“I shall be glad when it is—over.”
Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said:
“I have seen your—cousin, shall I call him for convenience?—Mr. Roderick Welman.”
Into the white proud face the colour crept slowly up. He knew then that one question of his was answered without his asking it.
She said, and her voice shook very slightly:
“You’ve seen Roddy?”
Poirot said:
“He is doing all he can for you.”
“I know.”
Her voice was quick and soft.
Poirot said:
“Is he poor or rich?”
“Roddy? He has not very much money of his own.”
“And he is extravagant?”
She said, almost absently:
“Neither of us ever thought it mattered. We knew that some day….”
She stopped.
Poirot said quickly:
“You counted on your inheritance? That is understandable.”
He went on:
“You have heard, perhaps, the result of the autopsy on your aunt’s body. She died of morphine poisoning.”
Elinor Carlisle said coldly:
“I did not kill her.”
“Did you help her to kill herself?”
“Did I help—? Oh, I see. No, I did not.”
“Did you know that your aunt had not made a will?”
“No, I had no idea of that.”
Her voice was flat now—dull. The answer was mechanical, uninterested.
Poirot said:
“And you yourself, have you made a will?”