Third girl - Agatha Christie [49]
‘In plain language somebody was giving her arsenic. Is that right?’
‘Quite right. In small doses which would in the end have a cumulative effect.’
‘You suspected your daughter?’
‘No.’
‘I think you did. Who else could have done it? You suspected your daughter.’
Restarick gave a deep sigh.
‘Frankly, yes.’
II
When Poirot arrived home, George was awaiting him:
‘A woman named Edith rang up, sir —’
‘Edith?’ Poirot frowned.
‘She is, I gather, in the service of Mrs Oliver. She asked me to inform you that Mrs Oliver is in St Giles’s Hospital.’
‘What has happened to her?’
‘I understand she has been — er — coshed.’ George did not add the latter part of the message, which had been — ‘— and you tell him it’s been all his fault.’
Poirot clicked his tongue. ‘I warned her — I was uneasy last night when I rang her up, and there was no answer. Les Femmes!’
Chapter 12
‘Let’s buy a peacock,’ said Mrs Oliver suddenly and unexpectedly. She did not open her eyes as she made this remark, and her voice was weak though full of indignation.
Three people brought startled eyes to bear upon her. She made a further statement.
‘Hit on the head.’
She opened badly focused eyes and endeavoured to make out where she was.
The first thing she saw was a face entirely strange to her. A young man who was writing in a notebook. He held the pencil poised in his hand.
‘Policeman,’ said Mrs Oliver decisively.
‘I beg your pardon, Madam?’
‘I said you were a policeman,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Am I right?’
‘Yes, Madam.’
‘Criminal assault,’ said Mrs Oliver and closed her eyes in a satisfied manner. When she opened them again, she took in her surroundings more fully. She was in a bed, one of those rather high hygienic-looking hospital beds, she decided. The kind that you shoot up and down and round and about. She was not in her own house. She looked round and decided on her environment.
‘Hospital, or could be nursing home,’ she said.
A sister was standing with an air of authority at the door, and a nurse was standing by her bed. She identified a fourth figure. ‘Nobody,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘could mistake those moustaches. What are you doing here, M. Poirot?’
Hercule Poirot advanced towards the bed. ‘I told you to be careful, Madame,’ he said.
‘Anyone might lose their way,’ said Mrs Oliver, somewhat obscurely, and added, ‘My head aches.’
‘With good cause. As you surmise, you were hit on the head.’
‘Yes. By the Peacock.’
The policeman stirred uneasily then said, ‘Excuse me, Madam, you say you were assaulted by a peacock?’
‘Of course. I’d had an uneasy feeling for some time — you know, atmosphere.’ Mrs Oliver tried to wave her hand in an appropriate gesture to describe atmosphere, and winced. ‘Ouch,’ she said, ‘I’d better not try that again.’
‘My patient must not get over-excited,’ said the sister with disapproval.
‘Can you tell me where this assault occurred?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I’d lost my way. I was coming from a kind of studio. Very badly kept. Dirty. The other young man hadn’t shaved for days. A greasy leather jacket.’
‘Is this the man who assaulted you?’
‘No, it’s another one.’
‘If you could just tell me —’
‘I am telling you, aren’t I? I’d followed him, you see, all the way from the café — only I’m not very good at following people. No practice. It’s much more difficult than you’d think.’
Her eyes focused on the policeman. ‘But I suppose you know all about that. You have courses — in following people, I mean? Oh, never mind, it doesn’t matter. You see,’ she said, speaking with sudden rapidity, ‘it’s quite simple. I had got off at The World’s End, I think it was, and naturally I thought he had stayed with the others — or gone the other way. But instead, he came up behind me.’
‘Who was this?’
‘The Peacock,’ said Mrs Oliver,