Poirot said:
“This writing is not recent?”
“It wasn’t Gerrard who wrote that,” explained Nurse Hopkins. “It was Mary’s mother, who died fourteen years ago. She meant this for the girl, but the old man kept it among his things and so she never saw it—and I’m thankful she didn’t! She was able to hold up her head to the end, and she’d no cause to feel ashamed.”
She paused and then said:
“Well, it was sealed up, but when I found it I’ll admit to you that I opened it and read it then and there, which I dare say I should not have done. But Mary was dead, and I guessed more or less at what was inside it and I didn’t see that it was any concern of anyone else’s. All the same, I haven’t liked to destroy it, because I didn’t feel somehow it would be right to do that. But, there, you’d better read it yourself.”
Poirot drew out the sheet of paper covered in small angular writing:
This is the truth I’ve written down here in case it should ever be needed. I was lady’s maid to Mrs. Welman at Hunterbury, and very kind to me she was. I got into trouble, and she stood by me and took me back into her service when it was all over; but the baby died. My mistress and Sir Lewis Rycroft were fond of each other, but they couldn’t marry, because he had a wife already and she was in a madhouse, poor lady. He was a fine gentleman and devoted to Mrs. Welman. He was killed, and she told me soon after that she was going to have a child. After that she went up to Scotland and took me with her. The child was born there—at Ardlochrie. Bob Gerrard, who had washed his hands of me and flung me off when I had my trouble, had been writing to me again. The arrangement was that we should marry and live at the Lodge and he should think that the baby was mine. If we lived on the place it would seem natural that Mrs. Welman should be interested in the child and she’d see to educating her and giving her a place in the world. She thought it would be better for Mary never to know the truth. Mrs. Welman gave us both a handsome sum of money; but I would have helped her without that. I’ve been quite happy with Bob, but he never took to Mary. I’ve held my tongue and never said anything to anybody, but I think it’s right in case I die that I should put this down in black and white.
Eliza Gerrard (born Eliza Riley)
Hercule Poirot drew a deep breath and folded up the letter again.
Nurse Hopkins said anxiously:
“What are you going to do about it? They’re all dead now! It’s no good raking up these things. Everyone looked up to Mrs. Welman in these parts; there’s never been anything said against her. All this old scandal—it would be cruel. The same with Mary. She was a sweet girl. Why should anyone have to know she was a bastard? Let the dead rest in peace in their graves, that’s what I say.”
Poirot said:
“One has to consider the living.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“But this has got nothing to do with the murder.”
Hercule Poirot said gravely:
“It may have a great deal to do with it.”
He went out of the cottage, leaving Nurse Hopkins with her mouth open, staring after him.
He had walked some way when he became aware of hesitating footsteps just behind him. He stopped and turned round.
It was Horlick, the young gardener from Hunterbury. He was looking the picture of embarrassment and twisting his cap round and round in his hands.
“Excuse me, sir. Could I have a word with you?”
Horlick spoke with a kind of gulp.
“Certainly. What is it?”
Horlick twisted the cap even more fiercely. He said, averting his eyes and looking the picture of misery and embarrassment:
“It’s about that car.”
“The car that was outside the back gate that morning?”
“Yes, sir. Dr. Lord said this morning that it wasn’t his car—but it was, sir.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Yes, sir. Because of the number, sir. It was MSS 2022. I noticed it particular—MSS 2022. You see, we know it in the village, and always call it Miss Tou-Tou! I’m quite sure of it, sir.”
Poirot said with a faint smile: