“Exactly.”
“But in that case, who did murder Mary Gerrard?”
“As you say.”
Poirot shook his head.
“C’est difficile.”
Peter Lord said vehemently:
“That’s just it! If she didn’t, who did? There’s the tea; but both Nurse Hopkins and Mary drank that. The defence will try to suggest that Mary Gerrard took the morphine herself after the other two had left the room—that she committed suicide, in fact.”
“Had she any reason for committing suicide?”
“None whatever.”
“Was she of a suicidal type?”
“No.”
Poirot said:
“What was she like, this Mary Gerrard?”
Peter Lord considered:
“She was—well, sh
e was a nice kid. Yes, definitely a nice kid.”
Poirot sighed. He murmured:
“This Roderick Welman, did he fall in love with her because she was a nice kid?”
Peter Lord smiled.
“Oh, I get what you mean. She was beautiful, all right.”
“And you yourself? You had no feeling for her?”
Peter Lord stared.
“Good lord, no.”
Hercule Poirot reflected for a moment or two, then he said:
“Roderick Welman says that there was affection between him and Elinor Carlisle, but nothing stronger. Do you agree to that?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Poirot shook his head.
“You told me when you came into this room that Elinor Carlisle had the bad taste to be in love with a long-nosed, supercilious ass. That, I presume, is a description of Roderick Welman. So, according to you, she does care for him.”
Peter Lord said in a low, exasperated voice:
“She cares for him all right! Cares like hell!”