Eleven

Elinor Carlisle….

Across the width of the table that separated them Poirot looked at her searchingly.

They were alone together. Through a glass wall a warder watched them.

Poirot noted¹ the sensitive intelligent face with the square, white forehead, and the delicatemodelling of the ears and nose. Fine lines; a proud, sensitive creature, showing breeding, self-restraint and—something else—a capacity for passion.

He said:

“I am Hercule Poirot. I have been sent to you by Dr. Peter Lord. He thinks that I can help you.”

Elinor Carlisle said:

“Peter Lord…” Her tone was reminiscent. For a moment she smiled a little wistfully. She wenton formally: “It was kind of him, but I do not think there is anything you can do.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“Will you answer my questions?”

She sighed. She said:

“Believe me—really—it would be better not to ask them. I am in good hands. Mr. Seddon hasbeen most kind. I am to have a very famous counsel.”

Poirot said:

“He is not so famous as I am!”

Elinor Carlisle said with a touch of weariness:

“He has a great reputation.”

“Yes, for defending criminals. I have a great reputation—for demonstrating innocence².”

She lifted her eyes at last—eyes of a vivid, beautiful blue. They looked straight into Poirot’s.

She said:

“Do you believe I am innocent?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“Are you?”

Elinor smiled, an ironic³ little smile. She said:

“Is that a sample of your questions? It is very easy, isn’t it, to answer Yes?”

He said unexpectedly:

“You are very tired, are you not?”

Her eyes widened a little. She answered:

“Why, yes—that more than anything. How did you know?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“I knew….”

Elinor said:

“I shall be glad when it is—over.”

Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said:

“I have seen your—cousin, shall I call him for convenience?—Mr. Roderick Welman.”

Into the white proud face the colour crept slowly up. He knew then that one question of his wasanswered without his asking it.

She said, and her voice shook very slightly:

“You’ve seen Roddy?”

Poirot said:

“He is doing all he can for you.”

“I know.”

Her voice was quick and soft.

Poirot said:

“Is he poor or rich?”

“Roddy? He has not very much money of his own.”

“And he is extravagant⁴?”

She said, almost absently:

“Neither of us ever thought it mattered. We knew that some day….”

She stopped.

Poirot said quickly:

“You counted on your inheritance? That is understandable.”

He went on:

“You have heard, perhaps, the result of the autopsy⁵ on your aunt’s body. She died of morphinepoisoning.”

Elinor Carlisle said coldly:

“I did not kill her.”

“Did you help her to kill herself?”

“Did I help—? Oh, I see. No, I did not.”

“Did you know that your aunt had not made a will?”

“No, I had no idea of that.”

Her voice was flat now—dull. The answer was mechanical, uninterested.

Poirot said:

“And you yourself, have you made a will?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke⁶ to you about it?”

“Yes.”

Again that swift wave of colour.

Poirot said:

“How have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?”

Elinor said quietly:

“I have left everything to Roddy—to Roderick Welman.”

Poirot said:

“Does he know that?”

She said quickly:

“Certainly not.”

“You didn’t discuss it with him?”

“Of course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed and would have disliked what I wasdoing very much.”

“Who else knows the contents of your will?”

“Only Mr. Seddon—and his clerks, I suppose.”

“Did Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?”

“Yes. I wrote to him that same evening—I mean the evening of the day Dr. Lord spoke to meabout it.”

“Did you post your letter yourself?”

“No. It went in the box from the house with the other letters.”

“You wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it and put it in the box—comme ?a? Youdid not pause to reflect? To read it over?”

Elinor said, staring at him:

“I read it over—yes. I had gone to look for some stamps. When I came back with them, I justreread the letter to be sure I had put it clearly.”

“Was anyone in the room with you?”

“Only Roddy.”

“Did he know what you were doing?”

“I told you—no.”

“Could anyone have read that letter when you were out of the room?”

“I don’t know… One of the servants, you mean? I suppose they could have if they had chancedto come in while I was out of the room.”

“And before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?”

“Yes.”

Poirot said:

“And he could have read it, too?”

Elinor’s voice was clear and scornful. She said:

“I can assure you, M. Poirot, that my ‘cousin,’ as you call him, does not read other people’sletters.”

Poirot said:

“That is the accepted idea, I know. You would be surprised how many people do the things that‘are not done.’”

