style="font-size:15px;"> ‘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 non-committal 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.’
III
Nibbling delicately at a scone and balancing a cup of tea on his knee, Hercule Poirot allowed himself to become confidential with his hostess. Miss Leatheran had been kind enough to ask him to tea and had thereupon made it her business to find out exactly what this exotic little foreigner was doing in their midst.
For some time he parried her thrusts with dexterity–thereby whetting her appetite. Then, when he judged the moment ripe, he leant forward:
‘Ah, Miss Leatheran,’ he said. ‘I can see that you are too clever for me! You have guessed my secret. I am down here at the request of the Home Office. But please,’ he lowered his voice, ‘keep this information to yourself.’
‘Of course–of course–’ Miss Leatheran was flustered–thrilled to the core. ‘The Home Office–you don’t mean–not poor Mrs Oldfield?’
Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.
‘We-ell!’ Miss Leatheran breathed into that one word a whole gamut of pleasurable emotion.
Poirot said:
‘It is a delicate matter, you understand. I have been ordered to report whether there is or is not a sufficient case for exhumation.’
Miss Leatheran exclaimed:
‘You are going to dig the poor thing up. How terrible!’
If she had said ‘how splendid’ instead of ‘how terrible’ the words would have suited her tone of voice better.
‘What is your own opinion, Miss Leatheran?’
‘Well, of course, M. Poirot, there has been a lot of talk. But I never listen to talk. There is always so much unreliable gossip going about. There is no doubt that Doctor Oldfield has been very odd in his manner ever since it happened, but as I have said repeatedly we surely need not put that down to a guilty conscience. It might be just grief. Not, of course, that he and his wife were on really affectionate terms. That I do know–on first hand authority. Nurse Harrison, who was with Mrs Oldfield for three or four years up to the time of her death, has admitted that much. And I have always felt, you know, that Nurse Harrison had her suspicions–not that she ever said anything, but one can tell, can’t one, from a person’s manner?’
Poirot said sadly:
‘One has so little to go upon.’
‘Yes, I know, but of course, M. Poirot, if the body is exhumed then you will know.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘then we will know.’
‘There have been cases like it before, of course,’ said Miss Leatheran, her nose twitching with pleasurable excitement. ‘Armstrong, for instance, and that other man–I can’t remember his name–and then Crippen, of course. I’ve always wondered if Ethel Le Neve was in it with him or not. Of course, Jean Moncrieffe is a very nice girl, I’m sure…I wouldn’t like to say she led him on exactly–but men do get rather silly about girls, don’t they? And, of course, they were thrown very much together!’
Poirot did not speak. He looked at her with an innocent expression of inquiry calculated to produce a further spate of conversation. Inwardly he amused himself by counting the number of times the words ‘of course’ occurred.
‘And, of course, with a post-mortem and all that, so much would be bound to come out, wouldn’t it? Servants and all that. Servants always know so much, don’t they? And, of course, it’s quite impossible to keep them from gossiping, isn’t it? The Oldfields’ Beatrice was dismissed almost immediately after the funeral–and I’ve always thought that was odd–especially with the difficulty of getting maids nowadays. It looks as though Dr Oldfield was afraid she might know something.’
‘It certainly seems as though there were grounds for an inquiry,’ said Poirot solemnly.
Miss Leatheran gave a little shiver of reluctance.
‘One does so shrink from the idea,’ she said. ‘Our dear quiet little village–dragged into the newspapers–all the publicity!’
‘It appals you?’ asked Poirot.
‘It does a little. I’m old-fashioned, you know.’
