SAD
cypress
agatha christie
®^
BANTAM BOOKS
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to peter AND peggy mcleod
SAD CYPRESS
A Bantam Boofc / published by arrangement with
Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.
Agatha Christie Hardcover Collection! November 1984
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1939, 1940, by Agatha Christie Mallowan. Copyright © Renewed 1967, 1968 by Agatha Christie fAallowan. Endpapers designed by Peggy Skycraft.
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Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
0 prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
-shakespeare
prologue
«p
-L-iLINOR Katharine Carlisle. You stand charged upon this
indictment with the murder of Mary Gerrard upon the 27th of July
last. Are you guilty or not guilty?"
Elinor Carlisle stood very straight, her head raised. It was a
graceful head, the modeling of the bones sharp and well
defined. The eyes were a deep vivid blue, the hair black. The
brows had been plucked to a faint thin line.
There was a silence--quite a noticeable silence.
Sir Edwin Bulmer, Counsel for the Defense, felt a thrill of
dismay. He thought, My God, she's going to plead guilty. She's
lost her nerve.
Elinor Carlisle's lips parted. She said, "Not guilty."
Counsel for the Defense sank back. He passed a handkerchief
over his brow, realizing that it had been a near shave.
Sir Samuel Attenbury was on his feet, outlining the case for
the Crown.
"May it please your lordship, gentlemen of the jury, on the
27th of July, at half-past three in the afternoon, Mary Gerrard
died at Hunterbury, Maidensford . . ."
His voice ran on, sonorous and pleasing to the ear. It lulled
Elinor almost into unconsciousness. From the simple and
concise narrative only an occasional phrase seeped through to
her conscious mind.
"'. Case a peculiarly simple and straightforward one. . . .
agatha christie
It is the duty of the Crown . . . prove motive and opportunity.
. . . No one, as far as can be seen, had any motive to
kill this unfortunate girl, Mary Gerrard, except the accused.
A young girl of a charming disposition--liked by everybody--
without, one would have said, an enemy in the world. . . ."
Mary, Mary Gerrard! How far away it all seemed now. Not real
any longer. . . .
"... Your attention will be particularly directed to the
following considerations: 1. What opportunities and means
had the accused for administering poison? 2. What motive
had she for so doing?
"It will be my duty to call before you witnesses who can
help you to form a true conclusion on these matters. . . .
". . . As regards the poisoning of Mary Gerrard, I shall
endeavor to show you that no one had any opportunity to commit
this crime except the accused. . . ."
Elinor felt as though imprisoned in a thick mist. Detached
words came drifting through the fog.
". . . Sandwiches . . . Fish paste . . . Empty house. . . ."
The words stabbed through the thick enveloping blanket of
Elinor's thoughts--pin-pricks through a heavy muffling veil. . ..
The court. Faces. Rows and rows of faces! One particular
face with a big black mustache and shrewd eyes. Hercule
Poirot, his head a little on one side, his eyes thoughtful, was
watching her.
She thought, He's trying to see just exactly why I did it. He's
trying to get inside my head to see what I thought--what I felt. . . .
Felt? A little blur--a slight sick sense of shock. . . . Roddy's
face--his dear, dear face with its long nose, its sensitive mouth
. . . Roddy! Always Roddy--always, ever since she could
remember--since those days at Hunterbury among the raspberries
and up in the warren and down by the brook.
Roddy--Roddy--Roddy. . . .
Other faces! Nurse O'Brien, her mouth slightly open, her
freckled, fresh face thrust forward. Nurse Hopkins looking
smug--smug and implacable. Peter Lord's face--Peter Lord--so
kind, so sensible, so--so comfortingi But looking now--what
sad cypress
was it—lost? Yes—lost! Minding—minding all this frightfully!
Whil»she herself, star performer, didn't mind at all!
Here she was, quite calm and cold, standing in the dock,
accused of murder. She was in court.
Something stirred; the folds of blanket round her brain
lightened—became mere wraiths. In court!—People. . . .
People leaning forward, their lips parted a little, their eyes
agog, staring at her, Elinor, with a horrible ghoulish enjoyment—listening
with a kind of slow, cruel relish to what that
tall man was saying about her.
"The facts in this case are extremely easy to follow and are
not in dispute. I shall put them before you quite simply. From
the very beginning ..."
Elinor thought, The beginning. . . . The beginning? The day
that horrible anonymous letter came! that was the beginning of
it. . . .
chapter I

A,
i-N anonymous letter! Elinor Carlisle stood looking down
at it as it lay open in her hand. She'd never had such a thing
before. It gave one an unpleasant sensation. Ill-written, badly
spelled, on cheap pink paper.
This is to Warn You,
I'm naming no Names but there's Someone sucking up to
your Aunt and if you're not kareful you'll get Cut Out of
Everything. Girls Are very Artful and Old Ladies is Soft
when Young Ones suck up to Them and Flatter them What 1
say is You'd best come down and see for Yourself whats
Going On its not right you and the Young Gentleman should
be Done Out of What's yours--and She's Very Artful and the
Old Lady might Pop off at any time.
Well-Wisher.
Elinor was still staring at this missive, her plucked brows
drawn together in distaste, when the door opened. The maid
announced, "Mr. Welman," and Roddy came in.
Roddy! As always when she saw Roddy, Elinor was conscious
of a slightly giddy feeling, a throb of sudden pleasure,
a feeling that it was incumbent upon her to be very matter-offact
and unemotional. Because it was so very obvious that
sad cypress
Roddy, although he loved her, didn't feel about her the way
she felt about him. The first sight of him did something to
her, twisted her heart round so that it almost hurt. Absurd
that a man—an ordinary, yes, a perfectly ordinary young
man—should be able to do that to one! That the mere look of
him should set the world spinning, that his voice should
make you want—just a little—to cry. Love surely should be a
pleasurable emotion—not something that hurt you by its
intensity.
One thing was clear: one must be very, very careful to be
off-hand and casual about it all. Men didn't like devotion and
adoration. Certainly Roddy didn't.
She said lightly, "Hallo, Roddy!"
Roddy said, "Hallo, darling. You're looking very tragic. Is it
a bill?" t
Elinor shook her head.
Ro4dy said, 'T thought it might be—midsummer, you know—
when the fairies dance, and the accounts rendered come
tripping along!"
Elinor said, "It's rather horrid. It's an anonymous letter."
Roddy's brows went up. His keen, fastidious face stiffened
and changed. He said—a sharp, disgusted exclamation, "No!"
Elinor said again, "It's rather horrid. . . ."
She moved a step toward her desk.
"I'd better tear it up, I suppose."
She could have done that—she almost did—for Roddy and
anonymous letters were two things that ought not to come
together. She might have thrown it away and thought no more
about it. He would not have stopped her. His fastidiousness
was far more strongly developed than his curiosity.
But on an impulse Elinor decided differently. She said,
"Perhaps, though, you'd better read it first. Then we'll burn
it. It's about Aunt Laura."
Roddy's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Aunt Laura?"
He took the letter, read it, gave a frown of distaste, and
handed it back. "Yes," he said. "Definitely to be burned!
How extraordinary people are!"
agatha CHRISTIE
Elinor said, "One of the servants, do you think?"
"I suppose so." He hesitated. "I wonder who--who the
person is--the one they mention?"
Elinor said thoughtfully, "It must be Mary Gerrard, I think."
Roddy frowned in an effort of remembrance.
"Mary Gerrard? Who is she?"
"The daughter of the people at the lodge. You must remember
her as a child? Aunt Laura was always fond of the girl,
and took an interest in her. She paid for her schooling and for
various extras--piano lessons and French and things."
Roddy said, "Oh, yes, I remember her now; scrawny kid,
all legs and arms, with a lot of messy fair hair."
Elinor nodded. "Yes, you probably haven't seen her since
those summer holidays when Mum and Dad were abroad.
You've not been down at Hunterbury as often as I have, of
course, and she's been abroad au pair in Germany lately, but
we used to rout her out and play with her when we were all
kids."
"What's she like now?" asked Roddy.
Elinor said, "She's turned out very nice-looking. Good manners
and all that. As a result of her education, you'd never
take her for old Gerrard's daughter."
"Gone all lady-like, has she?"
"Yes. I think, as a result of that, she doesn't get on very
well at the lodge. Mrs. Gerrard died some years ago, you
know, and Mary and her father don't get on. He jeers at her
schooling and her "fine ways.' "
Roddy said irritably, "People never dream what harm they
may do by 'educating' someone! Often it's cruelty, not
kindness!"
Elinor said, "I suppose she is up at the house a good deal.
She reads aloud to Aunt Laura, I know, since she had her
stroke."
Roddy said, "Why can't the nurse read to her?"
Elinor said with a smile, "Nurse O'Brien's got a brogue you
can cut with a knife! I don't wonder Aunt Laura prefers
Mary."
sad cypress
Roddy walked rapidly and nervously up and down the
room for a minute or two. Then he said, "You know, Elinor, I
believe^we ought to go down."
Elinor said with a slight recoil, "Because of this—?"
"No, no—not at all. Oh, damn it all, one must be honest,
yes! Foul as that communication is, there may be some truth
behind it. I mean, the old girl is pretty ill—"
"Yes, Roddy."
He looked at her with his charming smile—admitting the
fallibility of human nature. He said, "And the money does
matter—to you and me, Elinor."
She admitted it quickly: "Oh, it does."
He said seriously, "It's not that I'm mercenary. But, after
all, Aunt Laura herself has said over and over again that you
and I are her only family ties. You're her own niece, her
brother's child, and I'm her husband's nephew. She's always
given us to understand that at her death all she's got would
come to one or the other—or more probably both—of us.
And—it's a pretty large sum, Elinor."
"Yes," said Elinor thoughtfully. "It must be."
"It's no joke keeping up Hunterbury." He paused. "Uncle
Henry was what you'd call, I suppose, comfortably off when
he met your Aunt Laura. But she was an heiress. She and
your father were both left very wealthy. Pity your father
speculated and lost most of his."
Elinor sighed. "Poor father never had much business sense.
He got very worried over things before he died."
"Yes, your Aunt Laura had a much better head than he
had. She married Uncle Henry and they bought Hunterbury,
and she told me the other day that she'd been exceedingly
lucky always in her investments. Practically nothing had
slumped."
