begin with. It is like in the old legend of the Lernean Hydra. Every time a head was cut off, two heads grew in its place. So, to begin with, the rumours grew and multiplied. But you see my task, like that of my namesake Hercules, was to reach the first–the original head. Who had started this rumour? It did not take me long to discover that the originator of the story was Nurse Harrison. I went to see her. She appeared to be a very nice woman–intelligent and sympathetic. But almost at once she made a bad mistake–she repeated to me a conversation which she had overheard taking place between you and the doctor, and that conversation, you see, was all wrong. It was psychologically most unlikely. If you and the doctor had planned together to kill Mrs Oldfield, you are both of you far too intelligent and level-headed to hold such a conversation in a room with an open door, easily overheard by someone on the stairs or someone in the kitchen. Moreover, the words attributed to you did not fit in at all with your mental make-up. They were the words of a much older woman and of one of a quite different type. They were words such as would be imagined by Nurse Harrison as being used by herself in like circumstances.
‘I had, up to then, regarded the whole matter as fairly simple. Nurse Harrison, I realized, was a fairly young and still handsome woman–she had been thrown closely with Doctor Oldfield for nearly three years–the doctor had been very fond of her and grateful to her for her tact and sympathy. She had formed the impression that if Mrs Oldfield died, the doctor would probably ask her to marry him. Instead of that, after Mrs Oldfield’s death, she learns that Doctor Oldfield is in love with you. Straightaway, driven by anger and jealousy, she starts spreading the rumour that Doctor Oldfield has poisoned his wife.
‘That, as I say, was how I had visualized the position at first. It was a case of a jealous woman and a lying rumour. But the old trite phrase “no smoke without fire” recurred to me significantly. I wondered if Nurse Harrison had done more than spread a rumour. Certain things she said rang strangely. She told me that Mrs Oldfield’s illness was largely imaginary–that she did not really suffer much pain. But the doctor himself had been in no doubt about the reality of his wife’s suffering. He had not been surprised by her death. He had called in another doctor shortly before her death and the other doctor had realized the gravity of her condition. Tentatively I brought forward the suggestion of exhumation…Nurse Harrison was at first frightened out of her wits by the idea. Then, almost at once, her jealousy and hatred took command of her. Let them find arsenic–no suspicion would attach to her. It would be the doctor and Jean Moncrieffe who would suffer.
‘There was only one hope. To make Nurse Harrison over-reach herself. If there were a chance that Jean Moncrieffe would escape, I fancied that Nurse Harrison would strain every nerve to involve her in the crime. I gave instructions to my faithful Georges–the most unobtrusive of men whom she did not know by sight. He was to follow her closely. And so–all ended well.’
Jean Moncrieffe said:
‘You’ve been wonderful.’
Dr Oldfield chimed in. He said:
‘Yes, indeed. I can never thank you enough. What a blind fool I was!’
Poirot asked curiously:
‘Were you as blind, Mademoiselle?’
Jean Moncrieffe said slowly:
‘I have been terribly worried. You see, the arsenic in the poison cupboard didn’t tally…’
Oldfield cried:
‘Jean–you didn’t think–?’
‘No, no–not you. What I did think was that Mrs Oldfield had somehow or other got hold of it–and that she was taking it so as to make herself ill and get sympathy and that she had inadvertently taken too much. But I was afraid that if there was an autopsy and arsenic was found, they would never consider that theory and would leap to the conclusion that you’d done it. That’s why I never said anything about the missing arsenic. I even cooked the poison book! But the last person I would ever have suspected was Nurse Harrison.’
Oldfield said:
‘I too. She was such a gentle womanly creature. Like a Madonna.’
Poirot said sadly:
‘Yes, she would have made, probably, a good wife and mother…Her emotions were just a little too strong for her.’ He sighed and murmured once more under his breath:
‘The pity of it.’
Then he smiled at the happy-looking middle-aged man and the eager-faced girl opposite him. He said to himself:
‘These two have come out of its shadow into the sun…and I –I have performed the second Labour of Hercules.’
Chapter 3
The Arcadian Deer
Hercule Poirot stamped his feet, seeking to warm them. He blew upon his fingers. Flakes of snow melted and dripped from the corners of his moustache.
There was a knock at the door and a chambermaid appeared. She was a slow-breathing thickset country girl and she stared with a good deal of curiosity at Hercule Poirot. It was possible that she had not seen anything quite like him before.
She asked: ‘Did you ring?’
‘I did. Will you be so good as to light a fire?’
She went out and came back again immediately with paper and sticks. She knelt down in front of the big Victorian grate and began to lay a fire.
Hercule Poirot continued to stamp his feet, swing his arms and blow on his fingers.
He was annoyed. His car–an expensive Messarro Gratz–had not behaved with that mechanical perfection which he expected of a car. His chauffeur, a young man who enjoyed a handsome salary, had not succeeded in putting things right. The car had staged a final refusal in a secondary road a mile and a half from anywhere with a fall of snow beginning. Hercule Poirot, wearing his usual smart patent leather shoes, had been forced to walk that mile and a half to reach the riverside village of Hartly Dene–a village which, though showing every sign of animation in summer-time, was completely moribund in winter. The Black Swan had registered something like dismay at the arrival of a guest. The landlord had been almost eloquent as he pointed out that the local garage could supply a car in which the gentleman could continue his journey.
Hercule Poirot repudiated the suggestion. His Latin thrift was offended. Hire a car? He already had a car–a large car–an expensive car. In that car and no other he proposed to continue his journey back to town. And in any case, even if repairs to it could be quickly effected, he was not going on in this snow until next morning. He demanded a room, a fire and a meal. Sighing, the landlord showed him to the room, sent the maid to supply the fire and then retired to discuss with his wife the problem of the meal.
An hour later, his feet stretched out towards the comforting blaze, Hercule Poirot reflected leniently on the dinner he had just eaten. True, the steak had been both tough and full of gristle, the brussels-sprouts had been large, pale, and definitely watery, the potatoes had had hearts of stone. Nor was there much to be said for the portion of stewed apple and custard which had followed. The cheese had been hard, and the biscuits soft. Nevertheless, thought Hercule Poirot, looking graciously at the leaping flames, and sipping delicately at a cup of liquid mud euphemistically called coffee, it was better to be full than empty, and after tramping snowbound lanes in patent leather shoes, to sit in front of a fire was Paradise!
There
