Cards on the Table (SB) Page 18
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. The doctor had misread the situation. It was not remorse that had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life.
On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly parlourmaid, who was weeping quietly.
“It’s so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you having tea with her yesterday so nice and quiet. And now today she’s gone. I shall never forget this morning—never as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get to it. And, ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he shot out at me. I was so flustered, I couldn’t hardly answer. You see, we never went in to the mistress till she rang—that was her orders. And I just couldn’t get out anything. And the doctor he says, ‘Where’s her room?’ and ran up the stairs, and me behind him, and I showed him the door, and he rushes in, not so much as knocking, and takes one look at her lying there, and, ‘Too late,’ he says. She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water, and he tried desperate to bring her back, but it couldn’t be done. And then the police coming and all—it isn’t—it isn’t—decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn’t have liked it. And why the police? It’s none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake.”
Poirot did not reply to her question.
He said:
“Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried at all?”
“No, I don’t think so, sir. She was tired—and I think she was in pain. She hasn’t been well lately, sir.”
“No, I know.”
The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.
“She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been worried about her for some time. She couldn’t do as much as she used to do, and things tired her. I think, perhaps, the young lady coming after you left was a bit too much for her.”
With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.
“The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?”
“Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was.”
“Did she stay long?”
“About an hour, sir.”
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
“And afterwards?”
“The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired.”
Again Poirot was silent; then he said:
“Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?”
“Do you mean after she went to bed? I don’t think so, sir.”
“But you are not sure?”
“There were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day.”
“How many were there?”
“Two or three—I’m not quite sure, sir. Three, I think.”
“You—or cook—whoever posted them—did not happen to notice to whom they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost importance.”
“I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one—it was to Fortnum and Mason’s. I couldn’t say as to the others.”
The woman’s tone was earnest and sincere.
“Are you sure there were not more than three letters?”
“Yes, sir, I’m quite certain of that.”
Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then he said:
“You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor’s orders. Dr. Lang.”
“Where was this sleeping medicine kept?”
“In the little cupboard in the mistress’s room.”
Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very grave.
On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried and harassed.
“I’m glad you’ve come, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr. Davidson.”
The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall, melancholy man.
“The luck was against us,” he said. “An hour or two earlier, and we might have saved her.”
“H’m,” said Battle. “I mustn’t say so officially, but I’m not sorry. She was a—well, she was a lady. I don’t know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but she may just conceivably have been justified.”
“In any case,” said Poirot, “it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her trial. She was a very ill woman.”
The surgeon nodded in agreement.
“I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best.”
He started down the stairs.
Battle moved after him.
“One minute, doctor.”
Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, “I may enter—yes?”
Battle nodded over his shoulder. “Quite all right. We’re through.” Poirot passed into the room, closing the door behind him….
He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet, dead face.
He was very disturbed.
Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl from death and disgrace—or was there a different, a more sinister explanation?
There were certain facts….
Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark, discoloured bruise on the dead woman’s arm.
He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, catlike gleam in his eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognized.
He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said:
“He hasn’t come back, sir.”
Battle said:
“Despard. I’ve been trying to get him. There’s a letter for him with the Chelsea postmark all right.”
Poirot asked an irrelevant question.
“Had Dr. Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?”
Battle stared.
“No,” he said, “I remember he mentioned that he’d come out without it.”
“Then he will be at his house now. We can get him.”
“But why—?”
But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke:
“Dr. Roberts? It is Dr. Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one question. Are you well acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?”
“Mrs. Lorrimer’s handwriting? I—no, I don’t know that I’d ever seen it before.”
“Je vous remercie.”
Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.
Battle was staring at him.
“What’s the big idea, M. Poirot?” he asked quietly.
Poirot took him by the arm.
“Listen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday Anne Meredith arrived. I actually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite sure of her identity at the time. Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs. Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, she did not write any letters then. And, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to you our interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did she write them, then?”
“After the servants had gone to bed?” suggested Battle. “She got up and posted them herself.”
“That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility—that she did not write them at all.”
Battle whistled.
“My God, you mean—”
The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a minute, then turned to Battle.
“Sergeant O’Connor speaking from Despard’s flat, sir. There’s reason to believe that Despard’s down at Wallingford-on-Thames.”
Poirot caught Battle by the arm.
