Grainger listened with keen attention. When Poirot had finished he said, quietly:
“I see your point. Many a case of arsenical poisoning has been diagnosed as acute gastro enteritis and a certificate given—especially when there are no suspicious contributing circumstances. In any case, arsenical poisoning presents certain difficulties—it has so many different forms. It may be acute, subacute, nervous or chronic. There may be vomiting and abdominal pain—these symptoms may be entirely absent—the person may fall suddenly to the ground and expire shortly afterwards—there may be narcotism and paralysis. The symptoms vary widely.”
Poirot said:
“Eh bien, taking the facts into account, what is your opinion?”
Dr. Grainger was silent for a minute or two. Then he said slowly:
“Taking everything into account, and without any bias whatever, I am of the opinion that no form of arsenical poisoning could account for the symptoms in Miss Arundell’s case. She died, I am quite convinced, of yellow atrophy of the liver. I have, as you know, attended her for many years, and she has suffered previously from attacks similar to that which caused her death. That is my considered opinion, M. Poirot.” And there, perforce, the matter had to rest.
It seemed rather an anticlimax when, somewhat apologetically, Poirot produced the package of Liver Capsules he had bought at the chemists.
“Miss Arundell took these, I believe?” he said. “I suppose they could not be injurious in any way?”
“That stuff? No harm at all. Aloes—podophyllin—all quite mild and harmless,” said Grainger. “She liked trying the stuff. I didn’t mind.”
He got up.
“You dispensed certain medicines for her yourself?” asked Poirot.
“Yes—a mild liver pill to be taken after food.” His eyes twinkled. “She could have taken a boxful without hurting herself. I’m not given to poisoning my patients, M. Poirot.”
Then, with a smile, he shook hands with us both and departed.
Poirot undid the package he had purchased at the chemists. The medicament consisted of transparent capsules, three-quarters full of dark brown powder.
“They look like a seasick remedy I once took,” I remarked.
Poirot opened a capsule, examined its contents and tasted it gingerly with his tongue. He made a grimace.
“Well,” I said, throwing myself back in my chair and yawning, “everything seems harmless enough. Dr. Loughbarrow’s specialities, and Dr. Grainger’s pills! And Dr. Grainger seems definitely to negative the arsenic theory. Are you convinced at last, my stubborn Poirot?”
“It is true that I am pigheaded—that is your expression, I think?—Yes, definitely I have the head of the pig,” said my friend, meditatively.
“Then, in spite of having the chemist, the nurse and the doctor, against you, you still think that Miss Arundell was murdered?”
Poirot said, quietly:
“That is what I believe. No—more than believe. I am sure of it, Hastings.”
“There’s one way of proving it, I suppose,” I said slowly. “Exhumation.”
Poirot nodded.
“Is that the next step?”
“My friend, I have to go carefully.”
“Why?”
“Because,” his voice dropped, “I am afraid of a second tragedy.”
“You mean—?”
“I am afraid, Hastings, I am afraid. Let us leave it at that.”
Twenty-two