“By all means ask,” said Poirot; but he did not sound hopeful.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the Matron who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger, but neither of them could add any information to that already given. Mrs. de Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir Bartholomew’s death, and they did not even know of the despatching of the telegram.
On a request from Poirot, the two men were taken to the dead woman’s room. They found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to Poirot.
Then the two men moved over to the bed and stood looking down on the dead woman. She was about forty, dark-haired and pale. Her face was not peaceful—it still showed the agony of her death.
Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly:
“Poor soul….”
He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There was a strange expression on the little Belgian’s face. Something about it made Mr. Satterthwaite shiver….
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
“Someone knew she was going to speak, and killed her…She was killed in order to prevent her speaking….”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, that is so.”
“She was murdered to prevent her telling us what she knew.”
“Or what she did not know…But let us not waste time…There is much to be done. There must be no more deaths. We must see to that.”
Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously:
“Does this fit in with your idea of the murderer’s identity?”
“Yes, it fits…But I realize one thing: The murderer is more dangerous than I thought…We must be careful.”
Superintendent Crossfield followed them out of the room and learnt from them of the telegram which had been received by them. The telegram had been handed in at Melfort Post Office, and on inquiry there it was elicited that it had been handed in by a small boy. The young lady in charge remembered it, because the message had excited her very much, mentioning, as it did, Sir Bartholomew Strange’s death.
After some lunch in company with the superintendent, and after despatching a telegram to Sir Charles, the quest was resumed.
At six o’clock that evening the small boy who had handed in the telegram was found. He told his story promptly. He had been given the telegram by a man dressed in shabby clothes. The man told him that the telegram had been given him by a “loony lady” in the “House in the Park.” She had dropped it out of the window wrapped round two half-crowns. The man was afraid to be mixed up in some funny business, and was tramping in the other direction, so he had given the boy two and six and told him to keep the change.
A search would be instituted for the man. In the meantime there seemed nothing more to be done, and Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite returned to London.
It was close on midnight when the two men arrived back in town. Egg had gone back to her mother, but Sir Charles met them, and the three men discussed the situation.
“Mon ami,” said Poirot, “be guided by me. Only one thing will solve this case—the little grey cells of the brain. To rush up and down England, to hope that this person and that will
tell us what we want to know—all such methods are amateurish and absurd. The truth can only be seen from within.”
Sir Charles looked slightly sceptical.
“What do you want to do, then?”
“I want to think. I ask of you twenty-four hours—in which to think.”
Sir Charles shook his head with a slight smile.
“Will thinking tell you what it was this woman could have said if she lived?”
“I believe so.”
“It hardly seems possible. However, M. Poirot, you must have it your own way. If you can see through this mystery, it’s more than I can. I’m beaten, and I confess it. In any case, I’ve other fish to fry.”