Agatha Christie - Appointment with Death

Poirot interrupted gently: "And what time was it?"

"Eh?" said Lennox.

"What time was it when you set the hands of the wristwatch?"

"Oh, I see. It-it was twenty-five minutes to five."

"So you do know exactly the time you returned to the camp!" said Poirot gently.

Lennox flushed. "Yes, what a fool I am! I'm sorry, M. Poirot, my wits are all astray, I'm afraid. All this worry-"

Poirot chimed in quickly: "Oh! I understand-I understand perfectly! It is all of the most disquieting! And what happened next?"

"I asked my mother if she wanted anything. A drink-tea, coffee, etc… She said no. Then I went to the marquee. None of the servants seemed to be about, but I found some soda water and drank it. I was thirsty. I sat there reading some old numbers of the Saturday Evening Post. I think I must have dozed off."

"Your wife joined you in the marquee?"

"Yes, she came in not long after."

"And you did not see your mother again alive?"

"No."

"She did not seem in any way agitated or upset when you were talking to her?"

"No, she was exactly as usual."

"She did not refer to any trouble or annoyance with one of the servants?"

Lennox stared. "No, nothing at all."

"And that is all you can tell me?"

"I am afraid so-yes."

"Thank you, M. Boynton." Poirot inclined his head as a sign that the interview was over.

Lennox did not seem very willing to depart. He stood hesitating by the door. "Er-there's nothing else?"

"Nothing. Perhaps you would be so good as to ask your wife to come here?"

Lennox went slowly out. On the pad beside him Poirot wrote "L. B. 4:35 P.M."

Poirot looked with interest at the tall dignified young woman who entered the room. He rose and bowed to her politely.

"Mrs. Lennox Boynton? Hercule Poirot, at your service."

Nadine Boynton sat down. Her thoughtful eyes were on Poirot's face.

"I hope you do not mind, Madame, my intruding on your sorrow in this way?"

Her gaze did not waver. She did not reply at once. Her eyes remained steady and grave. At last, she gave a sigh and said: "I think it is best for me to be quite frank with you, M. Poirot."

"I agree with you, Madame."

"You apologized for intruding upon my sorrow. That sorrow, M. Poirot, does not exist and it is idle to pretend that it does. I had no love for my mother-in-law and I cannot honestly say that I regret her death."

"Thank you, Madame, for your plain speaking."

Nadine went on: "Still, although I cannot pretend sorrow, I can admit to another feeling-remorse."

"Remorse?" Poirot's eyebrows went up.

"Yes. Because, you see, it was I who brought about her death. For that I blame myself bitterly."

"What is this that you are saying, Madame?"

"I am saying that I was the cause of my mother-in-law's death. I was acting, as I thought, honestly-but the result was unfortunate. To all intents and purposes, I killed her."

Poirot leaned back in his chair. "Will you be so kind as to elucidate this statement, Madame?"

Nadine bent her head. "Yes, that is what I wish to do. My first reaction, naturally, was to keep my private affairs to myself, but I see that the time has come when it would be better to speak out. I have no doubt, M. Poirot, that you have often received confidences of a somewhat intimate nature?"

"That, yes."

"Then I will tell you quite simply what occurred. My married life, M. Poirot, has not been particularly happy. My husband is not entirely to blame for that-his mother's influence over him has been unfortunate-but I have been feeling for some time that my life was becoming intolerable,"

She paused and then went on: "On the afternoon of my mother-in-law's death I came to a decision. I have a friend-a very good friend. He has suggested more than once that I should throw in my lot with his. On that afternoon I accepted his proposal."

"You decided to leave your husband?"

"Yes."

"Continue, Madame."

Nadine said in a lower voice: "Having once made my decision I wanted to-to establish it as soon as possible. I walked home to the camp by myself. My mother-in-law was sitting alone, there was one about, and I decided to break the news to her right there. I got a chair, sat down by her and told her abruptly what I had decided."

"She was surprised?"

"Yes I am afraid it was a great shock to her. She was both surprised and angry-very angry. She-she worked herself into quite a state about it! Presently I refused to discuss the matter any longer. I got up and walked away." Her voice dropped. "I-I never saw her again alive."

Poirot nodded his head slowly. He said: "I see." Then he said: "You think her death was the result of the shock?"

"It seems to me almost certain. You see, she had already overexerted herself considerably getting to this place. My news, and her anger at it, would do the rest… I feel additionally guilty because I have had a certain amount of training in illness and so I, more than anyone else, ought to have realized the possibility of such a thing happening."

Poirot sat in silence for some minutes, then he said: "What exactly did you do when you left her?"

"I took the chair I had brought out back into my cave, then I went down to the marquee. My husband was there."

Poirot watched her closely as he said: "Did you tell him of your decision? Or had you already told him?"

There was a pause, an infinitesimal pause, before Nadine said: "I told him then."

"How did he take it?"

She answered quietly: "He was very upset."

"Did he urge you to reconsider your decision?"

She shook her head. "He-he didn't say very much. You see, we had both known for some time that something like this might happen."

Poirot said: "You will pardon me, but the other man was, of course, M. Jefferson Cope?"

She bent her head. "Yes."

There was a long pause, then, without any change of voice, Poirot asked: "Do you own a hypodermic syringe, Madame?"

"Yes-no."

His eyebrows rose.

She explained. "I have an old hypodermic amongst other things in a traveling medicine chest, but it is in our big luggage which we left in Jerusalem."

"I see."

There was a pause, then she said with a shiver of uneasiness: "Why did you ask me that, M. Poirot?"

He did not answer the question. Instead he put one of his own. "Mrs. Boynton was, I believe, taking a mixture containing digitalis?"

"Yes."

He thought that she was definitely watchful now. "That was for her heart trouble?"

"Yes."

"Digitalis is, to some extent, a cumulative drug?"

"I believe it is. I do not know very much about it."

"Mrs. Boynton had taken a big overdose of digitalis-"

She interrupted him quickly but with decision. "She did not. She was always most careful. So was I, if I measured the dose for her."

"There might have been an overdose in this particular bottle. A mistake of the chemist who made it up?"

"I think that is very unlikely," she replied quietly.

"Ah well, the analysis will soon tell us."

Nadine said: "Unfortunately the bottle was broken."

Poirot eyed her with sudden interest. "Indeed! Who broke it?"

"I'm not quite sure. One of the servants, I think. In carrying my mother-in-law's body into her cave, there was a good deal of confusion and the light was very poor. A table got knocked over."

Poirot eyed her steadily for a minute or two. "That," he said, "is very interesting."

Nadine Boynton shifted wearily in her chair. "You are suggesting, I think, that my mother-in-law did not die of shock, but of an overdose of digitalis?" she said and went on: "That seems to me most improbable."

Poirot leaned forward. "Even when I tell you that Dr. Gerard, the French physician who was staying in the camp, had missed an appreciable quantity of a preparation of digitoxin from his medicine chest?"