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II
“We are going into the country, Georges,” said Hercule Poirot to his valet.
“Indeed, sir?” said the imperturbable George.
“And the purpose of our journey is to destroy a monster with nine heads.”
“Really, sir? Something after the style of the Loch Ness Monster?”
“Less tangible than that. I did not refer to a flesh and blood animal, Georges.”
“I misunderstood you, sir.”
“It would be easier if it were one. There is nothing so intangible, so difficult to pin down, as
the source of a rumour.”
“Oh yes, indeed, sir. It’s difficult to know how a thing starts sometimes.”
“Exactly.”
Hercule Poirot did not put up at Dr. Oldfield’s house. He went instead to the local inn. The
morning after his arrival, he had his first interview with Jean Moncrieffe.
She was a tall girl with copper-coloured hair and steady blue eyes. She had about her a
watchful look, as of one who is upon her guard.
She said:
“So Doctor Oldfield did go to you . . . I knew he was thinking about it.”
There was a lack of enthusiasm in her tone.
Poirot said:
“And you did not approve?”
Her eyes met his. She said coldly:
“What can you do?”
Poirot said quietly:
“There might be a way of tackling the situation.”
“What way?” She threw the words at him scornfully. “Do you mean go round to all the
whispering old women and say ‘Really, please, you must stop talking like this. It’s so bad for poor
Doctor Oldfield.’ And they’d answer you and say: ‘Of course, I have never believed the story!’
That’s the worst of the whole thing—they don’t say: ‘My dear, has it ever occurred to you that
perhaps Mrs. Oldfield’s death wasn’t quite what it seemed?’ No, they say: ‘My dear, of course I
don’t believe that story about Doctor Oldfield and his wife. I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing,
though it’s true that he did neglect her just a little perhaps, and I don’t think, really, it’s quite wise
to have quite a young girl as his dispenser—of course, I’m not saying for a minute that there was
anything wrong between them. Oh no, I’m sure it was quite all right . . . ’ ” She stopped. Her face
was flushed and her breath came rather fast.
Hercule Poirot said:
“You seem to know very well just what is being said.”
Her mouth closed sharply. She said bitterly:
“I know all right!”
“And what is your own solution?”
Jean Moncrieffe said:
“The best thing for him to do is to sell his practice and start again somewhere else.”
“Don’t you think the story might follow him?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“He must risk that.”
Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
“Are you going to marry Doctor Oldfield, Miss Moncrieffe?”
She displayed no surprise at the question. She said shortly:
“He hasn’t asked me to marry him.”
“Why not?”
Her blue eyes met his and flickered for a second. Then she said:
“Because I’ve choked him off.”
“Ah, what a blessing to find someone who can be frank!”
“I will be as frank as you please. When I realized that people were saying that Charles had
got rid of his wife in order to marry me, it seemed to me that if we did marry it would just put the
lid on things. I hoped that if there appeared to be no question of marriage between us, the silly
scandal might die down.”
“But it hasn’t?”
“No it hasn’t.”
“Surely,” said Hercule Poirot, “that is a little odd?”
Jean said bitterly:
“They haven’t got much to amuse them down here.”
Poirot asked:
“Do you want to marry Charles Oldfield?”
The girl answered coolly enough.
“Yes, I do. I wanted to almost as soon as I met him.”
“Then his wife’s death was very convenient for you?”
Jean Moncrieffe said:
“Mrs. Oldfield was a singularly unpleasant woman. Frankly, I was delighted when she died.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “You are certainly frank!”
She gave the same scornful smile.
Poirot said:
“I have a suggestion to make.”
“Yes?”
“Drastic means are required here. I suggest that somebody—possibly yourself—might write
to the Home Office.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean that the best way of disposing of this story once and for all is to get the body
exhumed and an autopsy performed.”
She took a step back from him. Her lips opened, then shut again. Poirot watched her.
“Well, Mademoiselle?” he said at last.
Jean Moncrieffe said quietly:
“I don’t agree with you.”
“But why not? Surely a verdict of death from natural causes would silence all tongues?”
“If you got that verdict, yes.”
“Do you know what you are suggesting, Mademoiselle?”
Jean Moncrieffe said impatiently:
“I know what I’m talking about. You’re thinking of arsenic poisoning—you could prove that
she was not poisoned by arsenic. But there are other poisons—the vegetable alkaloids. After a
year, I doubt if you’d find any traces of them even if they had been used. And I know what these
official analyst people are like. They might return a noncommittal verdict saying that there was
nothing to show what caused death—and then the tongues would wag faster than ever!”
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:
“Who in your opinion is the most inveterate talker in the village?”
The girl considered. She said at last:
“I really think old Miss Leatheran is the worst cat of the lot.”
“Ah! Would it be possible for you to introduce me to Miss Leatheran—in a casual manner if
possible?”
“Nothing could be easier. All the old tabbies are prowling about doing their shopping at this
time of the morning. We’ve only got to walk down the main street.”
As Jean had said, there was no difficulty about the procedure. Outside the post office, Jean
stopped and spoke to a tall, thin middle-aged woman with a long nose and sharp inquisitive eyes.
“Good morning, Miss Leatheran.”
“Good morning, Jean. Such a lovely day, is it not?”
The sharp eyes ranged inquisitively over Jean Moncrieffe’s companion. Jean said:
“Let me introduce M. Poirot, who is staying down here for a few days.”
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