"Uncle Henry left all he had to her when he died, didn't
he?"
Roddy nodded. "Yes, tragic his dying so soon. And she's
never married again. Faithful old bean. And she's always
been very good to us. She's treated me as if I were her
agatha christie
nephew by blood. If I've been in a hole she's helped me out;
luckily I haven't done that too often!"
"She's been awfully generous to me, too," said Elinor
gratefully.
Roddy nodded. "Aunt Laura," he said, "is a brick. But, you
know, Elinor, perhaps without meaning to do so, you and I
live pretty extravagantly, considering what our means really
are!"
She said ruefully, "I suppose, we do. Everything costs so
much--clothes and one's face--and just silly things like movies
and cocktails--and even gramophone records!"
Roddy said, "Darling, you are one of the lilies of the field,
aren't you? You toil not, neither do you spin!"
Elinor said, "Do you think I ought to, Roddy?"
He shook his head. "I like you as you are: delicate and aloof
and ironical. I'd hate you to go all earnest. I'm only saying
that if it weren't for Aunt Laura you probably would be
working at some grim job."
He went on: "The same with me. I've got a job, of sorts.
Being with Lewis & Hume is not too arduous. It suits me. I
preserve my self-respect by having a job; but--mark this--
but I don't worry about the future because of my expectations--
from Aunt Laura."
Elinor said, "We sound rather like human leeches!"
"Nonsense! We've been given to understand that some day
we shall have money--that's all. Naturally that fact influences
our conduct."
Elinor said thoughtfully, "Aunt Laura has never told us
definitely just how she has left her money?"
Roddy said, "That doesn't matter! In all probability she's
divided it between us; but if that isn't so--if she's left all of it
or most of it to you as her own flesh and blood--why, then,
darling, I shall still share in it, because I'm going to marry you--and if the old pet thinks the majority should go to me as
the male represent? tive of the Welmans, that's still all right,
because you're marrying me."
sad cypress
He grinned at her affectionately. He said, "Lucky we happen
to love each other. You do love me, don't you, Elinor?"
"Yes."" She said it coldly, almost primly.
"Yes!" Roddy mimicked her. "You're adorable, Elinor. That
little air of yours--aloof--untouchable--la Princesse Lointaine. It's that quality of yours that made me love you, I believe."
Elinor caught her breath. She said, "Is it?"
"Yes." He frowned. "Some women are so--oh, I don't
know--so damned possessive--so--so dog-like and devoted--
their emotions slopping all over the place! I'd hate that. With
you I never know--I'm never sure--any minute you might
turn around in that cool, detached way of yours and say you'd
changed your mind--quite coolly, like that--without batting
an eyelash! You're a fascinating creature, Elinor. You're like a
work of art, so--so finished'."
He went on: "You know, I think ours will be the perfect
marriage: We both love each other enough and not too much.
We're good friends. We've got a lot of tastes in common. We
know each other through and through. We've all the advantages
of cousinship without the disadvantages of blood
relationship. I shall never get tired of you, because you're
such an elusive creature. yom may get tired of me, though, I'm
such an ordinary sort of chap--"
Elinor shook her head. She said, "I shan't get tired of you,
Roddy--ever."
"My sweet!"
He kissed her.
He said, "Aunt Laura has a pretty shrewd idea of how it is
with us, I think, although we haven't been down since we
finally fixed it up. It rather gives us an excuse, doesn't it, for
going down?"
"Yes. I was thinking the other day--"
Roddy finished the sentence for her: "--that we hadn't
been down as often as we might. I thought that, too. When she
first had her stroke we went down almost every other weekend.
And now it must be almost two months since we were
there."
agatha christie
Elinor said, "We'd have gone if she'd asked for us—at
once."
"Yes, of course. And we know that she likes Nurse O'Brien
and is well looked after. All the same, perhaps, we have been
a bit slack. I'm talking now not from the money point of
view—but the sheer human one."
Elinor nodded. "I know."
"So that filthy letter has done some good, after all! We'll go
down to protect our interests and because we're fond of the
old dear!"
He lit a match and set fire to the letter which he took from
Elinor's hand.
"Wonder who wrote it?" he said. "Not that it matters. . . .
Someone who was 'on our side,' as we used to say when we
were kids. Perhaps they've done us a good turn, too. Jim
Partington's mother went out to the Riviera to live, had a
handsome young Italian doctor to attend her, became quite
crazy about him and left him every penny she had. Jim and
his sisters tried to upset the will, but couldn't."
Elinor said, "Aunt Laura likes the new doctor who's taken
over Dr. Ransome's practice—but not to that extent! Anyway,
that horrid letter mentioned a girl. It must be Mary."
Roddy said, "We'll go down and see for ourselves."
Nurse O'Brien rustled out of Mrs. Welman's bedroom and
into the bathroom. She said over her shoulder, "I'll just pop
the kettle on. You could do with a cup of tea before you go on,
I'm sure, Nurse."
Nurse Hopkins said comfortably, "Well, dear, I can always do
with a cup of tea. I always say there's nothing like a nice cup
of tea—a strong cup!"
Nurse O'Brien said as she filled the kettle and lit the
gas-ring, "I've got everything here in this cupboard—teapot
and cups and sugar—and Edna brings me up fresh milk twice
a day. No need to be forever ringing bells. Tis a fine gas-ring,
this; boils a kettle in a flash."
Nurse O'Brien was a tall red-haired woman of thirty with
10
sad cypress
flashing white teeth, a freckled face and an engaging smile.
Her cheerfulness and vitality made her a favorite with her
patients. Nurse Hopkins, the District Nurse who came every
morning to assist with the bedmaking and toilet of the heavy
old lady, was a homely-looking middle-aged woman with a
capable air and a brisk manner.
She said now approvingly, "Everything's very well done in
this house."
The other nodded. "Yes, old-fashioned, some of it, no
central heating, but plenty of fires and all the maids are very
obliging girls and Mrs. Bishop looks after them well."
Nurse Hopkins said, "These girls nowadays--I've no patience
with 'em--don't know what they want, most of them--
and can't do a decent day's work."
"Mary Gerrard's a nice girl," said Nurse O'Brien. "I really
don't know what Mrs. Welman would do without her. You
saw how she asked for her now? Ah, well, she's a lovely
creature, I will say, and she's got a way with her."
Nurse Hopkins said, "I'm sorry for Mary. That old father of
hers does his best to spite the girl."
"Not a civil word in his head, the old curmudgeon," said
Nurse O'Brien. "There, the kettle's singing. I'll wet the tea as
soon as it comes to the boil."
The tea was made and poured, hot and strong. The two
nurses sat with it in Nurse O'Brien's room next door to Mrs.
Welman's bedroom.
"Mr. Welman and Miss Carlisle are coming down," said
Nurse O'Brien. "There was a telegram came this morning."
"There, now, dear," said Nurse Hopkins. "I thought the old
lady was looking excited about something. It's some time
since they've been down, isn't it?"
"It must be two months and over. Such a nice young
gentleman, Mr. Welman. But very proud-looking."
Nurse Hopkins said, "I saw her picture in the Toiler the
other day--with a friend at Newmarket."
Nurse O'Brien said, "She's very well known in society,
11
agatha christie
isn't she? And always has such lovely clothes. Do you think
she's really good-looking, Nurse?"
Nurse Hopkins said, "Difficult to tell what these girls really
look like under their make-up! In my opinion, she hasn't
got anything like the looks Mary Gerrard has!"
Nurse O'Brien pursed her lips and put her head on one
side. "You may be right now. But Mary hasn't got the style\"
Nurse Hopkins said sententiously, "Fine feathers make fine
birds."
"Another cup of tea, Nurse?"
"Thank you, Nurse. I don't mind if I do."
Over their steaming cups the women drew a little closer
together. Nurse O'Brien said, "An odd thing happened last
night. I went in at two o'clock to settle my dear comfortably,
as I always do, and she was lying there awake. But she must
have been dreaming, for as soon as I got into the room she
said, "The photograph. I must have the photograph.'
"So I said, 'Why, of course, Mrs. Welman. But wouldn't you
rather wait till morning?' And she said, 'No. I want to look at
it now.' So I said, 'Well, where is this photograph? Is it the
one of Mr. Roderick you're meaning?' And she said, 'Roderick?
No. Lewis.' And she began to struggle, and I went to lift
her and she got out her keys from the little box beside her bed
and told me to unlock the second drawer of the tallboy, and
there, sure enough, was a big photograph in a silver frame. Such a handsome man. And 'Lewis' written across the corner.
Old-fashioned, of course, must have been taken years ago. I
took it to her and she held it there, staring at it a long time.
And she just murmured, 'Lewis--Lewis.' Then she sighed and
gave it to me and told me to put it back. And, would you
believe it, when I turned round again she'd gone off as sweetly
as a child."
Nurse Hopkins said, "Was it her husband, do you think?"
Nurse O'Brien said, "It was not! For this morning I asked
Mrs. Bishop, careless-like, what was the late Mr. Welman's
first name, and it was Henry, she told me!"
The two women exchanged glances. Nurse Hopkins had a
12
sad cypress
long npse, and the end of it quivered a little with pleasurable
emotion. She said thoughtfully, "Lewis—Lewis. I wonder,
now. I don't recall the name anywhere round these parts."
"It would be many years ago, dear," the other reminded
her.
"Yes, and, of course, I've only been here a couple of years. I
wonder, now—"
Nurse O'Brien said, "A very handsome man. Looked as
though he might be a cavalry officer!"
Nurse Hopkins sipped her tea. She said, "That's very
interesting."
Nurse O'Brien said romantically, "Maybe they were boy
and girl together and a cruel father separated them."
Nurse Hopkins said with a deep sigh, "Perhaps he was
killed in the war."
When Nurse Hopkins, pleasantly stimulated by tea and
romantic speculation, finally left the house, Mary Gerrard
ran out of the door to overtake her.
"Oh, Nurse, may I walk down to the village with you?"
"Of course you can, Mary, my dear."
Mary Gerrard said breathlessly, "I must talk to you. I'm so
worried about everything."
The older woman looked at her kindly.
