The summons came by telephone at the moment when Poirot was sitting down to his morning coffee and rolls.
He lifted the telephone receiver, and Battle’s voice spoke:
“That M. Poirot?”
“Yes, it is. Qu’est ce qu’il y a?”
The mere inflection of the superintendent’s voice had told him that something had happened. His own vague misgivings came back to him.
“But quickly, my friend, tell me.”
“It’s Mrs. Lorrimer.”
“Lorrimer—yes?”
“What the devil did you say to her—or did she say to you—yesterday? You never told me anything; in fact, you let me think that the Meredith girl was the one we were after.”
Poirot said quietly:
“What has happened?”
“Suicide.”
“Mrs. Lorrimer has committed suicide?”
“That’s right. It seems she has been very depressed and unlike herself lately. Her doctor had ordered her some sleeping stuff. Last night she took an overdose.”
Poirot drew a deep breath.
“There is no question of—accident?”
“Not the least. It’s all cut and dried. She wrote to the three of them.”
“Which three?”
“The other three. Roberts, Despard and Miss Meredith. All fair and square—no beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she was taking a shortcut out of all the mess—that it was she who had killed Shaitana—and that she apologized—apologized—to all three of them for the inconvenience and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm, businesslike letter. Absolutely typical of the woman. She was a cool customer all right.”
For a minute or two Poirot did not answer.
So this was Mrs. Lorrimer’s final word. She had determined, after all, to shield Anne Meredith. A quick painless death instead of a protracted painful one, and her last action an altruistic one—the saving of the girl with whom she felt a secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quite ruthless efficiency—a suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties. What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like her—like her clearcut determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.
He had thought to have convinced her—but evidently she had preferred her own judgement. A woman of very strong will.
Battle’s voice cut into his meditations.
“What the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up her, and this is the result. But you implied that the result of your interview was definite suspicion of the Meredith girl.”
Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer constrained him to her will, as she could not have done if she were living.
He said at last slowly:
“I was in error….”
They were unaccustomed words on his tongue, and he did not like them.
“You made a mistake, eh?” said Battle. “All the same, she must have thought you were onto her. It’s a bad business—letting her slip through our fingers like this.”
“You could not have proved anything against her,” said Poirot.
“No—I suppose that’s true … Perhaps it’s all for the best. You—er—didn’t mean this to happen, M. Poirot?”
Poirot’s disclaimer was indignant. Then he said:
“Tell me exactly what has occurred.”
“Roberts opened his letter just before eight o’clock. He lost no time, dashed off at once in his car, leaving his parlourmaid to communicate with us, which she did. He got to the house to find that Mrs. Lorrimer hadn’t been called yet, rushed up to her bedroom—but it was too late. He tried artificial respiration, but there was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed his treatment.”
“What was the sleeping stuff?”
“Veronal, I think. One of the barbituric group, at any rate. There was a bottle of tablets by her bed.”
“What about the other two? Did they not try to communicate with you?”
“Despard is out of town. He hasn’t had this morning’s post.”
“And—Miss Meredith?”
“I’ve just rung her up.”
“Eh bien?”
“She had just opened the letter a few moments before my call came through. Post is later there.”
“What was her reaction?”
“A perfectly proper attitude. Intense relief decently veiled. Shocked and grieved—that sort of thing.”
Poirot paused a moment, then he said:
“Where are you now, my friend?”
“At Cheyne Lane.”
“Bien. I will come round immediately.”
In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Dr. 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, M. 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 parlourmaid, who was weeping quietly.
“It’s 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 says. 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 afterwards?”
“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. Dr. Lang.”
“Where was this 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, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr. 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, discoloured 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 Dr. 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:
“Dr. Roberts? It is Dr. 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.”
Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.
Battle was staring at him.
“What’s the big idea, M. Poirot?” he asked quietly.
Poirot took him by the arm.
“Listen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday Anne Meredith arrived. I actually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite sure of her identity at the time. Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs. Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, she did not write any letters then. And, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to you our interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did she write them, then?”
“After the servants had gone to bed?” suggested Battle. “She got up and posted them herself.”
“That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility—that she did not write them at all.”
Battle whistled.
“My God, you mean—”
The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a minute, then turned to Battle.
“Sergeant O’Connor speaking from Despard’s flat, sir. There’s reason to believe that Despard’s down at Wallingford-on-Thames.”
Poirot caught Battle by the arm.
“Quickly, my friend. We, too, must go to Wallingford. I tell you, I am not easy in my mind. This may not be the end. I tell you again, my friend, this young lady, she is dangerous.”
[Cards on the Table -Agatha Christie] Twenty-eight. Suicide