Lord Edgware Dies (Hercule Poirot 9)

“She’d take something for a headache now and again, sir. Some little tablets in a bottle, but it was some other stuff she took last night, or so the doctor said.”

“Did anyone come to see her last night? A visitor?”

“No, sir. She was out yesterday evening, sir.”

“Did she tell you where she was going?”

“No, sir. She went out about seven o’clock.”

“Ah! How was she dressed?”

“She had on a black dress, sir. A black dress and a black hat.”

Poirot looked at me.

“Did she wear any jewellery?”

“Just the string of pearls she always wore, sir.”

“And gloves—grey gloves?”

“Yes, sir. Her gloves were grey.”

“Ah! Now describe to me, if you will, what her manner was. Was she gay? Excited? Sad? Nervous?”

“It seemed to me she was pleased about something, sir. She kept smiling to herself, as though there were some kind of joke on.”

“What time did she return?”

“A little after twelve o’clock, sir.”

“And what was her manner then? The same?”

“She was terribly tired, sir.”

“But not upset? Or distressed?”

“Oh! no, sir. I think she was pleased about something, but just done up, if you know what I mean. She started to ring someone up on the telephone, and then she said she couldn’t bother. She’d do it tomorrow morning.”

“Ah!” Poirot’s eyes gleamed with excitement. He leaned forward and spoke in a would-be indifferent voice.

“Did you hear the name of the person she rang up?”

“No, sir. She just asked for the number and waited and then the exchange must have said: ‘I’m trying to get them’ as they do, sir, and she said: ‘All right,’ and then suddenly she yawned and said: ‘Oh! I can’t bother. I’m too tired,’ and she put the receiver back and started undressing.”

“And the number she called? Do you recollect that? Think. It may be important.”

“I’m sorry I can’t say, sir. It was a Victoria number and that’s all I can remember. I wasn’t paying special heed, you see.”

“Did she have anything to eat or drink before she went to bed?”

“A glass of hot milk, sir, like she always did.”

“Who prepared it?”

“I did, sir.”

“And nobody came to the flat that evening?”

“Nobody, sir.”

“And earlier in the day?”

“Nobody came that I can remember, sir. Miss Adams was out to lunch and tea. She came in at six o’clock.”

“When did the milk come? The milk she drank last night?”

“It was the new milk she had, sir. The afternoon delivery. The boy leaves it outside the door at four o’clock. But, oh! sir, I’m sure there wasn’t nothing wrong with the milk. I had it myself for tea this morning. And the doctor he said positive as she’d taken the nasty stuff herself.”

“It is possible that I am wrong,” said Poirot. “Yes, it is possible that I am entirely wrong. I will see the doctor. But you see, Miss Adams had enemies. Things are very different in America—”

He hesitated, but the good Alice leapt at the bait.

“Oh! I know, sir. I’ve read about Chicago and them gunmen and all that. It must be a wicked country and what the police can be about, I can’t think. Not like our policemen.”

Poirot left it thankfully at that, realizing that Alice Bennett’s insular proclivities would save him the trouble of explanations.

His eye fell on a small suitcase—more of an attaché case, that was lying on a chair.

“Did Miss Adams take that with her when she went out last night?”

“In the morning she took it, sir. She didn’t have it when she came back at teatime, but she brought it back last thing.”

“Ah! You permit that I open it?”

Alice Bennett would have permitted anything. Like most canny and suspicious women, once she had overcome her distrust she was child’s play to manipulate. She would have assented to anything Poirot suggested.

The case was not locked, Poirot opened it. I came forward and looked over his shoulder.

“You see, Hastings, you see?” he murmured excitedly.

The contents were certainly suggestive.

There was a box of makeup materials, two objects which I recognized as elevators to place in shoes and raise the height an inch or so, there was a pair of grey gloves and, folded in tissue paper, an exquisitely made wig of golden hair, the exact shade of gold of Jane Wilkinson’s and dressed like hers with a centre parting and curls in the back of the neck.

“Do you doubt now, Hastings?” asked Poirot.

I believe I had up to that moment. But now I doubted no longer.

Poirot closed the case again and turned to the maid.

“You do not know with whom Miss Adams dined yesterday evening?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know with whom she had lunch or tea?”

“I know nothing about tea, sir. I believe she lunched with Miss Driver.”

“Miss Driver?”

“Yes, her great friend. She has a hat shop in Moffat Street, just off Bond Street. Genevieve it’s called.”

Poirot noted the address in his notebook just below that of the doctor.

“One thing more, Madame. Can you remember anything—anything at all—that Mademoiselle Adams

said or did after she came in at six o’clock that strikes you as at all unusual or significant?”

The maid thought for a moment or two.

“I really can’t say that I do, sir,” she said at last. “I asked her if she would have tea and she said she’d had some.”

“Oh! she said she had had it,” interrupted Poirot. “Pardon. Continue.”

“And after that she was writing letters till just on the time she went out.”

“Letters, eh? You do not know to whom?”

“Yes, sir. It was just one letter—to her sister in Washington. She wrote to her sister twice a week regular. She took the letter out with her to post because of catching the mail. But she forgot it.”

“Then it is here still?”

“No, sir. I posted it. She remembered last night just as she was getting into bed. And I said I’d run out with it. By putting an extra stamp on it and putting it in the late fee box it would be all right.”

“Ah!—and is that far?”

“No, sir, the post office is just around the corner.”

“Did you shut the door of the flat behind you?”

Bennett stared.

“No, sir. I just left it to—as I always do when I go out to post.”

Poirot seemed about to speak—then checked himself.

“Would you like to look at her, sir?” asked the maid tearfully. “Looks beautiful she does.”

We followed her into the bedroom.

Carlotta Adams looked strangely peaceful and much younger than she had appeared that night at the Savoy. She looked like a tired child asleep.

There was a strange expression on Poirot’s face as he stood looking down on her. I saw him make the sign of the Cross.

“J’ai fait un serment, Hastings,” he said as we went down the stairs.

I did not ask him what his vow was. I could guess.

A minute or two later he said:

“There is one thing off my mind at least. I could not have saved her. By the time I heard of Lord Edgware’s death she was already dead. That comforts me. Yes, that comforts me very much.”

Ten

JENNY DRIVER

Our next proceeding was to call upon the doctor whose address the maid had given us.