At twenty-one Mary Gerrard was a lovely creature with a
kind of wild-rose unreality about her; a long delicate neck,
pale golden hair lying close to her exquisitely shaped head in
soft natural waves, and eyes of a deep, vivid blue.
Nurse Hopkins said, "What's the trouble?"
"The trouble is that the time is going on and on and I'm not
doing anything!"
Nurse Hopkins said dryly, "Time enough for that."
"No, but it is so—so unsettling. Mrs. Welman has been
wonderfully kind, giving me all that expensive schooling. I do
feel now that I ought to be starting to earn my own living. I
ought to be training for something."
Nurse Hopkins nodded sympathetically.
13
agatha CHRISTIE
"It's such a waste of everything if I don't. I've tried to—to—
explain what I feel to Mrs. Welman, but—it's difficult—she
doesn't seem to understand. She keeps saying there's plenty
of time."
Nurse Hopkins said, "She's a sick woman, remember."
Mary flushed, a contrite flush. "Oh, I know. I suppose I
oughtn't to bother her. But it is worrying—and Father's so—so
beastly about it! Keeps jibing me for being a fine lady! But
indeed I don't want to sit about doing nothing!"
"I know you don't."
"The trouble is that training of any kind is nearly always
expensive. I know German pretty well now, and I might do
something with that. But I think really I want to be a hospital
nurse. I do like nursing and sick people."
Nurse Hopkins said unromantically, "You've got to be as
strong as a horse, remember!"
"I am strong! And I really do like nursing. Mother's sister,
the one in New Zealand, was a nurse. So it's in my blood, you
see."
"What about massage?" suggested Nurse Hopkins. "Or
Norland? You're fond of children. There's good money to be
made in massage."
Mary said doubtfully, "It's expensive to train for it, isn't
it? I hoped—but of course that's very greedy of me—she's
done so much for me already."
"Mrs. Welman, you mean? Nonsense. In my opinion, she
owes you that. She's given you a slap-up education, but not
the kind that leads to anything much. You don't want to
teach?"
"I'm not clever enough."
Nurse Hopkins said, "There's brains and brains! If you
take my advice, Mary, you'll be patient for the present. In my
opinion, as I said, Mrs. Welman owes it to you to help you get
a start at making your living. And I've no doubt she means to
do it. But the truth of the matter is, she's got fond of you, and
she doesn't want to lose you."
14
sad cypress
Mary said, "Oh!" She drew in her breath with a little gasp.
"Do you really think that's it?"
"I haven't the least doubt of it! There she is, poor old lady,
more or less helpless, paralyzed one side and nothing and
nobody much to amuse her. It means a lot to her to have a
fresh, pretty young thing like you about the house. You've a
very nice way with you in a sickroom."
Mary said softly, "If you really think so--that makes me
feel better. .. . Dear Mrs. Welman, I'm very, very fond of
her! She's been so good to me always. I'd do anything for
her!"
Nurse Hopkins said dryly, "Then the best thing you can do
is to stay where you are and stop worrying! It won't be for
long."
Mary said, "Do you mean--?"
Her eyes looked wide and frightened.
The District Nurse nodded. "She's rallied wonderfully, but
it won't be for long. There will be a second stroke and then a
third. I know the way of it only too well. You be patient, my
dear. If you keep the old lady's last days happy and occupied,
that's a better deed than many. The time for the other will
come."
Mary said, "You're very kind."
Nurse Hopkins said, "Here's your father coming out from
the lodge--and not to pass the time of day pleasantly, I should
say!"
They were just nearing the big iron gates. On the steps of
the lodge an elderly man with a bent back was painfully
hobbling down the two steps.
Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully, "Good morning, Mr. Gerrard."

Ephraim Gerrard said crustily, "Ah!"
"Very nice weather," said Nurse Hopkins.
Old Gerrard said crossly, "May be for you. 'Tisn't for me.
My lumbago's been at me something cruel."
Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully, "That was the wet spell
15
agatha christie
last week, I expect. This hot dry weather will soon clear that away."
Her brisk professional manner appeared to annoy the old
man.
He said disagreeably, "Nurses--nurses, you're all the same.
Full of cheerfulness over other people's troubles. Little you care! And there's Mary talks about being a nurse, too. Should
have thought she'd want to be something better than that, with her French and her German and her piano-playing and
all the things she's learned at her grand school and her travels
abroad."
Mary said sharply, "Being a hospital nurse would be quite
good enough for me!"
"Yes, and you'd sooner do nothing at all, wouldn't you?
Strutting about with your airs and your graces and your
fine-lady-do-nothing ways. Laziness, that's what you like, my
girl!"
Mary protested, tears springing to her eyes, "It isn't true,
Dad. You've no right to say that!"
Nurse Hopkins intervened with a heavy, determinedly humorous
air.
"Just a bit under the weather, aren't we, this morning? You
don't really mean what you say, Gerrard. Mary's a good girl
and a good daughter to you."
Gerrard looked at his daughter with an air of almost active
malevolence. "She's no daughter of mine--nowadays--with
her French and her history and her mincing talk. Pah!"
He turned and went into the lodge again.
Mary said, the tears still standing in her eyes, "You do see,
Nurse, don't you, how difficult it is? He's so unreasonable.
He's never really liked me even when I was a little girl. Mum
was always standing up for me."
Nurse Hopkins said kindly, "There, there, don't worry.
These things are sent to try us! Goodness, I must hurry. Such
a round as I've got this morning."
And as she stood watching the brisk retreating figure, Mary
16
«k
sad cypress
Gerrard thought forlornly that nobody was any real good or
could really help you. Nurse Hopkins, for all her kindness,
was quite content to bring out a little stock of platitudes and
offer them with an air of novelty.
Mary thought disconsolately, "What SHALL I do?"
17
chapter II
Mi
1VJ.RS. Welman lay on her carefully built-up pillows. Her
breathing was a little heavy, but she was not asleep. Her
eyes—eyes still deep and blue like those of her niece Elinor,
looked up at the ceiling. She was a big, heavy woman, with a
handsome, hawk-like profile. Pride and determination showed
in her face.
The eyes dropped and came to rest on the figure sitting by
the window. They rested there tenderly—almost wistfully.
She said at last, "Mary—"
The girl turned quickly. "Oh, you're awake, Mrs. Welman."
Laura Welman said, "Yes, I've been awake some time."
"Oh, I didn't know. I'd have—"
Mrs. Welman broke in, "No, that's all right. I was thinking—
thinking of many things."
"Yes, Mrs. Welman?"
The sympathetic look, the interested voice, made a tender
look come into the older woman's face. She said gently, "I'm
very fond of you, my dear. You're very good to me."
"Oh, Mrs. Welman, it's you who have been good to me. If it
hadn't been for you, I don't know what I should have done!
You've done everything for me."
"I don't know—I don't know, I'm sure." The sick woman
moved restlessly, her right arm twitched—the left remaining
inert and lifeless. "One means to do the best one can, but it's
18
sad cypress
so difficult to know what is best--what is right. I've been too
sure of rflyself always."
Mary Gerrard said, "Oh, no, I'm sure you always know
what is best and right to do."
But Laura Welman shook her head. "No--no. It worries me.
I've had one besetting sin always, Mary: I'm proud. Pride can be the devil. It runs in our family. Elinor has it, too."
Mary said quickly, "It will be nice for you to have Miss
Elinor and Mr. Roderick down. It will cheer you up a lot. It's
quite a time since they were here."
Mrs. Welman said softly, "They're good children--very good
children. And fond of me, both of them. I always know I've
only got to send and they'll come at any time. But I don't
want to do that too often. They're young and happy--the
world in front of them. No need to bring them near decay and
suffering before their time."
Mary said, "I'm sure they'd never feel like that, Mrs.
Welman."
Mrs. Welman went on, talking perhaps more to herself than
to the girl: "I always hoped they might marry. But I tried
never to suggest anything of the kind. Young people are so
contradictory. It would have put them off! I had an idea, long
ago, when they were children, that Elinor had set her heart
on Roddy. But I wasn't at all sure about him. He's a funny
creature. Henry was like that--very reserved and fastidious....
Yes, Henry. . . ."
She was silent for a little, thinking of her dead husband.
She murmured, "So long ago--so very long ago. . . . We had
only been married five years when he died. Double pneumonia
. . . We were happy--yes, very happy; but somehow it all
seems very unreal, that happiness. I was an odd, solemn,
undeveloped girl--my head full of ideals and hero-worship.
No reality."
Mary murmured, "You must have been very lonely--afterward."
"After?
Oh, yes--terribly lonely. I was twenty-six--and
19
agatha CHRISTIE
now I'm over sixty. A long time, my dear--a long, long time."
She said with sudden brisk acerbity, "And now thisi"
"Your illness?"
"Yes. A stroke is the thing I've always dreaded. The indignity
of it all! Washed and tended like a baby! Helpless to do
anything for myself. It maddens me. The O'Brien creature is
good-natured--I will say that for her. She doesn't mind my
snapping at her and she's not more idiotic than most of them.
But it makes a lot of difference to me to have you about,
Mary."
"Does it?" The girl flushed. "I--I'm so glad, Mrs. Welman."
Laura Welman said shrewdly, "You've been worrying, haven't
you? About the future. You leave it to me, my dear. I'll see to
it that you shall have the means to be independent and take
up a profession. But be patient for a little--it means too much
to me to have you here."
"Oh, Mrs. Welman, of course--of course! I wouldn't leave
you for the world. Not if you want me--"
"I do want you." The voice was unusually deep and full.
"You're--you're quite like a daughter to me, Mary. I've seen
you grow up here at Hunterbury from a little toddling thing--
have seen you grow into a beautiful girl. I'm proud of you,
child. I only hope I've done what was best for you."
Mary said quickly, "If you mean that your having been so
good to me and having educated me above--well, above my
station--if you think it's made me dissatisfied or--or--given
me what Father calls fine-lady ideas, indeed that isn't true.
I'm just ever so grateful, that's all. And if I'm anxious to start
earning my living, it's only because I feel it's right that I
should, and not--and not--well, do nothing after all you've
done for me. I--I shouldn't like it to be thought that I was
sponging on you."
