Poirot, inserting a question adroitly, said, "You mean the notice taken of her by Mrs. Welman?"
"That's what I mean. The old lady had taken a tremendous fancy to her -really, a tremendous fancy."
Hercule Poirot murmured, "Surprising, perhaps?"
"That depends. It might be quite natural, really. I mean -" Nurse Hopkins bit her lip and looked confused. "What I mean is, Mary had a very pretty way with her; nice soft voice and pleasant manners. And it's my opinion it does an elderly person good to have a young face about."
Hercule Poirot said, "Miss Carlisle came down occasionally, I suppose, to see her aunt?"
Nurse Hopkins said sharply, "Miss Carlisle came down when it suited her."
Poirot murmured, "You do not like Miss Carlisle."
Nurse Hopkins cried out, "I should hope not, indeed! A poisoner! A coldblooded poisoner!"
"Ah," said Hercule Poirot, "I see you have made up your mind."
Nurse Hopkins said suspiciously, "What do you mean? Made up my mind?"
"You are quite sure that it was she who administered morphine to Mary Gerrard?"
"Who else could have done it, I should like to know? You're not suggesting that I did?"
"Not for a moment. But her guilt has not yet been proved, remember."
Nurse Hopkins said with calm assurance, "She did it, all right. Apart from anything else, you could see it in her face. Queer she was, all the time. And taking me away upstairs and keeping me there - delaying as long as possible. And then when I turned on her, after finding Mary like that, it was there in her face as plain as anything. She knew I knew!"
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully, "It is certainly difficult to see who else could have done it. Unless, of course, she did it herself."
"What do you mean, did it herself? Do you mean that Mary committed suicide? I never heard such nonsense!"
Hercule Poirot said, "One can never tell. The heart of a young girl, it is very sensitive, very tender." He paused. "It would have been possible, I suppose? She could have slipped something into her tea without your noticing her?"
"Slipped it into her cup, you mean?"
"Yes. You weren't watching her all the time."
"I wasn't watching her - no. Yes, I suppose she could have done that. ... But it's all nonsense! What would she want to do a thing like that for?"
Hercule Poirot shook his head with a resumption of his former manner. "A young girl's heart - as I say, so sensitive. An unhappy love affair, perhaps -"
Nurse Hopkins gave a snort. "Girls don't kill themselves for love affairs -not unless they're in the family way - and Mary wasn't that, let me tell you!" She glared at him belligerently.
"And she was not in love?"
"Not she. Quite fancy free. Keen on her job and enjoying life."
"But she must have had admirers, since she was such an attractive girl."
Nurse Hopkins said, "She wasn't one of these girls who are all sex appeal. She was a quiet girl!"
"But there were young men, no doubt, in the village who admired her." "There was Ted Bigland, of course," said Nurse Hopkins. Poirot extracted various details as to Ted Bigland.
"Very gone on Mary, he was," said Nurse Hopkins. "But as I told her, she was a cut above him."
Poirot said, "He must have been angry when she would not have anything to do with him?"
"He was sore about it, yes," admitted Nurse Hopkins. "Blamed me for it, too."
"He thought it was your fault?"
"That's what he said. I'd a perfect right to advise the girl. After all, I know something of the world. I didn't want the girl to throw herself away."
Poirot said gently, "What made you take so much interest in the girl?"
"Well, I don't know." Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She looked shy and a little ashamed of herself. "There was something - well - romantic about Mary."
Poirot murmured, "About her, perhaps, but not about her circumstances. She was the lodgekeeper's daughter, wasn't she?"
Nurse Hopkins said, "Yes - yes, of course. At least-" She hesitated, looked at Poirot, who was gazing at her in the most sympathetic manner.
"As a matter of fact," said Nurse Hopkins, in a burst of confidence, "she wasn't old Gerrard's daughter at all. He told me so. Her father was a gentleman."
Poirot murmured, "I see.... And her mother?"
Nurse Hopkins hesitated, bit her lip, and then went on: "Her mother had been lady's maid to old Mrs. Welman. She married Gerrard after Mary was born."
"As you say, quite a romance - a mystery romance."