“Quickly, my friend. We, too, must go to Wallingfor
d. I tell you, I am not easy in my mind. This may not be the end. I tell you again, my friend, this young lady, she is dangerous.”
Twenty-nine
ACCIDENT
“Anne,” said Rhoda.
“Mmm?”
“No, really, Anne, don’t answer with half your mind on a crossword puzzle. I want you to attend to me.”
“I am attending.”
Anne sat bolt upright and put down the paper.
“That’s better. Look here, Anne.” Rhoda hesitated. “About this man coming.”
“Superintendent Battle?”
“Yes, Anne, I wish you’d tell him—about being at the Bensons.’”
Anne’s voice grew rather cold.
“Nonsense. Why should I?”
“Because—well, it might look—as though you’d been keeping something back. I’m sure it would be better to mention it.”
“I can’t very well now,” said Anne coldly.
“I wish you had in the first place.”
“Well, it’s too late to bother about that now.”
“Yes.” Rhoda did not sound convinced.
Anne said rather irritably:
“In any case, I can’t see why. It’s got nothing to do with all this.”
“No, of course not.”
“I was only there about two months. He only wants these things as—well—references. Two months doesn’t count.”
“No, I know. I expect I’m being rather foolish, but it does worry me rather. I feel you ought to mention it. You see, if it came out some other way, it might look rather bad—your keeping dark about it, I mean.”
“I don’t see how it can come out. Nobody knows but you.”
“N-no?”
Anne pounced on the slight hesitation in Rhoda’s voice.
“Why, who does know?”
“Well, everyone at Combeacre,” said Rhoda after a moment’s silence.
“Oh, that!” Anne dismissed it with a shrug. “The superintendent isn’t likely to come up against anyone from there. It would be an extraordinary coincidence if he did.”
“Coincidences happen.”
“Rhoda, you’re being extraordinary about this. Fuss, fuss, fuss.”
“I’m terribly sorry, darling. Only you know what the police might be like if they thought you were—well—hiding things.”
“They won’t know. Who’s to tell them? Nobody knows but you.”
It was the second time she had said those words. At this second repetition her voice changed a little—something queer and speculative came into it.
“Oh, dear, I wish you would,” sighed Rhoda unhappily.
She looked guiltily at Anne, but Anne was not looking at her. She was sitting with a frown on her face, as though working out some calculation.
“Rather fun, Major Despard turning up,” said Rhoda.
“What? Oh, yes.”
“Anne, he is attractive. If you don’t want him, do, do, do hand him over to me!”
“Don’t be absurd, Rhoda. He doesn’t care tuppence for me.”
“Then why does he keep on turning up? Of course he’s keen on you. You’re just the sort of distressed damsel that he’d enjoy rescuing. You look so beautifully helpless, Anne.”
“He’s equally pleasant to both of us.”
“That’s only his niceness. But if you don’t want him, I could do the sympathetic friend act—console his broken heart, etc., etc., and in the end I might get him. Who knows?” Rhoda concluded inelegantly.
“I’m sure you’re quite welcome to him, my dear,” said Anne, laughing.
“He’s got such a lovely back to his neck,” sighed Rhoda. “Very brick red and muscular.”
“Darling, must you be so mawkish?”
“Do you like him, Anne?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Aren’t we prim and sedate? I think he likes me a little—not as much as you, but a little.”
“Oh, but he does like you,” said Anne.
Again there was an unusual note in her voice, but Rhoda did not hear it.
“What time is our sleuth coming?” she asked.
“Twelve,” said Anne. She was silent for a minute or two, then she said, “It’s only half past ten now. Let’s go out on the river.”
“But isn’t—didn’t—didn’t Despard say he’d come round about eleven?”
“Why should we wait in for him? We can leave a message with Mrs. Astwell which way we’ve gone, and he can follow us along the towpath.”
“In fact, don’t make yourself cheap, dear, as mother always said!” laughed Rhoda. “Come on, then.”
She went out of the room and through the garden door. Anne followed her.
Major Despard called at Wendon Cottage about ten minutes later. He was before his time, he knew, so he was a little surprised to find both girls had already gone out.
He went through the garden and across the fields, and turned to the right along the towpath.
Mrs. Astwell remained a minute or two looking after him, instead of getting on with her morning chores.
“Sweet on one or other of ’em, he is,” she observed to herself. “I think it’s Miss Anne, but I’m not certain. He don’t give much away by his face. Treats ’em both alike. I’m not sure they ain’t both sweet on him, too. If so, they won’t be such dear friends so much longer. Nothing like a gentleman for coming between two young ladies.”
