Twenty-eight

SUICIDE

The summons came by telephone at the moment when Poirot was sitting down to his morningcoffee and rolls.

He lifted the telephone receiver, and Battle’s voice spoke¹:

“That M. Poirot?”

“Yes, it is. Qu’est ce qu’il y a?”

The mere² inflection of the superintendent³’s voice had told him that something had happened.

His own vague misgivings⁴ 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 meanything; 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 depressed⁵ and unlike herself lately. Her doctor hadordered 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 aboutthe bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she was taking a shortcut⁶ out of all themess—that it was she who had killed Shaitana—and that she apologized—apologized—to allthree of them for the inconvenience and annoyance⁷ they had suffered. Perfectly⁸ calm, businesslikeletter. 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 determined⁹, after all, to shield Anne Meredith.

A quick painless death instead of a protracted¹⁰ painful one, and her last action an altruistic¹¹ one—the saving of the girl with whom she felt a secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned andcarried out with quite ruthless efficiency—a suicide carefully announced to the three interestedparties. What a woman! His admiration¹² quickened. It was like her — like her clearcutdetermination, her insistence¹³ on what she had decided¹⁴ being carried out.

He had thought to have convinced her—but evidently she had preferred her own judgement. Awoman of very strong will.

Battle’s voice cut into his meditations¹⁵.

“What the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up her, and this isthe result. But you implied that the result of your interview was definite suspicion of the Meredithgirl.”

Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer constrained¹⁶ 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 ontoher. 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 tohappen, M. Poirot?”

Poirot’s disclaimer was indignant. Then he said:

“Tell me exactly what has occurred.”

“Roberts opened his letter just before eight o’clock. He lost no time, dashed off at once in hiscar, leaving his parlourmaid to communicate with us, which she did. He got to the house to findthat Mrs. Lorrimer hadn’t been called yet, rushed up to her bedroom—but it was too late. He triedartificial respiration¹⁷, but there was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after andconfirmed his treatment.”

“What was the sleeping stuff?”

“Veronal, I think. One of the barbituric group, at any rate. There was a bottle of tablets by herbed.”

“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 ofthing.”

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 Dr. Roberts on the point of departure. The doctor’s usualflorid manner was rather in abeyance¹⁸ this morning. He looked pale and shaken.

“Nasty business this, M. 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 motive¹⁹, 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, undoubtedly²⁰. It would be hypocrisy²¹ not to admit it. It’s not very pleasant to have asuspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman herself—well, it was undoubtedlythe 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 remorsethat had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life.

On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly parlourmaid, whowas weeping quietly.

“It’s so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you having tea with heryesterday so nice and quiet. And now today she’s gone. I shall never forget this morning—neveras long as I live. The gentleman pealing²² at the bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get toit. And, ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he shot out at me. I was so flustered²³, 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’tget out anything. And the doctor he says, ‘Where’s her room?’ and ran up the stairs, and mebehind him, and I showed him the door, and he rushes in, not so much as knocking, and takes onelook at her lying there, and, ‘Too late,’ he says. She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy andhot water, and he tried desperate to bring her back, but it couldn’t be done. And then the policecoming and all—it isn’t—it isn’t—decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn’t have liked it. And why thepolice? It’s none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the poor mistressdid 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 welllately, 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 forsome time. She couldn’t do as much as she used to do, and things tired her. I think, perhaps, theyoung 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 afterwards?”

“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 lastthing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day.”

“How many were there?”

“Two or three—I’m not quite sure, sir. Three, I think.”

“You — or cook — whoever posted them — did not happen to notice to whom they wereaddressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost importance.”

“I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one—it was to Fortnum and Mason’s.

I couldn’t say as to the others.”

The woman’s tone was earnest and sincere.

“Are you sure there were not more than three letters?”

“Yes, sir, I’m quite certain of that.”

Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then he said:

“You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?”

“Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor’s orders. Dr. Lang.”

“Where was this sleeping medicine kept?”

“In the little cupboard in the mistress’s room.”

Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very grave.

On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried and harassed²⁴.

“I’m glad you’ve come, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr. Davidson.”

The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall, melancholy²⁵ man.

“The luck was against us,” he said. “An hour or two earlier, and we might have saved her.”

“H’m,” said Battle. “I mustn’t say so officially, but I’m not sorry. She was a—well, she was alady. I don’t know what her reasons were for killing²⁶ Shaitana, but she may just conceivably havebeen justified²⁷.”

“In any case,” said Poirot, “it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her trial. She was avery ill woman.”

The surgeon nodded in agreement.

“I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best.”

He started down the stairs.

Battle moved after him.

“One minute, doctor.”

Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, “I may enter—yes?”

Battle nodded over his shoulder. “Quite all right. We’re through.” Poirot passed into the room,closing the door behind him….

He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet, dead face.

He was very disturbed.

Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl fromdeath and disgrace—or was there a different, a more sinister²⁸ explanation?

There were certain facts….

Suddenly he bent²⁹ down, examining a dark, discoloured bruise³⁰ on the dead woman’s arm.

He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, catlike gleam in his eyes that certainclose associates of his would have recognized.

He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone.

The latter laid down the receiver and said:

“He hasn’t come back, sir.”

Battle said:

“Despard. I’ve been trying to get him. There’s a letter for him with the Chelsea postmark allright.”

Poirot asked an irrelevant³¹ question.

“Had Dr. Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?”

Battle stared.

“No,” he said, “I remember he mentioned that he’d come out without it.”

“Then he will be at his house now. We can get him.”

“But why—?”

But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke:

“Dr. Roberts? It is Dr. Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one question. Are youwell acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?”

“Mrs. Lorrimer’s handwriting? I—no, I don’t know that I’d ever seen it before.”

“Je vous remercie.”

Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.

Battle was staring at him.

“What’s the big idea, M. Poirot?” he asked quietly.

Poirot took him by the arm.

“Listen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday Anne Meredith arrived. Iactually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite sure of her identity at the time.

Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs. Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, shedid not write any letters then. And, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to youour interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did shewrite them, then?”

“After the servants had gone to bed?” suggested Battle. “She got up and posted them herself.”

“That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility—that she did not write them at all.”

Battle whistled.

“My God, you mean—”

The telephone trilled. The sergeant³² picked up the receiver. He listened a minute, then turned toBattle.

“Sergeant O’Connor speaking from Despard’s flat, sir. There’s reason to believe that Despard’sdown at Wallingford-on-Thames.”

Poirot caught Battle by the arm.

“Quickly, my friend. We, too, must go to Wallingford. I tell you, I am not easy in my mind.

This may not be the end. I tell you again, my friend, this young lady, she is dangerous.”

 

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