Laura Welman said, and her voice was suddenly sharpedged,
"So that's what Gerrard's been putting into your head?
Pay no attention to your father, Mary; there never has been
and never will be any question of your sponging on me! I'm
asking you to stay here a little longer solely on my account.
20
sad cypress
Soon it will be over. ... If they went the proper way about
things, my life could be ended here and now—none of this
long-drawn-out tomfoolery with nurses and doctors."
"Oh, no, Mrs. Welman, Dr. Lord says you may live for
years."
"I'm not at all anxious to, thank you! I told him the other
day that in a decently civilized state all there would be to do
would be for me to intimate to him that I wished to end it,
and he'd finish me off painlessly with some nice drug. 'And if
you'd any courage, Doctor,' I said, 'you'd do it anyway!' "
Mary cried, "Oh! What did he say?"
"The disrespectful young man merely grinned at me, my
dear, and said he wasn't going to risk being hanged. He said,
'If you'd left me all your money, Mrs. Welman, that would be
different, of course!' Impudent young jackanapes! But I like
him. His visits do me more good than his medicines."
"Yes, he's very nice," said Mary. "Nurse O'Brien thinks a
lot of him and so does Nurse Hopkins."
Mrs. Welman said, "Hopkins ought to have more sense at
her age. As for O'Brien, she simpers and says, 'Oh, Doctor,'
and tosses those long streamers of hers whenever he comes
near her."
"Poor Nurse O'Brien."
Mrs. Welman said indulgently, "She's not a bad sort, really,
but all nurses annoy me; they always will think that you'd
like 'a nice cup of tea' at five in the morning!" She paused.
"What's that? Is it the car?"
Mary looked out of the window.
"Yes, it's the car. Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick have
arrived."
Mrs. Welman said to her niece, "I'm very glad, Elinor,
about you and Roddy."
Elinor smiled at her. "I thought you would be, Aunt Laura."
The older woman said, after a moment's hesitation, "You
do—care about him, Elinor?"
Elinor's delicate brows lifted. "Of course."
21
agatha christie
Laura Welman said quickly, "You must forgive me, dear.
You know, you're very reserved. It's very difficult to know
what you're thinking or feeling. When you were both much
younger I thought you were perhaps beginning to care for
Roddy--too much."
Again Elinor's delicate brows were raised. "Too much?"
The older woman nodded. "Yes. It's not wise to care too
much. Sometimes a very young girl does do just that. ... I
was glad when you went abroad to Germany to finish. Then,
when you came back, you seemed quite indifferent to him--
and, well, I was sorry for that, too! I'm a tiresome old woman,
difficult to satisfy! But I've always fancied that you had,
perhaps, rather an intense nature--that kind of temperament
runs in our family. It isn't a very happy one for its possessors
.... But, as I say, when you came back from abroad so indifferent
to Roddy, I was sorry about that, because I had always
hoped you two would come together. And now you have, and
so everything is all right! And you do really care for him?"
Elinor said gravely, "I care for Roddy enough and not too
much."
Mrs. Welman nodded approval. "I think, then, you'll be
happy. Roddy needs love--but he doesn't like violent emotion.
He'd shy off from possessiveness."
Elinor said with feeling, "You know Roddy very well!"
Mrs. Welman said, "If Roddy cares for you just a little more
than you care for him--well, that's all to the good."
Elinor said sharply, "Aunt Agatha's Advice Column. 'Keep
your boy friend guessing! Don't let him be too sure of you!' "
Laura Welman said sharply, "Are you unhappy, child? Is
anything wrong?"
"No, no, nothing."
Laura Welman said, "You just thought I was being rather--
cheap? My dear, you're young and sensitive. Life, I'm afraid,
is rather cheap."
Elinor said with some slight bitterness, "I suppose it is."
Laura Welman said, "My child--you are unhappy? What is
it?"
22
sad CYPRESS
"Nothing--absolutely nothing." She got up and went to the
window. Half turning, she said, "Aunt Laura, tell me, honestly,
do you think love is ever a happy thing?"
Mrs. Welman's face became grave. "In the sense you mean,
Elinor--no, probably not. To care passionately for another
human creature brings always more sorrow than joy; but all
the same, Elinor, one would not be without that experience.
Anyone who has never really loved has never really lived."
The girl nodded. She said, "Yes--you understand--you've
known what it's like--"
She turned suddenly, a questioning look in her eyes. "Aunt
Laura--"
The door opened and red-haired Nurse O'Brien came in.
She said in a sprightly manner, "Mrs. Welman, here's Doctor
come to see you."
Dr. Lord was a young man of 32. He had sandy hair, a
pleasantly ugly freckled face and a remarkably square jaw.
His eyes were a keen, piercing light blue.
"Good morning, Mrs. Welman," he said.
"Good morning, Dr. Lord. This is my niece. Miss Carlisle."
A very obvious admiration sprang into Dr. Lord's transparent
face. He said, "How do you do?" The hand that Elinor
extended to him he took rather gingerly as though he thought
he might break it.
Mrs. Welman went on: "Elinor and my nephew have come
to cheer me up."
"Splendid!" said Dr. Lord, "Just what you need! It will do
you a lot of good, I am sure, Mrs. Welman."
He was still looking at Elinor with obvious admiration.
Elinor said, moving toward the door, "Perhaps I shall see
you before you go, Dr. Lord?"
"Oh--er--yes, of course."
She went out, shutting the door behind her. Dr. Lord approached
the bed, Nurse O'Brien fluttering behind him.
Mrs. Welman said with a twinkle, "Going through the usual
bag of tricks, Doctor: pulse, respiration, temperature? What
humbugs you doctors are!"
23
AGATHA christie
Nurse O'Brien said with a sigh, "Oh, Mrs. Welman. What a
thing, now, to be saying to the doctor!"
Dr. Lord said with a twinkle, "Mrs. Welman sees through
me, Nurse! All the same, Mrs. Welman, I've got to do my
stuff, you know. The trouble with me is I've never learned
the right bedside manner."
"Your bedside manner's all right. Actually you're rather
proud of it."
Peter Lord chuckled and remarked, "That's what you say!"
After a few routine questions had been asked and answered,
Dr. Lord leaned back in his chair and smiled at his patient.
"Well," he said, "you're going on splendidly."
Laura Welman said, "So I shall be up and walking round
the house in a few weeks' time?"
"Not quite so quickly as that."
"No, indeed. You humbug! What's the good of living
stretched out like this, and cared for like a baby?"
Dr. Lord said, "What's the good of life, anyway? That's the
real question. Ever read about that nice medieval invention,
the Little Ease? You couldn't stand, sit, or lie in it. You'd
think anyone condemned to that would die in a few weeks.
Not at all. One man lived for sixteen years in an iron cage,
was released, and lived to a hearty old age."
Laura Welman said, "What's the point of this story?"
Peter Lord said, "The point is that one's got an instinct to
live. One doesn't live because one's reason assents to living.
People who, as we say, 'would be better dead' don't want to
die! People who apparently have got everything to live for
just let themselves fade out of life because they haven't got
the energy to fight."
"Go on."
"There's nothing more. You're one of the people who really
wants to live, whatever you say about it! And if your body
wants to live, it's no good your brain dishing out the other
stuff."
Mrs. Welman said with an abrupt change of subject, "How
do you like it down here?"
24
sad cypress
Peter Lord said, smiling, "It suits me fine."
"Isn't it a bit irksome for a young man like you? Don't you
want to specialize? Don't you find a country G.P. practice
rather boring?"
Lord shook his sandy head.
"No, I like my job. I like people, you know, and I like
ordinary everyday diseases. I don't really want to pin down
the rare bacillus of an obscure disease. I like measles and
chicken pox and all the rest of it. I like seeing how different
bodies react to them. I like seeing if I can't improve on
recognized treatment. The trouble with me is I've got absolutely
no ambition. I shall stay here till I grow side-whiskers
and people begin saying, 'Of course, we've always had Dr.
Lord, and he's a nice old man; but he ;s very old-fashioned in
his methods and perhaps we'd better call in young so-and-so,
who's very up to date.' "
"H'm," said Mrs. Welman. "You seem to have got it all
taped out!"
Peter Lord got up. "Well," he said, "I must be off,"
Mrs. Welman said, "My niece will want to speak to you, I
expect. By the way, what do you think of her? You haven't
seen her before."
Dr. Lord went suddenly scarlet. His very eyebrows blushed.
He said, "I--oh! she's very good-looking, isn't she? And--er--
clever and all that, I should think."
Mrs. Welman was diverted. She thought to herself, How
very young he is, really. Aloud she said, "You ought to get
married."
Roddy had wandered into the garden. He had crossed the
broad sweep of lawn and gone along a paved walk and had
then entered the walled kitchen-garden. It was well-kept and
well-stocked. He wondered if he and Elinor would live at
Hunterbury one day. He supposed that they would. He himself
would like that. He preferred country life. He was a little
doubtful about Elinor. Perhaps she'd like living in London
better.
25
AGATHA christie
A little difficult to know where you were with Elinor. She
didn't reveal much of what she thought and felt about things.
He liked that about her. He hated people who reeled off their
thoughts and feelings to you, who took it for granted that you
wanted to know all their inner mechanism. Reserve was
always more interesting.
Elinor, he thought judicially, was really quite perfect. Nothing
about her ever jarred or offended. She was delightful to look
at, witty to talk to--altogether the most charming of companions,

He thought complacently to himself, I'm damned lucky to
have got her. Can't think what she sees in a chap like me.
For Roderick Welman. in spite of his fastidiousness, was
not conceited. It did honestly strike him as strange that
Elinor should have consented to marry him.
Life stretched ahead of him pleasantly enough. One knew
pretty well where one was; that was always a blessing. He
supposed that Elinor and he would be married quite soon--
that is, if Elinor wanted to; perhaps she'd rather put it off for
a bit. He mustn't rush her. They'd be a bit hard-up at first.
Nothing to worry about, though. He hoped sincerely that
Aunt Laura wouldn't die for a long time to come. She was a
dear and had always been nice to him, having him there for
holidays, always interested in what he was doing.
His mind shied away from the thought of her actual death
(his mind usually did shy away from any concrete unpleasantness).
