirot nodded.
“Is that what she did?”
“Presumably. There was no suggestion of suicide, or suicidal tendencies.”
“And no suggestion of—anything else?”
Again that keen glance was shot at him.
“Her husband gave evidence.”
“And what did he say?”
“He made it clear that she did sometimes get confused after taking her nightly dose and ask for another.”
“Was he lying?”
“Really, Poirot, what an outrageous question. Why should you suppose for a minute that I should know?”
Poirot smiled. The attempt at bluster did not deceive him.
“I suggest, my friend, that you know very well. But for the moment I will not embarrass you by asking you what you know. Instead I will ask you for an opinion. The opinion of one man about another. Was Arthur Stanley the kind of man who would do away with his wife if he wanted to marry another woman?”
Mr. Endicott jumped as though he had been stung by a wasp.
“Preposterous,” he said angrily. “Quite preposterous. And there was no other woman. Stanley was devoted to his wife.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “I thought so. And now—I will come to the purpose of my call upon you. You are the solicitors who drew up Arthur Stanley’s will. You are, perhaps, his executor.”
“That is so.”
“Arthur Stanley had a son. The son quarrelled with his father at the time of his mother’s death. Quarrelled with him and left home. He even went so far as to change his name.”
“That I did not know. What’s he calling himself?”
“We shall come to that. Before we do I am going to make an assumption. If I am right, perhaps you will admit the fact. I think that Arthur Stanley left a sealed letter with you, a letter to be opened under certain circumstances or after his death.”
“Really, Poirot! In the Middle Ages you would certainly have been burnt at the stake. How you can possibly know the things you do!”
“I am right then? I think there was an alternative in the letter. Its contents were either to be destroyed—or you were to take a certain course of action.”
He paused.
“Bon dieu!” said Poirot with alarm. “You have not already destroyed—”
He broke off in relief as Mr. Endicott slowly shook his head in negation.
“We never act in haste,” he said reprovingly. “I have to make full inquiries—to satisfy myself absolutely—”
He paused. “This matter,