Sad cypress - Agatha Christie [46]
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Ah, but life is like that! It does not permit you to arrange and order it as you will. It will not permit you to escape emotion, to live by the intellect and by reason! You cannot say, “I will feel so much and no more.” Life, Mr Welman, whatever else it is, is not reasonable!’
Roderick Welman murmured:
‘So it seems…’
Poirot said:
‘A spring morning, a girl’s face – and the well-ordered sequence of existence is routed.’
Roddy winced and Poirot went on:
‘Sometimes it is little more than that – a face. What did you really know of Mary Gerrard, Mr Welman?’
Roddy said heavily:
‘What did I know? So little; I see that now. She was sweet, I think, and gentle; but really, I know nothing – nothing at all…That’s why, I suppose, I don’t miss her…’
His antagonism and resentment were gone now. He spoke naturally and simply. Hercule Poirot, as he had a knack of doing, had penetrated the other’s defences. Roddy seemed to feel a certain relief in unburdening himself.
He said:
‘Sweet – gentle – not very clever. Sensitive, I think, and kind. She had a refinement that you would not expect to find in a girl of her class.’
‘Was she the kind of girl who would make enemies unconsciously?’
Roddy shook his head vigorously.
‘No, no, I can’t imagine anyone disliking her – really disliking her, I mean. Spite is different.’
Poirot said quickly.
‘Spite? So there was spite, you think?’
Roddy said absently:
‘Must have been – to account for that letter.’
Poirot said sharply:
‘What letter?’
Roddy flushed and looked annoyed. He said:
‘Oh, nothing important.’
Poirot repeated:
‘What letter?’
‘An anonymous letter.’
He spoke reluctantly.
‘When did it come? To whom was it written?’
Rather unwillingly Roddy explained.
Hercule Poirot murmured:
‘It is interesting, that. Can I see it, this letter?’
‘Afraid you can’t. As a matter of fact, I burnt it.’
‘Now, why did you do that, Mr Welman?’
Roddy said rather stiffly:
‘It seemed the natural thing to do at the time.’
Poirot said:
‘And in consequence of this letter, you and Miss Carlisle went hurriedly down to Hunterbury?’
‘We went down, yes. I don’t know about hurriedly.’
‘But you were a little uneasy, were you not? Perhaps even, a little alarmed?’
Roddy said even more stiffly:
‘I won’t admit that.’
Hercule Poirot cried:
‘But surely that was only natural! Your inheritance – that which was promised you – was in jeopardy! Surely it is natural that you should be unquiet about the matter! Money, it is very important!’
‘Not as important as you make out.’
Poirot said:
‘Such unworldliness is indeed remarkable!’
Roddy flushed. He said:
‘Oh, of course, the money did matter to us. We weren’t completely indifferent to it. But our main object was to – to see my aunt and make sure she was all right.’
Poirot said:
‘You went down there with Miss Carlisle. At that time your aunt had not made a will. Shortly afterwards she had another attack of her illness. She then wished to make a will, but, conveniently for Miss Carlisle, perhaps, she dies that night before that will can be made.’
‘Look here, what are you hinting at?’
Roddy’s face was wrathful.
Poirot answered him like a flash:
‘You have told me, Mr Welman, as regards the death of Mary Gerrard, that the motive attributed to Elinor Carlisle is absurd – that she was, emphatically, not that kind of a person. But there is now another interpretation. Elinor Carlisle had reason to fear that she might be disinherited in favour of an outsider. The letter has warned her – her aunt’s broken murmurings confirm that fear. In the hall below is an attaché-case with various drugs and medical supplies. It is easy to abstract a tube of morphine. And afterwards, so I have learned, she sits in the sick-room alone with her aunt while you and the nurses are at dinner…’
Roddy cried:
‘Good God, M. Poirot, what are you suggesting now? That Elinor killed Aunt Laura? Of all the ridiculous ideas!’
Poirot said:
‘But you