Sad Cypress Read online

Nurse Hopkins said:

  “He’s a nice enough young fellow. Nervy, though. Looks as though he might be dyspeptic later on. Those nervy ones often are.”

  “Was he very fond of his aunt?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Did he sit with her much when she was so ill?”

  “You mean when she had that second stroke? The night before she died when they came down? I don’t believe he even went into her room!”

  “Really.”

  Nurse Hopkins said quickly:

  “She didn’t ask for him. And, of course, we’d no idea the end was so near. There are a lot of men like that, you know: fight shy of a sickroom. They can’t help it. And it’s not heartlessness. They just don’t want to be upset in their feelings.”

  Poirot nodded comprehendingly.

  He said:

  “Are you sure Mr. Welman did not go into his aunt’s room before she died?”

  “Well not while I was on duty! Nurse O’Brien relieved me at 3 a.m., and she may have fetched him before the end; but, if so, she didn’t mention it to me.”

  Poirot suggested:

  “He may have gone into her room when you were absent?”

  Nurse Hopkins snapped:

  “I don’t leave my patients unattended, Mr. Poirot.”

  “A thousand apologies. I did not mean that. I thought perhaps you might have had to boil water, or to run downstairs for some necessary stimulant.”

  Mollified, Nurse Hopkins said:

  “I did go down to change the bottles and get them refilled. I knew there’d be a kettle on the boil down in the kitchen.”

  “You were away long?”

  “Five minutes, perhaps.”

  “Ah, yes, then Mr. Welman may have just looked in on her then?”

  “He must have been very quick about it if he did.”

  Poirot sighed. He said:

  “As you say, men fight shy of illness. It is the women who are the ministering angels. What should we do without them? Especially women of your profession—a truly noble calling.”

  Nurse Hopkins, slightly red in the face, said:

  “It’s very kind of you to say that. I’ve never thought of it that way myself. Too much hard work in nursing to think about the noble side of it.”

  Poirot said:

  “And there is nothing else you can tell me about Mary Gerrard?”

  There was an appreciable pause before Nurse Hopkins answered:

  “I don’t know of anything.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  Nurse Hopkins said rather incoherently:

  “You don’t understand. I was fond of Mary.”

  “And there is nothing more you can tell me?”

  “No, there is not! And that’s flat.”

  Four

  In the awesome majesty of Mrs. Bishop’s black-clad presence Hercule Poirot sat humbly insignificant.

  The thawing of Mrs. Bishop was no easy matter. For Mrs. Bishop, a lady of Conservative habits and views, strongly disapproved of foreigners. And a foreigner most indubitably Hercule Poirot was. Her responses were frosty and she eyed him with disfavour and suspicion.

  Dr. Lord’s introduction of him had done little to soften the situation.

  “I am sure,” said Mrs. Bishop when Dr. Lord had gone, “Dr. Lord is a very clever doctor and means well. Dr. Ransome, his predecessor, had been here many years!”

  Dr. Ransome, that is to say, could be trusted to behave in a manner suitable to the county. Dr. Lord, a mere irresponsible youngster, an upstart who had taken Dr. Ransome’s place, had only one recommendation: “cleverness” in his profession.

  Cleverness, the whole demeamour of Mrs. Bishop seemed to say, is not enough!

  Hercule Poirot was persuasive. He was adroit. But charm he never so wisely, Mrs. Bishop remained aloof and implacable.

  The death of Mrs. Welman had been very sad. She had been much respected in the neighbourhood. The arrest of Miss Carlisle was “Disgraceful!” and believed to be the result of “these newfangled police methods.” The views of Mrs. Bishop upon the death of Mary Gerrard were vague in the extreme. “I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” being the most she could be brought to say.

  Hercule Poirot played his last card. He recounted with naïve pride a recent visit of his to Sandringham. He spoke with admiration of the graciousness and delightful simplicity and kindness of Royalty.

  Mrs. Bishop, who followed daily in the court circular the exact movements of Royalty, was overborne. After all, if They had sent for Mr. Poirot… Well, naturally, that made All the Difference. Foreigner or no foreigner, who was she, Emma Bishop, to hold back where Royalty had led the way?

