' At Cheyne Lane.'
'Bien. I will come round immediately.'
In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Doctor 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, Monsieur 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 parlormaid who was weeping quietly.
'Its 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 said. 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 afterward?'
'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?'
'Do you mean after she went to bed? I don't think so, sir.'
'But you are not sure?'
'There were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day.'
'How many were there?'
'Two or three – I'm not quite sure, sir. Three, I think.'
'You – or cook – whoever posted them – did not happen to notice to whom they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost importance.'
'I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one; it was to Fortnum and Mason's. I couldn't say as to the others.'
The woman's tone was earnest and sincere.
'Are you sure there were not more than three letters?'
'Yes, sir, I'm quite certain of that.'
Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then he said, 'You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?'
'Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor's orders. Doctor Lang.'
'Where was the sleeping medicine kept?'
'In the little cupboard in the mistress's room.'
Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very grave.
On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried and harassed.
'I'm glad you've come, Monsieur Poirot. Let me introduce you to Doctor Davidson.'
The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall melancholy man.
'The luck was against us,' he said. 'An hour or two earlier and we might have saved her.'
'H'm,' said Battle. 'I mustn't say so officially, but I'm not sorry. She was a – well, she was a lady. I don't know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but she may just conceivably have been justified.'
'In any case,' said Poirot, 'it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her trial. She was a very ill woman.'
The surgeon nodded in agreement.
'I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best.'
He started down the stairs. Battle moved after him.
'One minute, Doctor.'
Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, 'I may enter – yes?'
Battle nodded over his shoulder. 'Quite all right. We're through.' Poirot passed into the room, closing the door behind him.
He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet dead face. He was very disturbed. Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a young girl from death and disgrace – or was there a different, a more sinister explanation?
There were certain facts.
Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark discolored bruise on the dead woman's arm. He straightened himself up again. There was a strange catlike gleam in his eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognized. He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said, 'He hasn't come back, sir.'
Battle said, 'Despard. I've been trying to get him. There's a letter for him with the Chelsea postmark all right.'
Poirot asked an irrelevant question. 'Had Doctor Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?'
Battle stared. 'No,' he said, 'I remember he mentioned that he'd come out without it.'
'Then he will be at his house now. We can get him.'
'But why?'
But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke.
'Doctor Roberts? It is Doctor Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one question. Are you well acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?'
'Mrs. Lorrimer's handwriting? I – no, I don't know that I'd ever seen it before.'
'Je vous remercie.'
