out what medicines Mr Abernethie was taking at the time of his death and before. Find out if Richard Abernethie ever said anything to his doctor about fancying himself being poisoned. By the way, this Miss Gilchrist is sure that he used the term poisoned in talking to his sister?'
Mr Entwhistle reflected.
'It was the word she used – but she is the type of witness who often changes the actual words used, because she is convinced she is keeping to the sense of them. If Richard had said he was afraid someone wanted to kill him, Miss Gilchrist might have assumed poison because she connected his fears with those of an aunt of hers who thought her food was being tampered with. I can take up the point with her again some time.'
'Yes. Or I will do so.' He paused and then said in a different voice: 'Has it occurred to you, my friend, that your Miss Gilchrist may be in some danger herself?'
Mr Entwhistle looked surprised.
'I can't say that it had.'
'But, yes. Cora voiced her suspicions on the day of the funeral. The question in the murderer's mind will be, did she voice them to anybody when she first heard of Richard's death? And the most likely person for her to have spoken to about them will be Miss Gilchrist. I think, mon cher, that she had better not remain alone in that cottage.'
'I believe Susan is going down.'
'Ah, so Mrs Banks is going down?'
'She wants to look through Cora's things.'
'I see… I see… Well, my friend, do what I have asked of you. You might also prepare Mrs Abernethie – Mrs Leo Abernethie, for the possibility that I may arrive in the house. We will see. From now on I occupy myself of everything.'
And Poirot twirled his moustaches with enormous energy.
Chapter 8
I
Mr Entwhistle looked at Dr Larraby thoughtfully.
He had had a lifetime of experience in summing people up. There had been frequent occasions on which it had been necessary to tackle a difficult situation or a delicate subject. Mr Entwhistle was an adept by now in the art of how exactly to make the proper approach. How would it be best to tackle Dr Larraby on what was certainly a very difficult subject and one which the doctor might very well resent as reflecting upon his own professional skill?
Frankness, Mr Entwhistle thought – or at least a modified frankness. To say that suspicions had arisen because of a haphazard suggestion thrown out by a silly woman would be ill-advised. Dr Larraby had not known Cora.
Mr Entwhistle cleared his throat and plunged bravely.
'I want to consult you on a very delicate matter,' he said. 'You may be offended, but I sincerely hope not. You are a sensible man and you will realise, I'm sure, that a – er – preposterous suggestion is best dealt with by finding a reasonable answer and not by condemning it out of hand. It concerns my client, the late Mr Abernethie. I'll ask you my question flat out. Are you certain, absolutely certain, that he died what is termed a natural death?'
Dr Larraby's good-humoured, rubicund middle-aged face turned in astonishment on his questioner.
'What on earth – Of course he did. I gave a certificate, didn't I? If I hadn't been satisfied -'
Mr Entwhistle cut in adroitly:
'Naturally, naturally. I assure you that I am not assuming anything to the contrary. But I would be glad to have your positive assurance – in face of the – er – rumours that are flying around.'
'Rumours? What rumours?'
'One doesn't know quite how these things start,' said Mr Entwhistle mendaciously. 'But my feeling is that they should be stopped – authoritatively, if possible.'
'Abernethie was a sick man. He was suffering from a disease that would have proved fatal within, I should say, at the earliest, two years. It might have come much sooner. His son's death had weakened his will to live, and his powers of resistance. I admit that I did not expect his death to come so soon, or indeed so suddenly, but there are precedents – plenty of precedents. Any medical man who predicts exactly when a patient will die, or exactly how long he will live, is bound to make a fool of himself. The human factor is always incalculable. The weak have often unexpected powers of resistance, the strong sometimes succumb.'
'I understand all that. I am not doubting your diagnosis. Mr Abernethie was, shall we say (rather melodramatically, I'm afraid) under sentence of death. All I'm asking you is, is it quite impossible that a man, knowing or suspecting that he is doomed, might of his own accord shorten that period of life? Or that someone else might do it for him?'
Dr Larraby frowned.
'Suicide, you mean? Abernethie wasn't a suicidal type.'
'I see. You can assure me, medically speaking, that such a suggestion is impossible.'
The doctor stirred uneasily.
'I wouldn't use the word impossible. After his son's death life no longer held the interest for Abernethie that it had done. I certainly don't feel that suicide is likely – but I can't say that it's impossible.'
'You are speaking from the psychological angle. When I said medically, I really meant: do the circumstances of his death make such a suggestion impossible?'
'No, oh no. No, I can't say that. He died in his sleep, as people often do. There was no reason to suspect suicide, no evidence of his state of mind. If one were to demand an autopsy every time a man who is seriously ill died in his sleep -'
The doctor's face was getting redder and redder. Mr Entwhistle hastened to interpose.
'Of course. Of course. But if there had been evidence – evidence of which you yourself were not aware? If, for instance, he had said something to someone -'
'Indicating that he was contemplating suicide? Did he? I must say it surprises me.'
'But if it were so – my case is purely hypothetical – could you rule out the possibility?'
Dr Larraby said slowly:
'No – no – I could not do that. But I say again, I should be very much surprised.'
Mr Entwhistle hastened to follow up his advantage.
'If, then, we assume that his death was not natural – all this is purely hypothetical – what could have caused it? What kind of a drug, I mean?'
'Several. Some kind of a narcotic would be indicated. There was no sign of cyanosis, the attitude was quite peaceful.'
'He had sleeping draughts or pills? Something of that kind.'
'Yes. I had prescribed Slumberyl – a very safe and dependable hypnotic. He did not take it every night. And he only had a small bottle of tablets at a time. Three or even four times the prescribed dose would not have caused death. In fact, I remember seeing the bottle on his wash-stand after his death still nearly full.'
'What else had you prescribed for him?'
'Various things – a medicine containing a small quantity of morphia to be taken when he had an attack of pain. Some vitamin capsules. An indigestion mixture.'
Mr Entwhistle interrupted.
'Vitamin capsules? I think I was once prescribed a course of those. Small round capsules of gelatine.'
'Yes. Containing adexoline.'
'Could anything else have been introduced into – say – one of those capsules?'
'Something lethal, you mean?' The doctor was looking more and more surprised. 'But surely no man would