  Presently she and M. Poirot were engaged in pleasant conversation on a really interesting theme—no less than the selection of a suitable future husband for Princess Elizabeth.

  Having finally exhausted all possible candidates as Not Good Enough, the talk reverted to less exalted circles.

  Poirot observed sententiously:

  “Marriage, alas, is fraught with dangers and pitfalls!”

  Mrs. Bishop said:

  “Yes, indeed—with this nasty divorce,” rather as though she were speaking of a contagious disease such as chickenpox.

  “I expect,” said Poirot, “that Mrs. Welman, before her death, must have been anxious to see her niece suitably settled in life?”

  Mrs. Bishop bowed her head.

  “Yes, indeed. The engagement between Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick was a great relief to her. It was a thing she had always hoped for.”

  Poirot ventured:

  “The engagement was perhaps entered into partly from a wish to please her?”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Poirot. Miss Elinor has always been devoted to Mr. Roddy—always was, as a tiny tot—quite beautiful to see. Miss Elinor has a very loyal and devoted nature!”

  Poirot murmured:

  “And he?”

  Mrs. Bishop said austerely:

  “Mr. Roderick was devoted to Miss Elinor.”

  Poirot said:

  “Yet the engagement, I think, was broken off?”

  The colour rose in Mrs. Bishop’s face. She said:

  “Owing, Mr. Poirot, to the machinations of a snake in the grass.”

  Poirot said, appearing suitably impressed:

  “Indeed?”

  Mrs. Bishop, her face becoming redder still, explained:

  “In this country, Mr. Poirot, there is a certain Decency to be observed when mentioning the Dead. But that young woman, Mr. Poirot, was Underhand in her Dealings.”

  Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.

  Then he said with an apparent lack of guile:

  “You surprise me. I had been given the impression that she was a very simple and unassuming girl.”

  Mrs. Bishop’s chin trembled a little.

  “She was Artful, Mr. Poirot. People were Taken In by her. That Nurse Hopkins, for instance! Yes, and my poor dear mistress too!”

  Poirot shook his head sympathetically and made a clacking noise with his tongue.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Bishop, stimulated by these encouraging noises. “She was failing, poor dear, and that young woman Wormed her way into her Confidence. She knew which side of her bread was buttered. Always hovering about, reading to her, bringing her little nosegays of flowers. It was Mary this and Mary that and ‘Where’s Mary?’ all the time! The money she spent on the girl, too! Expensive schools and finishing places abroad—and the girl nothing but old Gerrard’s daughter! He didn’t like it, I can tell you! Used to complain of her Fine Lady ways. Above Herself, that’s what She was.”

  This time Poirot shook his head and said commiseratingly:

  “Dear, dear.”

  “And then Making Up to Mr. Roddy the way she did! He was too simple to see through Her. And Miss Elinor, a nice-minded young lady as she is, of course she wouldn’t realize what was Going On. But Men, they are all alike: easily caught by flattery and a pre
tty face!”

  Poirot sighed.

  “She had, I suppose, admirers of her own class?” he asked.

  “Of course she had. There was Rufus Bigland’s son Ted—as nice a boy as you could find. But oh, no, my fine lady was too good for him! I’d no patience with such airs and graces!”

  Poirot said:

  “Was he not angry about her treatment of him?”

  “Yes, indeed. He accused her of carrying on with Mr. Roddy. I know that for a fact. I don’t blame the boy for feeling sore!”

  “Nor I,” said Poirot. “You interest me extremely, Mrs. Bishop. Some people have the knack of presenting a character clearly and vigorously in a few words. It is a great gift. I have at last a clear picture of Mary Gerrard.”

  “Mind you,” said Mrs. Bishop, “I’m not saying a word against the girl! I wouldn’t do such a thing—and she in her grave. But there’s no doubt that she caused a lot of trouble!”

  Poirot murmured:

  “Where would it have ended, I wonder?”

