Egg was silent. Sir Charles said:
“What are you thinking about, darling?”
“I was thinking about Miss Milray. She was so odd in her manner that evening I told you about. She had just bought the paper about the exhumation, and she said she didn’t know what to do.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Charles cheerfully. “That woman always knows what to do.”
“Do be serious, Charles. She sounded – worried.”
“Egg, my sweet, what do I care for Miss Milray’s worries? What do I care for anything but you and me?”
“You’d better pay some attention to the trams!” said Egg. “I don’t want to be widowed before I’m a wife.”
They arrived back at Sir Charles’s flat for tea. Miss Milray came out to meet them.
“There is a telegram for you, Sir Charles.”
“Thank you, Miss Milray.” He laughed, a nervous boyish laugh. “Look here, I must tell you our news. Miss Lytton Gore and I are going to get married.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Miss Milray said:
“Oh! I’m sure – I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
There was a queer note in her voice. Egg noticed it, but before she could formulate her impression Charles Cartwright had swung round to her with a quick exclamation.
“My God, Egg, look at this. It’s from Satterthwaite.”
He shoved the telegram into her hands. Egg read it, and her eyes opened wide.
25
Before catching their train Hercule Poirot and Mr. Satterthwaite had had a brief interview with Miss Lyndon, the late Sir Bartholomew Strange’s secretary. Miss Lyndon had been very willing to help, but had had nothing of important to tell them. Mrs. de Rushbridger was only mentioned in Sir Bartholomew’s casebook in a purely professional fashion. Sir Bartholomew had never spoken of her save in medical terms.
The two men arrived at the Sanatorium about twelve o’clock. The maid who opened the door looked excited and flushed. Mr. Satterthwaite asked first for the Matron.
“I don’t know whether she can see you this morning,” said the girl doubtfully.
Mr. Satterthwaite extracted a card and wrote a few words on it.
“Please take her this.”
They were shown into a small waiting room. In about five minutes the door opened and the Matron came in. she was looking quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self.
Mr. Satterthwaite rose.
“I hope you remember me,” he said. “I came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course I remember; and Sir Charles asked for poor Mrs. de Rushbridger then, and it seems such a coincidence.”
“Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot.”
Poirot bowed and the Matron responded absently. She went on:
“I can’t understand how you can have had a telegram as you say. The whole thing seems most mysterious. Surely it can’t be connected with the poor doctor’s death in any way? There must be some madman about – that’s the only way I can account for it. Having the police here and everything. It’s really been terrible.”
“The police?” said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised.
“Yes, since ten o’clock they’ve been here.”
“The police?” said Hercule Poirot.
“Perhaps we could see Mrs. de Rushbridger now,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. “Since she asked us to come – ”
The Matron interrupted him.
“Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, then you don’t know!”
“Know what?” demanded Poirot sharply.
“Poor Mrs. de Rushbridger. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” cried Poirot. “
“It’s most mysterious. A box of chocolates came for her – liqueur chocolates – by post. She ate one – it must have tasted horrible, but she was taken by surprise, I suppose, and she swallowed it. One doesn’t like spitting a thing out.”
“
“So she swallowed it and called out and Nurse came rushing, but we couldn’t do anything. She died in about two minutes. Then doctor sent for the police, and they came and examined the chocolates. And the top layer had been tampered with, the underneath ones were all right.”
“And the poison employed?”
“They think it’s nicotine.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “Again nicotine. What a stroke! What an audacious stroke!”
“We are too late,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We shall never know now what she had to tell us. Unless – unless – she confided in someone?” He glanced interrogatively at the Matron.
Poirot shook his head.
“There will have been no confidences, you will find.”
“We can ask,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “One of the nurses, perhaps?”
“By all means ask,” said Poirot; but he did not sound hopeful.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the Matron who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger, but neither of them could add any information to that already given. Mrs. de Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir Bartholomew’s death, and they did not even know of the despatching of the telegram.
On a request from Poirot, the two men were taken to the dead woman’s room. They found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to Poirot.
Then the two men moved over to the bed and stood looking down on the dead woman. She was about forty, dark-haired and pale. Her face was not peaceful – it still showed the agony of her death.
Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly:
“Poor soul… ”
He looked across at Hercule Poirot. There was a strange expression on the little Belgian’s face.
Something about it made Mr. Satterthwaite shiver…
Mr. Satterthwaite said:
“Someone knew she was going to speak, and killed her… She was killed in order to prevent her speaking… ”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, that is so.”
“She was murdered to prevent her telling us what she knew.”
“Or what she did not know… But let us not waste time… There is much to be done.
Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously:
“Does this fit in with your idea of the murderer’s identity?”
“Yes, it fits… But I realise one thing: The murderer is more dangerous than I thought… We must be careful.”
Superintendent Crossfield followed them out of the room and learnt from them of the telegram which had been received by them. The telegram had been handed it at Melfort Post Office, and on inquiry there it was elicited that it had been handed in by a small boy. The young lady in charge remembered it, because the message had
