Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot 22)

“Yes.”

“Did you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke to you about it?”

“Yes.”

Again that swift wave of colour.

Poirot said:

“How have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?”

Elinor said quietly:

“I have left everything to Roddy—to Roderick Welman.”

Poirot said:

“Does he know that?”

She said quickly:

“Certainly not.”

“You didn’t discuss it with him?”

“Of course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed and would have disliked what I was doing very much.”

“Who else knows the contents of your will?”

“Only Mr. Seddon—and his clerks, I suppose.”

“Did Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?”

“Yes. I wrote to him that same evening—I mean the evening of the day Dr. Lord spoke to me about it.”

“Did you post your letter yourself?”

“No. It went in the box from the house with the other letters.”

“You wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it and put it in the box—comme ça? You did not pause to reflect? To read it over?”

Elinor said, staring at him:

“I read it over—yes. I had gone to look for some stamps. When I came back with them, I just reread the letter to be sure I had put it clearly.”

“Was anyone in the room with you?”

“Only Roddy.”

“Did he know what you were doing?”

“I told you—no.”

“Could anyone have read that letter when you were out of the room?”

“I don’t know… One of the servants, you mean? I suppose they could have if they had chanced to come in while I was out of the room.”

“And before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?”