The Labours of Hercules hp-26 Read online

  "Has the man found out anything about Shan Tung?"

  "Yes. He got me my money back all right."

  "Who was it?"

  "He didn't say. Very close fellow, Hercule Poirot. But you needn't worry."

  "He's a funny little man, isn't he?"

  Sir Joseph gave a slight shiver and threw a sideways glance upwards as though he felt the invisible presence of Hercule Poirot behind his right shoulder. He had an idea that he would always feel it there.

  He said: "He's a damned clever little devil!"

  And he thought to himself: "Greta can go hang! I'm not going to risk my neck for any damned platinum blonde!"

  XI

  "Oh!"

  Amy Carnaby gazed down incredulously at the cheque for two hundred pounds. She cried: "Emily! Emily! Listen to this.

  Dear Miss Carnaby,

  Allow me to enclose a contribution to your very deserving Fund before it is finally wound up.

  Yours very truly,

  Hercule Poirot."

  "Amy," said Emily Carnaby, "you've been incredibly lucky. Think where you might be now."

  "Wormwood Scrubbs – or is it Holloway?" murmured Amy Carnaby. "But that's all over now – isn't it, Augustus? No more walks to the Park with mother or mother's friends and a little pair of scissors."

  A far away wistfulness came into her eyes. She sighed.

  "Dear Augustus! It seems a pity. He's so clever… One can teach him anything."

  Chapter 2

  THE LERNEAN HYDRA

  I

  Hercule Poirot looked encouragingly at the man seated opposite him.

  Dr Charles Oldfield was a man of perhaps forty. He had fair hair slightly grey at the temples and blue eyes that held a worried expression. He stooped a little and his manner was a trifle hesitant. Moreover, he seemed to find difficulty in coming to the point.

  He said, stammering slightly: "I've come to you, M. Poirot, with rather an odd request. And now that I'm here, I'm inclined to funk the whole thing. Because, as I see very well now, it's the sort of thing that no one can possibly do anything about."

  Hercule Poirot murmured: "As to that, you must let me judge."

  Oldfield muttered: "I don't know why I thought that perhaps -"

  He broke off.

  Hercule Poirot finished the sentence.

  "That perhaps I could help you? Eh bien, perhaps I can. Tell me your problem."

  Oldfield straightened himself. Poirot noted anew how haggard the man looked.

  Oldfield said, and his voice had a note of hopelessness in it: "You see, it isn't any good going to the police… They can't do anything. And yet – every day it's getting worse and worse. I – I don't know what to do…"

  "What is getting worse?"

  "The rumours… Oh, it's quite simple, M. Poirot. Just a little over a year ago, my wife died. She had been an invalid for some years. They are saying, everyone is saying, that I killed her – that I poisoned her!"

  "Aha," said Poirot. "And did you poison her?"

  "M. Poirot!" Dr Oldfield sprang to his feet.

  "Calm yourself," said Hercule Poirot. "And sit down again. We will take it, then, that you did not poison your wife. But your practice, I imagine, is situated in a country district -"

  "Yes. Market Loughborough – in Berkshire. I have always realised that it was the kind of place where people gossiped a good deal, but I never imagined that it could reach the lengths it has done." He drew his chair a little forward. "M. Poirot, you have no idea of what I have gone through. At first I had no inkling of what was going on. I did notice that people seemed less friendly, that there was a tendency to avoid me – but I put it down to – to the fact of my recent bereavement. Then it became more marked. In the street, even, people will cross the road to avoid speaking to me. My practice is falling off. Wherever I go I am conscious of lowered voices, of unfriendly eyes that watch me whilst malicious tongues whisper their deadly poison. I have had one or two letters – vile things."

  He paused – and then went on: "And – and I don't know what to do about it. I don't know how to fight this – this vile network of lies and suspicion. How can one refute what is never said openly to your face? I am powerless – trapped – and slowly and mercilessly being destroyed."

  Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully.

