reason for believing otherwise.”
“That, mon ami, is one side of the question. Now 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, desired 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, 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's 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, mon ami, is one side of the question. Now 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, desired 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, 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's 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
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