He didn't like to visualize anything unpleasant too
clearly. But--er--afterward--well, it would be very pleasant
to live here, especially as there would be plenty of money to
keep it up. He wondered exactly how his aunt had left it. Not
that it really mattered. With some women it would matter a
good deal whether husband or wife had the money. But not
with Elinor. She had plenty of tact and she didn't care enough
about money to make too much of it.
He thought, No, there's nothing to worry about--whatever
happens1.
He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end.
26
k.
sad cypress
From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils
were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the
green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering
through the trees.
Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to him--a
rippling of his previous placidity. He felt, There's something--
something I haven't got--something I want--1 want--I want. . . .
The golden green light, the softness in the air--with them
came a quickened pulse, a stirring of the blood, a sudden
impatience.
A girl came through the trees toward him--a girl with pale,
gleaming hair and a rose-flushed skin.
He thought. How beautiful--how unutterably beautiful.
Something gripped him; he stood quite still, as though
frozen into immobility. The world, he felt, was spinning, was
topsy-turvy, was suddenly and impossibly and gloriously crazy!
The girl stopped suddenly, then she came on. She came up
to him where he stood, dumb and absurdly fish-like, his
mouth open.
She said, with a little hesitation, "Don't you remember me,
Mr. Roderick? It's a long time, of course. I'm Mary Gerrard,
from the lodge."
Roddy said, "Oh--oh--you're Mary Gerrard?"
She said. "Yes."
Then she went on rather shyly: "I've changed, of course,
since you saw me."
He said, "Yes, you've changed. I--I wouldn't have recognized
you."
He stood staring at her. He did not hear footsteps behind
him. Mary did and turned.
Elinor stood motionless a minute. Then she said, "Hallo,
Mary."
Mary said, "How do you do. Miss Elinor? It's nice to see
you. Mrs. Welman has been looking forward to you coming
down."
Elinor said, "Yes--it's a long time. I--Nurse O'Brien sent
27
AGATHA christie
me to look for you. She wants to lift Mrs. Welman up, and she
says you usually do it with her."
Mary said, "I'll go at once."
She moved off, breaking into a run. Elinor stood looking
after her. Mary ran well, grace in every movement.
Roddy said softly, "Atalanta."
Elinor did not answer. She stood quite still for a minute or
two. Then she said, "It's nearly lunch-time. We'd better go
back."
They walked side by side toward the house.
"Oh! Come on, Mary. It's a grand film--all about Paris.
And a story by a tiptop author. There was an opera of it
once."
"It's frightfully nice of you, Ted, but I really won't."
Ted Bigland said angrily, "I can't make you out nowadays,
Mary. You're different--altogether different."
"No, I'm not, Ted."
"You are! I suppose because you've been away to that grand
school and to Germany. You're too good for us now."
"It's not true, Ted. I'm not like that." She spoke vehemently.
The young man, a fine, sturdy specimen, looked at her
appraisingly in spite of his anger. "Yes, you are. You're almost
a lady, Mary."
Mary said with sudden bitterness, "Almost isn't much good,
is it?"
He said with sudden understanding, "No, I reckon it isn't."
Mary said quickly, "Anyway, who cares about that sort of
thing nowadays? Ladies and gentlemen, and all that!"
"It doesn't matter like it did--no," Ted assented, but
thoughtfully. "All the same, there's a feeling. Lord, Mary, you look like a countess or something."
Mary said, "That's not saying much. I've seen countesses
looking like old-clothes women!"
"Well, you know what I mean."
A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed
28
sad cypress
in black^bore down upon them. Her eyes gave them a sharp
glance.
Ted moved aside a step or two. He said, "Afternoon, Mrs.
Bishop."
Mrs. Bishop inclined her head graciously. "Good afternoon,
Ted Bigland. Good afternoon, Mary." She passed on, a ship in
full sail.
Ted looked respectfully after her.
Mary murmured, "Now, she really is like a duchess!"
"Yes—she's got a manner. Always makes me feel hot inside
my collar."
Mary said slowly, "She doesn't like me."
"Nonsense, my girl."
"It's true. She doesn't. She's always saying sharp things to
me."
"Jealous," said Ted, nodding his head sapiently. "That's all
it is."
Mary said doubtfully, "I suppose it might be that."
"That's it, depend upon it. She's been housekeeper at
Hunterbury for years, ruling the roost and ordering everyone
about, and now old Mrs. Welman takes a fancy to you, and it
puts her out! That's all it is."
Mary said, a shade of trouble on her forehead, "It's silly of
me, but I can't bear it when anyone doesn't like me. I want
people to like me."
"Sure to be women who don't like you, Mary! Jealous cats
who think you're too good-looking!"
Mary said, "I think jealousy's horrible."
Ted said slowly, "Maybe—but it exists all right. Say, I saw a
lovely film over at Alledore last week. Clark Gable. All about
one of these millionaire blokes who neglected his wife, and
then she pretended she'd done the dirty on him. And there
was another fellow—"
Mary moved away. She said, "Sorry, Ted, I must go. I'm
late."
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to have tea with Nurse Hopkins."
29
agatha christie
Ted made a face. "Funny taste. That woman's the biggest
gossip in the village! Pokes that long nose of hers into
everything."
Mary said, "She's been very kind to me always."
"Oh, I'm not saying there's any harm in her. But she talks."
Mary said, "Good-by, Ted."
She hurried off, leaving him standing gazing resentfully
after her.

Nurse Hopkins occupied a small cottage at the end of the
village. She herself had just come in and was untying her
bonnet strings when Mary entered.
"Ah, there you are. I'm a bit late. Old Mrs. Caldecott was
bad again. Made me late with my round of dressings. I saw
you with Ted Bigland at the end of the street."
Mary said rather dispiritedly, "Yes."
Nurse Hopkins looked up alertly from where she was stooping
to light the gas-ring under the kettle.
Her long nose twitched. "Was he saying something particular
to you, my dear?"
"No. He just asked me to go to the movies."
"if see," said Nurse Hopkins promptly. "Well, of course,
he's a nice young fellow and doesn't do too badly at the
garage, and his father does rather better than most of the
farmers round here. All the same, my dear, you don't seem to
me cut out for Ted Bigland's wife. Not with your education
and all. As I was saying, if I was you I'd go in for massage
when the time comes. You get about a bit and see people that
way, and your time's more or less your own."
Mary said, "I'll think it over. Mrs. Welman spoke to me the
other day. She was very sweet about it. It was just exactly as
you said it was. She doesn't want me to go away just now.
She'd miss me, she said. But she told me not to worry about
the future, that she meant to help me."
Nurse Hopkins said dubiously, "Let's hope she's put that
down in black and white! Sick people are odd."
30
sad CYPRESS
Mary asked, "Do you think Mrs. Bishop really dislikes
me—w is it only my fancy?"
Nurse Hopkins considered a minute. "She puts on a sour
face, I must say. She's one of those who don't like seeing
young people having a good time or anything done for them.
Thinks, perhaps, Mrs. Welman is a bit too fond of you, and
resents it."
She laughed cheerfully.
"I shouldn't worry if I was you, Mary, my dear. Just open
that paper bag, will you? There's a couple of doughnuts in
it."
31
chapter III

Y<
OUR Aunt had second stroke last night No cause immediate
anxiety but suggest you should come down if possible Lord.
Immediately on receipt of the telegram Elinor had rung up
Roddy, and now they were in the train together bound for
Hunterbury.
Elinor had not seen much of Roddy in the week that
had elapsed since their visit. On the two brief occasions
when they had met, there had been an odd kind of constraint
between them. Roddy had sent her flowers--a great
sheaf of long-stemmed roses. It was unusual on his part.
At a dinner they had had together he had seemed more
attentive than usual, consulting her preferences in food and drink, being unusually assiduous in helping her on and
off with her coat. A little, Elinor thought, as though he
were playing a part in a play--the part of the devoted
fiance.
Then she had said to herself, Don't be an idiot. Nothing's
wrong. You imagine things! It's that beastly, brooding, possessive
mind of yours.
Her manner to him had been perhaps a shade more detached,
more aloof than usual.
Now, in this sudden emergency, the constraint passed, they
talked together naturally enough.
32
sad cypress
Roddy said, "Poor old dear, and she was so well when we;
saw h^r the other day."
Elinor said, "I do mind so terribly for her. I know how she;
hated being ill, anyway, and now I suppose she'll be more;
helpless still, and she'll simply loathe that! One does feel,, Roddy, that people ought to be set free--if they themselves. really want it."
Roddy said, "I agree. It's the only civilized thing to do. You»
put animals out of their pain. I suppose you don't do it with* human beings simply because, human nature being what it is,, people would get shoved off for their money by their fondl
relations--perhaps when they weren't really bad at all."
Elinor said thoughtfully, "It would be in the doctors' hands., of course."
"A doctor might be a crook."
"You could trust a man like Dr. Lord."
Roddy said carelessly, "Yes, he seems straightforwardi
enough. Nice fellow."
Dr. Lord was leaning over the bed. Nurse O'Brien hovered! behind him. He was trying, his forehead puckered, to understand
the slurred sounds coming from his patient's mouth.
He said, "Yes, yes. . . . Now, don't get excited. Take plenty of time. Just raise this right hand a little when you mean yes- There's something you're worried about?"
He received the affirmatory sign.
"Something urgent? Yes. Something you want donef Someone
sent for? Miss Carlisle? And Mr. Welman? They're orn
their way."
Again Mrs. Welman tried incoherently to speak. Dr. Lorc9 listened attentively.
"You wanted them to come, but it's not that? Someone else??
A relation? No? Some business matter? I see. Something to
do with money? Lawyer? That's right, isn't it? You want to
see your lawyer? Want to give him instructions about some--
thing?
"Now, now--that's all right. Keep calm. Plenty of time".
33
agatha christie
What's that you'-re saying--Elinor?" He caught the garbled
name. "She knows what lawyer? And she will arrange with
him? Good. She'll be here in about half an hour. I'll tell her
what you want and I'll come up with her and we'll get it all
straight. Now, don't worry any more. Leave it all to me. I'll
see that things are arranged the way you want them to be."
He stood a moment watching her relax, then he moved
quietly away and went out on the landing. Nurse O'Brien
followed him. Nurse Hopkins was just coming up the stairs.