  He said: "Yes. Rumour is indeed the nine-headed Hydra of Lernea which cannot be exterminated because as fast as one head is cropped off two grow in its place."

  Dr Oldfield said: "That's just it. There's nothing I can do – nothing! I came to you as a last resort – but I don't suppose for a minute that there is anything you can do either."

  Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: "I am not so sure. Your problem interests me, Doctor Oldfield. I should like to try my hand at destroying the many-headed monster. First of all, tell me a little more about the circumstances which gave rise to this malicious gossip. Your wife died, you say, just over a year ago. What was the cause of death?"

  "Gastric ulcer."

  "Was there an autopsy?"

  "No. She had been suffering from gastric trouble over a considerable period."

  Poirot nodded. "And the symptoms of gastric inflammation and of arsenical poisoning are closely alike – a fact which everybody knows nowadays. Within the last ten years there have been at least four sensational murder cases in each of which the victim has been buried without suspicion with a certificate of gastric disorder. Was your wife older or younger than yourself?"

  "She was five years older."

  "How long had you been married?"

  "Fifteen years."

  "Did she leave any property?"

  "Yes. She was a fairly well-to-do woman. She left, roughly, about thirty thousand pounds."

  "A very useful sum. It was left to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you and your wife on good terms? "

  "Certainly."

  "No quarrels? No scenes?"

  "Well -" Charles Oldfield hesitated. "My wife was what might be termed a difficult woman. She was an invalid and very concerned over her health and inclined, therefore, to be fretful and difficult to please. There were days when nothing I could do was right."

  Poirot nodded. He said: "Ah yes, I know the type. She would complain, possibly, that she was neglected, unappreciated – that her husband was tired of her and would be glad when she was dead."

  Oldfield's face registered the truth of Poirot's surmise.

  He said with a wry smile: "You've got it exactly!"

  Poirot went on: "Did she have a hospital nurse to attend on her? Or a companion? Or a devoted maid?"

  "A nurse-companion. A very sensible and competent woman. I really don't think she would talk."

  "Even the sensible and the competent have been given tongues by le bon Dieu – and they do not always employ their tongues wisely. I have no doubt that the nurse-companion talked, that the servants talked, that everyone talked! You have all the materials there for the starting of a very enjoyable village scandal. Now I will ask you one thing more. Who is the lady?"

  "I don't understand." Dr Oldfield flushed angrily.

  Poirot said gently: "I think you do. I am asking you who the lady is with whom your name has been coupled."

  Dr Oldfield rose to his feet. His face was stiff and cold.

  He said: "There is no 'lady in the case'. I'm sorry, M. Poirot, to have taken up so much of your time."

  He went toward the door.

  Hercule Poirot said: "I regret it also. Your case interests me. I would like to have helped you. But I cannot do anything unless I am told the whole truth."

  "I have told you the truth."

  "No."

  Dr Oldfield stopped. He wheeled round.

  "Why do you insist that there is a woman concerned in this?"

  "Mon cher docteur! Do you not think I know the female mentality? The village gossip, it is based always, always on the relations of the sexes. If a man poisons his wife in order
to travel to the North Pole or to enjoy the peace of a bachelor existence – it would not interest his fellow villagers for a minute! It is because they are convinced that the murder has been committed in order that the man may marry another woman that the talk grows and spreads. That is elemental psychology."

  Oldfield said irritably: "I'm not responsible for what a pack of damned gossiping busy-bodies think!"

  "Of course you are not." Poirot went on: "So you might as well come back and sit down and give me the answer to the question I asked you just now."

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oldfield came back and resumed his seat.

  He said, colouring up to his eyebrows: "I suppose it's possible that they've been saying things about Miss Moncrieffe. Jean Moncrieffe is my dispenser, a very fine girl indeed."

  "How long has she worked for you?"

  "For three years."

  "Did your wife like her?"

  "Er – well, no, not exactly."

  "She was jealous?"

  "It was absurd!"

