Sad Cypress (17 page)

W
as it very hot in the court? Or very cold? Elinor Carlisle could not be quite sure. Sometimes she felt burning, as though with fever, and immediately after she shivered.

She had not heard the end of the Prosecuting Counsel's speech. She had gone back to the past—gone slowly through the whole business again, from the day when that miserable letter came to the moment when that smooth-faced police officer had said with horrible fluency:

“You are Elinor Katharine Carlisle. I have here a warrant for your arrest upon the charge of murdering Mary Gerrard by administering poison to her on the 27th of July last, and I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence at your trial.”

Horrible, frightening fluency… She felt caught up in a smooth-running, well-oiled machine—inhuman, passionless.

And now here she was, standing in the dock in the open glare
of publicity, with hundreds of eyes that were neither impersonal nor inhuman, feasting upon her and gloating….

Only the jury did not look at her. Embarrassed, they kept their eyes studiously turned away… She thought: “It's because—soon—they know what they're going to say….”

II

Dr. Lord was giving evidence. Was this Peter Lord—that freckled, cheery young doctor who had been so kind and so friendly at Hunterbury? He was very stiff now. Sternly professional. His answers came monotonously: He had been summoned by telephone to Hunterbury Hall; too late for anything to be done; Mary Gerrard had died a few minutes after his arrival; death consistent, in his opinion, with morphia poisoning in one of its less common forms—the “foudroyante” variety.

Sir Edwin Bulmer rose to cross-examine.

“You were the late Mrs. Welman's regular medical attendant?”

“I was.”

“During your visits to Hunterbury in June last, you had occasion to see the accused and Mary Gerrard together?”

“Several times.”

“What would you say was the manner of the accused to Mary Gerrard?”

“Perfectly pleasant and natural.”

Sir Edwin Bulmer said with a slight disdainful smile:

“You never saw any signs of this ‘jealous hatred' we have heard so much about?”

Peter Lord, his jaw set, said firmly:

“No.”

Elinor thought:

“But he did—he did… He told a lie for me there… He knew…”

Peter Lord was succeeded by the police surgeon. His evidence was longer, more detailed. Death was due to morphia poisoning of the “foudroyante” variety. Would he kindly explain that term? With some enjoyment he did so. Death from morphine poisoning might occur in several different ways. The most common was a period of intense excitement followed by drowsiness and narcosis, pupils of eyes contracted. Another not so common form had been named by the French, “foudroyante.” In these cases deep sleep supervened in a very short time—about ten minutes; the pupils of the eyes were usually dilated….

III

The court had adjourned and sat again. There had been some hours of expert medical testimony.

Dr. Alan Garcia, the distinguished analyst, full of learned terms, spoke with gusto of the stomach contents: Bread, fish paste, tea, presence of morphia…more learned terms and various decimal points. Amount taken by the deceased estimated to be about four grains. Fatal dose could be as low as one grain.

Sir Edwin rose, still bland.

“I should like to get it quite clear. You found in the stomach nothing but bread, butter, fish paste, tea and morphia. There were no other foodstuffs?”

“None.”

“That is to say, the deceased had eaten nothing but sandwiches and tea for some considerable time?”

“That is so.”

“Was there anything to show in what particular vehicle the morphia had been administered?”

“I don't quite understand.”

“I will simplify that question. The morphia could have been taken in the fish paste, or in the bread, or in the butter on the bread, or in the tea, or in the milk that had been added to the tea?”

“Certainly.”

“There was no special evidence that the morphia was in the fish paste rather than in any of the other mediums?”

“No.”

“And, in fact, the morphia
might
have been taken separately—that is to say, not in any vehicle at all? It could have been simply swallowed in its tablet form?”

“That is so, of course.”

“Sir Edwin sat down.

Sir Samuel re-examined.

“Nevertheless, you are of the opinion that, however the morphia was taken, it was taken at the same time as the other food and drink?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

IV

Inspector Brill had taken the oath with mechanical fluency. He stood there, soldierly and stolid, reeling off his evidence with practised ease.

“Summoned to the house… The accused said, ‘It must have been bad fish paste.'…search of the premises…one jar of fish paste washed out was standing on the draining board in the pantry, another half full…further search of pantry kitchen….”

“What did you find?”

“In a crack behind the table, between the floorboards, I found a tiny scrap of paper.”

The exhibit went to the jury.

“What did you take it to be?”

“A fragment torn off a printed label—such as are used on glass tubes of morphia.”

