“No, you did not only imagine it….”
Three
Hercule Poirot sat in Nurse Hopkins’ cottage.
Dr. Lord had brought him there, had introducd him and had then, at a glance from Poirot, left him to a tête-à-tête.
Having, to begin with, eyed his foreign appearance somewhat askance, Nurse Hopkins was now thawing rapidly.
She said with a faintly gloomy relish:
“Yes, it’s a terrible thing. One of the most terrible things I’ve ever known. Mary was one of the most beautiful girls you’ve ever seen. Might have gone on the films any time! And a nice steady girl, too, and not stuck-up, as she might have been with all the notice taken of her.”
Poirot, inserting a question adroitly, said:
“You mean the notice taken of her by Mrs. Welman?”
“That’s what I mean. The old lady had taken a tremendous fancy to her—really, a tremendous fancy.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“Surprising, perhaps?”
“That depends. It might be quite natural, really. I mean…” Nurse Hopkins bit her lip and looked confused. “What I mean is, Mary had a very pretty way with her: nice soft voice and pleasant manners. And it’s my opinion it does an elderly person good to have a young face about.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Miss Carlisle came down occasionally, I suppose, to see her aunt?”
Nurse Hopkins said sharply:
“Miss Carlisle came down when it suited her.”
Poirot murmured:
“You do not like Miss Carlisle.”
Nurse Hopkins cried out:
“I should hope not, indeed! A poisoner! A cold-blooded poisoner!”
“Ah,” said Hercule Poirot, “I see you have made up your mind.”
Nurse Hopkins said suspiciously:
“What do you mean? Made up my mind?”
“You are quite sure that it was she who administered morphine to Mary Gerrard?”
“Who else could have done it, I should like to know? You’re not suggesting that I did?”
“Not for a moment. But her guilt has not yet been proved, remember.”
Nurse Hopkins said with calm assurance:
“She did it all right. Apart from anything else, you could see it in her face. Queer she was, all the time. And taking me away upstairs and keeping me there—delaying as long as possible. And then when I turned on her, after finding Mary like that, it was there in her face as plain as anything. She knew I knew!”
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully: