was just outside on the landing myself. I'd heard that nurse go off downstairs, and I thought maybe I'd better make sure the mistress wasn't needing anything, for you know what nurses are – always staying downstairs to gossip with the maids, or else worrying them to death by asking them for things. Not that Nurse Hopkins was as bad as that red-haired Irish nurse. Always chattering and making trouble, she was! But, as I say, I thought I'd just see everything was all right, and it was then that I saw Mr. Roddy slip into his aunt's room. I don't know whether she knew him or not; but anyway he hasn't got anything to reproach himself with!'
Poirot said, 'I am glad. He is of a somewhat nervous disposition.'
'Just a trifle cranky. He always has been.'
Poirot said, 'Mrs. Bishop, you are evidently a woman of great understanding. I have formed a high regard for your judgment. What do you think is the truth about the death of Mary Gerrard?'
Mrs. Bishop snorted. 'Clear enough, I should think! One of those nasty pots of paste of Abbott's. Keeps them on those shelves for months! My second cousin was took ill and nearly died once, with tinned crab!'
Poirot objected, 'But what about the morphine found in the body?'
Mrs. Bishop said grandly, 'I don't know anything about morphine! I know what doctors are. Tell them to look for something, and they'll find it! Tainted fish paste isn't good enough for them! '
Poirot said, 'You do not think it possible that she committed suicide?'
'She?' Mrs. Bishop snorted. 'No, indeed. Hadn't she made up her mind to marry Mr. Roddy? Catch her committing suicide!'
Chapter 12
Since it was Sunday, Hercule Poirot found Ted Bigland at his father's farm.
There was little difficulty in getting Ted Bigland to talk. He seemed to welcome the opportunity – as though it was a relief.
He said thoughtfully, 'So you're trying to find out who killed Mary? It's a black mystery, that.'
Poirot said, 'You do not believe that Miss Carlisle killed her, then?' Ted Bigland frowned – a puzzled, almost child-like frown it was.
He said slowly, 'Miss Elinor's a lady. She's the kind – well, you couldn't imagine her doing anything like that – anything violent, if you know what I mean. After all, it isn't likely, is it, sir, that a nice young lady would go and do a thing of that kind?'
Hercule Poirot nodded in a contemplative manner. He said, 'No, it is not likely. But when it comes to jealousy-'
He paused, watching the good-looking, fair young giant before him.
Ted Bigland said, 'Jealousy? I know things happen that way, but it's usually drink and getting worked up that makes a fellow see red and run amuck. Miss Elinor – a nice quiet young lady like that -'
Poirot said, 'But Mary Gerrard died – and she did not die a natural death. Have you any idea – is there anything you can tell me to help me find out – who killed Mary Gerrard?'
Slowly the boy shook his head. He said, 'It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem possible, if you take my meaning, that anyone could have killed Mary. She was – she was like a flower.'
And suddenly, for a vivid minute, Hercule Poirot had a new conception of the dead girl. In that halting rustic voice the girl Mary lived and bloomed again. 'She was like a flower.'
There was suddenly a poignant sense of loss, of something exquisite destroyed. In his mind phrase after phrase succeeded each other. Peter Lord's 'She was a nice kid.' Nurse Hopkins's 'She could have gone on the films any time.' Mrs. Bishop's venomous 'No patience with her airs and graces.' And now last, putting to shame, laying aside those other views, the quiet, wondering, 'She was like a flower.'
Hercule Poirot said, 'But then -?' He spread out his hands in a wide, appealing foreign gesture.
Ted Bigland nodded his head. His eyes had still the dumb, glazed look of an animal in pain. He said, 'I know, sir. I know what you say's true. She didn't die natural. But I've been wondering -'
He paused. Poirot said, 'Yes?'
Ted Bigland said slowly, 'I've been wondering if in some way it couldn't have been an accident!'
'An accident? But what kind of an accident?'
'I know, sir. I know. It doesn't sound like sense. But I keep thinking and thinking, and it seems to me it must have been that way. Something that wasn't meant to happen or something that was all a mistake. Just – well, just an accident!'
He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own lack of eloquence. Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be considering. He said at last, 'It is interesting that you feel that.'
Ted Bigland said deprecatingly, 'I dare say it doesn't make sense to you, sir. I can't figure out how and why about it. It's just a feeling I've got.'
Hercule Poirot said, 'Feeling is sometimes an important guide. You will pardon me, I hope, if I seem to tread on painful ground, but you cared very much for Mary Gerrard, did you not?'
A little dark colour came up in the tanned face. Ted said simply, 'Everyone knows that around here, I reckon.'
'You wanted to marry her?'
'Yes.'
'But she – was not willing?'
Ted's face darkened a little. He said, with a hint of suppressed anger, 'Mean well, people do, but they shouldn't muck up people's lives by interfering. All this schooling and going abroad! It changed Mary. I don't mean it spoiled her, or that she was stuck-up – she wasn't. But it – oh, it bewildered her! She didn't know where she was any more. She was – well, put it crudely – she was too good for me, but she still wasn't good enough for a real gentleman like Mr. Welman.'
Hercule Poirot said, watching him, 'You don't like Mr. Welman?'
Ted Bigland said with simple violence, 'Why the hell should I? Mr. Welman's all right. I've nothing against him. He's not what I call much of a man! I could pick him up and break him in two. He's got brains, I suppose… But that's not much help to you if your car breaks down, for instance. You may know the principle that makes a car run, but it doesn't stop you from being as helpless as a baby when all that's needed is to take the mag out and give it a wipe.'
Poirot said, 'Of course, you work in a garage?'
Ted Bigland nodded. ' Henderson 's, down the road.'
'You were there on the morning when – this thing happened?'
Ted Bigland said, 'Yes, testing out a car for a gentleman. A choke somewhere, and I couldn't locate it. Ran it round for a bit. Seems odd to think of now. It was a lovely day, some honeysuckle still in the hedges… Mary used to like honeysuckle. We used to go picking it together before she went away abroad.'
Again there was that puzzled, child-like wonder on his face. Hercule Poirot was silent. With a start Ted Bigland came out of his trance.
He said, 'Sorry, sir. Forget what I said about Mr. Welman. I was sore – because of his hanging round after Mary. He ought to have let her alone. She wasn't his sort – not really.'
Poirot said, 'Do you think she cared for him?'
Again Ted Bigland frowned. 'I don't – not really. But she might have. I couldn't say.'
Poirot asked, 'Was there any other man in Mary's life? Anyone, for instance, she had met abroad?'
'I couldn't say, sir. She never mentioned anybody.'
'Any enemies – here in Maidensford?'
'You mean anyone who had it in for her?' He shook his head. 'Nobody knew her very well. But they all liked her.'
Poirot said, 'Did Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper at Hunterbury, like her?'
Ted gave a sudden grin. He said, 'Oh, that was just spite! The old dame didn't like Mrs. Welman taking such a fancy to Mary.'
Poirot asked, 'Was Mary Gerrard happy when she was down here? Was she fond of old Mrs. Welman?'