Nurse Hopkins's face lit up. "Wasn't it? One can't help taking an interest in people when one knows something that nobody else does about them. Just by chance I happened to find out a good deal. As a matter of fact, it was Nurse O'Brien who set me on the track; but that's another story. But, as you say, it's interesting knowing past history. There's many a tragedy that goes unguessed at. It's a sad world."
Poirot sighed and shook his head.
Nurse Hopkins said with sudden alarm, "But I oughtn't to have gone talking like this. I wouldn't have a word of this get out for anything! After all, it's nothing to do with the case. As far as the world is concerned, Mary was Gerrard's daughter, and there mustn't be a hint of anything else. Damaging her in the eyes of the world after she's dead! He married her mother, and that's enough."
Poirot murmured, "But you know, perhaps, who her real father was?"
Nurse Hopkins said reluctantly, "Well, perhaps I do; but, then again, perhaps I don't. That is, I don't know anything. I could make a guess. Old sins have long shadows, as they say! But I'm not one to talk, and I shan't say another word."
Poirot tactfully retired from the fray and attacked another subject. "There is something else - a delicate matter. But I am sure I can rely on your discretion."
Nurse Hopkins bridled. A broad smile appeared on her homely face.
Poirot continued, "I speak of Mr. Roderick Welman. He was, so I hear, attracted by Mary Gerrard."
Nurse Hopkins said, "Bowled over by her!"
"Although at the time he was engaged to Miss Carlisle?"
"If you ask me," said Nurse Hopkins, "he was never really sweet on Miss Carlisle. Not what I'd call sweet on her."
Poirot asked, using an old-fashioned term, "Did Mary Gerrard - er -encourage his advances?"
Nurse Hopkins said sharply, "She behaved very well. Nobody could say she led him on!"
Poirot said, "Was she in love with him?" Nurse Hopkins said sharply, "No, she wasn't."
"But she liked him?"
"Oh, yes, she liked him well enough."
"And I suppose, in time, something might have come of it?"
"That may be. But Mary wouldn't have done anything in a hurry. She told him down here he had no business to speak like that to her when he was engaged to Miss Elinor. And when he came to see her in London she said the same."
Poirot asked with an air of engaging candor, "What do you yourself think of Mr. Roderick Welman?"
Nurse Hopkins said, "He's a nice enough young fellow. Nervy, though. Looks as though he might be dyspeptic later on. Those nervy ones often are."
"Was he very fond of his aunt?"
"I believe so."
"Did he sit with her much when she was so ill?"
"You mean when she had that second stroke? The night before she died when they came down? I don't believe he even went into her room!"
"Really."
Nurse Hopkins said quickly, "She didn't ask for him. And, of course, we'd no idea the end was so near. There are a lot of men like that, you know; fight shy of a sickroom. They can't help it. And it's not heartlessness. They just don't want to be upset in their feelings."
Poirot nodded comprehendingly. He said, "Are you sure Mr. Welman did not go into his aunt's room before she died?"
"Well, not while I was on duty! Nurse O'Brien relieved me at three a.m., and she may have fetched him before the end; but, if so, she didn't mention it to me."
Poirot suggested, "He may have gone into her room when you were absent?"
Nurse Hopkins snapped, "I don't leave my patients unattended, Mr. Poirot."
"A thousand apologies. I did not mean that. I thought perhaps you might have had to boil water, or to run downstairs for some necessary stimulant."
Mollified, Nurse Hopkins said, "I did go down to change the bottles and get them refilled. I knew there'd be a kettle on the boil down in the kitchen."
"You were away long?"
"Five minutes, perhaps."
"Ah, yes, then Mr. Welman may have just looked in on her then?"
"He must have been very quick about it if he did."
Poirot sighed. He said, "As you say, men fight shy of illness. It is the women who are the ministering angels. What should we do without them? Especially women of your profession - a truly noble calling."
Nurse Hopkins, slightly red in the face, said, "It's very kind of you to say that. I've never thought of it that way myself. Too much hard work in nursing to think about the noble side of it."
Poirot said, "And there is nothing else you can tell me about Mary Gerrard?"
There was an appreciable pause before Nurse Hopkins answered, "I don't know of anything."
"Are you quite sure?"
Nurse Hopkins said rather incoherently, "You don't understand. I was fond of Mary."
"And there's nothing more you can tell me?" "No, there is not! And that's flat."
