Cards on the Table (SB) (Superintendent Battle 3)

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. The doctor had misread the situation. It was not remorse that had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life.

On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly parlourmaid, who was weeping quietly.

“It’s so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you having tea with her yesterday so nice and quiet. And now today she’s gone. I shall never forget this morning—never as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get to it. And, ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he shot out at me. I was so flustered, I couldn’t hardly answer. You see, we never went in to the mistress till she rang—that was her orders. And I just couldn’t get out anything. And the doctor he says, ‘Where’s her room?’ and ran up the stairs, and me behind him, and I showed him the door, and he rushes in, not so much as knocking, and takes one look at her lying there, and, ‘Too late,’ he says. She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water, and he tried desperate to bring her back, but it couldn’t be done. And then the police coming and all—it isn’t—it isn’t—decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn’t have liked it. And why the police? It’s none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake.”

Poirot did not reply to her question.

He said:

“Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried at all?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir. She was tired—and I think she was in pain. She hasn’t been well lately, sir.”

“No, I know.”

The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.

“She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been worried about her for some time. She couldn’t do as much as she used to do, and things tired her. I think, perhaps, the young lady coming after you left was a bit too much for her.”

With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.

“The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?”

“Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was.”

“Did she stay long?”

“About an hour, sir.”

Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

“And afterwards?”

“The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired.”

Again Poirot was silent; then he said:

“Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?”

“Do you mean after she went to bed? I don’t think so, sir.”

“But you are not sure?”

“There were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day.”

“How many were there?”

“Two or three—I’m not quite sure, sir. Three, I think.”

“You—or cook—whoever posted them—did not happen to notice to whom they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost importance.”

“I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one—it was to Fortnum and Mason’s. I couldn’t say as to the others.”

The woman’s tone was earnest and sincere.

“Are you sure there were not more than three letters?”

“Yes, sir, I’m quite certain of that.”

Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then he said:

“You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?”

“Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor’s orders. Dr. Lang.”

“Where was this sleeping medicine kept?”

“In the little cupboard in the mistress’s room.”

Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very grave.

On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried and harassed.

“I’m glad you’ve come, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr. Davidson.”

The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall, melancholy man.

“The luck was against us,” he said. “An hour or two earlier, and we might have saved her.”

“H’m,” said Battle. “I mustn’t say so officially, but I’m not sorry. She was a—well, she was a lady. I don’t know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but she may just conceivably have been justified.”

“In any case,” said Poirot, “it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her trial. She was a very ill woman.”

The surgeon nodded in agreement.

“I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best.”

He started down the stairs.

Battle moved after him.

“One minute, doctor.”

Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, “I may enter—yes?”

Battle nodded over his shoulder. “Quite all right. We’re through.” Poirot passed into the room, closing the door behind him….

He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet, dead face.

He was very disturbed.

Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl from death and disgrace—or was there a different, a more sinister explanation?

There were certain facts….

Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark, discoloured bruise on the dead woman’s arm.

He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, catlike gleam in his eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognized.

He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said:

“He hasn’t come back, sir.”

Battle said:

“Despard. I’ve been trying to get him. There’s a letter for him with the Chelsea postmark all right.”

Poirot asked an irrelevant question.

“Had Dr. Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?”

Battle stared.

“No,” he said, “I remember he mentioned that he’d come out without it.”

“Then he will be at his house now. We can get him.”

“But why—?”

But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke:

“Dr. Roberts? It is Dr. Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one question. Are you well acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?”

“Mrs. Lorrimer’s handwriting? I—no, I don’t know that I’d ever seen it before.”

“Je vous remercie.”

Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.

Battle was staring at him.

“What’s the big idea, M. Poirot?” he asked quietly.

Poirot took him by the arm.

“Listen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday Anne Meredith arrived. I actually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite sure of her identity at the time. Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs. Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, she did not write any letters then. And, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to you our interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did she write them, then?”

“After the servants had gone to bed?” suggested Battle. “She got up and posted them herself.”

“That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility—that she did not write them at all.”

Battle whistled.

“My God, you mean—”

The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a minute, then turned to Battle.

“Sergeant O’Connor speaking from Despard’s flat, sir. There’s reason to believe that Despard’s down at Wallingford-on-Thames.”

Poirot caught Battle by the arm.

“Quickly, my friend. We, too, must go to Wallingfor

d. I tell you, I am not easy in my mind. This may not be the end. I tell you again, my friend, this young lady, she is dangerous.”

Twenty-nine

ACCIDENT

“Anne,” said Rhoda.

“Mmm?”

“No, really, Anne, don’t answer with half your mind on a crossword puzzle. I want you to attend to me.”

“I am attending.”

Anne sat bolt upright and put down the paper.

“That’s better. Look here, Anne.” Rhoda hesitated. “About this man coming.”

“Superintendent Battle?”

“Yes, Anne, I wish you’d tell him—about being at the Bensons.’”

Anne’s voice grew rather cold.

“Nonsense. Why should I?”

“Because—well, it might look—as though you’d been keeping something back. I’m sure it would be better to mention it.”

“I can’t very well now,” said Anne coldly.

“I wish you had in the first place.”

“Well, it’s too late to bother about that now.”