Agatha Christie - One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

"The porter doesn't remember any – but then I don't suppose he would by now, and anyway it's a big block of flats – people always going in and out. He can only fix the date of Miss Sainsbury Seale's visit because he was taken off to the hospital the next day and was actually feeling rather bad that evening."

"Anybody in the other flats hear anything out of the way?"

The younger man shook his head.

"I've inquired at the flat above this and the one below. Nobody can remember hearing anything unusual. Both of them had their radios on, I gather."

The divisional surgeon came out of the bathroom where he had been washing his hands.

"Most unsavory corpse," he said cheerfully. "Send her along when you're ready and we'll get down to brass tacks."

"No idea of the cause of death, doctor?"

"Impossible to say until I've done the autopsy. Those face injuries were definitely inflicted after death, I should say. But I shall know better when I've got her at the mortuary. Middle-aged woman, quite healthy – grey hair at the roots but tinted blonde. There may be distinguishing marks on the body – if there aren't, it may be a job to identify her – oh, you know who she is? That's splendid. What? Missing woman there's been all the fuss about? Well, you know, I never read the papers. Just do the crosswords."

Japp said bitterly:

"And that's publicity for you!" as the doctor went out.

Poirot was hovering over the desk. He picked up a small brown address book.

The indefatigable Beddoes said:

"Nothing of special interest there – mostly hairdressers, dressmakers, etc. I've noted down any private names and addresses."

Poirot opened the book at the letter D.

He read Dr. Davis, 17 Prince Albert Road; Drake and Pomponetti, Fishmongers. And below it: Dentist, Mr. Morley, 58 Queen Charlotte Street.

There was a green light in Poirot's eyes. He said:

"There will be no difficulty, I imagine, in positively identifying the body."

Japp looked at him curiously. He said: "Surely – you don't imagine -?"

Poirot said with vehemence:

"I want to be sure."

Miss Morley had moved to the country. She was living in a small country cottage near Hertford. The grenadier greeted Poirot amicably. Since her brother's death her face had perhaps grown slightly grimmer, her carriage more upright, her general attitude towards life more unyielding. She resented bitterly the slur cast upon her brother's professional name by the findings of the inquest.

Poirot, she had reason to believe, shared her view that the verdict of the coroner's court was untrue. Hence the grenadier unbent a little.

She answered his questions readily enough and with competence. All Mr. Morley's professional papers had been carefully filed by Miss Nevill and had been handed over by her to Mr. Morley's successor.

Some of the patients had transferred themselves to Mr. Reilly, others had accepted the new partner, others again had gone to other dentists elsewhere.

Miss Morley, after she had given what information she could, said:

"So you have found that woman who was Henry's patient – Miss Sainsbury Seale – and she was murdered, too."

The "too" was a little defiant. She stressed the word.

Poirot said:

"Your brother never mentioned Miss Sainsbury Seale particularly to you?"

"No, I don't remember his doing so. He would tell me if he had had a particularly trying patient, or if one of his patients had said something amusing he would pass it on to me, but we didn't usually talk much about his work. He was glad to forget it when the day was over. He was very tired sometimes."

"Do you remember hearing of a Mrs. Chapman among your brother's patients?"

"Chapman? No, I don't think so. Miss Nevill is really the person to help you over all this."

"I am anxious to get in touch with her. Where is she now?"

"She has taken a post with a dentist in Ramsgate, I believe."

"She has not married that young man Frank Carter yet?"

"No. I rather hope that will never come off. I don't like that young man, M. Poirot. I really don't. There is something wrong about him. I still feel that he hasn't really any proper moral sense."

Poirot said:

"Do you think it is possible that he could have shot your brother?"

Miss Morley said slowly:

"I do feel perhaps that he would be capable of it – he has a very uncontrollable temper. But I don't really see that he had any motive – nor opportunity for that matter. You see, it wasn't as though Henry had succeeded in persuading Gladys to give him up. She was sticking to him in the most faithful way."

"Could he have been bribed do you think?"

"Bribed? To kill my brother? What an extraordinary idea!"

A nice looking dark-haired girl brought in the tea at this moment. As she closed the door behind her again, Poirot said:

"That girl was with you in London, was she not?"

"Agnes? Yes, she was house-parlormaid. I let the cook go – she didn't want to come to the country anyway – and Agnes does everything for me. She is turning into quite a nice little cook."

Poirot nodded.

He knew very accurately the domestic arrangements of 58 Queen Charlotte Street. They had been thoroughly gone into at the time of the tragedy. Mr. Morley and his sister had occupied the two top floors of the house as a maisonette. The basement had been shut up altogether, except for a narrow passage leading from the area to the back yard where a wire cage ran up to the top floor with the tradesmen's deliveries and where a speaking tube was installed. Therefore the only entrance to the house was by the front door which it was Alfred's business to answer. This had enabled the police to be sure that no outsider could have entered the house on that particular morning.

Both cook and house-parlormaid had been with the Morleys for some years and bore good characters.

So, although it was theoretically possible that one or other of them might have crept down to the second floor and shot her master, the possibility had never been taken seriously into account. Neither of the two had appeared unduly flustered or upset at being questioned, and there certainly seemed no possible reason for connecting either of them with his death.

Nevertheless, as Agnes handed Poirot his hat and stick on leaving, she asked him with an unusually nervous abruptness:

"Does – does anyone know anything more about the master's death, sir?"

Poirot turned to look at her. He said:

"Nothing fresh has come to light."

"They're still quite sure as he did shoot himself because he'd made a mistake with that drug?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

Agnes pleated her apron. Her face was averted. She said rather indistinctly:

"The – the mistress doesn't think so."

"And you agree with her, perhaps?"

"Me? Oh, I don't know nothing, sir. I only – I only wanted to be sure."

Hercule Poirot said in his most gentle voice:

"It would be a relief to you to feel beyond any possible doubt that it was suicide?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Agnes agreed quickly, "it would indeed."

"For a special reason, perhaps?"

Her startled eyes met his. She shrank back a little.

"I – I don't know anything about it, sir. I only just asked."

"But why did she ask?" Hercule Poirot demanded of himself as he walked down the path to the gate. He felt sure that there was an answer to that question.

But as yet he could not guess what it was.

All the same, he felt a step nearer.

When Poirot returned to his flat he was surprised to find an unexpected visitor awaiting him.

A bald head was visible above the back of a chair, and the small neat figure of Mr. Barnes rose to his feet.

With eyes that twinkled as usual, he made a dry little apology.