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“ ‘I can’t bear this waiting. You do think it will be all right, don’t you?’ And he said: ‘Of course. Nothing can go wrong. This time next year we’ll be married.’ ”

She paused.

“That was the very first inkling I’d had, M. Poirot, that there was anything between the doctor and Miss Moncrieffe. Of course I knew he admired her and that they were very good friends, but nothing more. I went back up the stairs again—it had given me quite a shock—but I did notice that the kitchen door was open and I’ve thought since that Beatrice must have been listening. And you can see, can’t you, that the way they were talking could be taken two ways? It might just mean that the doctor knew his wife was very ill and couldn’t live much longer—and I’ve no doubt that that was the way he meant it—but to any one like Beatrice it might sound differently—it might look as though the doctor and Jean Moncrieffe were—well—were definitely planning to do away with Mrs. Oldfield.”

“But you don’t think so, yourself?”

“No—no, of course not. . . .”

Poirot looked at her searchingly. He said:

“Nurse Harrison, is there something more that you know? Something that you haven’t told me?”

She flushed and said violently:

“No. No. Certainly not. What could there be?”

“I do not know. But I thought that there might be—something?”

She shook her head. The old troubled look had come back.

Hercule Poirot said: “It is possible that the Home Office may order an exhumation of Mrs. Oldfield’s body!”

“Oh no!” Nurse Harrison was horrified. “What a horrible thing!”

“You think it would be a pity?”

“I think it would be dreadful! Think of the talk it would create! It would be terrible—quite terrible for poor Doctor Oldfield.”

“You don’t think that it might really be a good thing for him?”

“How do you mean?”

Poirot said: “If he is innocent—his innocence will be proved.”

He broke off. He watched the thought take root in Nurse Harrison’s mind, saw her frown perplexedly, and then saw her brow clear.

She took a deep breath and looked at him.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said simply. “Of course, it is the only thing to be done.”

There were a series of thumps on the floor overhead. Nurse Harrison jumped up.

“It’s my old lady, Miss Bristow. She’s woken up from her rest. I must go and get her comfortable before her tea is brought to her and I go out for my walk. Yes, M. Poirot, I think you are quite right. An autopsy will settle the business once and for all. It will scotch the whole thing and all these dreadful rumours against poor Doctor Oldfield will die down.”

She shook hands and hurried out of the room.

V

Hercule Poirot walked along to the post office and put through a call to London.

The voice at the other end was petulant.

“Must you go nosing out these things, my dear Poirot? Are you sure it’s a case for us? You know what these country town rumours usually amount to—just nothing at all.”

“This,” said Hercule Poirot, “is a special case.”

“Oh well—if you say so. You have such a tiresome habit of being right. But if it’s all a mare’s nest we shan’t be pleased with you, you know.”

Hercule Poirot smiled to himself. He murmured:

“No, I shall be the one who is pleased.”

“What’s that you say? Can’t hear.”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He rang off.

Emerging into the post office he leaned across the counter. He said in his most engaging tones:

“Can you by any chance tell me, Madame, where the maid who was formerly with Dr. Oldfield—Beatrice her Christian name was—now resides?”

“Beatrice King? She’s had two places since then. She’s with Mrs. Marley over the Bank now.”

Poirot thanked her, bought two postcards, a book of stamps and a piece of local pottery. During the purchase, he contrived to bring the death of the late Mrs. Oldfield into the conversation. He was quick to note the peculiar furtive expression that stole across the postmistress’s face. She said:

“Very sudden, wasn’t it? It’s made a lot of talk as you may have heard.”

A gleam of interest came into her eyes as she asked:

“Maybe