  Poirot smiled. He said: "The jealousy of wives is proverbial. But I will tell you something. In my experience jealousy, however far-fetched and extravagant it may seem, is nearly always based on reality. There is a saying, is there not, that the customer is always right? Well, the same is true of the jealous husband or wife. However little concrete evidence there may be, fundamentally they are always right."

  Dr Oldfield said robustly: "Nonsense. I've never said anything to Jean Moncrieffe that my wife couldn't have overheard."

  "That, perhaps. But it does not alter the truth of what I said." Hercule Poirot leaned forward. His voice was urgent, compelling. "Doctor Oldfield, I am going to do my utmost in this case. But I must have from you the most absolute frankness without regard to conventional appearances or to your own feelings. It is true, is it not, that you had ceased to care for your wife for some time before she died?"

  Oldfield was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: "This business is killing me. I must have hope. Somehow or other I feel that you will be able to do something for me. I will be honest with you, M. Poirot. I did not care deeply for my wife. I made her, I think, a good husband, but I was never really in love with her."

  "And this girl, Jean?"

  The perspiration came out in a fine dew on the doctor's forehead.

  He said: "I – I should have asked her to marry me before now if it weren't for all this scandal and talk."

  Poirot sat back in his chair.

  He said: "Now at last we have come to the true facts! Eh bien, Doctor Oldfield, I will take up your case. But remember this – it is the truth that I shall seek out."

  Oldfield said bitterly: "It isn't the truth that's going to hurt me!"

  He hesitated and said: "You know, I've contemplated the possibility of an action for slander! If I could pin anyone down to a definite accusation – surely then I should be vindicated? At least, sometimes I think so… At other times I think it would only make things worse – give bigger publicity to the whole thing and have people saying: 'It mayn't have been proved but there's no smoke without fire'."

  He looked at Poirot.

  "Tell me, honestly, is there any way out of this nightmare?"

  "There is always a way," said Hercule Poirot.

  II

  "We are going into the country, Georges," said Hercule Poirot to his valet.

  "Indeed, sir?" said the imperturbable George.

  "And the purpose of our journey is to destroy a monster with nine heads."

  "Really, sir? Something after the style of the Loch Ness Monster?"

  "Less tangible than that. I did not refer to a flesh and blood animal, Georges."

  "I misunderstood you, sir."

  "It would be easier if it were one. There is nothing so intangible, so difficult to pin down, as the source of a rumour."

  "Oh yes, indeed, sir. It's difficult to know how a thing starts sometimes."

  "Exactly."

  Hercule Poirot did not put up at Dr Oldfield's house. He went instead to the local inn. The morning after his arrival, he had his first interview with Jean Moncrieffe.

  She was a tall girl with copper-coloured hair and steady blue eyes. She had about her a watchful look, as of one who is upon her guard.

  She said: "So Doctor Oldfield did go to you. I knew he was thinking about it."

  There was a lack of enthusiasm in her tone.

  Poirot said: "And you did not approve?"

  Her eyes met his. She said coldly: "What can you do?"

  Poirot said quietly: "There might be a way of tackling the situation."

  "What way?" She threw the words at him scornfully. "Do you mean to go round to all the whispering old women and say 'Really, please, you must stop talking like this. It's so bad for poor Doctor Oldfield.' And they'd answer you and say: 'Of course, I have never believed the story!" That's the worst of the whole thing – they don't say: 'My dear, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Mrs Oldfield's death wasn't quite what it seemed?' No, they say: 'My dear, of course I don't believe that story about Doctor Oldfield and his wife. I'm sure he wouldn't do such a thing, though it's true that he did neglect her just a little perhaps and I don't think, really it's quite wise to have quite a young girl as his dispenser – of course, I'm not saying for a minute that there was anything wrong between them. Oh no, I'm sure it was quite all right…'" She stopped. Her face was flushed and her breath came rather fast.

  Hercule Poirot said: "You seem to know very well just what is being said."

