Roddy flushed and looked annoyed. He said:
“Oh, nothing important.”
Poirot repeated:
“What letter?”
“An anonymous letter.”
He spoke reluctantly.
“When did it come? To whom was it written?”
Rather unwillingly Roddy explained.
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“It is interesting, that. Can I see it, this letter?”
“Afraid you can’t. As a matter of fact, I burnt it.”
“Now, why did you do that, Mr. Welman?”
Roddy said rather stiffly:
“It seemed the natural thing to do at the time.”
Poirot said:
“And in consequence of this letter, you and Miss Carlisle went hurriedly down to Hunterbury?”
“We went down, yes. I don’t know about hurriedly.”
“But you were a little uneasy, were you not? Perhaps even, a little alarmed?”
Roddy said even more stiffly:
“I won’t admit that.”
Hercule Poirot cried:
“But surely that was only natural! Your inheritance—that which was promised you—was in jeopardy! Surely it is natural that you should be unquiet about the matter! Money, it is very important!”
“Not as important as you make out.”
Poirot said:
“Such unworldliness is indeed remarkable!”
Roddy flushed. He said:
“Oh, of course, the money did matter to us. We weren’t completely indifferent to it. But our main object was to—to see my aunt and make sure she was all right.”
Poirot said:
“You went down there with Miss Carlisle. At that time your aunt had not made a will. Shortly afterwards she had another attack of her illness. She then wished to make a will, but, conveniently for Miss Carlisle, perhaps, she dies that night before that will can be made.”
“Look here, what are you hinting at?”