“Yes.”
Poirot said:
“And he could have read it, too?”
Elinor’s voice was clear and scornful. She said:
“I can assure you, M. Poirot, that my ‘cousin,’ as you call him, does not read other people’s letters.”
Poirot said:
“That is the accepted idea, I know. You would be surprised how many people do the things that ‘are not done.’”
Elinor shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said in a casual voice:
“Was it on that day that the idea of killing Mary Gerrard first came to you?”
For the third time colour swept over Elinor Carlisle’s face. This time it was a burning tide. She said:
“Did Peter Lord tell you that?”
Poirot said gently:
“It was then, wasn’t it? When you looked through the window and saw her making her will. It was then, was it not, that it struck you how funny it would be—and how convenient—if Mary Gerrard should happen to die….”
Elinor said in a low suffocated voice:
“He knew—he looked at me and he knew….”
Poirot said:
“Dr. Lord knows a good deal… He is no fool, that young man with the freckled face and the red hair….”
Elinor said in a low voice:
“Is it true that he sent you to—help me?”
“It is true, Mademoiselle.”
She sighed and said:
“I don’t understand. No, I don’t understand.”
Poirot said:
“Listen, Miss Carlisle. It is necessary that you tell me just what happened that day when Mary Gerrard died: where you went, what you did; more than that, I want to know even what you thought.”
She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to her lips. She said:
“You must be an incredibly simple man. Don’t you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?”
Hercule Poirot said placidly:
“It does not matter.”
She was puzzled.