Counsel for the Defence arose with leisurely ease.

He said:

“You found this scrap in a crack in the flooring?”

“Yes.”

“Part of a label?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find the rest of that label?”

“No.”

“You did not find any glass tube or any bottle to which that label might have been affixed?”

“No.”

“What was the state of that scrap of paper when you found it? Was it clean or dirty?”

“It was quite fresh.”

“What do you mean, quite fresh?”

“There was surface dust on it from the flooring, but it was quite clean otherwise.”

“It could not have been there for any length of time?”

“No, it had found its way there quite recently.”

“You would say, then, that it had come there on the actual day you found it—not earlier?”

“Yes.”

With a grunt Sir Edwin sat down.

V

Nurse Hopkins in the box, her face red and self-righteous.

All the same, Elinor thought, Nurse Hopkins was not so frightening as Inspector Brill. It was the inhumanity of Inspector Brill that was so paralysing. He was so definitely part of a great machine. Nurse Hopkins had human passions, prejudices.

“Your name is Jessie Hopkins?”

“Yes.”

“You are a certificated District Nurse and you reside at Rose Cottage, Hunterbury?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you on the 28th of June last?”

“I was at Hunterbury Hall.”

“You had been sent for?”

“Yes. Mrs. Welman had had a stroke—the second. I went to assist Nurse O'Brien until a second nurse could be found.”

“Did you take a small attaché case with you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell the jury what was in it.”

“Bandages, dressings, a hypodermic syringe and certain drugs, including a tube of morphine hydrochloride.”

“For what purpose was it there?”

“One of the cases in the village had to have hypodermic injections of morphia morning and evening.”

“What were the contents of the tube?”

“There were twenty tablets, each containing half grain morphine hydrochloride.”

“What did you do with your attaché case?”

“I laid it down in the hall.”

“That was on the evening of the 28th. When did you next have occasion to look in the case?”

“The following morning about nine o'clock, just as I was preparing to leave the house.”

“Was anything missing?”

“The tube of morphine was missing.”

“Did you mention this loss?”

“I spoke of it to Nurse O'Brien, the nurse in charge of the patient.”

“This case was lying in the hall, where people were in the habit of passing to and fro?”

“Yes.”

Sir Samuel paused. Then he said:

“You knew the dead girl Mary Gerrard intimately?”

“Yes.”

“What was your opinion of her?”

“She was a very sweet girl—and a good girl.”

“Was she of a happy disposition?”

“Very happy.”

“She had no troubles that you know of?”

“No.”

“At the time of her death was there anything whatever to worry her or make her unhappy about the future?”

“Nothing.”

“She would have had no reason to have taken her own life?”

“No reason at all.”

It went on and on—the damning story. How Nurse Hopkins had accompanied Mary to the Lodge, the appearance of Elinor, her excitable manner, the invitation to sandwiches, the plate being handed first to Mary. Elinor's suggestion that everything be washed up, and her further suggestion that Nurse Hopkins should come upstairs with her and assist in sorting out clothes.

There were frequent interruptions and objections from Sir Edwin Bulmer.

Elinor thought:

“Yes, it's all true—and she believes it. She's certain I did it. And every word she says is the truth—that's what's so horrible. It's all true.”

Once more, as she looked across the court, she saw the face of Hercule Poirot regarding her thoughtfully—almost kindly.
Seeing her with too much knowledge
….

The piece of cardboard with the scrap of label pasted on to it was handed to the witness.

“Do you know what this is?”

“It's a bit of a label.”

“Can you tell the jury what label?”

“Yes—it's a part of a label off a tube of hypodermic tablets. Morphine tablets half grain—like the one I lost.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Of course I'm sure. It's off my tube.”

The judge said:

“Is there any special mark on it by which you can identify it as the label of the tube you lost?”

“No, my lord, but it must be the same.”

“Actually, all you can say is that it is exactly similar?”

“Well, yes, that's what I mean.”

The court adjourned.

I
t was another day.

Sir Edwin Bulmer was on his feet cross-examining. He was not at all bland now. He said sharply:

“This attaché case we've heard so much about. On June 28th it was left in the main hall of Hunterbury all night?”

Nurse Hopkins agreed:

“Yes.”

“Rather a careless thing to do, wasn't it?”

Nurse Hopkins flushed.

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

“Are you in the habit of leaving dangerous drugs lying about where anyone could get at 'em?”

“No, of course not.”

“Oh! you're not? But you did it on this occasion?”

