'I do know something about you. I know, for instance, that you held a responsible position in Intelligence during the war, since, in fact, my own uncle vouches for you. That is an admitted fact.' The faintly cynical expression on Poirot's face was not perceived by Restarick.
The admitted fact was, as Poirot was well aware, a complete illusion - although Restarick must have known how undependable Sir Roderick was in the matter of memory and eyesight - he had swallowed Poirot's own account of himself, hook, line and sinker. Poirot did not disillusion him. It merely confirmed him in his long-held belief that you should never believe anything anyone said without first checking it. Suspect everybody, had been for many years, if not his whole life, one of his first axioms.
'Let me reassure you,' said Poirot. 'I have been throughout my career exceptionally successful. I have been indeed in many ways unequalled.' Restarick looked less reassured by this than he might have been! Indeed, to an Englishman, a man who praised himself in such terms aroused some misgivings.
He said: 'What do you feel yourself, M. Poirot? Have you confidence that you can find my daughter?'
'Probably not as quickly as the police could do, but yes. I shall find her.'
'And - and if you do - '
'But if you wish me to find her, Mr. Restarick, you must tell me all the circumstances.'
'But I have told them to you. The time, the place, where she ought to be. I can give you a list of her friends…' Poirot was making some violent shakings of his head. 'No, no, I suggest you tell me the truth.'
'Do you suggest I haven't told you the truth?'
'You have not told me all of it. Of that I am assured. What are you afraid of? What are the unknown facts - the facts that I have to know if I am to have success. Your daughter dislikes her stepmother. That is plain. There is nothing strange about that.
It is a very natural reaction. You must remember that she may have secretly idealised you for many many years. That is quite possible in the case of a broken marriage where a child has had a severe blow in her affections. Yes, yes, I know what I am talking about. You say a child forgets. That is true. Your daughter could have forgotten you in the sense that when she saw you again she might not remember your face or your voice. She would make her own image of you. You went away.
She wanted you to come back. Her mother, no doubt, discouraged her from talking about you, and therefore she thought about you perhaps all the more. You mattered to her all the more. And because she could not talk about you to her own mother she had what is a very natural reaction with a child - the blaming of the parent who remains for the absence of the parent who has gone. She said to herself something in the nature of 'Father was fond of me. It's Mother he didn't like', and from that was born a kind of idealisation, a kind of secret liaison between you and her. What had happened was not her father's fault. She will not believe it!
'Oh yes, that often happens, I assure you. I know something of the psychology.
So when she learns that you are coming home, that you and she will be reunited, many memories that she has pushed aside and not thought of for years return. Her father is coming back! He and she will be happy together! She hardly realises the stepmother, perhaps, until she sees her.
And then she is violently jealous. It is most natural, I assure you. She is violently jealous partly because your wife is a goodlooking woman, sophisticated, and well poised, which is a thing girls often resent because they frequently lack confidence in themselves. She herself is possibly gauche with perhaps an inferiority complex. So when she sees her competent and goodlooking stepmother, quite possibly she hates her; but hates her as an adolescent girl who is still half a child might do.'
'Well - ' Restarick hesitated. 'That is more or less what the doctor said when we consulted him - I mean - '
'Aha,' said Poirot, 'so you consulted a doctor? You must have had some reason, is it not so, for calling in a doctor?'
'Nothing really.'
'Ah no, you cannot say that to Hercule Poirot. It is not nothing. It was something serious and you had better tell me, because if I know just what has been in this girl's mind, I shall make more progress. Things will go quicker.' Restarick was silent for several moments, then he made up his mind.
'This is in absolute confidence, M. Poirot? I can rely on you - I have your assurance as to that?'
'By all means. What was the trouble?'
'I cannot be - be sure.'
'Your daughter entered into some action against your wife? Something more than being merely childishly rude or saying unpleasant things. It was something worse than that-something more serious. Did she perhaps attack her physically?'
'No, it was not an attack - not a physical attack but - nothing was proved.'
'No, no. We will admit that.'
'My wife became far from well - ' He hesitated.
'Ah,' said Poirot. 'Yes, I see… And what was the nature of her illness?
Digestive, possibly? A form of enteritis?'
'You're quick, M. Poirot. You're very quick. Yes, it was digestive. This complaint of my wife's was puzzling, because she had always had excellent health. Finally they sent her to hospital for 'observation', as they call it. A check up.'
'And the result?'
'I don't think they were completely satisfied… She appeared to regain her health completely and was sent home in due course. But the trouble recurred. We went carefully over the meals she had, the cooking. She seemed to be suffering from a form of intestinal poisoning for which there appeared to be no cause. A further step was taken, tests were made of the dishes she ate. By taking samples of everything, it was definitely proved that a certain substance had been administered in various dishes. In each case it was a dish of which only my wife had partaken.'
'In plain language somebody was giving her arsenic. Is that right?'
'Quite right. In small doses which would in the end have a cumulative effect.'
'You suspected your daughter?'
'No.'
'I think you did. Who else could have done it? You suspected your daughter.' Restarick gave a deep sigh.
'Frankly, yes.'
When Poirot arrived home, George was awaiting him 'A woman named Edith rang up, sir - '
'Edith?' Poirot frowned.
'She is, I gather, in the service of Mrs. Oliver. She asked me to inform you that Mrs. Oliver is in St. Giles' Hospital.'
'What has happened to her?'
'I understand she has been - er - coshed.' George did not add the latter part of the message, and you tell him it's been all his fault.' Poirot clicked his tongue. 'I warned her - I was uneasy last night when I rang her up, and there was no answer. Les Femmes.'
Chapter Twelve
'LET'S buy a peacock,' said Mrs. Oliver suddenly and unexpectedly. She did not open her eyes as she made this remark, and her voice was weak though full of indignation.
Three people brought startled eyes to bear upon her. She made a further statement.
'Hit on the head.' She opened badly focused eyes and endeavoured to make out where she was.
The first thing she saw was a face entirely strange to her. A young man who was writing in a notebook. He held the pencil poised in his hand.
'Policeman,' said Mrs. Oliver decisively.
'I beg your pardon. Madam?'
'I said you were a policeman,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'Am I right?'
'Yes, Madam.'
