Poirot shook his head sympathetically and made a clacking noise with his tongue.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Bishop, stimulated by these encouraging noises. “She was failing, poor dear, and that young woman Wormed her way into her Confidence. She knew which side of her bread was buttered. Always hovering about, reading to her, bringing her little nosegays of flowers. It was Mary this and Mary that and ‘Where’s Mary?’ all the time! The money she spent on the girl, too! Expensive schools and finishing places abroad—and the girl nothing but old Gerrard’s daughter! He didn’t like it, I can tell you! Used to complain of her Fine Lady ways. Above Herself, that’s what She was.”
This time Poirot shook his head and said commiseratingly:
“Dear, dear.”
“And then Making Up to Mr. Roddy the way she did! He was too simple to see through Her. And Miss Elinor, a nice-minded young lady as she is, of course she wouldn’t realize what was Going On. But Men, they are all alike: easily caught by flattery and a pretty face!”
Poirot sighed.
“She had, I suppose, admirers of her own class?” he asked.
“Of course she had. There was Rufus Bigland’s son Ted—as nice a boy as you could find. But oh, no, my fine lady was too good for him! I’d no patience with such airs and graces!”
Poirot said:
“Was he not angry about her treatment of him?”
“Yes, indeed. He accused her of carrying on with Mr. Roddy. I know that for a fact. I don’t blame the boy for feeling sore!”
“Nor I,” said Poirot. “You interest me extremely, Mrs. Bishop. Some people have the knack of presenting a character clearly and vigorously in a few words. It is a great gift. I have at last a clear picture of Mary Gerrard.”
“Mind you,” said Mrs. Bishop, “I’m not saying a word against the girl! I wouldn’t do such a thing—and she in her grave. But there’s no doubt that she caused a lot of trouble!”
Poirot murmured:
“Where would it have ended, I wonder?”
“That’s what I say!” said Mrs. Bishop. “You can take it from me, Mr. Poirot, that if my dear mistress hadn’t died when she did—awful as the shock was at the time, I see now that it was a Mercy in Disguise—I don’t know what might have been the end of it!”
Poirot said invitingly:
“You mean?”
Mrs. Bishop said solemnly:
“I’ve come across it time and again. My own sister was in service where it happened. Once when old Colonel Randolph died and left every penny away from his poor wife to a hussy living at Eastbourne—and once old Mrs. Dacres—left it to the organist of the church—one of those long-haired young men—and she with married sons and daughters.”
Poirot said:
“You mean, I take it, that Mrs. Welman might have left all her money to Mary Gerrard?”
“It wouldn’t have surprised me!” said Mrs. Bishop. “That’s what the young woman was working up to, I’ve no doubt. And if I ventured to say a word, Mrs. Welman was ready to bite my head off, though I’d been with her nearly twenty years. It’s an ungrateful world, Mr. Poirot. You try to do your duty and it is not appreciated.”
“Alas,” sighed Poirot, “how true that is!”
“But Wickedness doesn’t always flourish,” said Mrs. Bishop.
Poirot said:
“True. Mary Gerrard is dead….”
Mrs. Bishop said comfortably:
“She’s gone to her reckoning, and we mustn’t judge her.”