“Yes.”

“And it's a fact, isn't it, that
anybody in the house
could have got at that morphia if they'd wanted to?”

“I suppose so.”

“No suppose about it. It is so, isn't it?”

“Well—yes.”

“It wasn't only Miss Carlisle who could have got at it? Any of the servants could. Or Dr. Lord. Or Mr. Roderick Welman. Or Nurse O'Brien. Or Mary Gerrard herself.”

“I suppose so—yes.”

“It is so, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Was anyone aware you'd got morphia in that case?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, did you talk about it to anyone?”

“No.”

“So, as a matter of fact, Miss Carlisle couldn't have known that there was any morphia there?”

“She might have looked to see.”

“That's very unlikely, isn't it?”

“I don't know, I'm sure.”

“There were people who'd be more likely to know about the morphia than Miss Carlisle. Dr. Lord, for instance. He'd know. You were administering this morphia under his orders, weren't you?”

“Of course.”

“Mary Gerrard knew you had it there, too?”

“No, she didn't.”

“She was often in your cottage, wasn't she?”

“Not very often.”

“I suggest to you that she was there very frequently, and that she, of all the people in the house, would be the most likely to guess that there was morphia in your case.”

“I don't agree.”

Sir Edwin paused a minute.

“You told Nurse O'Brien in the morning that the morphia was missing?”

“Yes.”

“I put it to you that what you really said was: ‘I have left the morphia at home. I shall have to go back for it.'”

“No, I didn't.”

“You didn't suggest that the morphia had been left on the mantelpiece in your cottage?”

“Well, when I couldn't find it I thought that must have been what had happened.”

“In fact, you didn't really know what you'd done with it!”

“Yes, I did. I put it in the case.”

“Then why did you suggest on the morning of June 29th that you had left it at home?”

“Because I thought I might have done.”

“I put it to you that you're a very careless woman.”

“That's not true.”

“You make rather inaccurate statements sometimes, don't you?”

“No, I don't. I'm very careful what I say.”

“Did you make a remark about a prick from a rose tree on July 27th—the day of Mary Gerrard's death?”

“I don't see what that's got to do with it!”

The judge said:

“Is that relevant, Sir Edwin?”

“Yes, my lord, it is an essential part of the defence, and I intend to call witnesses to prove that that statement was a lie.”

He resumed:

“Do you still say you pricked your wrist on a rose tree on July 27th?”

“Yes, I did.”

Nurse Hopkins looked defiant.

“When did you do that?”

“Just before leaving the Lodge and coming up to the house on the morning of July 27th.”

Sir Edwin said sceptically:

“And what rose tree was this?”

“A climbing one just outside the Lodge, with pink flowers.”

“You're sure of that?”

“I'm quite sure.”

Sir Edwin paused and then asked:

“You persist in saying the morphia was in the attaché case when you came to Hunterbury on June 28th?”

“I do. I had it with me.”

“Supposing that presently Nurse O'Brien goes into the box and swears that you said you had probably left it at home?”

“It was in my case. I'm sure of it.”

Sir Edwin sighed.

“You didn't feel at all uneasy about the disappearance of the morphia?”

“Not—uneasy—no.”

“Oh, so you were quite at ease, notwithstanding the fact that a large quantity of a dangerous drug had disappeared?”

“I didn't think at the time anyone had taken it.”

“I see. You just couldn't remember for the moment what you had done with it?”

“Not at all. It was in the case.”

“Twenty half grain tablets—that is, ten grains of morphia. Enough to kill several people, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“But you are not uneasy—and you don't even report the loss officially?”

“I thought it was all right.”

“I put it to you that if the morphia had really disappeared the way it did you would have been bound, as a conscientious person, to report the loss officially.”

Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said:

“Well, I didn't.”

“That was surely a piece of criminal carelessness on your part? You don't seem to take your responsibilities very seriously. Did you often mislay these dangerous drugs?”

“It never happened before.”

It went on for some minutes. Nurse Hopkins, flustered, red in the face, contradicting herself…an easy prey to Sir Edwin's skill.

“Is it a fact that on Thursday, July 6th, the dead girl, Mary Gerrard, made a will?”

“She did.”

“Why did she do that?”

“Because she thought it was the proper thing to do. And so it was.”

“Are you sure it wasn't because she was depressed and uncertain about her future?”

“Nonsense.”

“It showed, though, that the idea of death was present in her mind—that she was brooding on the subject.”

