Agatha Christie - Murder in Mesopotamia

‘In any case, do not distress yourself, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘It is not really of much importance.’

‘No, of course not. I understand that. But you see, it is of importance to me, because I feel I might have done something.’

‘Don’t distress yourself, dear Anne,’ said Dr Leidner with affection. ‘You must be sensible. What you heard was probably one Arab bawling to another some distance away in the fields.’

Miss Johnson flushed a little at the kindliness of his tone. I even saw tears spring to her eyes. She turned her head away and spoke even more gruffly than usual.

‘Probably was. Usual thing after a tragedy – start imagining things that aren’t so at all.’

Poirot was once more consulting his notebook.

‘I do not suppose there is much more to be said. Mr Carey?’

Richard Carey spoke slowly – in a wooden mechanical manner.

‘I’m afraid I can add nothing helpful. I was on duty at the dig. The news was brought to me there.’

‘And you know or can think of nothing helpful that occurred in the days immediately preceding the murder?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Mr Coleman?’

‘I was right out of the whole thing,’ said Mr Coleman with – was it just a shade of regret – in his tone. ‘I went into Hassanieh yesterday morning to get the money for the men’s wages. When I came back Emmott told me what had happened and I went back in the bus to get the police and Dr Reilly.’

‘And beforehand?’

‘Well, sir, things were a bit jumpy – but you know that already. There was the antika-room scare and one or two before that – hands and faces at the window – you remember, sir,’ he appealed to Dr Leidner, who bent his head in assent. ‘I think, you know, that you’ll find some Johnny did get in from outside. Must have been an artful sort of beggar.’

Poirot considered him for a minute or two in silence.

‘You are an Englishman, Mr Coleman?’ he asked at last.

‘That’s right, sir. All British. See the trade-mark. Guaranteed genuine.’

‘This is your first season?’

‘Quite right.’

‘And you are passionately keen on archaeology?’

This description of himself seemed to cause Mr Coleman some embarrassment. He got rather pink and shot the side look of a guilty schoolboy at Dr Leidner.

‘Of course – it’s all very interesting,’ he stammered. ‘I mean – I’m not exactly a brainy chap…’

He broke off rather lamely. Poirot did not insist.

He tapped thoughtfully on the table with the end of his pencil and carefully straightened an inkpot that stood in front of him.

‘It seems then,’ he said, ‘that that is as near as we can get for the moment. If any one of you thinks of something that has for the time being slipped his or her memory, do not hesitate to come to me with it. It will be well now, I think, for me to have a few words alone with Dr Leidner and Dr Reilly.’

It was the signal for a breaking up of the party. We all rose and filed out of the door. When I was half-way out, however, a voice recalled me.

‘Perhaps,’ said M. Poirot, ‘Nurse Leatheran will be so kind as to remain. I think her assistance will be valuable to us.’

I came back and resumed my seat at the table.

Dr Reilly had risen from his seat. When everyone had gone out he carefully closed the door. Then, with an inquiring glance at Poirot, he proceeded to shut the window giving on the courtyard. The others were already shut. Then he, too, resumed his seat at the table.

‘Bien!’ said Poirot. ‘We are now private and undisturbed. We can speak freely. We have heard what the members of the expedition have to tell us and – But yes, ma soeur, what is it that you think?’

I got rather red. There was no denying that the queer little man had sharp eyes. He’d seen the thought passing through my mind – I suppose my face had shown a bit too clearly what I was thinking!

‘Oh, it’s nothing–’ I said hesitating.

‘Come on, nurse,’ said Dr Reilly. ‘Don’t keep the specialist waiting.’

‘It’s nothing really,’ I said hurriedly. ‘It only just passed through my mind, so to speak, that perhaps even if anyone did know or suspect something it wouldn’t be easy to bring it out in front of everybody else – or even, perhaps, in front of Dr Leidner.’

Rather to my astonishment, M. Poirot nodded his head in vigorous agreement.

‘Precisely. Precisely. It is very just what you say there. But I will explain. That little reunion we have just had – it served a purpose. In England before the races you have a parade of the horses, do you not? They go in front of the grandstand so that everyone may have an opportunity of seeing and judging them. That is the purpose of my little assembly. In the sporting phrase, I run my eye over the possible starters.’

Dr Leidner cried out violently, ‘I do not believe for one minute that any member of my expedition is implicated in this crime!’

Then, turning to me, he said authoritatively: ‘Nurse, I should be much obliged if you would tell M. Poirot here and now exactly what passed between my wife and you two days ago.’

Thus urged, I plunged straightaway into my own story, trying as far as possible to recall the exact words and phrases Mrs Leidner had used.

When I had finished, M. Poirot said: ‘Very good. Very good. You have the mind neat and orderly. You will be of great service to me here.’

He turned to Dr Leidner.

‘You have these letters?’

‘I have them here. I thought that you would want to see them first thing.’

Poirot took them from him, read them, and scrutinized them carefully as he did so. I was rather disappointed that he didn’t dust powder over them or examine them with a microscope or anything like that – but I realized that he wasn’t a very young man and that his methods were probably not very up to date. He just read them in the way that anyone might read a letter.

Having read them he put them down and cleared his throat.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘let us proceed to get our facts clear and in order. The first of these letters was received by your wife shortly after her marriage to you in America. There had been others but these she destroyed. The first letter was followed by a second. A very short time after the second arrived you both had a near escape from coal-gas poisoning. You then came abroad and for nearly two years no further letters were received. They started again at the beginning of your season this year – that is to say within the last three weeks. That is correct?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Your wife displayed every sign of panic and, after consulting Dr Reilly, you engaged Nurse Leatheran here to keep your wife company and allay her fears?’

‘Yes.’

‘Certain incidents occurred – hands tapping at the window – a spectral face – noises in the antika-room. You did not witness any of these phenomena yourself?’

‘No.’

‘In fact nobody did except Mrs Leidner?’

‘Father Lavigny saw a light in the antika-room.’

‘Yes, I have not forgotten that.’

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said: ‘Had your wife made a will?’

‘I do not think so.’

‘Why was that?’

‘It did not seem worth it from her point of view.’

‘Is she not a wealthy woman?’

‘Yes, during her lifetime. Her father left her a considerable sum of money in trust. She could not touch the principal. At her death it was to pass to any children she might have – and failing children to the Pittstown Museum.’

Poirot drummed thoughtfully on the table.

‘Then we can, I think,’ he said, ‘eliminate one motive from the case. It is, you comprehend, what I look for first. Who benefits by the deceased’s death? In this case it is a museum. Had it been otherwise, had Mrs Leidner died intestate but possessed of a considerable fortune, I should imagine that it would prove an interesting question as to who inherited the money – you – or a former husband. But there would have been this difficulty, the former husband would have had to resurrect himself in order to claim it, and I should imagine that he would then be in danger of arrest, though I hardly fancy that the death penalty would be exacted so long after the war. However, these speculations need not arise. As I say, I settle first the question of money. For the next step I proceed always to suspect the husband or wife of the deceased! In this case, in the first place, you are proved never to have gone near your wife’s room yesterday afternoon, in the second place you lose instead of gain by your wife’s death, and in the third place–’