Pleasurably excited by the prospect of assisting at a budding romance, Mrs. Astwell turned indoors to her task of washing up the breakfast things, when once again the doorbell rang.
“Drat that door,” said Mrs. Astwell. “Do it on purpose, they do. Parcel, I suppose. Or might be a telegram.”
She moved slowly to the front door.
Two gentlemen stood there, a small foreign gentleman and an exceedingly English, big, burly gentleman. The latter she had seen before, she remembered.
“Miss Meredith at home?” asked the big man.
Mrs. Astwell shook her head.
“Just gone out.”
“Really? Which way? We didn’t meet her.”
Mrs. Astwell, secretly studying the amazing moustache of the other gentleman, and deciding that they looked an unlikely pair to be friends, volunteered further information.
“Gone out on the river,” she explained.
The other gentleman broke in:
“And the other lady? Miss Dawes?”
“They’ve both gone.”
“Ah, thank you,” said Battle. “Let me see, which way does one get to the river?”
“First turning to the left, down the lane,” Mrs. Astwell replied promptly. “When you get to the towpath, go right. I heard them say that’s the way they were going,” she added helpfully. “Not above a quarter of an hour ago. You’ll soon catch ’em up.”
“And I wonder,” she added to herself as she unwillingly closed the front door, having stared inquisitively at their retreating backs, “who you two might be. Can’t place you, somehow.”
Mrs. Astwell returned to the kitchen sink, and Battle and Poirot duly took the first turning to the left—a straggling lane which soon ended abruptly at the towpath.
Poirot was hurrying along, and Battle eyed him curiously.
“Anything the matter, M. Poirot? You seem in a mighty hurry.”
“It is true. I am uneasy, my friend.”
“Anything particular?”
Poirot shook his head.
“No. But there are possibilities. You never know….”
“You’ve got something in your head,” said Battle. “You were urgent that we should come down here this morning without losing a moment—and, my word, you made Constable Turner step on the gas! What are you afraid of? The girl’s shot her bolt.”
Poirot was silent.
“What are you afraid of?” Battle repeated.
“What is one always afraid of in these cases?”
Battle nodded.
“You’re quite right. I wonder—”
“You wonder what, my friend?”
Battle said slowly:
“I’m wondering if Miss Meredith knows that her friend told Mrs. Oliver a certain fact.”
Poirot nodded his head in vigorous appreciation.
“Hurry, my friend,” he said.
They hastened along the riverbank. There was no craft visible on the water’s surface, but presently they rounded a bend, and Poirot suddenly stopped dead. Battle’s quick eyes saw also.
“Major Despard,” he said.
Despard was about two hundred yards ahead of them, striding along the riverbank.
A little farther on the two girls were in view in a punt on the water, Rhoda punting—Anne lying and laughing up at her. Neither of them were looking towards the bank.
And then—it happened. Anne’s hand outstretched, Rhoda’s stagger, her plunge overboard—her desperate grasp at Anne’s sleeve—the rocking boat—then an overturned punt and two girls struggling in the water.
“See it?” cried Battle as he started to run. “Little Meredith caught her round the ankle and tipped her in. My God, that’s her fourth murder!”
They were both running hard. But someone was ahead of them. It was clear that neither girl could swim, but Despard had run quickly along the path to the nearest point, and now he plunged in and swam towards them.
“Mon Dieu, this is interesting,” cried Poirot. He caught Battle’s arm. “Which of them will he go for first?”
The two girls were not together. About twelve yards separated them.
Despard swam powerfully towards them—there was no check in his stroke. He was making straight for Rhoda.
Battle, in his turn, reached the nearest bank and went in. Despard had just brought Rhoda successfully to shore. He hauled her up, flung her down and plunged in again, swimming towards the spot where Anne had just gone under.
“Be careful,” called Battle. “Weeds.”
He and Battle got to the spot at the same time, but Anne had gone under before they reached her.
They got her at last and between them towed her to the shore.
Rhoda was being ministered to by Poirot. She was sitting up now, her breath coming unevenly.
Despard and Battle laid Anne Meredith down.
“Artificial respiration,” said Battle. “Only thing to do. But I’m afraid she’s gone.”
He set to work methodically. Poirot stood by, ready to relieve him.