Agatha Christie Collection - 3 Novels And 25 Short Stories. Agatha Christie

most awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I understand now----”

      “What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me.”

      “I see everything now,” said Lawrence. “The drugged coco, taken on top of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay.”

      “Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it.”

      “What?” The cry of surprise was universal.

      “No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp’s room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had played her the same trick.

      “What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she heated up her coco, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the coco contained no strychnine. The coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered between seven and nine o’clock that evening. What third medium was there--a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?” Poirot looked round the room, and then answered himself impressively. “Her medicine!”

      “Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her tonic?” I cried.

      “There was no need to introduce it. It was already there--in the mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:

      “‘The following prescription has become famous in text books: Strychninae Sulph ... ... gr.I Potass Bromide ... ... . 3vi Aqua ad ... ... ... . . 3viii Fiat Mistura

      This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!”

      “Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins’ prescription, but you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp’s medicine was always extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom of it undisturbed.

      “Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp’s bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from home, so that the last--and fatal--dose was actually taken twenty-four hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that delay that the final proof--the last link of the chain--is now in my hands.”

      Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper.

      “A letter in the murderer’s own hand-writing, mes amis! Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger, but not the manner of it.”

      In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read:

      “‘Dearest Evelyn:

      ‘You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right--only it will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There’s a good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false step----’

      “Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all know this hand-writing and----”

      A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence.

      “You devil! How did you get it?”

      A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash.

      “Messieurs, mesdames,” said Poirot, with a flourish, “let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!”

      CHAPTER XIII - Poirot Explains

      “Poirot, you old villain,” I said, “I’ve half a mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?”

      We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity.

      Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said:

      “I did not deceive you, mon ami. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself.”

      “Yes, but why?”

      “Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that--enfin, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have--in your so expressive idiom--’smelt a rat’! And then, bon jour to our chances of catching him!”

      “I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for.”

      “My friend,” besought Poirot, “I implore you, do not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause.”

      “Well,” I grumbled, a little mollified. “I still think you might have given me a hint.”

      “But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be acquitted?”

      “Yes, but----”

      “And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two entirely different persons?”

      “No,” I said, “it was not plain to me!”

      “Then again,” continued Poirot, “at the beginning, did I not repeat to you several times that I didn’t want Mr. Inglethorp arrested now? That should have conveyed something to you.”

      “Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?”

      “Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp’s death,