Agatha Christie - Sad Cypress

She paused and then said, "Well, it was sealed up, but when I found it I'll admit to you that I opened it and read it then and there, which I dare say I should not have done. But Mary was dead, and I guessed more or less at what was inside it and I didn't see that it was any concern of anyone else's. All the same, I haven't liked to destroy it, because I didn't feel somehow it would be right to do that. But, there, you'd better read it yourself."

Poirot drew out the sheet of paper covered in small, angular writing:

This is the truth I've written down here in case it should ever be needed. I was lady's maid to Mrs. Welman at Hunterbury, and very kind to me she was. I got into trouble, and she stood by me and took me back into her service when it was all over; but the baby died. My mistress and Sir Lewis Rycroft were fond of each other, but they couldn't marry, because he had a wife already and she was in a madhouse, poor lady. He was a fine gentleman and devoted to Mrs. Welman. He was killed, and she told me soon after that she was going to have a child. After that she went up to Scotland and took me with her. The child was born there – at Ardlochrie. Bob Gerrard, who had washed his hands of me and flung me off when I had my trouble, had been writing to me again. The arrangement was that we should marry and live at the lodge and he should think that the baby was mine. If we lived on the place it would seem natural that Mrs. Welman should be interested in the child and she'd see to educating her and giving her a place in the world. She thought it would be better for Mary never to know the truth. Mrs. Welman gave us both a handsome sum of money; but I would have helped her without that. I've been quite happy with Bob, but he never took to Mary. I've held my tongue and never said anything to anybody, but I think it's right in case I die that I should put this down in black and white.

Eliza Gerrard (born Eliza Riley).

Hercule Poirot drew a deep breath and folded up the letter again.

Nurse Hopkins said anxiously, "What are you going to do about it? They're all dead now! It's no good raking up these things. Everyone looked up to Mrs. Welman in these parts; there's never been anything said against her. All this old scandal – it would be cruel. The same with Mary. She was a sweet girl. Why should anyone have to know she was a bastard? Let the dead rest in peace in their graves, that's what I say."

Poirot said, "One has to consider the living."

Nurse Hopkins said, "But this has got nothing to do with the murder."

Hercule Poirot said gravely, "It may have a great deal to do with it."

He went out of the cottage, leaving Nurse Hopkins with her mouth open, staring after him. He had walked some way when he became aware of hesitating footsteps just behind him. He stopped and turned round.

It was Horlick, the young gardener from Hunterbury. He was looking the picture of embarrassment and twisting his cap round and round in his hands.

"Excuse me, sir. Could I have a word with you?" Horlick spoke with a kind of gulp.

"Certainly. What is it?"

Horlick twisted the cap even more fiercely. He said, averting his eyes and looking the picture of misery and embarrassment, "It's about that car."

"The car that was outside the back gate that morning?"

"Yes, sir. Dr. Lord said this morning that it wasn't his car – but it was, sir."

"You know that for a fact?"

"Yes, sir. Because of the number, sir. It was MSS 2022. I noticed it particular – MSS 2022. You see, we know it in the village, and always call it Miss Tou-Tou! I'm quite sure of it, sir."

Poirot said with a faint smile, "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."

Was it very hot in the court? Or very cold? Elinor Carlisle could not be quite sure. Sometimes she felt burning 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.

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 should 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 the term?

With some enjoyment he did so. Death from morphine poisoning might result 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.

The court had adjourned and sat again. There had been some hours of expert medical testimony.

Dr. Alan Garcia, the distinguished analyst, full of learned terms, spoke with gusto of the stomach contents. Bread, fish paste, tea, presence of morphia – more learned terms and various decimal points. Amount taken by the deceased estimated to be about four grains. Fatal dose could be as low as one grain.

Sir Edwin rose, still bland. "I should like to get it quite clear. You found in the stomach nothing but bread, butter, fish paste, tea, and morphia. There were no other foodstuffs?"

"None."

"That is to say, the deceased had eaten nothing but sandwiches and tea for some considerable time?"

"That is so."

"Was there anything to show in what particular vehicle the morphia had been administered?"

"I don't quite understand."

"I will simplify that question. The morphia could have been taken in the fish paste, or in the bread, or in the butter on the bread, or in the tea, or in the milk that had been added to the tea?"