He nodded to her.
She said breathlessly, "Good evening, Doctor."
"Good evening, Nurse."
He went with the two of them into Nurse O'Brien's room
next door and gave them their instructions. Nurse Hopkins
would remain on overnight and take charge with Nurse
O'Brien.
"Tomorrow I'll have to get hold of a second resident nurse.
Awkward, this diphtheria epidemic over at Stamford. The nursing
homes there are working shorthanded as it is."
Then, having given his orders, which were listened to with
reverent attention (which sometimes tickled him), Dr. Lord
went downstairs, ready to receive the niece and nephew who,
his watch told him, were due to arrive any minute now.
In the hall he encountered Mary Gerrard. Her face was
pale and anxious. She asked, "Is she better?"
Dr. Lord said, "I can ensure her a peaceful night--that's
about all that can be done,"
Mary said brokenly, "It seems so cruel--so unfair--"
He nodded sympathetically enough. "Yes, it does seem like
that sometimes. I believe--"
He broke off. "That's the car."
He went out into the hall. Mary ran upstairs.
Elinor exclaimed as she came into the drawing-room, "Is
she very bad?"
Roddy was looking pale and apprehensive.
The doctor said gravely, "I'm afraid it will be rather a shock
to you. She's badly paralyzed. Her speech is almost unrecog-
34
sad cypress
nizable. By the way, she's definitely worried about something.
It's to do with sending for her lawyer. You know who he is,
Miss Carlisle?"
Elinor said quickly, "Mr. Seddon—of Bloomsbury Square.
But he wouldn't be there at this time of the evening, and I
don't know his home address."
Dr. Lord said reassuringly, "Tomorrow will be in plenty of
time. I'm anxious to set Mrs. Welman's mind at rest as soon
as possible. If you will come up with me now, Miss Carlisle, I
think together we shall be able to reassure her."
"Of course. I will come up at once."
Roddy said hopefully, "You don't want me?"
He felt faintly ashamed of himself, but he had a nervous
dread of going up to the sickroom, of seeing Aunt Laura lying
there inarticulate and helpless.
Dr. Lord reassured him promptly. "Not the least need, Mr.
Welman. Better not to have too many people in the room."
Roddy's relief showed plainly.
Dr. Lord and Elinor went upstairs. Nurse O'Brien was
with the patient.
Laura Welman, breathing deeply and stertorously, lay as
though in a stupor. Elinor stood looking down on her, shocked
by the drawn, twisted face.
Suddenly Mrs. Welman's right eyelid quivered and opened. A
faint change came over her face as she recognized Elinor. She
tried to speak.
"Elinor . .." The word would have been meaningless to
anyone who had not guessed at what she wanted to say.
Elinor said quickly, "I'm here, Aunt Laura. You're worried
about something? You want me to send for Mr. Seddon?"
Another of those hoarse, raucous sounds. Elinor guessed at
the meaning. She said, "Mary Gerrard?"
Slowly the right hand moved shakily in assent.
A long burble of sound came from the sick woman's lips.
Dr. Lord and Elinor frowned helplessly. Again and again it
came. Then Elinor got a word.
"Provision^ You want to make provision for her in your
35
agatha christie
will? You want her to have some money? I see, dear Aunt
Laura. That will be quite simple. Mr. Seddon will come
down tomorrow and everything shall be arranged exactly as
you wish."
The sufferer seemed relieved. The look of distress faded
from that appealing eye. Elinor took her hand in hers and felt
a feeble pressure from her fingers.
Mrs. Welman said with a great'effort, "You--all--you ..."
Elinor said, "Yes, yes, leave it all to me. I will see that
everything you want is done!"
She felt the pressure of the fingers again. Then it relaxed.
The eyelids drooped and closed.
Dr. Lord laid a hand on Elinor's arm and drew her gently
away out of the room. Nurse O'Brien resumed her seat near
the bed.
Outside on the landing Mary Gerrard was talking to Nurse
Hopkins. She started forward.
"Oh, Dr. Lord, can I go in to her, please?"
He nodded. "Keep quite quiet, though, and don't disturb
her."
Mary went into the sickroom.
Dr. Lord said, "Your train was late. You--" He stopped. »
Elinor had turned her head to look after Mary. Suddenly
she became aware of his abrupt silence. She turned her head
and looked at him inquiringly. He was staring at her, a startled
look in his face. The color rose in Elinor's cheeks.
She said hurriedly, "I beg your pardon. What did you say?"
Peter Lord said slowly, "What was I saying? I don't
remember. Miss Carlisle, you were splendid in there!" He
spoke warmly. "Quick to understand, reassuring, everything
you should have been."
The very faintest of sniffs came from Nurse Hopkins.
Elinor said, "Poor darling. It upset me terribly seeing her
like that."
"Of course. But you didn't show it. You must have great
self-control."
36
sad cypress
Elinor said, her lips set very straight, "I've learned not--to
show my feelings."
The doctor said slowly, "All the same, the mask's bound to
slip once in a while."
Nurse Hopkins had bustled into the bathroom. Elinor said,
raising her delicate eyebrows and looking full at him, "The
mask?"
Dr. Lord said, "The human face is, after all, nothing more
nor less than a mask."
"And underneath?"
"Underneath is the primitive man or woman."
She turned away quickly and led the way downstairs. Peter
Lord followed, puzzled and unwontedly serious.
Roddy came out into the hall to meet them. "Well?" he
asked anxiously.
Elinor said, "Poor darling. It's very sad to see her. I shouldn't
go, Roddy--till--till--she asks for you."
Roddy asked, "Did she want anything--special?"
Peter Lord said to Elinor, "I must be off now. There's
nothing more I can do for the moment. I'll look in early
tomorrow. Good-by, Miss Carlisle. Don't--don't worry too
much."
He held her hand in his for a moment or two. He had a
strangely reassuring and comforting clasp. He looked at her,
Elinor thought, rather oddly as though--as though he was
sorry for her.
As the door shut behind the doctor, Roddy repeated his
question.
Elinor said, "Aunt Laura is worried about--about certain
business matters. I managed to pacify her and told her Mr.
Seddon would certainly come down tomorrow. We must telephone
him first thing."
Roddy asked, "Does she want to make a new will?"
Elinor answered, "She didn't say so."
"What did she--?"
He stopped in the middle of the question.
Mary Gerrard was running down the stairs. She crossed
37
agatha christie
the hall and disappeared through the door to the kitchen
quarters.
Elinor said in a harsh voice, "Yes? What is it you wanted to
ask?"
Roddy said vaguely, "I—what? I've forgotten what it was."
He was staring at the door through which Mary Gerrard
had gone.
Elinor's hands closed. She could feel her long, pointed nails
biting into the flesh of her palms. She thought, I can't bear
it—I can't bear it. It's not imagination—it's true. Roddy—Roddy,
I CAN'T lose you.
And she thought, What did that man—the doctor—what did he
see in my face upstairs ? He saw something. . . . Oh, God, how
awful life is—to feel as I feel now. Say something, fool. Pull
yourself together!
Aloud she said, in her calm voice, "About meals, Roddy.
I'm not very hungry. I'll sit with Aunt Laura and the nurses
can both come down."
Roddy said in alarm, "And have dinner with we?"
Elinor said coldly, "They won't bite you!"
"But what about you? You must have something. Why
don't we dine first, and let them come down afterward?"
Elinor said, "No, the other way's better." She added wildly,
"They're so touchy, you know."
She thought, I can't sit through a meal with him—alone—
talking—behaving as usual.
She said impatiently, "Oh, do let me arrange things my
own way!"
38
chapter IV

I
T was no mere housemaid who wakened Elinor the following
morning. It was Mrs. Bishop in person, rustling in her
old-fashioned black, and weeping unashamedly.
"Oh, Miss Elinor, she's gone."
"What?"
Elinor sat up in bed.
"Your dear aunt. Mrs. Welman. My dear mistress. Passed
away in her sleep."
"Aunt Laura? Dead?"
Elinor stared. She seemed unable to take it in.
Mrs. Bishop was weeping now with more abandon. "To
think of it," she sobbed. "After all these years! Eighteen
years I've been here. But indeed it doesn't seem like it."
Elinor said slowly, "So Aunt Laura died in her sleep--quite
peacefully. What a blessing for her!"
Mrs. Bishop wept.
"So sudden. The doctor saying he'd call again this morning
and everything just as usual."
Elinor said rather sharply, "It wasn't exactly sudden. After
all, she'd been ill for some time. I'm just so thankful she's
been spared more suffering."
Mrs. Bishop said tearfully that there was indeed that to be
thankful for. She added, "Who'll tell Mr. Roderick?"
Elinor said, "I will."
39
agatha christie
She threw on a dressing-gown and went along to his door
and tapped. His voice answered, saying, "Come in."
She entered. "Aunt Laura's dead, Roddy. She died in her
sleep."
Roddy, sitting up in bed, drew a deep sigh. "Poor dear
Aunt Laura! Thank God for it, I say. I couldn't have borne to
see her go on lingering in the state she was yesterday."
Elinor said mechanically, "I didn't know you'd seen her?"
He nodded rather shamefacedly. "The truth is, Elinor, I
felt the most awful coward, because I'd funked it! I went
along there yesterday evening. The nurse, the fat one, left the
room for something—went down with a hot-water bottle, I
think—and I slipped in. She didn't know I was there, of
course. I just stood a bit and looked at her. Then, when I
heard Mrs, Gamp stumping up the stairs again, I slipped
away. But it was—pretty terrible!"
Elinor nodded. "Yes, it was."
Roddy said, "She'd have hated it like hell—every minute of
it!"
"I know."
Roddy said, "It's marvelous the way you and I always see
alike over things."
Elinor said in a low voice, "Yes, it is."
He said, "We're both feeling the same thing at this minute:
just utter thankfulness that she's out of it all."
Nurse O'Brien said, "What is it, Nurse? Can't you find
something?"
Nurse Hopkins, her face rather red, was hunting through
the little attache case that she had laid down in the hall the
preceding evening.
She grunted, "Most annoying. How I came to do such a
thing I can't imagine!"
"What is it?"
