Five

Since it was a Sunday, Hercule Poirot found Ted¹ Bigland at his father’s farm.

There was little difficulty in getting Ted Bigland to talk. He seemed to welcome the opportunity—as though it was a relief.

He said thoughtfully:

“So you’re trying to find out who killed Mary? It’s a black mystery, that.”

Poirot said:

“You do not believe that Miss Carlisle killed her, then?”

Ted Bigland frowned—a puzzled, almost childlike frown it was.

He said slowly:

“Miss Elinor’s a lady. She’s the kind—well, you couldn’t imagine her doing anything like that—anything violent, if you know what I mean. After all, ’tisn’t likely, is it, sir, that a nice younglady would go and do a thing of that kind?”

Hercule Poirot nodded in a contemplative manner.

He said:

“No, it is not likely… But when it comes to jealousy—”

He paused, watching the good-looking, fair young giant before him.

Ted Bigland said:

“Jealousy? I know things happen that way; but it’s usually drink and getting worked up thatmakes a fellow see red and run amok. Miss Elinor—a nice quiet young lady like that—”

Poirot said:

“But Mary Gerrard died…and she did not die a natural death. Have you any idea—is thereanything you can tell me to help me find out—who killed Mary Gerrard?”

Slowly the other shook his head.

He said:

“It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem possible, if you take my meaning, that anyone could havekilled Mary. She was—she was like a flower.”

And suddenly, for a vivid minute, Hercule Poirot had a new conception² of the dead girl… Inthat halting rustic³ voice the girl Mary lived and bloomed again. “She was like a flower.”

 

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