Sad cypress - Agatha Christie [47]
‘Yes, I know. But they won’t find anything!’
‘Suppose they do?’
‘They won’t!’ Roddy spoke positively.
Poirot shook his head.
‘I am not so sure. And there was only one person, you realize, who would benefit by Mrs Welman’s dying at that moment…’
Roddy sat down. His face was white and he was shaking a little. He stared at Poirot. Then he said:
‘I thought – you were on her side…’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘Whatever side one is on, one must face facts! I think, Mr Welman, that you have so far preferred in life to avoid facing an awkward truth whenever it is possible.’
Roddy said:
‘Why harrow oneself by looking on the worst side?’
Hercule Poirot replied gravely:
‘Because it is something necessary…’
He paused a minute and then said:
‘Let us face the possibility that your aunt’s death may be found to be due to the administration of morphine. What then?’
Roddy shook his head helplessly.
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you must try to think. Who could have given it to her? You must admit that Elinor Carlisle had the best opportunity to do so?’
‘What about the nurses?’
‘Either of them could have done so, certainly. But Nurse Hopkins was concerned about the disappearance of the tube at the time and mentioned it openly. There wasno need for her to do so. The death certificate had been signed. Why call attention to the missing morphine if she were guilty? It will probably bring her censure for carelessness as it is, and if she poisoned Mrs Welman it was surely idiotic to draw attention to the morphine. Besides, what could she gain by Mrs Welman’s death? Nothing. The same applies to Nurse O’Brien. She could have administered morphine, could have taken it from Nurse Hopkins’ case; but, again – why should she?’
Roddy shook his head.
‘All that’s true enough.’
Poirot said:
‘Then there is yourself.’
Roddy started like a nervous horse.
‘Me?’
‘Certainly. You could have abstracted the morphine. You could have given it to Mrs Welman! You were alone with her for a short period that night. But, again, why should you? If she lived to make a will, it is at least probable that you would have been mentioned in it. So again, you see, there is no motive. Only two people had a motive.’
Roddy’s eyes brightened.
‘Two people?’
‘Yes. One was Elinor Carlisle.’
‘And the other?’
Poirot said slowly:
‘The other was the writer of that anonymous letter.’
Roddy looked incredulous.
Poirot said:
‘Somebody wrote that letter – somebody who hated Mary Gerrard or at least disliked her – somebody who was, as they say, “on your side”. Somebody, that is, who did not want Mary Gerrard to benefit at Mrs Welman’s death. Now, have you any idea, Mr Welman, who the writer of that letter could be?’
Roddy shook his head.
‘I’ve no idea at all. It was an illiterate letter, misspelt, cheap-looking.’
Poirot waved a hand.
‘There is nothing much to that! It might easily have been written by an educated person who chose to disguise the fact. That is why I wish you had the letter still. People who try to write in an uneducated manner usually give themselves away.’
Roddy said thoughtfully:
‘Elinor and I thought it might be one of the servants.’
‘Had you any idea which of them?’
‘No – no idea whatsoever.’
‘Could it, do you think, have been Mrs Bishop, the housekeeper?’
Roddy looked shocked.
‘Oh, no, she’s a most respectable, high-and-mighty creature. Writes beautifully involved and ornate letters with long words in them. Besides, I’m sure she would never –’
As he hesitated, Poirot cut in:
‘She did not like Mary Gerrard!’
‘I suppose she didn’t. I never noticed anything, though.’
‘But perhaps, Mr Welman, you do not notice very much?’
Roddy said slowly:
‘You don’t think, M. Poirot, that my aunt could have taken that morphine herself?’
Poirot said slowly:
‘It is an idea, yes.’
Roddy said:
‘She hated her – her helplessness, you know. Often said she wished she could die.’
Poirot said:
‘But, then, she could not have risen from her bed, gone downstairs and helped herself to