Nurse Hopkins replied not very intelligibly: "It's Eliza
Rykin—that sarcoma, you know. She's got to have double
injections—night and morning—morphine. Gave her the last
40
sad cypress
tablet in the old tube last night on my way here, and I could
swear I had the new tube in here, too."
"Look again. Those tubes are so small."
Nurse Hopkins gave a final stir to the contents of the
attache case.
"No, it's not here! I must have left it in my cupboard after
all! Really, I did think I could trust my memory better than that. I could have sworn I took it out with me!"
"You didn't leave the case anywhere, did you, on the way
here?"
"Of course not!" said Nurse Hopkins sharply.
"Oh, well, dear," said Nurse O'Brien, "it must be all rightf"
"Oh, yes! The only place I've laid my case down was here
in this hall, and nobody here would pinch anything! Just my
memory, I suppose. But it vexes me, if you understand, Nurse.
Besides, I shall have to go right home first to the other end of
the village and back again."
Nurse O'Brien said, "Hope you won't have too tiring a'day,
dear, after last night. Poor old lady. I didn't think she would
last long."
"No, nor I. I dare say Doctor will be surprised!"
Nurse O'Brien said with a tinge of disapproval, "He's always
so hopeful about his cases."
Nurse Hopkins, as she prepared to depart, said, "Ah, he's
young! He hasn't our experience."
On which gloomy pronouncement she departed.
Dr. Lord raised himself up on his toes. His sandy eyebrows
climbed right up his forehead till they nearly got merged in
his hair.
He said in surprise, "So she's conked out--eh?"
"Yes, Doctor."
On Nurse O'Brien's tongue exact details were tingling to be
uttered, but with stern discipline she waited.
Peter Lord said thoughtfully, "Conked out?"
He stood for a moment thinking, then he said sharply, "Get
me some boiling water."
41
agatha christie
Nurse O'Brien was surprised and mystified, but true to the
spirit of hospital training, hers not to reason why. If a doctor
had told her to go and get the skin of an alligator she would
have murmured automatically, "Yes, Doctor," and glided obediently
from the room to tackle the problem.
Roderick Welman said, "Do you mean to say that my aunt
died intestate--that she never made a will at all'?"
Mr. Seddon polished his eyeglasses. He said, "That seems
to be the case."
Roddy said, "But how extraordinary!"
Mr. Seddon gave a deprecating cough. "Not so extraordinary
as you might imagine. It happens oftener than you would
think. There's a kind of superstition about it. People will think they've got plenty of time. The mere fact of making a
will seems to bring the possibility of death nearer to them.
Very odd--but there it is!"
Roddy said, "Didn't you ever--er--expostulate with her on
the subject?"
Mr. Seddon replied dryly, "Frequently."
"And what did she say?"
Mr. Seddon sighed. "The usual things. That there was
plenty of time! That she didn't intend to die just yet! That
she hadn't made up her mind definitely, exactly how she
wished to dispose of her money!"
Elinor said, "But surely, after her first stroke--?"
Mr. Seddon shook his head. "Oh, no, it was worse then. She
wouldn't hear the subject mentioned!"
Roddy said, "Surely that's very odd?"
Mr. Seddon said again, "Oh, no. Naturally, her illness made
her much more nervous."
Elinor said in a puzzled voice, "But she wanted to die."
Polishing his eyeglasses, Mr. Seddon said, "Ah, my dear
Miss Elinor, the human mind is a very curious piece of
mechanism. Mrs. Welman may have thought she wanted to die,
but side by side with that feeling there ran the hope that she
would recover absolutely. And because of that hope, I think
42
sad cypress
she felt that to make a will would be unlucky. It isn't so much
that she didn't mean to make one, as that she was eternally
putting it off.
"You know," went on Mr. Seddon, suddenly addressing
Roddy in an almost personal manner, "how one puts off and
avoids a thing that is distasteful—that you don't want to
face?"
Roddy flushed. He muttered, "Yes, I—I—yes, of course. I
know what you mean."
"Exactly," said Mr. Seddon. "Mrs. Welman always meant to
make a will, but tomorrow was always a better day to make it
than today! She kept telling herself that there was plenty of
time."
Elinor said slowly, "So that's why she was so upset last
night—and in such a panic that you should be sent for."
Mr. Seddon replied, "Undoubtedly!"
Roddy said in a bewildered voice, "But what happens now?"
"To Mrs. Welman's estate?" The lawyer coughed. "Since
Mrs. Welman died intestate, all her property goes to her next
of kin—that is, to Miss Elinor Carlisle."
Elinor said slowly, "All to we?"
"The Crown takes a certain percentage," Mr. Seddon
explained.
He went into details.
He ended, "There are no settlements or trusts. Mrs.
Welman's money was hers absolutely to do with as she chose.
It passes, therefore, straight to Miss Carlisle. Er—the death
duties, I am afraid, will be somewhat heavy, but even after
their payment, the fortune will still be a considerable one,
and it is very well invested in sound, gilt-edged securities."
Elinor said, "But Roderick—"
Mr. Seddon said with a little apologetic cough, "Mr. Welman
is only Mrs. Welman's husband's nephew. There is no blood
relationship."
"Quite," said Roddy.
Elinor said slowly, "Of course, it doesn't much matter
which of us gets it, as we're going to be married."
43
agatha christie
But she did not look at Roddy.
It was Mr. Seddon's turn to say, "Quite!"
He said it rather quickly.
"But it doesn't matter, does it?" Elinor said. She spoke
almost pleadingly.
Mr. Seddon had departed.
Roddy's face twitched nervously. He said, "You ought to
have it. It's quite right you should. For heaven's sake, Elinor,
don't get it into your head that I grudge it to you. I don't want
the damned money!"
Elinor said, her voice slightly unsteady, "We did agree,
Roddy, in London that it wouldn't matter which of us it was,
as—as we were going to be married?"
He didn't answer.
She persisted, "Don't you remember saying that, Roddy?"
He said, "Yes."
He looked down at his feet. His face was white and sullen;
there was pain in the taut lines of his sensitive mouth.
Elinor said with a sudden gallant lift of the head, "It
doesn't matter—if we're going to be married. . . . But are we,
Roddy?"
He said, "Are we what?"
"Are we going to marry each other?"
"I understood that was the idea." His tone was indifferent,
with a slight edge to it. He went on: "Of course, Elinor, if
you've other ideas now—"
Elinor cried out, "Oh, Roddy, can't you be honest?"
He winced. Then he said in a low, bewildered voice, "I
don't know what's happened to me."
Elinor said in a stifled voice, "I do."
He said quickly, "Perhaps it's true that I don't, after all,
quite like the idea of living on my wife's money."
Elinor, her face white, said, "It's not that. It's something
else." She paused, then she said, "It's—Mary, isn't it?"
Roddy muttered unhappily, "I suppose so. How did you
know?"
44
sad cypress
Elinor said, her mouth twisting sideways in a crooked smile,
"It wasn't difficult. Every time you look at her—it's there in
your f»ce for anyone to read."
Suddenly his composure broke. "Oh, Elinor—I don't know
what's the matter! I think I'm going mad! It happened when I
saw her—that first day—in the wood . . . just her face—it—
it's turned everything upside down. You can't understand
that."
Elinor said, "Yes, I can. Go on."
Roddy said helplessly, "I didn't want to fall in love with
her—I was quite happy with you. Oh, Elinor, what a cad I
am, talking like this to you—"
Elinor said, "Nonsense. Go on. Tell me."
He said brokenly, "You're wonderful. Talking to you helps
frightfully. I'm so terribly fond of you, Elinor! You must
believe that. This other thing is like an enchantment! It's
upset everything: my conception of life—and my enjoyment
of things—and—all the decent, ordered, reasonable things."
Elinor said gently, "Love—isn't very reasonable."
Roddy said miserably, "No."
Elinor said, and her voice trembled a little, "Have you said
anything to her?"
Roddy said, "This morning—like a fool—I lost my head—"
Elinor said, "Yes?"
Roddy said, "Of course she—shut me up at once! She was
shocked. Because of Aunt Laura and—of you—"
Elinor drew the diamond ring off her finger. She said,
"You'd better take it back, Roddy."
Taking it, he murmured without looking at her, "Elinor,
you've no idea what a beast I feel."
Elinor said in her calm voice, "Do you think she'll marry
you?"
He shook his head. "I've no idea. Not—not for a long time. I
don't think she cares for me now; but she might come to
care."
Elinor said, "I think you're right. You must give her time.
Not see her for a bit, and then—start afresh."
45
agatha christie
"Darling Elinor! You're the best friend anyone ever had."
He took her hand suddenly and kissed it. "You know, Elinor,
I do love you—just as much as ever! Sometimes Mary seems
just like a dream. I might wake up from it—and find she
wasn't there."
Elinor said, "If Mary wasn't there—"
Roddy said with sudden feeling, "Sometimes I wish she
wasn't. . . . You and I, Elinor, belong. We do belong, don't
we?"
Slowly she bent her head.
She said, "Oh, yes—we belong."
She thought, If Mary wasn't there . . .
46
chapter V

N.
URSE Hopkins said with emotion, "It was a beautiful
funeral!"
Nurse O'Brien responded, "It was, indeed. And the flowers!
Did you ever see such beautiful flowers? A harp of white
lilies there was, and a cross of yellow roses. Beautiful!"
Nurse Hopkins sighed and helped herself to buttered teacake.
The two nurses were sitting in the Blue Tit Cafe.
Nurse Hopkins went on: "Miss Carlisle is a generous girl.
She gave me a nice present, though she'd no call to do so."
"She's a fine, generous girl," agreed Nurse O'Brien warmly.
"I do detest stinginess."
Nurse Hopkins said, "Well, it's a grand fortune she's
inherited."
Nurse O'Brien said, "I wonder--" and stopped.
Nurse Hopkins said, "Yes?" encouragingly.
" 'Twas strange the way the old lady made no will."
"It was wicked," Nurse Hopkins said sharply. "People
ought to be forced to make wills! It only leads to unpleasantness
when they don't."
"I'm wondering," said Nurse O'Brien, "if she had made a
will, how she'd have left her money?"
Nurse Hopkins said firmly, "I know one thing."
"What's that?"
