Agatha Christie: The Labours of Hercules

Dr Oldfield said robustly: "Nonsense. I've never said anything to Jean Moncrieffe that my wife couldn't have overheard."

"That, perhaps. But it does not alter the truth of what I said." Hercule Poirot leaned forward. His voice was urgent, compelling. "Doctor Oldfield, I am going to do my utmost in this case. But I must have from you the most absolute frankness without regard to conventional appearances or to your own feelings. It is true, is it not, that you had ceased to care for your wife for some time before she died?"

Oldfield was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: "This business is killing me. I must have hope. Somehow or other I feel that you will be able to do something for me. I will be honest with you, M. Poirot. I did not care deeply for my wife. I made her, I think, a good husband, but I was never really in love with her."

"And this girl, Jean?"

The perspiration came out in a fine dew on the doctor's forehead.

He said: "I – I should have asked her to marry me before now if it weren't for all this scandal and talk."

Poirot sat back in his chair.

He said: "Now at last we have come to the true facts! Eh bien, Doctor Oldfield, I will take up your case. But remember this – it is the truth that I shall seek out."

Oldfield said bitterly: "It isn't the truth that's going to hurt me!"

He hesitated and said: "You know, I've contemplated the possibility of an action for slander! If I could pin anyone down to a definite accusation – surely then I should be vindicated? At least, sometimes I think so… At other times I think it would only make things worse – give bigger publicity to the whole thing and have people saying: 'It mayn't have been proved but there's no smoke without fire'."

He looked at Poirot.

"Tell me, honestly, is there any way out of this nightmare?"

"There is always a way," said Hercule Poirot.

"We are going into the country, Georges," said Hercule Poirot to his valet.

"Indeed, sir?" said the imperturbable George.

"And the purpose of our journey is to destroy a monster with nine heads."

"Really, sir? Something after the style of the Loch Ness Monster?"

"Less tangible than that. I did not refer to a flesh and blood animal, Georges."

"I misunderstood you, sir."

"It would be easier if it were one. There is nothing so intangible, so difficult to pin down, as the source of a rumour."

"Oh yes, indeed, sir. It's difficult to know how a thing starts sometimes."

"Exactly."

Hercule Poirot did not put up at Dr Oldfield's house. He went instead to the local inn. The morning after his arrival, he had his first interview with Jean Moncrieffe.

She was a tall girl with copper-coloured hair and steady blue eyes. She had about her a watchful look, as of one who is upon her guard.

She said: "So Doctor Oldfield did go to you. I knew he was thinking about it."

There was a lack of enthusiasm in her tone.

Poirot said: "And you did not approve?"

Her eyes met his. She said coldly: "What can you do?"

Poirot said quietly: "There might be a way of tackling the situation."

"What way?" She threw the words at him scornfully. "Do you mean to go round to all the whispering old women and say 'Really, please, you must stop talking like this. It's so bad for poor Doctor Oldfield.' And they'd answer you and say: 'Of course, I have never believed the story!" That's the worst of the whole thing – they don't say: 'My dear, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Mrs Oldfield's death wasn't quite what it seemed?' No, they say: 'My dear, of course I don't believe that story about Doctor Oldfield and his wife. I'm sure he wouldn't do such a thing, though it's true that he did neglect her just a little perhaps and I don't think, really it's quite wise to have quite a young girl as his dispenser – of course, I'm not saying for a minute that there was anything wrong between them. Oh no, I'm sure it was quite all right…'" She stopped. Her face was flushed and her breath came rather fast.

Hercule Poirot said: "You seem to know very well just what is being said."

Her mouth closed sharply. She said bitterly: "I know all right!"

"And what is your own solution?"

Jean Moncrieffe said: "The best thing for him to do is to sell his practice and start again somewhere else."

"Don't you think the story might follow him?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"He must risk that."

Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said: "Are you going to marry Doctor Oldfield, Miss Moncrieffe?" She displayed no surprise at the question.

She said shortly: "He hasn't asked me to marry him."

"Why not?"

Her blue eyes met his and flickered for a second. Then she said: "Because I've choked him off."

"Ah, what a blessing to find someone who can be frank!"

"I will be as frank as you please. When I realised that people were saying that Charles had got rid of his wife in order to marry me, it seemed to me that if we did marry it would just put the lid on things. I hoped that if there appeared to be no question of marriage between us, the silly scandal might die down."

"But it hasn't?"

"No, it hasn't."

"Surely," said Hercule Poirot, "that is a little odd?"

Jean said bitterly: "They haven't got much to amuse them down here."

Poirot asked: "Do you want to marry Charles Oldfield?"

The girl answered coolly enough.

"Yes, I do. I wanted to almost as soon as I met him."

"Then his wife's death was very convenient for you?"

Jean Moncrieffe said: "Mrs Oldfield was a singularly unpleasant woman. Frankly, I was delighted when she died."

"Yes," said Poirot. "You are certainly frank!"

She gave the same scornful smile.

Poirot said: "I have a suggestion to make."

"Yes?"

"Drastic means are required here. I suggest that somebody – possibly yourself – might write to the Home Office."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean that the best way of disposing of this story once and for all is to get the body exhumed and an autopsy performed."

She took a step back from him. Her lips opened, then shut again. Poirot watched her.

"Well, Mademoiselle?" he said at last.

Jean Moncrieffe said quietly: "I don't agree with you."

"But why not? Surely a verdict of death from natural causes would silence all tongues?"

"If you got that verdict, yes."

"Do you know what you are suggesting, Mademoiselle?"

Jean Moncrieffe said impatiently: "I know what I'm talking about. You're thinking of arsenic poisoning – you could prove that she was not poisoned by arsenic. But there are other poisons – the vegetable alkaloids. After a year, I doubt if you'd find any traces of them even if they had been used. And I know what these official analyst people are like. They might return a non-committal verdict saying that there was nothing to show what caused death – and then the tongues would wag faster than ever!"

Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said: "Who in your opinion is the most inveterate talker in the village?"

The girl considered. She said at last: "I really think old Miss Leatheran is the worst cat of the lot."

"Ah! Would it be possible for you to introduce me to Miss Leatheran – in a casual manner if possible?"

"Nothing could be easier. All the old tabbies are prowling about doing their shopping at this time of the morning. We've only got to walk down the main street."

As Jean had said, there was no difficulty about the procedure. Outside the post office, Jean stopped and spoke to a tall, thin middle-aged woman with a long nose and sharp inquisitive eyes.

"Good-morning, Miss Leatheran."

"Good-morning, Jean. Such a lovely day, is it not?"

The sharp eyes ranged inquisitively over Jean Moncrieffe's companion.