Murder in Mesopotamia: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot 14)

She stared at me.

“You see? You understand? He’s going to kill me. It may be Frederick—it may be little William—but he’s going to kill me.”

Her voice rose shudderingly. I caught her wrist.

“Now—now,” I said warningly. “Don’t give way. We’ll look after you. Have you got any sal volatile?”

She nodded towards the washstand and I gave her a good dose.

“That’s better,” I said, as the colour returned to her cheeks.

“Yes, I’m better now. But oh, nurse, do you see why I’m in this state? When I saw that man looking in through my window, I thought: he’s come . . . Even when you arrived I was suspicious. I thought you might be a man in disguise—”

“The idea!”

“Oh, I know it sounds absurd. But you might have been in league with him perhaps—not a hospital nurse at all.”

“But that’s nonsense!”

“Yes, perhaps. But I’ve got beyond sense.”

Struck by a sudden idea, I said: “You’d recognize your husband, I suppose?”

She answered slowly.

“I don’t even know that. It’s over fifteen years ago. I mightn’t recognize his face.”

Then she shivered.

“I saw it one night—but it was a dead face. There was a tap, tap, tap on the window. And then I saw a face, a dead face, ghastly and grinning against the pane. I screamed and screamed . . . And they said there wasn’t anything there!”

I remembered Mrs. Mercado’s story.

“You don’t think,” I said hesitatingly, “that you dreamt that?”

“I’m sure I didn’t!”

I wasn’t so sure. It was the kind of nightmare that was quite likely under the circumstances and that easily might be taken for a waking occurrence. However, I never contradict a patient. I soothed Mrs. Leidner as best I could and pointed out that if any stranger arrived in the neighbourhood it was pretty sure to be known.

I left her, I think, a little comforted, and I went in search of Dr. Leidner and told him of our conversation.

“I’m glad she told you,” he said simply. “It has worried me dreadfully. I feel sure that all those faces and tappings on the windowpane have been sheer imagination on her part. I haven’t known what to do for the best. What do you think of the whole thing?”

I didn’t quite understand the tone in his voice, but I answered promptly enough.

“It’s possible,” I said, “that these letters may be just a cruel and malicious hoax.”

“Yes, that is quite likely. But what are we to do? They are driving her mad. I don’t know what to think.”

I didn’t either. It had occurred to me that possibly a woman might be concerned. Those letters had a feminine note about them. Mrs. Mercado was at the back of my mind.

Supposing that by some chance she had learnt the facts of Mrs. Leidner’s first marriage? She might be indulging her spite by terrorizing the other woman.

I didn’t quite like to suggest such a thing to Dr. Leidner. It’s so difficult to know how people are going to take things.

“Oh, well,” I said cheerfully, “we must hope for the best. I think Mrs. Leidner seems happier already from just talking about it. That’s always a help, you know. It’s bottling things up that makes them get on your nerves.”

“I’m very glad she has told you,” he repeated. “It’s a good sign. It shows she likes and trusts you. I’ve been at my wits’ end to know what to do for the best.”