III
Nibbling1 delicately at a
scone2 and balancing a cup of tea on his knee, Hercule Poirot allowed
himself to become
confidential3 with his hostess. Miss Leatheran had been kind enough to ask him
to tea and had thereupon made it her business to find out exactly what this exotic little foreigner
was doing in their midst.
For some time he parried her thrusts with dexterity—thereby
whetting4 her appetite. Then,
when he judged the moment ripe, he leant forward:
“Ah, Miss Leatheran,” he said. “I can see that you are too clever for me! You have guessed
my secret. I am down here at the request of the Home Office. But please,” he lowered his voice,
“keep this information to yourself.”
“Of course—of course—” Miss Leatheran was flustered—thrilled to the core. “The Home
Office—you don’t mean—not poor Mrs. Oldfield?”
Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.
“We-ell!” Miss Leatheran breathed into that one word a whole
gamut5 of pleasurable emotion.
Poirot said:
“It is a delicate matter, you understand. I have been ordered to report whether there is or is
Miss Leatheran exclaimed:
“You are going to dig the poor thing up. How terrible!”
If she had said “how splendid” instead of “how terrible” the words would have suited her
tone of voice better.
“What is your own opinion, Miss Leatheran?”
“Well, of course, M. Poirot, there has been a lot of talk. But I never listen to talk. There is
always so much unreliable gossip going about. There is no doubt that Doctor Oldfield has been
very odd in his manner ever since it happened, but as I have said repeatedly we surely need not put
that down to a guilty conscience. It might be just grief. Not, of course, that he and his wife were on
really affectionate terms. That I do know—on first-hand authority. Nurse Harrison, who was with
Mrs. Oldfield for three or four years up to the time of her death, has admitted that much. And I
have always felt, you know, that Nurse Harrison had her suspicions—not that she ever said
anything, but one can tell, can’t one, from a person’s manner?”
Poirot said sadly:
“One has so little to go upon.”
“Yes, I know, but of course, M. Poirot, if the body is
exhumed7 then you will know.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “then we will know.”
“There have been cases like it before, of course,” said Miss Leatheran, her nose
twitching8
with pleasurable excitement. “Armstrong, for instance, and that other man—I can’t remember his
name—and then Crippen, of course. I’ve always wondered if Ethel Le Neve was in it with him or
not. Of course, Jean Moncrieffe is a very nice girl, I’m sure . . . I wouldn’t like to say she led him
on exactly—but men do get rather silly about girls, don’t they? And, of course, they were thrown
very much together!”
Poirot did not speak. He looked at her with an innocent expression of
inquiry9 calculated to
produce a further
spate10 of conversation. Inwardly he amused himself by counting the number of
times the words “of course” occurred.
“And, of course, with a postmortem and all that, so much would be bound to come out,
wouldn’t it? Servants and all that. Servants always know so much, don’t they? And, of course, it’s
quite impossible to keep them from gossiping, isn’t it? The Oldfields’ Beatrice was dismissed
almost immediately after the funeral—and I’ve always thought that was odd—especially with the
difficulty of getting maids nowadays. It looks as though Dr. Oldfield was afraid she might know
something.”
“It certainly seems as though there were grounds for an inquiry,” said Poirot solemnly.
“One does so shrink from the idea,” she said. “Our dear quiet little village—dragged into the
“It does a little. I’m old-fashioned, you know.”
“And, as you say, it is probably nothing but gossip!”
“Well—I wouldn’t like
conscientiously14 to say that. You know, I do think it’s so true—the
saying that there’s no smoke without fire.”
“I myself was thinking exactly the same thing,” said Poirot.
He rose.
“Oh, of course! I shall not say a word to anybody.”
Poirot smiled and took his leave.
On the doorstep he said to the little maid who handed him his hat and coat:
“I am down here to inquire into the circumstances of Mrs. Oldfield’s death, but I shall be
obliged if you will keep that
strictly16 to yourself.”
Miss Leatheran’s Gladys nearly fell backward into the umbrella stand. She breathed
excitedly:
“Oh, sir, then the doctor did do her in?”
“You’ve thought so for some time, haven’t you?”
“Well, sir, it wasn’t me. It was Beatrice. She was up there when Mrs. Oldfield died.”
“And she thought there had been”—Poirot selected the melodramatic words deliberately—“
‘foul play?’ ”
Gladys nodded excitedly.
“Yes, she did. And she said so did Nurse that was up there, Nurse Harrison. Ever so fond of
Mrs. Oldfield Nurse was, and ever so
distressed17 when she died, and Beatrice always said as how
Nurse Harrison knew something about it because she turned right round against the doctor
afterwards and she wouldn’t of done that unless there was something wrong, would she?”
“Where is Nurse Harrison now?”
“She looks after old Miss Bristow—down at the end of the village. You can’t miss it. It’s got
pillars and a porch.”
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