“The other three. Roberts, Despard and Miss Meredith. All fair and square—no beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she was taking a shortcut out of all the mess—that it was she who had killed Shaitana—and that she apologized—apologized—to all three of them for the inconvenience and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm, businesslike letter. 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 determined, after all, to shield Anne Meredith. A quick painless death instead of a protracted painful one, and her last action an altruistic one—the saving of the girl with whom she felt a secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quite ruthless efficiency—a suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties. What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like her—like her clearcut determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.
He had thought to have convinced her—but evidently she had preferred her own judgement. A woman of very strong will.
Battle’s voice cut into his meditations.
“What the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up her, and this is the result. But you implied that the result of your interview was definite suspicion of the Meredith girl.”
Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer constrained 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 onto her. 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 to happen, 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 his car, leaving his parlourmaid to communicate with us, which she did. He got to the ho
use to find that Mrs. Lorrimer hadn’t been called yet, rushed up to her bedroom—but it was too late. He tried artificial respiration, but there was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed 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 her bed.”
“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 of thing.”
Poirot paused a moment, then he said:
“Where are you now, my friend?”
“At Cheyne Lane.”