Sad Cypress (10 page)

Peter Lord said grimly:

“It's possible that if Elinor is acquitted of the present charge she will be rearrested and charged with the murder of her aunt.”

Poirot said thoughtfully:

“The motives are different; that is to say, in the case of Mrs. Welman the motive would have been
gain,
whereas in the case of Mary Gerrard the motive is supposed to be
jealousy.
”

“That's right.”

Poirot said:

“What line does the defence propose to take?”

Peter Lord said:

“Bulmer proposes to take the line that there was no motive. He'll put forward the theory that the engagement between Elinor and Roderick was a family business, entered into for family reasons, to please Mrs. Welman, and that the moment the old lady was dead Elinor broke it off of her own accord. Roderick Welman will give evidence to that effect. I think he almost believes it!”

“Believes that Elinor did not care for him to any great extent?”

“Yes.”

“In which case,” said Poirot, “she would have no reason for murdering Mary Gerrard.”

“Exactly.”

“But in that case, who
did
murder Mary Gerrard?”

“As you say.”

Poirot shook his head.

“C'est difficile.”

Peter Lord said vehemently:

“That's just it! If
she
didn't,
who did?
There's the tea; but both Nurse Hopkins and Mary drank that. The defence will try to suggest that Mary Gerrard took the morphine herself after the other two had left the room—that she committed suicide, in fact.”

“Had she any reason for committing suicide?”

“None whatever.”

“Was she of a suicidal type?”

“No.”

Poirot said:

“What was she like, this Mary Gerrard?”

Peter Lord considered:

“She was—well, she was a nice kid. Yes, definitely a nice kid.”

Poirot sighed. He murmured:

“This Roderick Welman, did he fall in love with her because she was a nice kid?”

Peter Lord smiled.

“Oh, I get what you mean. She was beautiful, all right.”

“And you yourself? You had no feeling for her?”

Peter Lord stared.

“Good lord, no.”

Hercule Poirot reflected for a moment or two, then he said:

“Roderick Welman says that there was affection between him and Elinor Carlisle, but nothing stronger. Do you agree to that?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Poirot shook his head.

“You told me when you came into this room that Elinor Carlisle had the bad taste to be in love with a long-nosed, supercilious ass. That, I presume, is a description of Roderick Welman. So, according to you, she
does
care for him.”

Peter Lord said in a low, exasperated voice:

“She cares for him all right! Cares like hell!”

Poirot said:

“Then there
was
a motive….”

Peter Lord swerved round on him, his face alight with anger.

“Does it matter? She might have done it, yes!
I don't care if she did.
”

Poirot said:

“Aha!”

“But I don't want her hanged, I tell you! Supposing she
was
driven desperate? Love's a desperate and twisting business. It can turn a worm into a fine fellow—and it can bring a decent, straight man down to the dregs! Suppose she
did
do it. Haven't you got any pity?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“I do not approve of murder.”

Peter Lord stared at him, looked away, stared again and finally burst out laughing.

“Of all the things to say—so prim and smug, too! Who's asking you to approve? I'm not asking you to tell lies! Truth's truth, isn't it? If you find something that tells in an accused person's favour, you wouldn't be inclined to suppress it because she's guilty, would you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then why the hell can't you do what I ask you?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“My friend, I am perfectly prepared to do so….”

P
eter Lord stared at him, took out a handkerchief, wiped his face and threw himself down in a chair.

“Whoof!” he said. “You got me all worked up! I didn't see in the least what you were getting at!”

Poirot said:

“I was examining the case against Elinor Carlisle. Now I know it. Morphine was administered to Mary Gerrard; and, as far as I can see, it
must
have been given in the sandwiches. Nobody touched those sandwiches
except Elinor Carlisle.
Elinor Carlisle had a
motive
for killing Mary Gerrard, and she is, in your opinion,
capable
of killing Mary Gerrard, and in all probability she
did
kill Mary Gerrard. I see no reason for believing otherwise.

“That,
mon ami,
is one side of the question. Now we will proceed to stage two. We will dismiss all those considerations from our mind and we will approach the matter from the opposite angle:
If
Elinor Carlisle did not kill Mary Gerrard, who did?
Or did Mary Gerrard commit suicide?”

Peter Lord sat up. A frown creased his forehead. He said:

“You weren't quite accurate just now.”

“I?
Not accurate?
”

Poirot sounded affronted.

Peter Lord pursued relentlessly:

“No. You said nobody but Elinor Carlisle touched those sandwiches. You don't know that.”

“There was no one else in the house.”

“
As far as we know.
But you are excluding a short period of time.
There was a time during which Elinor Carlisle left the house to go down to the Lodge.
During that period of time the sandwiches were on a plate in the pantry, and somebody
could
have tampered with them.”

Poirot drew a deep breath.

He said:

“You are right, my friend. I admit it. There
was
a time during which somebody could have had access to the plate of sandwiches. We must try to form some idea
who that somebody could be;
that is to say,
what kind of person
….”

He paused.

“Let us consider this Mary Gerrard.
Someone,
not Elinor Carlisle, desires her death.
Why?
Did anyone stand to gain by her death? Had she money to leave?”

Peter Lord shook his head.

“Not now. In another month she would have had two thousand pounds. Elinor Carlisle was making that sum over to her because she believed her aunt would have wished it. But the old lady's estate isn't wound up yet.”

Poirot said:

“Then we can wash out the money angle. Mary Gerrard was beautiful, you say. With that there are always complications. She had admirers?”

“Probably. I don't know much about it.”

“Who would know?”

Peter Lord grinned.

“I'd better put you on to Nurse Hopkins. She's the town crier. She knows everything that goes on in Maidensford.”

