She was a – well, she was what you've no doubt observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didn't care a damn for the woman – rather disliked her as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind that always makes me feel prickly with embarrassment. Everything went all right for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old Luxmore was pretty bad. One night – now you've got to listen to this carefully – I was sitting outside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off into the bush by the river. He was absolutely delirious and quite unconscious of what he was doing. In another minute he would be in the river, and at that particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There wasn't time to rush after him, only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me as usual. I snatched it up. I'm a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring the old boy down – get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, 'Don't shoot. For God's sake don't shoot,' She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as the rifle went off – with the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him dead!
'I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that damned fool of a woman still didn't understand what she'd done. Instead of realizing that she'd been responsible for her husband's death, she firmly believed that I'd been trying to shoot the old boy in cold blood – for love of her, if yon please! We had the devil of a scene, she insisting that we should say he'd died of fever. I was sorry for her, especially as I saw she didn't realize what she'd done, But she'd have to realize it if the truth came out. And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she went about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted – partly for the sake of peace, I'll admit. After all, it didn't seem to matter much. Fever or accident. And I didn't want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness, even if she was a damned fool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever, and we buried him, The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all devoted to me and I knew that what I said they'd swear to if need be. We buried poor old Luxmore and got back to civilization. Since then I've spent a good deal of time dodging the woman.'
He paused, then said quietly, 'That's my story, Monsieur Poirot.'
Poirot said slowly, 'It was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at dinner that night?'
Despard nodded. 'He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him.'
'It might have been a dangerous story – to you – in the hands of a man like Shaitana.'
Despard shrugged his shoulders.
'I wasn't afraid of Shaitana.'
Poirot didn't answer. Despard said quietly, 'That again you have to take my word for. It's true enough, I suppose, that I had a kind of motive for Shaitana's death. Well, the truth's out now; take it or leave it.'
Poirot held out a hand. 'I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South America happened exactly as you have described.'
Despard's face lighted up. 'Thanks,' he said laconically.
And he clasped Poirot's hand warmly.
Chapter 22
EVIDENCE FROM COMBEACRE
Superintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre. Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire voice.
'That's how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The doctor was satisfied. Everyone was satisfied. Why not?'
'Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite clear.'
'Syrup of Figs, that's what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then there was this hat paint she'd been using, or rather the young lady, her companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs. Benson herself said, 'Put it in that old bottle – the Syrup of Figs bottle.' That's all right. The servants heard her. The young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlormaid – they all agree on that. The hat paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends.'
'Not relabeled?'
'No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that.'
'Go on.'
'On this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realized what she'd done, and they sent off at once for the doctor. He was out on a case and it was sometime before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died.'
'She herself believed it to be an accident?'
'Oh, yes; everyone thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got mixed up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but she swears she didn't.'
Superintendent Battle was silent, thinking. Such an easy business. A bottle taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a mistake like that to its source. Handled it with gloves, possibly, and anyway the last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easy – so simple. But, all the same, murder! The perfect crime.
But why? That still puzzled him – why?
'This young lady, this Miss Meredith, she didn't come into money at Mrs. Benson's death?' he asked.
Inspector Harper shook his head. 'No. She'd only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine. Young ladies didn't stay long as a rule.'
Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn't stay long. A difficult woman, evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her predecessors had done. No need to kill – unless it were sheer unreasoning vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.
'Who did get Mrs. Benson's money?'
'I couldn't say, sir; nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn't be very much – not when it was divided up – and I heard as how most of her income was one of these annuities.'
Nothing there then. But Mrs. Benson had died, and Anne Meredith had not told him that she had been at Combeacre. It was all profoundly unsatisfactory.
He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was clear and emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Miss – couldn't remember her name, nice girl, but rather helpless – had been very upset and distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Benson's last companion – a nice, modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had been – not difficult – but a trifle severe toward young people. She was the rigid type of Christian.
Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few months – that was all – and her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression. 'A nice little thing,' seemed to be the accepted description.
Mrs. Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A disagreeable woman, but that was all.
Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression that for some reason unknown Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered her employer.
Chapter 23
THE EVIDENCE OF A PAIR OF SILK HOSE
