Superintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre.
Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire voice.
“That’s how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The doctor was satisfied. Everyone was satisfied. Why not?”
“Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite clear.”
“Syrup of Figs—that’s what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then there was this hat paint she’d been using—or rather the young lady, her companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs. Benson herself said, ‘Put it in that old bottle—the Syrup of Figs bottle.’ That’s all right. The servants heard her. The young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaid—they all agree on that. The paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends.”
“Not relabelled?”
“No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that.”
“Go on.”
“On this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realized what she’d done and they sent off at once for the doctor. He was out on a case, and it was some time before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died.”
“She herself believed it to be an accident?”
“Oh, yes—everyone thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got mixed-up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but she swears she didn’t.”
Superintendent Battle was silent—thinking. Such an easy business. A bottle taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a mistake like that to its source. Handled with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easy—so simple. But, all the same, murder! The perfect crime.
But why? That still puzzled him—why?
“This young lady-companion, this Miss Meredith, she didn’t come into money at Mrs. Benson’s death?” he asked.
Inspector Harper shook his head.
“No. She’d only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine. Young ladies didn’t stay long as a rule.”
Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn’t stay long. A difficult woman, evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her predecessors had done. No need to kill—unless it were sheer unreasoning vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.
“Who did get Mrs. Benson’s money?”
“I couldn’t say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn’t be very much—not when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one of these annuities.”
Nothing there then. But Mrs. Benson had died. And Anne Meredith had not told him that she had been at Combeacre.
It was all profoundly unsatisfactory.
He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was quite clear and emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Miss—couldn’t remember her name—nice girl but rather helpless—had been very upset and distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Benson’s last companion—a nice modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had been—not difficult—but a trifle severe towards young people. She was the rigid type of Christian.
Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few months—that was all—and her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression. A nice little thing seemed to be the accepted description.
Mrs. Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A disagreeable woman—but that was all.
Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered her employer.
[Cards on the Table -Agatha Christie] Twenty-two. Evidence from Combeacre