Agatha Christie - Cards on the Table

"Yes, it is I. Qu'est ce qu'il y a?"

The mere inflection of the superintendent's voice had told him that something had happened. His own vague misgivings came back to him.

"But quickly, my friend, tell me."

"It's Mrs. Lorrimer."

"Lorrimer – yes?"

"What the devil did you say to her – or did she say to you yesterday? You never told me anything; in fact you let me think that the Meredith girl was the one we were after."

Poirot said quietly, "What has happened?"

"Suicide."

"Mrs. Lorrimer has committed suicide?"

"That's right. It seems she has been very depressed and unlike herself lately. Her doctor had ordered her some sleeping stuff. Last night she took an overdose."

Poirot drew a deep breath.

"There is no question of – accident?"

"Not the least. It's all cut and dried. She wrote to the three of them."

"Which three?"

"The other three. Roberts, Despard, and Miss Meredith. All fair and square, no beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she was taking a short cut out of all the mess – that it was she who had killed Shaitana, and that she apologized – apologized! – to all three of them for the inconvenience and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm businesslike letter. Absolutely typical of the woman. She was a cool customer all right."

For a minute or two Poirot did not answer.

So this was Mrs. Lorrimer's final word. She had determined, after all, to shield Anne Meredith. A quick painless death instead of a protracted painful one, and her last action an altruistic one – the saving of the girl with whom she felt a secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quiet, ruthless efficiency – a suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties. What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like her, like her clear-cut determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.

He had thought to have convinced her – but evidently she had preferred her own judgment. A woman of very strong will. Battle 's voice cut into his meditations.

"What the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up her and this is the result. But you implied that the result of your interview was definite suspicion of the Meredith girl."

Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer constrained him to her will as she could not have done if she were living.

He said at last, slowly, "I was in error."

They were unaccustomed words on his tongue and he did not like them.

"You made a mistake, eh?" said Battle. "All the same she must have thought you were on to her. It's a bad business, letting her slip through our fingers like this."

"You could not have proved anything against her," said Poirot.

"No, I suppose that's true. Perhaps it's all for the best. You – er – didn't mean this to happen, Monsieur Poirot?"

Poirot's disclaimer was indignant. Then he said, "Tell me exactly what has occurred."

"Roberts opened his letters just before eight o'clock. He lost no time, dashed off at once in his car, leaving his parlormaid to communicate with us, which she did. He got to the house to find that Mrs. Lorrimer hadn't been called yet – rushed up to her bedroom but it was too late. He tried artificial respiration but there was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed his treatment."

"What was the sleeping stuff?"

"Veronal, I think. One of the Barbitonum series, at any rate. There was a bottle of tablets by her bed."

"What about the other two? Did they not try to communicate with you?"

"Despard is out of town. He hasn't had this morning's post."

"And – Miss Meredith.?"

"I've just rung her up."

"Eh bien?"

"She had just opened the letter a few moments before my call came through. Post is later there."

"What was her reaction?"

"A perfectly proper attitude. Intense relief decently veiled. Shocked and grieved – that sort of thing."

Poirot paused a moment, then he said, "Where are you now, my friend?"

" At Cheyne Lane."

"Bien. I will come round immediately."

In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Doctor Roberts on the point of departure. The doctor's usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked pale and shaken.

"Nasty business this, Monsieur Poirot. I can't say I'm not relieved – from my own point of view – but to tell you the truth it's a bit of a shock. I never really thought for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. It's been the greatest surprise to me."

"I, too, am surprised."

"Quiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Can't imagine her doing a violent thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know now. I confess I'm curious, though."

"It must take a load off your mind – this occurrence."

"Oh, it does undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. It's not very pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman herself – well, it was undoubtedly the best way out."

"So she thought herself."

Roberts nodded. "Conscience, I suppose," he said as he let himself out of the house.

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. The doctor had misread the situation. It was not remorse that had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life.

On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly parlormaid who was weeping quietly.

"Its so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you having tea with her yesterday so nice and quiet. And now today she's gone. I shall never forget this morning – never as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the bell. Rang three times he did before I could get to it. And 'Where's your mistress?' he shot out at me. I was so flustered I couldn't hardly answer. You see we never went in to the mistress till she rang – that was her orders. And I just couldn't get out anything. And the doctor, he says, 'Where's her room?' and ran up the stairs and me behind him, and I showed him the door and he rushes in not so much as knocking and takes one look at her lying there and 'Too late,' he said. She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water and he tried desperate to bring her back but it couldn't be done. And then the police coming and all – it isn't – it isn't – decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn't have liked it. And why the police? It's none of their business surely even if an accident has occurred and the poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake."

Poirot did not reply to her question. He said, "Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried at all?"

"No, I don't think so, sir. She was tired – and I think she was in pain. She hasn't been well lately, sir."

"No, I know."

The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.

"She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been worried about her for some time. She couldn't do as much as she used to do and things tired her. I think perhaps the young lady coming after you left was a bit too much for her."

With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.

"The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?"

"Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith her name was."

"Did she stay long?"

"About an hour, sir."

Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said, "And afterward?"

"The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired."

Again Poirot was silent, then he said, "Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?"

"Do you mean after she went to bed? I don't think so, sir."

"But you are not sure?"

"There were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day."