Sad cypress - Agatha Christie [31]
She noticed that Mrs Welman’s sables were laid on the chest of drawers.
‘Going to have them remodelled for herself,’ she thought to herself.
She cast a look at the big tallboy. She wondered if Elinor had found that photograph signed ‘Lewis’, and what she had made of it, if so.
‘Funny,’ she thought to herself, ‘the way O’Brien’s letter crossed mine. I never dreamt a thing like that could happen. Her hitting on that photo just the day I wrote to her about Mrs Slattery.’
She helped Elinor sort through the clothing and volunteered to tie it up in separate bundles for the different families and see to their distribution herself.
She said:
‘I can be getting on with that while Mary goes down to the Lodge and finishes up there. She’s only got a box of papers to go through. Where is the girl, by the way? Did she go down to the Lodge?’
Elinor said:
‘I left her in the morning-room…’
Nurse Hopkins said:
‘She’d not be there all this time.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Why, it’s nearly an hour we’ve been up here!’
She bustled down the stairs. Elinor followed her.
They went into the morning-room.
Nurse Hopkins exclaimed:
‘Well, I never, she’s fallen asleep.’
Mary Gerrard was sitting in a big arm-chair by the window. She had dropped down a little in it. There was a queer sound in the room: stertorous, laboured breathing.
Nurse Hopkins went across and shook the girl.
‘Wake up, my dear –’
She broke off. She bent lower, pulled down an eyelid. Then she started shaking the girl in grim earnest.
She turned on Elinor. There was something menacing in her voice as she said:
‘What’s all this?’
Elinor said:
‘I don’t know what you mean. Is she ill?’
Nurse Hopkins said:
‘Where’s the phone? Get hold of Dr Lord as soon as you can.’
Elinor said:
‘What’s the matter?’
‘The matter? The girl’s ill. She’s dying.’
Elinor recoiled a step.
‘Dying?’
Nurse Hopkins said:
‘She’s been poisoned…’
Her eyes, hard with suspicion, glared at Elinor.
Part II
Chapter 1
Hercule Poirot, his egg-shaped head gently tilted to one side, his eyebrows raised inquiringly, his fingertips joined together, watched the young man who was striding so savagely up and down the room, his pleasant freckled face puckered and drawn.
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Eh bien, my friend, what is all this?’
Peter Lord stopped dead in his pacing.
He said:
‘M. Poirot. You’re the only man in the world who can help me. I’ve heard Stillingfleet talk about you; he’s told me what you did in that Benedict Farley case. How every mortal soul thought it was suicide and you showed that it was murder.’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Have you, then, a case of suicide among your patients about which you are not satisfied?’
Peter Lord shook his head.
He sat down opposite Poirot.
He said:
‘There’s a young woman. She’s been arrested and she’s going to be tried for murder! I want you to find evidence that will prove that she didn’t do it!’
Poirot’s eyebrows rose a little higher. Then he assumed a discreet and confidential manner.
He said:
‘You and this young lady – you are affianced – yes? You are in love with each other?’
Peter Lord laughed – a sharp, bitter laugh.
He said:
‘No, it’s not like that! She has the bad taste to prefer a long-nosed supercilious ass with a face like a melancholy horse! Stupid of her, but there it is!’
Poirot said:
‘I see.’
Lord said bitterly:
‘Oh, yes, you see all right! No need to be so tactful about it. I fell for her straightaway. And because of that I don’t want her hanged. See?’
Poirot said:
‘What is the charge against her?’
‘She’s accused of murdering a girl called Mary Gerrard, by poisoning her with morphine hydrochloride. You’ve probably read the account of the inquest in the papers.’
Poirot said:
‘And the motive?’
‘Jealousy!’
‘And in your opinion she didn’t do it?’
‘No, of course