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

“A monk being an archaeologist seems odd to me,” I said.

“Ah, yes, you are a Protestant. Me, I am a good Catholic. I know something of priests and monks.”

He frowned, seemed to hesitate, then said: “Remember, he is quite clever enough to turn you inside out if he likes.”

If he was warning me against gossiping I felt that I didn’t need any warning!

It annoyed me, and though I didn’t like to ask him any of the things I really wanted to know, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t at any rate say one thing.

“You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot,” I said. “But it’s ‘stubbed your toe,’ not stepped or stebbed.”

“Ah! Thank you, ma soeur.”

“Don’t mention it. But it’s just as well to get a phrase right.”

“I will remember,” he said—quite meekly for him.

And he got in the car and was driven away, and I went slowly back across the courtyard wondering about a lot of things.

About the hypodermic marks on Mr. Mercado’s arm, and what drug it was he took. And about that horrid yellow smeared mask. And how odd it was that Poirot and Miss Johnson hadn’t heard my cry in the living room that morning, whereas we had all heard Poirot perfectly well in the dining room at lunch-time—and yet Father Lavigny’s room and Mrs. Leidner’s were just the same distance from the living room and the dining room respectively.

And then I felt rather pleased that I’d taught Doctor Poirot one English phrase correctly!

Even if he was a great detective he’d realize he didn’t know everything!

Twenty-three

I GO PSYCHIC

The funeral was, I thought, a very affecting affair. As well as ourselves, all the English people in Hassanieh attended it. Even Sheila Reilly was there, looking quiet and subdued in a dark coat and skirt. I hoped that she was feeling a little remorseful for all the unkind things she had said.

When we got back to the house I followed Dr. Leidner into the office and broached the subject of my departure. He was very nice about it, thanked me for what I had done (Done! I had been worse than useless) and insisted on my accepting an extra week’s salary.

I protested because really I felt I’d done nothing to earn it.

“Indeed, Dr. Leidner, I’d rather not have any salary at all. If you’ll just refund me my travelling expenses, that’s all I want.”

But he wouldn’t hear of that.

“You see,?

?? I said, “I don’t feel I deserve it, Dr. Leidner. I mean, I’ve—well, I’ve failed. She—my coming didn’t save her.”

“Now don’t get that idea into your head, nurse,” he said earnestly. “After all, I didn’t engage you as a female detective. I never dreamt my wife’s life was in danger. I was convinced it was all nerves and that she’d worked herself up into a rather curious mental state. You did all anyone could do. She liked and trusted you. And I think in her last days she felt happier and safer because of your being here. There’s nothing for you to reproach yourself with.”

His voice quivered a little and I knew what he was thinking. He was the one to blame for not having taken Mrs. Leidner’s fears seriously.

“Dr. Leidner,” I said curiously. “Have you ever come to any conclusion about those anonymous letters?”

He said with a sigh: “I don’t know what to believe. Has M. Poirot come to any definite conclusion?”

“He hadn’t yesterday,” I said, steering rather neatly, I thought, between truth and fiction. After all, he hadn’t until I told him about Miss Johnson.

It was on my mind that I’d like to give Dr. Leidner a hint and see if he reacted. In the pleasure of seeing him and Miss Johnson together the day before, and his affection and reliance on her, I’d forgotten all about the letters. Even now I felt it was perhaps rather mean of me to bring it up. Even if she had written them, she had had a bad time after Mrs. Leidner’s death. Yet I did want to see whether that particular possibility had ever entered Dr. Leidner’s head.

“Anonymous letters are usually the work of a woman,” I said. I wanted to see how he’d take it.

“I suppose they are,” he said with a sigh. “But you seem to forget, nurse, that these may be genuine. They may actually be written by Frederick Bosner.”