  “That’s what I say!” said Mrs. Bishop. “You can take it from me, Mr. Poirot, that if my dear mistress hadn’t died when she did—awful as the shock was at the time, I see now that it was a Mercy in Disguise—I don’t know what might have been the end of it!”

  Poirot said invitingly:

  “You mean?”

  Mrs. Bishop said solemnly:

  “I’ve come across it time and again. My own sister was in service where it happened. Once when old Colonel Randolph died and left every penny away from his poor wife to a hussy living at Eastbourne—and once old Mrs. Dacres—left it to the organist of the church—one of those long-haired young men—and she with married sons and daughters.”

  Poirot said:

  “You mean, I take it, that Mrs. Welman might have left all her money to Mary Gerrard?”

  “It wouldn’t have surprised me!” said Mrs. Bishop. “That’s what the young woman was working up to, I’ve no doubt. And if I ventured to say a word, Mrs. Welman was ready to bite my head off, though I’d been with her nearly twenty years. It’s an ungrateful world, Mr. Poirot. You try to do your duty and it is not appreciated.”

  “Alas,” sighed Poirot, “how true that is!”

  “But Wickedness doesn’t always flourish,” said Mrs. Bishop.

  Poirot said:

  “True. Mary Gerrard is dead….”

  Mrs. Bishop said comfortably:

  “She’s gone to her reckoning, and we mustn’t judge her.”

  Poirot mused:

  “The circumstances of her death seem quite inexplicable.”

  “These police and their newfangled ideas,” said Mrs. Bishop. “Is it likely that a well-bred, nicely brought up young lady like Miss Elinor would go about poisoning anyone? Trying to drag me into it, too, saying I said her manner was peculiar!”

  “But was it not peculiar?”

  “And why shouldn’t it be?” Mrs. Bishop’s bust heaved with a flash of jet. “Miss Elinor’s a young lady of feelings. She was going to turn out her aunt’s things—and that’s always a painful business.”

  Poirot nodded sympathetically.

  He said:

  “It would have made it much easier for her if you had accompanied her.”

  “I wanted to, Mr. Poirot, but she took me up quite sharp. Oh, well, Miss Elinor was always a very proud and reserved young lady. I wish, though, that I had gone with her.”

  Poirot murmured:

  “You did not think of following her up to the house?”

  Mrs. Bishop reared her head majestically.

  “I don’t go where I’m not wanted, Mr. Poirot.”

  Poirot looked abashed. He murmured:

  “Besides, you had doubtless matters of importance to attend to that morning?”

  “It was a very warm day, I remember. Very sultry.” She sighed. “I walked to the cemetery to place a few flowers on Mrs. Welman’s grave, a token of respect, and I had to rest there quite a long time. Quite overcome by the heat, I was. I got home late for lunch, and my sister was quite upset when she saw the State of Heat I was in! Said I never should have done it on a day like that.”

  Poirot looked at her with admiration.

  He said:

  “I envy you, Mrs. Bishop. It is pleasant indeed to have nothing with which to reproach oneself after a death. Mr. Roderick Welman, I fancy, must blame himself for not going in to see his aunt that night, though naturally he could not know she was going to pass away so soon.”

  “Oh, but you’re quite wrong, Mr. Poirot. I can tell you that for a fact. Mr. Roddy did go into his aunt’s room. I was just outside on the landing myself. I’d heard that nurse go off downstairs, and I thought maybe I’d better make sure the mistress wasn’t needing anything, for you know what nurses are: always staying downstairs to gossip with the maids, or else worrying them to death by asking them for things. Not that Nurse Hopkins was as bad as that red-haired Irish nurse. Always chattering and making trouble, she was! But, as I say, I thought I’d just see everything was all right, and it was then that I saw Mr. Roddy slip into his aunt’s room. I don’t know whether she knew him or not; but anyway he hasn’t got anything to reproach himself with!”

  Poirot said:

  “I am glad. He is of a somewhat nervous disposition.”

  “Just a trifle cranky. He always has been.”

  Poirot said:

  “Mrs. Bishop, you are evidently a woman of great understanding. I have formed a high regard for your judgement. What do you think is the truth about the death of Mary Gerrard?”

