The Labours of Hercules. Агата Кристи

Harrison, is there something more that you know? Something that you haven’t told me?’

      She flushed and said violently:

      ‘No. No. Certainly not. What could there be?’

      ‘I do not know. But I thought that there might be–something?’

      She shook her head. The old troubled look had come back.

      Hercule Poirot said: ‘It is possible that the Home Office may order an exhumation of Mrs Oldfield’s body!’

      ‘Oh no!’ Nurse Harrison was horrified. ‘What a horrible thing!’

      ‘You think it would be a pity?’

      ‘I think it would be dreadful! Think of the talk it would create! It would be terrible–quite terrible for poor Doctor Oldfield.’

      ‘You don’t think that it might really be a good thing for him?’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      Poirot said: ‘If he is innocent–his innocence will be proved.’

      He broke off. He watched the thought take root in Nurse Harrison’s mind, saw her frown perplexedly, and then saw her brow clear.

      She took a deep breath and looked at him.

      ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said simply. ‘Of course, it is the only thing to be done.’

      There were a series of thumps on the floor overhead. Nurse Harrison jumped up.

      ‘It’s my old lady, Miss Bristow. She’s woken up from her rest. I must go and get her comfortable before her tea is brought to her and I go out for my walk. Yes, M. Poirot, I think you are quite right. An autopsy will settle the business once and for all. It will scotch the whole thing and all these dreadful rumours against poor Doctor Oldfield will die down.’

      She shook hands and hurried out of the room.

      V

      Hercule Poirot walked along to the post office and put through a call to London.

      The voice at the other end was petulant.

      ‘Must you go nosing out these things, my dear Poirot? Are you sure it’s a case for us? You know what these country town rumours usually amount to–just nothing at all.’

      ‘This,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘is a special case.’

      ‘Oh well–if you say so. You have such a tiresome habit of being right. But if it’s all a mare’s nest we shan’t be pleased with you, you know.’

      Hercule Poirot smiled to himself. He murmured:

      ‘No, I shall be the one who is pleased.’

      ‘What’s that you say? Can’t hear.’

      ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

      He rang off.

      Emerging into the post office he leaned across the counter. He said in his most engaging tones:

      ‘Can you by any chance tell me, Madame, where the maid who was formerly with Dr Oldfield–Beatrice her Christian name was–now resides?’

      ‘Beatrice King? She’s had two places since then. She’s with Mrs Marley over the Bank now.’

      Poirot thanked her, bought two postcards, a book of stamps and a piece of local pottery. During the purchase, he contrived to bring the death of the late Mrs Oldfield into the conversation. He was quick to note the peculiar furtive expression that stole across the post-mistress’s face. She said:

      ‘Very sudden, wasn’t it? It’s made a lot of talk as you may have heard.’

      A gleam of interest came into her eyes as she asked:

      ‘Maybe that’s what you’d be wanting to see Beatrice King for? We all thought it odd the way she was got out of there all of a sudden. Somebody thought she knew something–and maybe she did. She’s dropped some pretty broad hints.’

      Beatrice King was a short rather sly-looking girl with adenoids. She presented an appearance of stolid stupidity but her eyes were more intelligent than her manner would have led one to expect. It seemed, however, that there was nothing to be got out of Beatrice King. She repeated:

      ‘I don’t know nothing about anything…It’s not for me to say what went on up there…I don’t know what you mean by overhearing a conversation betwen the Doctor and Miss Moncrieffe. I’m not one to go listening to doors, and you’ve no right to say I did. I don’t know nothing.’

      Poirot said:

      ‘Have you ever heard of poisoning by arsenic?’

      A flicker of quick furtive interest came into the girl’s sullen face.

      She said:

      ‘So that’s what it was in the medicine bottle?’

      ‘What medicine bottle?’

      Beatrice said:

      ‘One of the bottles of medicine what that Miss Moncrieffe made up for the Missus. Nurse was all upset–I could see that. Tasted it, she did, and smelt it, and then poured it away down the sink and filled up the bottle with plain water from the tap. It was white medicine like water, anyway. And once, when Miss Moncrieffe took up a pot of tea to the Missus, Nurse brought it down again and made it fresh–said it hadn’t been made with boiling water but that was just my eye, that was! I thought it was just the sort of fussing way nurses have at the time–but I dunno–it may have been more than that.’

      Poirot nodded. He said:

      ‘Did you like Miss Moncrieffe, Beatrice?’

      ‘I didn’t mind her…A bit standoffish. Of course, I always knew as she was sweet on the doctor. You’d only to see the way she looked at him.’

      Again Poirot nodded his head. He went back to the inn.

      There he gave certain instructions to George.

      VI

      Dr Alan Garcia, the Home Office Analyst, rubbed his hands and twinkled at Hercule Poirot. He said:

      ‘Well, this suits you, M. Poirot, I suppose? The man who’s always right.’

      Poirot said:

      ‘You are too kind.’

      ‘What put you on to it? Gossip?’

      ‘As you say–Enter Rumour, painted full of tongues.’

      The following day Poirot once more took a train to Market Loughborough.

      Market Loughborough was buzzing like a beehive. It had buzzed mildly ever since the exhumation proceedings.

      Now that the findings of the autopsy had leaked out, excitement had reached fever heat.

      Poirot had been at the inn for about an hour and had just finished a hearty lunch of steak and kidney pudding washed down by beer when word was brought to him that a lady was waiting to see him.

      It was Nurse Harrison. Her face was white and haggard.

      She came straight to Poirot.

      ‘Is this true? Is this really true, M. Poirot?’

      He put her gently into a chair.

      ‘Yes. More than sufficient arsenic to cause death has been found.’

      Nurse Harrison cried:

      ‘I never thought–I never for one moment thought–’ and burst into tears.

      Poirot said gently:

      ‘The truth had to come out, you know.’

      She sobbed.

      ‘Will they hang him?’

      Poirot