“A thousand apologies. I did not mean that. I thought perhaps you might have had to boil water, or to run downstairs for some necessary stimulant.”
Mollified, Nurse Hopkins said:
“I did go down to change the bottles and get them refilled. I knew there’d be a kettle on the boil down in the kitchen.”
“You were away long?”
“Five minutes, perhaps.”
“Ah, yes, then Mr. Welman may have just looked in on her then?”
“He must have been very quick about it if he did.”
Poirot sighed. He said:
“As you say, men fight shy of illness. It is the women who are the ministering angels. What should we do without them? Especially women of your profession—a truly noble calling.”
Nurse Hopkins, slightly red in the face, said:
“It’s very kind of you to say that. I’ve never thought of it that way myself. Too much hard work in nursing to think about the noble side of it.”
Poirot said:
“And there is nothing else you can tell me about Mary Gerrard?”
There was an appreciable pause before Nurse Hopkins answered:
“I don’t know of anything.”
“Are you quite sure?”
Nurse Hopkins said rather incoherently:
“You don’t understand. I was fond of Mary.”
“And there is nothing more you can tell me?”
“No, there is not! And that’s flat.”
Four
In the awesome majesty of Mrs. Bishop’s black-clad presence Hercule Poirot sat humbly insignificant.
The thawing of Mrs. Bishop was no easy matter. For Mrs. Bishop, a lady of Conservative habits and views, strongly disapproved of foreigners. And a foreigner most indubitably Hercule Poirot was. Her responses were frosty and she eyed him with disfavour and suspicion.
Dr. Lord’s introduction of him had done little to soften the situation.
“I am sure,” said Mrs. Bishop when Dr. Lord had gone, “Dr. Lord is a very clever doctor and means well. Dr. Ransome, his predecessor, had been here many years!”
Dr. Ransome, that is to say, could be trusted to behave in a manner suitable to the county. Dr. Lord, a mere irresponsible youngster, an upstart who had taken Dr. Ransome’s place, had only one recommendation: “cleverness” in his profession.
Cleverness, the whole demeamour of Mrs. Bishop seemed to say, is not enough!
Hercule Poirot was persuasive. He was adroit. But charm he never so wisely, Mrs. Bishop remained aloof and implacable.
The death of Mrs. Welman had been very sad. She had been much respected in the neighbourhood. The arrest of Miss Carlisle was “Disgraceful!” and believed to be the result of “these newfangled police methods.” The views of Mrs. Bishop upon the death of Mary Gerrard were vague in the extreme. “I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” being the most she could be brought to say.
Hercule Poirot played his last card. He recounted with naïve pride a recent visit of his to Sandringham. He spoke with admiration of the graciousness and delightful simplicity and kindness of Royalty.