“I was going to ask you to give me your impressions of the two nurses.”

“Well, O'Brien's Irish, good nurse, competent, a bit silly, could be spiteful, a bit of a liar—the imaginative kind that's not so much deceitful, but just has to make a good story out of everything.”

Poirot nodded.

“Hopkins is a sensible, shrewd, middle-aged woman, quite kindly and competent, but a sight too much interested in other people's business!”

“If there had been trouble over some young man in the village, would Nurse Hopkins know about it?”

“You bet!”

He added slowly:

“All the same, I don't believe there can be anything very obvious in that line. Mary hadn't been home long. She'd been away in Germany for two years.”

“She was twenty-one?”

“Yes.”

“There may be some German complication.”

Peter Lord's face brightened.

He said eagerly:

“You mean that some German fellow may have had it in for her? He may have followed her over here, waited his time, and finally achieved his object?”

“It sounds a little melodramatic,” said Hercule Poirot doubtfully.

“But it's
possible?
”

“Not very probable, though.”

Peter Lord said:

“I don't agree. Someone
might
get all het up about the girl, and see red when she turned him down. He may have fancied she treated him badly. It's an idea.”

“It is an idea, yes,” said Hercule Poirot, but his tone was not encouraging.

Peter Lord said pleadingly:

“Go on, M. Poirot.”

“You want me, I see, to be the conjurer. To take out of the empty hat rabbit after rabbit.”

“You can put it that way if you like.”

“There
is
another possibility,” said Hercule Poirot.

“Go on.”

“
Someone
abstracted a tube of morphine from Nurse Hopkins' case that evening in June.
Suppose Mary Gerrard saw the person who did it?
”

“She would have said so.”

“No, no,
mon cher.
Be reasonable. If Elinor Carlisle, or Roderick Welman, or Nurse O'Brien, or even any of the servants, were to open that case and abstract a little glass tube, what would anyone think? Simply that the person in question had been sent by the
nurse to fetch something from it. The matter would pass straight out of Mary Gerrard's mind again, but it is possible that, later, she
might
recollect the fact and might mention it casually to the person in question—oh, without the least suspicion in the world. But to the person guilty of the murder of Mrs. Welman, imagine the effect of that remark! Mary had seen: Mary must be silenced at all costs! I can assure you, my friend, that anyone who has once committed a murder finds it only too easy to commit another!”

Peter Lord said with a frown:

“I've believed all along that Mrs. Welman took the stuff herself….”

“But she was paralysed—helpless—she had just had a second stroke.”

“Oh, I know. My idea was that, having got hold of morphine somehow or other, she kept it by her in a receptacle close at hand.”

“But in that case she must have got hold of the morphine
before
her second attack and the nurse missed it afterwards.”

“Hopkins may only have missed the morphine that morning. It might have been
taken
a couple of days before, and she hadn't noticed it.”

“How would the old lady have got hold of it?”

“I don't know. Bribed a servant, perhaps. If so, that servant's never going to tell.”

“You don't think either of the nurses were bribable?”

Lord shook his head.

“Not on your life! To begin with, they're both very strict about their professional ethics—and in addition they'd be scared to death to do such a thing. They'd know the danger to themselves.”

Poirot said:

“That is so.”

He added thoughtfully:

“It looks, does it not, as though we return to our muttons? Who is the most likely person to have taken that morphine tube?
Elinor Carlisle.
We may say that she wished to make sure of inheriting a large fortune. We may be more generous and say that she was actuated by pity, that she took the morphine and administered it in compliance with her aunt's often-repeated request; but
she
took it—
and Mary Gerrard saw her do it.
And so we are back at the sandwiches and the empty house, and we have Elinor Carlisle once more—but this time with a different motive: to save her neck.”

Peter Lord cried out:

“That's fantastic. I tell you, she isn't that kind of person! Money doesn't really mean anything to her—or to Roderick Welman, either, I'm bound to admit. I've heard them both say as much!”

“You have? That is very interesting. That is the kind of statement I always look upon with a good deal of suspicion myself.”

Peter Lord said:

“Damn you, Poirot, must you always twist everything round so that it comes back to that girl?”

“It is not I that twist things round: they come round of themselves. It is like the pointer at the fair. It swings round, and when it comes to rest it points always at the same name—
Elinor Carlisle.
”

Peter Lord said:

“No!”

Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly.

Then he said:

“Has she relations, this Elinor Carlisle? Sisters, cousins? A father or mother?”

“No. She's an orphan—alone in the world….”

“How pathetic it sounds! Bulmer, I am sure, will make great play with that! Who, then, inherits her money if she dies?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought.”

Poirot said reprovingly:

“One should always think of these things. Has she made a will, for instance?”

Peter Lord flushed. He said uncertainly:

“I—I don't know.”

Hercule Poirot looked at the ceiling and joined his fingertips.

He remarked:

“It would be well, you know, to tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Exactly what is in your mind—no matter how damaging it may happen to be to Elinor Carlisle.”

“How do you know—?”

“Yes, yes, I know. There is
something
—some incident in your mind! It will be as well to tell me, otherwise I shall imagine it is something worse than it is!”

“It's nothing, really—”

“We will agree it is nothing. But let me hear what it is.”

Slowly, unwillingly, Peter Lord allowed the story to be dragged from him—that scene of Elinor leaning in at the window of Nurse Hopkins' cottage, and of her laughter.

Poirot said thoughtfully:

“She said that, did she, ‘
So you're making your will, Mary? That's funny—that's very funny.
' And it was very clear to you what was in
her mind…She had been thinking, perhaps,
that Mary Gerrard was not going to live long
….”

Peter Lord said:

“I only imagined that. I don't know.”

Poirot said:

“No, you did not only imagine it….”