Cards on the Table (SB) (Superintendent Battle 3)

He paused, then said quietly:

“That’s my story, M. Poirot.”

Poirot said slowly:

“It was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at dinner that night?”

Despard nodded.

“He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him.”

“It might have been a dangerous story—to you—in the hands of a man like Shaitana.”

Despard shrugged his shoulders.

“I wasn’t afraid of Shaitana.”

Poirot didn’t answer.

Despard said quietly:

“That again you have to take my word for. It’s true enough, I suppose, that I had a kind of motive for Shaitana’s death. Well, the truth’s out now—take it or leave it.”

Poirot held out a hand.

“I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South America happened exactly as you have described.”

Despard’s face lit up.

“Thanks,” he said laconically.

And he clasped Poirot’s hand warmly.

Twenty-two

EVIDENCE FROM COMBEACRE

Superintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre.

Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire voice.

“That’s how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The doctor was satisfied. Everyone was satisfied. Why not?”

“Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite clear.”

“Syrup of Figs—that’s what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then there was this hat paint she’d been using—or rather the young lady, her companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs. Benson herself said, ‘Put it in that old bottle—the Syrup of Figs bottle.’ That’s all right. The servants heard her. The young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaid—they all agree on that. The paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends.”

“Not relabelled?”

“No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that.”

“Go on.”

“On this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realized what she’d done and they sent off at once for the doctor. He was out on a case, and it was some time before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died.”

“She herself believed it to be an accident?”

“Oh, yes—everyone thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got mixed-up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but she swears she didn’t.”

Superintendent Battle was silent—thinking. Such an easy business. A bottle taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a mistake like that to its source. Handled with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easy—so simple. But, all the same, murder! The perfect crime.

But why? That still puzzled him—why?

“This young lady-companion, this Miss Meredith, she didn’t come into money at Mrs. Benson’s death?” he asked.

Inspector Harper shook his head.

“No. She’d only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine. Young ladies didn’t stay long as a rule.”

Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn’t stay long. A difficult woman, evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her predecessors had done. No need to kill—unless it were sheer unreasoning vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.

“Who did get Mrs. Benson’s money?”

“I couldn’t say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn’t be very much—not when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one of these annuities.”

Nothing there then. But Mrs. Benson had died. And Anne Meredith had not told him that she had been at Combeacre.

It was all profoundly unsatisfactory.

He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was quite clear and emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Miss—couldn’t remember her name—nice girl but rather helpless—had been very upset and distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Benson’s last companion—a nice modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had been—not difficult—but a trifle severe towards young people. She was the rigid type of Christian.

Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few months—that was all—and her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression. A nice little thing seemed to be the accepted description.

Mrs. Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A disagreeable woman—but that was all.

Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered her employer.

Twenty-three

THE EVIDENCE OF A PAIR OF SILK STOCKINGS

As Superintendent Battle’s train rushed eastwards through England, Anne Meredith and Rhoda Dawes were in Hercule Poirot’s sitting room.

Anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the morning’s post, but Rhoda’s counsel had prevailed.

“Anne—you’re a coward—yes, a coward. It’s no good going on being an ostrich, burying your head in the sand. There’s been a murder and you’re one of the suspects—the least likely one perhaps—”

“That would be the worst,” said Anne with a touch of humour. “It’s always the least likely person who did it.”

“But you are one,” continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. “And it’s no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and nothing to do with you.”

“It is nothing to do with me,” Anne persisted. “I mean, I’m quite willing to answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot, he’s an outsider.”

“And what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? He’ll think you’re bursting with guilt.”

“I’m certainly not bursting with guilt,” said Anne coldly.

“Darling, I know that. You couldn’t murder anybody if you tried. But horrible suspicious foreigners don’t know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house. Otherwise he’ll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants.”

“We haven’t got any servants.”

“We’ve got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on, Anne, let’s go. It will be rather fun really.”

“I don’t see why he wants to see me.” Anne was obstinate.

“To put one over on the official police, of course,” said Rhoda impatiently. “They always do—the amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all boots and brainlessness.”

“Do you think this man Poirot is clever?”

“He doesn’t look a Sherlock,” said Rhoda. “I expect he has been quite good in his day. He’s gaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne, let’s go and see the old boy. He may tell us dreadful things about the others.”

“All right,” said Anne, and added, “You do enjoy all this so, Rhoda.”

“I suppose because it isn’t my funeral,” said Rhoda. “You were a noddle, Anne, not just to have looked up at the right minute. If only you had, you could live like a duchess for the rest of your life on blackmail.”

So it came about that at three o’clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in Poirot’s nea

t room and sipped blackberry sirop (which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from old-fashioned glasses.

“It was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle,” Poirot was saying.

“I’m sure I shall be glad to help in any way I can,” murmured Anne vaguely.

“It is a little matter of memory.”

“Memory?”

“Yes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Dr. Roberts and to Major Despard. None of them, alas, have given me the response that I hoped for.”

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

“I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing room of Mr. Shaitana.”

A weary shadow passed over Anne’s face. Was she never to be free of that nightmare?”

Poirot noticed the expression.

“C’est pénible, n’est ce pas? That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death.”

Rhoda’s feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.

“Well?” said Anne.

“Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that room?”