“But Dr. Lord says he was over at Withenbury that morning.”
Horlick said miserably:
“Yes, sir. I heard him. But it was his car, sir… I’ll take my oath on that.”
Poirot said gently:
“Thank you, Horlick, that’s just exactly what you may have to do….”
PART III
One
Was it very hot in the court? Or very cold? Elinor Carlisle could not be quite sure. Sometimes she felt burning, as though with fever, and immediately after she shivered.
She had not heard the end of the Prosecuting Counsel’s speech. She had gone back to the past—gone slowly through the whole business again, from the day when that miserable letter came to the moment when that smooth-faced police officer had said with horrible fluency:
“You are Elinor Katharine Carlisle. I have here a warrant for your arrest upon the charge of murdering Mary Gerrard by administering poison to her on the 27th of July last, and I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence at your trial.”
Horrible, frightening fluency… She felt caught up in a smooth-running, well-oiled machine—inhuman, passionless.
And now here she was, standing in the dock in the open glare of publicity, with hundreds of eyes that were neither impersonal nor inhuman, feasting upon her and gloating….
Only the jury did not look at her. Embarrassed, they kept their eyes studiously turned away… She thought: “It’s because—soon—they know what they’re going to say….”
II
Dr. Lord was giving evidence. Was this Peter Lord—that freckled, cheery young doctor who had been so kind and so friendly at Hunterbury? He was very stiff now. Sternly professional. His answers came monotonously: He had been summoned by telephone to Hunterbury Hall; too late for anything to be done; Mary Gerrard had died a few minutes after his arrival; death consistent, in his opinion, with morphia poisoning in one of its less common forms—the “foudroyante” variety.
Sir Edwin Bulmer rose to cross-examine.
“You were the late Mrs. Welman’s regular medical attendant?”
“I was.”
“During your visits to Hunterbury in June last, you had occasion to see the accused and Mary Gerrard together?”
“Several times.”
“What would you say was the manner of the accused to Mary Gerrard?”
“Perfectly pleasant and natural.”
Sir Edwin Bulmer said with a slight disdainful smile:
“You never saw any signs of this ‘jealous hatred’ we have heard so much about?”
Peter Lord, his jaw set, said firmly:
“No.”
Elinor thought:
“But he did—he did… He told a lie for me there… He knew…”
Peter Lord was succeeded by the police surgeon. His evidence was longer, more detailed. Death was due to morphia poisoning of the “foudroyante” variety. Would he kindly explain that term? With some enjoyment he did so. Death from morphine poisoning might occur in several different ways. The most common was a period of intense excitement followed by drowsiness and narcosis, pupils of eyes contracted. Another not so common form had been named by the French, “foudroyante.” In these cases deep sleep supervened in a very short time—about ten minutes; the pupils of the eyes were usually dilated….
III