Chapter 11
In the awesome majesty of Mrs. Bishop's black-clad presence Hercule Poirot sat humbly insignificant.
The thawing of Mrs. Bishop was no easy matter. For Mrs. Bishop, a lady of conservative habits and views, strongly disapproved of foreigners. And a foreigner most indubitably Hercule Poirot was. Her responses were frosty and she eyed him with disfavour and suspicion.
Dr. Lord's introduction of him had done little to soften the situation.
"I am sure," said Mrs. Bishop when Dr. Lord had gone, "Dr. Lord is a very clever doctor and means well. Dr. Ransome, his predecessor, had been here many years!"
Dr. Ransome, that is to say, could be trusted to behave in a manner suitable to the county. Dr. Lord, a mere irresponsible youngster, an upstart who had taken Dr. Ransome's place, had only one recommendation: "cleverness" in his profession.
Cleverness, the whole demeanor of Mrs. Bishop seemed to say, is not enough!
Hercule Poirot was persuasive. He was adroit. But charm he never so wisely, Mrs. Bishop remained aloof and implacable.
The death of Mrs. Welman had been very sad. She had been much respected in the neighbourhood. The arrest of Miss Carlisle was "Disgraceful!" and believed to be the result of "these new-fangled police methods." The views of Mrs. Bishop upon the death of Mary Gerrard were vague in the extreme, "I couldn't say, I'm sure," being the most she could be brought to say.
Hercule Poirot played his last card. He recounted with naive pride a recent visit of his to Sandringham. He spoke with admiration of the graciousness and delightful simplicity and kindness of Royalty.
Mrs. Bishop, who followed daily in the court circular the exact movements of Royalty, was overborne. After all, if They had sent for Mr. Poirot - Well, naturally, that made All the Difference. Foreigner or no foreigner, who was she, Emma Bishop, to hold back where Royalty had led the way?
Presently she and M. Poirot were engaged in pleasant conversation on a really interesting theme - no less than the selection of a suitable future husband for the Princess. Having finally exhausted all possible candidates as Not Good Enough, the talk reverted to less exalted circles.
Poirot observed sententiously, "Marriage, alas, is fraught with dangers and pitfalls!"
Mrs. Bishop said, "Yes, indeed - with this nasty divorce," rather as though she were speaking of a contagious disease such as chicken pox.
"I suspect," said Poirot, "that Mrs. Welman, before her death, must have been anxious to see her niece suitably settled for life?"
Mrs. Bishop bowed her head. "Yes, indeed. The engagement between Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick was a great relief to her. It was a thing she had always hoped for."
Poirot ventured, "The engagement was perhaps entered into partly from a wish to please her?"
"Oh, no, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Poirot. Miss Elinor has always been devoted to Mr. Roddy - always was, as a tiny tot - quite beautiful to see. Miss Elinor has a very loyal and devoted nature!"
Poirot murmured, "And he?"
Mrs. Bishop said austerely, "Mr. Roderick was devoted to Miss Elinor." Poirot said, "Yet the engagement, I think, was broken off?"
The color rose in Mrs. Bishop's face. She said, "Owing, Mr. Poirot, to the machinations of a snake in the grass."
Poirot said, appearing suitably impressed, "Indeed?"
Mrs. Bishop, her face becoming redder still, explained, "In this country, Mr. Poirot, there is a certain Decency to be observed when mentioning the Dead, But that young woman, Mr. Poirot, was Underhand in her Dealings."
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said with an apparent lack of guile, "You surprise me. I had been given the impression that she was a very simple and unassuming girl."
Mrs. Bishop's chin trembled a little. "She was Artful, Mr. Poirot. People were Taken In by her. That Nurse Hopkins, for instance! Yes, and my poor dear mistress, too!"
Poirot shook his head sympathetically and made a clacking noise with his tongue.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Bishop, stimulated by these encouraging noises. "She was failing, poor dear, and that young woman Wormed her way into her Confidence. She knew which side of her bread was buttered. Always hovering about, reading to her, bringing her little nosegays of flowers. It was Mary this and Mary that and 'Where's Mary?' all the time! The money she spent on the girl, too! Expensive schools and finishing places abroad - and the girl nothing but old Gerrard's daughter! He didn't like it, I can tell you! Used to complain of her Fine Lady ways. Above Herself, that's what She was."