Elinor shrugged⁷ her shoulders.

Poirot said in a casual voice:

“Was it on that day that the idea of killing⁸ Mary Gerrard first came to you?”

For the third time colour swept over Elinor Carlisle’s face. This time it was a burning tide. Shesaid:

“Did Peter Lord tell you that?”

Poirot said gently:

“It was then, wasn’t it? When you looked through the window and saw her making her will. Itwas then, was it not, that it struck you how funny it would be—and how convenient—if MaryGerrard should happen to die….”

Elinor said in a low suffocated⁹ voice:

“He knew—he looked at me and he knew….”

Poirot said:

“Dr. Lord knows a good deal… He is no fool, that young man with the freckled¹⁰ face and the redhair….”

Elinor said in a low voice:

“Is it true that he sent you to—help me?”

“It is true, Mademoiselle.”

She sighed and said:

“I don’t understand. No, I don’t understand.”

Poirot said:

“Listen, Miss Carlisle. It is necessary that you tell me just what happened that day when MaryGerrard died: where you went, what you did; more than that, I want to know even what youthought.”

She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to her lips. She said:

“You must be an incredibly simple man. Don’t you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?”

Hercule Poirot said placidly¹¹:

“It does not matter.”

She was puzzled.

“Not matter?”

“No. For lies, Mademoiselle, tell a listener just as much as truth can. Sometimes they tell more.

Come, now, commence. You met your housekeeper¹², the good Mrs. Bishop¹³. She wanted to comeand help you. You would not let her. Why?”

“I wanted to be alone.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why? Because I wanted to—to think.”

“You wanted to imagine—yes. And then what did you do next?”

Elinor, her chin raised defiantly¹⁴, said:

“I bought some paste for sandwiches.”

“Two pots?”

“Two.”

“And you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?”

“I went up to my aunt’s room and began to go through her things.”

“What did you find?”

“Find?” She frowned. “Clothes—old letters—photographs—jewellery.”

Poirot said:

“No secrets?”

“Secrets? I don’t understand you.”

“Then let us proceed. What next?”

Elinor said:

“I came down to the pantry and I cut sandwiches….”

Poirot said softly:

“And you thought—what?”

Her blue eyes flushed suddenly. She said:

“I thought of my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine….”

Poirot said:

“I understand perfectly¹⁵.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, yes. I know the story. She offered Fair Rosamund, did she not, the choice of a dagger¹⁶ or acup of poison. Rosamund chose the poison….”

Elinor said nothing. She was white now.

Poirot said:

“But perhaps, this time, there was to be no choice… Go on, Mademoiselle, what next?”

Elinor said:

“I put the sandwiches ready on a plate and I went down to the Lodge¹⁷. Nurse Hopkins was thereas well as Mary. I told them I had some sandwiches up at the house.”

Poirot was watching her. He said softly:

“Yes, and you all came up to the house together, did you not?”

“Yes. We—ate the sandwiches in the morning room.”

Poirot said in the same soft tone:

“Yes, yes—still in the dream… And then…”

“Then?” She stared. “I left her—standing by the window. I went out into the pantry. It was stilllike you say—in a dream… Nurse was there washing up… I gave her the paste pot.”

“Yes—yes. And what happened then? What did you think of next?”

Elinor said dreamily:

“There was a mark on Nurse’s wrist. I mentioned it and she said it was a thorn from the rosetrellis by the Lodge. The roses by the Lodge… Roddy and I had a quarrel once—long ago—aboutthe Wars of the Roses. I was Lancaster and he was York. He liked white roses. I said they weren’treal — they didn’t even smell! I liked red roses, big and dark and velvety¹⁸ and smelling ofsummer… We quarrelled in the most idiotic¹⁹ way. You see, it all came back to me—there in thepantry—and something—something broke—the black hate I’d had in my heart—it went away—with remembering how we were together as children. I didn’t hate Mary any more. I didn’t wanther to die….”

She stopped.

“But later, when we went back into the morning room, she was dying….”

She stopped. Poirot was staring at her very intently. She flushed and said:

“Will you ask me—again—did I kill Mary Gerrard?”

Poirot rose to his feet. He said quickly:

“I shall ask you—nothing. There are things I do not want to know….”

 

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