“Bien. I will come round immediately.”
In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Dr. Roberts on the point of departure. The doctor’s usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked pale and shaken.
“Nasty business this, M. Poirot. I can’t say I’m not relieved—from my own point of view—but, to tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a shock. I never really thought for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. It’s been the greatest surprise to me.”
“I, too, am surprised.”
“Quiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Can’t imagine her doing a violent thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know now. I confess I’m curious, though.”
“It must take a load off your mind—this occurrence.”
“Oh, it does, undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. It’s not very pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman herself—well, it was undoubtedly the best way out.”
“So she thought herself.”
Roberts nodded.
“Conscience, I suppose,” he said as he let himself out of the house.
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. The doctor had misread the situation. It was not remorse that had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life.
On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly parlourmaid, who was weeping quietly.
“It’s so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you having tea with her yesterday so nice and quiet. And now today she’s gone. I shall never forget this morning—never as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get to it. And, ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he shot out at me. I was so flustered, I couldn’t hardly answer. You see, we never went in to the mistress till she rang—that was her orders. And I just couldn’t get out anything. And the doctor he says, ‘Where’s her room?’ and ran up the stairs, and me behind him, and I showed him the door, and he rushes in, not so much as knocking, and takes one look at her lying there, and, ‘Too late,’ he says. She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water, and he tried desperate to bring her back, but it couldn’t be done. And then the police coming and all—it isn’t—it isn’t—decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn’t have liked it. And why the police? It’s none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake.”
Poirot did not reply to her question.
He said:
“Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried at all?”
“No, I don’t think so, sir. She was tired—and I think she was in pain. She hasn’t been well lately, sir.”
“No, I know.”
The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.
“She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been worried about her for some time. She couldn’t do as much as she used to do, and things tired her. I think, perhaps, the young lady coming after you left was a bit too much for her.”
With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.
“The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?”
“Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was.”
“Did she stay long?”
“About an hour, sir.”
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
“And afterwards?”
“The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired.”
Again Poirot was silent; then he said:
“Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?”