“Not at all. She just thought it was the proper thing to do.”

“Is this the will? Signed by Mary Gerrard, witnessed by Emily Biggs and Roger Wade, confectioners' assistants, and leaving everything of which she died possessed to Mary Riley, sister of Eliza Riley?”

“That's right.”

It was handed to the jury.

“To your knowledge, had Mary Gerrard any property to leave?”

“Not then, she hadn't.”

“But she was shortly going to have?”

“Yes.”

“Is it not a fact that a considerable sum of money—two thousand pounds—was being given to Mary by Miss Carlisle?”

“Yes.”

“There was no compulsion on Miss Carlisle to do this? It was entirely a generous impulse on her part?”

“She did it of her own free will, yes.”

“But surely, if she had hated Mary Gerrard, as is suggested, she would not of her own free will have handed over to her a large sum of money.”

“That's as may be.”

“What do you mean by that answer?”

“I don't mean anything.”

“Exactly. Now, had you heard any local gossip about Mary Gerrard and Mr. Roderick Welman?”

“He was sweet on her.”

“Have you any evidence of that?”

“I just knew it, that's all.”

“Oh—you ‘just knew it.' That's not very convincing to the jury, I'm afraid. Did you say on one occasion Mary would have nothing to do with him because he was engaged to Miss Elinor and she said the same to him in London?”

“That's what she told me.”

Sir Samuel Attenbury re-examined:

“When Mary Gerrard was discussing with you the wording of this will, did the accused look in through the window?”

“Yes, she did.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘So you're making your will, Mary. That's funny.' And she laughed. Laughed and laughed. And it's my opinion,” said the witness viciously, “that it was at that moment the idea came into her head. The idea of making away with the girl! She'd murder in her heart that very minute.”

The judge spoke sharply:

“Confine yourself to answering the questions that are asked you. The last part of that answer is to be struck out….”

Elinor thought:

“How queer… When anyone says what's true, they strike it out….”

She wanted to laugh hysterically.

II

Nurse O'Brien was in the box.

“On the morning of June 29th did Nurse Hopkins make a statement to you?”

“Yes. She said she had a tube of morphine hydrochloride missing from her case.”

“What did you do?”

“I helped her to hunt for it.”

“But you could not find it?”

“No.”

“To your knowledge, was the case left overnight in the hall?”

“It was.”

“Mr. Welman and the accused were both staying in the house at the time of Mrs. Welman's death—that is, on June 28th to 29th?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell us of an incident that occurred on June 29th—the day after Mrs. Welman's death?”

“I saw Mr. Roderick Welman with Mary Gerrard. He was telling her he loved her, and he tried to kiss her.”

“He was at the time engaged to the accused?”

“Yes.”

“What happened next?”

“Mary told him to think shame of himself, and him engaged to Miss Elinor!”

“In your opinion, what was the feeling of the accused towards Mary Gerrard?”

“She hated her. She would look after her as though she'd like to destroy her.”

Sir Edwin jumped up.

Elinor thought: “Why do they wrangle about it? What does it
matter?
”

Sir Edwin Bulmer cross-examined.

“Is it not a fact that Nurse Hopkins said she thought she had left the morphia at home?”

“Well, you see, it was this way: After—”

“Kindly answer my question. Did she not say that she had probably left the morphia at home?”

“Yes.”

“She was not really worried at the time about it?”

“No, not then.”

“Because she thought she had left it at home. So naturally she was not uneasy.”

“She couldn't imagine anyone taking it.”

“Exactly. It wasn't till after Mary Gerrard's death from morphia that her imagination got to work.”

The judge interrupted:

“I think, Sir Edwin, that you have already been over that point with the former witness.”

“As your lordship pleases.”

“Now, regarding the attitude of the accused to Mary Gerrard, there was no quarrel between them at any time?”

“No quarrel, no.”

“Miss Carlisle was always quite pleasant to the girl?”

“Yes. 'Twas the way she looked at her.”

“Yes—yes—yes. But we can't go by that sort of thing. You're Irish, I think?”

“I am that.”

“And the Irish have rather a vivid imagination, haven't they?”

Nurse O'Brien cried excitedly:

“Every word I've told you is the truth.”

III

Mr. Abbott, the grocer, in the box. Flustered—unsure of himself (slightly thrilled, though, at his importance). His evidence was short. The purchase of two pots of fish paste. The accused had said, “There's a lot of food poisoning with fish paste.” She had seemed excited and queer.

No cross-examination.