  Mrs. Bishop snorted.

  “Clear enough, I should think! One of those nasty pots of paste of Abbott’s. Keeps them on those shelves for months! My second cousin was took ill and nearly died once, with tinned crab!”

  Poirot objected:

  “But what about the morphine found in the body?”

  Mrs. Bishop said grandly:

  “I don’t know anything about morphine! I know what doctors are: Tell them to look for something, and they’ll find it! Tainted fish paste isn’t good enough for them!”

  Poirot said:

  “You do not think it possible that she committed suicide?”

  “She?” Mrs. Bishop snorted. “No indeed. Hadn’t she made up her mind to marry Mr. Roddy? Catch her committing suicide!”

  Five

  Since it was a Sunday, Hercule Poirot found Ted Bigland at his father’s farm.

  There was little difficulty in getting Ted Bigland to talk. He seemed to welcome the opportunity—as though it was a relief.

  He said thoughtfully:

  “So you’re trying to find out who killed Mary? It’s a black mystery, that.”

  Poirot said:

  “You do not believe that Miss Carlisle killed her, then?”

  Ted Bigland frowned—a puzzled, almost childlike frown it was.

  He said slowly:

  “Miss Elinor’s a lady. She’s the kind—well, you couldn’t imagine her doing anything like that—anything violent, if you know what I mean. After all, ’tisn’t likely, is it, sir, that a nice young lady would go and do a thing of that kind?”

  Hercule Poirot nodded in a contemplative manner.

  He said:

  “No, it is not likely… But when it comes to jealousy—”

  He paused, watching the good-looking, fair young giant before him.

  Ted Bigland said:

  “Jealousy? I know things happen that way; but it’s usually drink and getting worked up that makes a fellow see red and run amok. Miss Elinor—a nice quiet young lady like that—”

  Poirot said:

  “But Mary Gerrard died…and she did not die a natural death. Have you any idea—is there anything you can tell me to help me find out—who killed Mary Gerrard?”

  Slowly the other shook his head.

  He said:

  “It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem possible, if you take my meaning, that anyone could have killed Mary. She was—she
was like a flower.”

  And suddenly, for a vivid minute, Hercule Poirot had a new conception of the dead girl… In that halting rustic voice the girl Mary lived and bloomed again. “She was like a flower.”

  II

  There was suddenly a poignant sense of loss, of something exquisite destroyed….

  In his mind phrase after phrase succeeded each other. Peter Lord’s “She was a nice kid.” Nurse Hopkins’ “She could have gone on the films any time.” Mrs. Bishop’s venomous “No patience with her airs and graces.” And now last, putting to shame, laying aside those other views, the quiet wondering: “She was like a flower.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “But, then…?”

  He spread out his hands in a wide, appealing foreign gesture.

  Ted Bigland nodded his head. His eyes had still the dumb, glazed look of an animal in pain.

  He said:

  “I know, sir. I know what you say’s true. She didn’t die natural. But I’ve been wondering….”

  He paused.

  Poirot said:

  “Yes?”

  Ted Bigland said slowly:

  “I’ve been wondering if in some way it couldn’t have been an accident?”

  “An accident? But what kind of an accident?”

  “I know, sir. I know. It doesn’t sound like sense. But I keep thinking and thinking, and it seems to me it must have been that way. Something that wasn’t meant to happen or something that was all a mistake. Just—well, just an accident!”

  He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own lack of eloquence.

  Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be considering. He said at last:

  “It is interesting that you feel that.”

  Ted Bigland said deprecatingly:

  “I dare say it doesn’t make sense to you, sir. I can’t figure out any how and why about it. It’s just a feeling I’ve got.”

  Hercule Poirot said:

  “Feeling is sometimes an important guide… You will pardon me, I hope, if I seem to tread on painful ground, but you cared very much for Mary Gerrard, did you not?”

  A little dark colour came up in the tanned face.

  Ted said simply:

  “Everyone knows that around here, I reckon.”

  “You wanted to marry her?”