  Her mouth closed sharply. She said bitterly: "I know all right!"

  "And what is your own solution?"

  Jean Moncrieffe said: "The best thing for him to do is to sell his practice and start again somewhere else."

  "Don't you think the story might follow him?"

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  "He must risk that."

  Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: "Are you going to marry Doctor Oldfield, Miss Moncrieffe?" She displayed no surprise at the question.

  She said shortly: "He hasn't asked me to marry him."

  "Why not?"

  Her blue eyes met his and flickered for a second. Then she said: "Because I've choked him off."

  "Ah, what a blessing to find someone who can be frank!"

  "I will be as frank as you please. When I realised that people were saying that Charles had got rid of his wife in order to marry me, it seemed to me that if we did marry it would just put the lid on things. I hoped that if there appeared to be no question of marriage between us, the silly scandal might die down."

  "But it hasn't?"

  "No, it hasn't."

  "Surely," said Hercule Poirot, "that is a little odd?"

  Jean said bitterly: "They haven't got much to amuse them down here."

  Poirot asked: "Do you want to marry Charles Oldfield?"

  The girl answered coolly enough.

  "Yes, I do. I wanted to almost as soon as I met him."

  "Then his wife's death was very convenient for you?"

  Jean Moncrieffe said: "Mrs Oldfield was a singularly unpleasant woman. Frankly, I was delighted when she died."

  "Yes," said Poirot. "You are certainly frank!"

  She gave the same scornful smile.

  Poirot said: "I have a suggestion to make."

  "Yes?"

  "Drastic means are required here. I suggest that somebody – possibly yourself – might write to the Home Office."

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "I mean that the best way of disposing of this story once and for all is to get the body exhumed and an autopsy performed."

  She took a step back from him. Her lips opened, then shut again. Poirot watched her.

  "Well, Mademoiselle?" he said at last.

  Jean Moncrieffe said quietly: "I don't agree with you."

  "But why not? Surely a verdict of death from natural causes would silence all tongues?"

  "If you got that verdict, yes."<
br />
  "Do you know what you are suggesting, Mademoiselle?"

  Jean Moncrieffe said impatiently: "I know what I'm talking about. You're thinking of arsenic poisoning – you could prove that she was not poisoned by arsenic. But there are other poisons – the vegetable alkaloids. After a year, I doubt if you'd find any traces of them even if they had been used. And I know what these official analyst people are like. They might return a non-committal verdict saying that there was nothing to show what caused death – and then the tongues would wag faster than ever!"

  Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said: "Who in your opinion is the most inveterate talker in the village?"

  The girl considered. She said at last: "I really think old Miss Leatheran is the worst cat of the lot."

  "Ah! Would it be possible for you to introduce me to Miss Leatheran – in a casual manner if possible?"

  "Nothing could be easier. All the old tabbies are prowling about doing their shopping at this time of the morning. We've only got to walk down the main street."

  As Jean had said, there was no difficulty about the procedure. Outside the post office, Jean stopped and spoke to a tall, thin middle-aged woman with a long nose and sharp inquisitive eyes.

  "Good-morning, Miss Leatheran."

  "Good-morning, Jean. Such a lovely day, is it not?"

  The sharp eyes ranged inquisitively over Jean Moncrieffe's companion.

  Jean said: "Let me introduce M. Poirot, who is staying down here for a few days."

  III

  Nibbling delicately at a scone and balancing a cup of tea on his knee, Hercule Poirot allowed himself to become confidential with his hostess. Miss Leatheran had been kind enough to ask him to tea and had thereupon made it her business to find out exactly what this exotic little foreigner was doing in their midst.

  For some time he parried her thrusts with dexterity – thereby whetting her appetite. Then, when he judged the moment ripe, he leant forward: "Ah, Miss Leatheran," he said. "I can see that you are too clever for me! You have guessed my secret. I am down here at the request of the Home Office. But please," he lowered his voice, "keep this information to yourself."