Poirot said:
“Then there is yourself.”
Roddy started like a nervous horse.
“Me?”
“Certainly. You could have abstracted the morphine. You could have given it to Mrs. Welman! You were alone with her for a short period that night. But, again, why should you? If she lived to make a will, it is at least probable that you would have been mentioned in it. So again, you see, there is no motive. Only two people had a motive.”
Roddy’s eyes brightened.
“Two people?”
“Yes. One was Elinor Carlisle.”
“And the other?”
Poirot said slowly:
“The other was the writer of that anonymous letter.”
Roddy looked incredulous.
Poirot said:
“Somebody wrote that letter—somebody who hated Mary Gerrard or at least disliked her—somebody who was, as they say, ‘on your side.’ Somebody, that is, who did not want Mary Gerrard to benefit at Mrs. Welman’s death. Now, have you any idea, Mr. Welman, who the writer of that letter could be?”
Roddy shook his head.
“I’ve no idea at all. It was an illiterate letter, misspelt, cheap-looking.”
Poirot waved a hand.
“There is nothing much to that! It might easily have been written by an educated person who chose to disguise the fact. That is why I wish you had the letter still. People who try to write in an uneducated manner usually give themselves away.”
Roddy said thoughtfully:
“Elinor and I thought it might be one of the servants.”
“Had you any idea which of them?”
“No—no idea whatsoever.”
“Could it, do you think, have been Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper?”
Roddy looked shocked.
“Oh, no, she’s a most respectable, high-and-mighty creature. Writes beautifully involved and ornate letters with long words in them. Besides, I’m sure she would never—”
As he hesitated, Poirot cut in:
“She did not like Mary Gerrard!”
“I suppose she didn’t. I never noticed anything, though.”
“But perhaps, Mr. Welman, you do not notice very much?”
Roddy said slowly: