Two
Hercule Poirot looked encouragingly at the man seated opposite him.
Dr. Charles Oldfield was a man of perhaps forty. He had fair hair slightly grey at the temples
and blue eyes that held a worried expression. He stooped a little and his manner was a trifle
hesitant. Moreover, he seemed to find difficulty in coming to the point.
“I’ve come to you, M. Poirot, with rather an odd request. And now that I’m here, I’m inclined
to funk the whole thing. Because, as I see very well now, it’s the sort of thing that no one can
possibly do anything about.”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“As to that, you must let me judge.”
Oldfield muttered:
“I don’t know why I thought that perhaps—”
He broke off.
Hercule Poirot finished the sentence.
“That perhaps I could help you? Eh bien, perhaps I can. Tell me your problem.”
Oldfield straightened himself. Poirot
noted3 anew how haggard the man looked.
Oldfield said, and his voice had a note of hopelessness in it:
“You see, it isn’t any good going to the police . . . They can’t do anything. And yet—every
day it’s getting worse and worse. I—I don’t know what to do. . . .”
“What is getting worse?”
“The
rumours5 . . . Oh, it’s quite simple, M. Poirot. Just a little over a year ago, my wife died.
She had been an
invalid6 for some years. They are saying, everyone is saying, that I killed her—
that I poisoned her!”
“Aha,” said Poirot. “And did you poison her?”
“M. Poirot!” Dr. Oldfield sprang to his feet.
“Calm yourself,” said Hercule Poirot. “And sit down again. We will take it, then, that you did
not poison your wife. But your practice, I imagine, is
situated7 in a country district—”
“Yes. Market Loughborough—in Berkshire. I have always realized that it was the kind of
place where people gossiped a good deal, but I never imagined that it could reach the lengths it has
done.” He drew his chair a little forward. “M. Poirot, you have no idea of what I have gone
through. At first I had no inkling of what was going on. I did notice that people seemed less
friendly, that there was a tendency to avoid me—but I put it down to—to the fact of my recent
bereavement8. Then it became more marked. In the street, even, people will cross the road to avoid
speaking to me. My practice is falling off. Wherever I go I am conscious of lowered voices, of
unfriendly eyes that watch me whilst
malicious9 tongues whisper their deadly poison. I have had
one or two letters—
vile10 things.”
He paused—and then went on:
“And—and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know how to fight this—this vile
network of lies and suspicion. How can one refute what is never said openly to your face? I am
powerless—trapped—and slowly and mercilessly being destroyed.”
Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully. He said:
because as fast as one head is cropped off two grow in its place.”
Dr. Oldfield said: “That’s just it. There’s nothing I can do—nothing! I came to you as a last
resort—but I don’t suppose for a minute that there is anything you can do either.”
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
“I am not so sure. Your problem interests me, Doctor Oldfield. I should like to try my hand at
destroying the many-headed monster. First of all, tell me a little more about the circumstances
which gave rise to this malicious gossip. Your wife died, you say, just over a year ago. What was
the cause of death?”
“No. She had been suffering from gastric trouble over a considerable period.”
Poirot nodded.
“And the symptoms of gastric inflammation and of arsenical poisoning are closely alike—a
fact which everybody knows nowadays. Within the last ten years there have been at least four
sensational15 murder cases in each of which the victim has been buried without suspicion with a
certificate of gastric
disorder16. Was your wife older or younger than yourself?”
“She was five years older.”
“How long had you been married?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Did she leave any property?”
“Yes. She was a fairly well-to-do woman. She left, roughly, about thirty thousand pounds.”
“A very useful sum. It was left to you?”
“Yes.”
“Were you and your wife on good terms?”
“Certainly.”
“No quarrels? No scenes?”
“Well—” Charles Oldfield hesitated. “My wife was what might be termed a difficult woman.
She was an invalid and very concerned over her health and inclined, therefore, to be fretful and
difficult to please. There were days when nothing I could do was right.”
Poirot nodded. He said:
“Ah yes, I know the type. She would complain, possibly, that she was neglected,
unappreciated—that her husband was tired of her and would be glad when she was dead.”
Oldfield’s face registered the truth of Poirot’s
surmise17. He said with a
wry18 smile:
“You’ve got it exactly!”
Poirot went on:
“Did she have a hospital nurse to attend on her? Or a companion? Or a
devoted19 maid?”
“A nurse-companion. A very sensible and competent woman. I really don’t think she would
talk.”
“Even the sensible and the competent have been given tongues by le bon Dieu—and they do
not always employ their tongues wisely. I have no doubt that the nurse-companion talked, that the
servants talked, that everyone talked! You have all the materials there for the starting of a very
enjoyable village scandal. Now I will ask you one more thing. Who is the lady?”
“I don’t understand.” Dr. Oldfield flushed angrily.
Poirot said gently:
“I think you do. I am asking you who the lady is with whom your name has been coupled.”
Dr. Oldfield rose to his feet. His face was stiff and cold. He said:
“There is no ‘lady in the case.’ I’m sorry, M. Poirot, to have taken up so much of your time.”
He went towards the door.
Hercule Poirot said:
“I regret it also. Your case interests me. I would like to have helped you. But I cannot do
anything unless I am told the whole truth.”
“I have told you the truth.”
“No. . . .”
Dr. Oldfield stopped. He wheeled round.
“Why do you insist that there is a woman concerned in this?”
“Mon cher docteur! Do you not think I know the female
mentality20? The village gossip, it is
based always, always on the relations of the sexes. If a man poisons his wife in order to travel to
the North Pole or to enjoy the peace of a bachelor existence—it would not interest his fellow
villagers for a minute! It is because they are convinced that the murder has been committed in
order that the man may marry another woman that the talk grows and spreads. That is elemental
“I’m not responsible for what a pack of damned gossiping busybodies think!”
“Of course you are not.”
Poirot went on:
“So you might as well come back and sit down and give me the answer to the question I
asked you just now.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Oldfield came back and resumed his seat.
“I suppose it’s possible that they’ve been saying things about Miss Moncrieffe. Jean
Moncrieffe is my dispenser, a very fine girl indeed.”
“How long has she worked for you?”
“For three years.”
“Did your wife like her?”
“Er—well, no, not exactly.”
“She was jealous?”
“It was absurd!”
Poirot smiled.
He said:
“The
jealousy24 of wives is proverbial. But I will tell you something. In my experience
jealousy, however far-fetched and
extravagant25 it may seem, is nearly always based on reality.
There is a saying, is there not, that the customer is always right? Well, the same is true of the
jealous husband or wife. However little concrete evidence there may be, fundamentally they are
always right.”
“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
killing27 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
perspiration28 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:
down to a definite accusation—surely then I should be
vindicated31? At least, sometimes I think so
. . . At other times I think it would only make things worse—give bigger
publicity32 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.
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