The Labours of Hercules. Агата Кристи

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!’

      X

      ‘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

      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 realized 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!’