"She'd have left a sum of money to Mary--Mary Gerrard."
47
AGATHA CHRISTIE
"Yes'indeed, and that's true," agreed the other. She ^dded
excitedly, .^asn't I after telling you that night of the sta^e she was ^ Poor dear, and the doctor doing his best to cair" her
down. Miss EUnor was there holding her auntie's han<^ and
swearing by God Almighty," said Nurse O'Brien. her Irish ""^nation suddenly running away with her, "that the? l^yer
should be sent for and everything done accordingly. -Mary. Mi^' the poor old lady said. 'Is it Mary Gerrard you re "^"ing?' says Miss Elinor, and straightaway she swor^ that
^should have her rights!"
Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully, "Was it like that? Nurse O'Brien replied firmly, "That was the way of it, and ' lte11 you this, Nurse Hopkins: In my opinion, if Mrs.
"""an had lived to make that will, it's likely there flight "^heen surprises for all! Who knows she mightn't hav^eleft
every P^ny she possessed to Mary Gerrard!"
^se Hopkins said dubiously, "I don't think she'd d(^ that. 1 ''""'t hold with leaving your money away from you)C own
flesh and blood." „ , ^ O'Brien said oracularly, "There's flesh and blood
B^sh and blood." ^'se Hopkins responded instantly, "Now, what migtityou
"'^bytfcat?"
Nurse o'Brien said with dignity. "I'm not one to gossip!
And I wouldn't be blackening anyone's name that's dead^ .^'se Hopkins nodded her head slowly and said, " 4hat s "Sht, I ag,.gg ^ y^ ^east said soonest mended."
she filled up the teapot. ^rse O'Brien said, "By the way, now, did you fin<o that
tube of morphine all right when you got home ?"
^rse Hopkins frowned. She said, "No. It beats me to know what can have become of it, but I think it may have be^nthis way: I might have set it down on the edge of the mantelpiece as1 °ften do while I lock the cupboard, and it mighH liave rolled and fallen into the waste-paper basket that was ^11 tull 01 ^bbish and that was emptied out into the dustbin ju^st as I
48
sad cypress
left the house." She paused. "It must be that way, for I don't
see what else could have become of it."
"I see," said Nurse O'Brien. "Well, dear, that must have
been it. It's not as though you'd left your case about anywhere
else—only just in the hall at Hunterbury—so it seems to me
that what you suggested just now must be so. It's gone into
the rubbish bin."
"That's right," said Nurse Hopkins eagerly. "It couldn't be
any other way, could it?"
She helped herself to a pink sugar cake. She said, "It's
not as though—" and stopped.
The other agreed quickly—perhaps a little too quickly.
"I'd not be worrying about it any more if I was you," she
said comfortably.
Nurse Hopkins said, "I'm not worrying."
Young and severe in her black dress, Elinor sat in front of
Mrs. Welman's massive writing table in the library. Various
papers were spread out in front of her. She had finished
interviewing the servants and Mrs. Bishop. Now it was Mary
Gerrard who entered the room and hesitated a minute by the
doorway.
"You wanted to see me, Miss Elinor?" she said.
Elinor looked up. "Oh, yes, Mary. Come here and sit down,
will you?"
Mary came and sat in the chair Elinor indicated. It was
turned a little toward the window, and the light from it fell
on her face, showing the dazzling purity of the skin and
bringing out the pale gold of the girl's hair.
Elinor held one hand shielding her face a little. Between
the fingers she could watch the other girl's face.
She thought, Is it possible to hate anyone so much and not
show it?
Aloud she said in a pleasant, business-like voice, "I think
you know, Mary, that my aunt always took a great interest in
you apd would have been concerned about your future."
W
agatha christie
Mary murmured in her soft voice, "Mrs. Welman was very
good to me always."
Elinor went on, her voice cold and detached: "My aunt, if
she had had time to make a will, would have wished, I know,
to leave several legacies. Since she died without making a will,
the responsibility of carrying out her wishes rests on me. I have
consulted with Mr. Seddon, and by his advice we have drawn
up a schedule of sums for the servants according to their length
of service, etc." She paused. "You, of course, don't come quite
into that class."
She half hoped, perhaps, that those words might hold a
sting, but the face she was looking at showed no change. Mary
accepted the words at their face value and listened to what
more was to come.
Elinor said, "Though it was difficult for my aunt to speak
coherently, she was able to make her meaning understood
that last evening. She definitely wanted to make some provision
for your future."
Mary said quietly, "That was very good of her."
Elinor said brusquely, "As soon as probate is granted, I am
arranging that two thousand pounds should be made over to
you--that sum to be yours to do with absolutely as you please."
Mary's color rose. "Two thousand pounds? Oh, Miss Elinor,
that is good of you! I don't know what to say."
Elinor said sharply, "It isn't particularly good of me, and
please don't say anything."
Mary flushed. "You don't know what a difference it will
make to me," she murmured.
Elinor said, "I'm glad."
She hesitated. She looked away from Mary to the other side
of the room. She said with a slight effort, "I wonder--have
you any plans?"
Mary said quickly, "Oh, yes. I shall train for something.
Massage, perhaps. That's what Nurse Hopkins advises."
Elinor said, "That sounds a very good idea. I will try and
arrange with Mr. Seddon that some money shall be advanced
to you as soon as possible--at once, if that is feasible."
50
sad cypress
"You're very, very good, Miss Elinor," said Mary gratefully.
Elinw said curtly, "It was Aunt Laura's wish." She hesitated,
then said, "Well, that's all, I think."
This time the definite dismissal in the words pierced Mary's
sensitive skin. She got up, said quietly, "Thank you very
much, Miss Elinor," and left the room.
Elinor sat quite still, staring ahead of her. Her face was
quite impassive. There was no clue in it as to what was going
on in her mind. But she sat there, motionless, for a long time.
Elinor went at last in search of Roddy. She found him in
the morning-room. He was standing staring out of the window.
He turned sharply as Elinor came in.
She said, "I've got through it all! Five hundred for Mrs.
Bishop--she's been here such years. A hundred for the cook
and fifty each for Milly and Olive. Five pounds each to the
others. Twenty-five for Stephens, the head gardener; and
there's old Gerrard, of course, at the lodge. I haven't done
anything about him yet. It's awkward. He'll have to be pensioned
off, I suppose?"
She paused and then went on rather hurriedly: "I'm settling
two thousand on Mary Gerrard. Do you think that's
what Aunt Laura would have wished? It seemed to me about
the right sum."
Roddy said without looking at her, "Yes, exactly right.
You've always got excellent judgment, Elinor."
He turned to look out of the window again.
Elinor held her breath for a minute, then she began to
speak with nervous haste, the words tumbling out incoherently:
"There's something more. I want to--it's only right--I mean, you've got to have your proper share, Roddy."
As he wheeled round, anger on his face, she hurried on:
"No, listen, Roddy. This is just bare justice! The money that
was your uncle's--that he left to his wife--naturally he always
assumed it would come to you. Aunt Laura meant it to,
too. I know she did, from lots of things she said. If I have her money, you should have the amount that was his--it's only
51
AGATHA christie
right. I--I can't bear to feel that I've robbed you--just because
Aunt Laura funked making a will. You must--you must see sense about this!"
Roderick's long, sensitive face had gone dead white. He
said, "My God, Elinor, do you want to make me feel an utter
cad? Do you think for one moment I could--could take this
money from you?"
"I'm not giving it to you. It's just--fair."
Roddy cried out, "I don't want your money!"
"It isn't mine!"
"It's yours by law--and that's all that matters! For God's
sake, don't let's be anything but strictly business-like! I won't
take a penny from you. You're not going to do the Lady
Bountiful to me!"
Elinor cried out, "Roddy!"
He made a quick gesture. "Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. I don't
know what I'm saying. I feel so bewildered--so utterly lost."
Elinor said gently, "Poor Roddy."
He had turned away again and was playing with the tassel
of the window blind. He said in a different tone, a detached
one, "Do you know what--Mary Gerrard proposes doing?"
"She's going to train as a masseuse, so she says."
He said, "I see."
There was a silence. Elinor drew herself up; she flung back
her head. Her voice when she spoke was suddenly compelling:
"Roddy, I want you to listen to me carefully!"
He turned to her, slightly surprised. "Of course, Elinor."
"I want you, if you will, to follow my advice."
"And what is your advice?"
Elinor said calmly, "You are not particularly tied? You can
always get a holiday, can't you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Then do--just that. Go abroad somewhere for--say, three
months. Go by yourself. Make new friends and see new places.
Let's speak quite frankly. At this moment you think you're in
love with Mary Gerrard. Perhaps you are. But it isn't a
moment for approaching her--you know that only too well.
52
SAD CYPRESS
Our engagement is definitely broken off. Go abroad, then, as a
free man, and at the end of the three months, as a free man,
make up your mind. You'll know then whether you—really
love Mary or whether it was only a temporary infatuation.
And if you are quite sure you do love her—well, then, come
back and go to her and tell her so, and that you're quite sure
about it, and perhaps then she'll listen."
Roddy came to her. He caught her hand in his.
"Elinor, you're wonderful! So clear-headed! So marvelously
impersonal! There's no trace of pettiness or meanness about
you. I admire you more than I can ever say. I'll do exactly
what you suggest. Go away, cut free from everything—and
find out whether I've got the genuine disease or if I've just
been making the most ghastly fool of myself. Oh, Elinor, my
dear, you don't know how truly fond I am of you. I do realize
you were always a thousand times too good for me. Bless you,
dear, for all your goodness."
Quickly, impulsively, he kissed her and went out.
It was as well, perhaps, that he did not look back and see
her face.
It was a couple of days later that Mary acquainted Nurse
Hopkins with her improved prospects.
That practical woman was warmly congratulatory. "That's
a great piece of luck for you, Mary," she said. "The old lady
may have meant well by you, but unless a thing's down in
black and white, intentions don't go for much! You might
easily have got nothing at all."
"Miss Elinor said that the night Mrs. Welman died she told
her to do something for me."
Nurse Hopkins snorted. "Maybe she did. But there's many
would have forgotten conveniently afterward. Relations are
like that. I've seen a few things, I can tell you! People dying
and saying they know they can leave it to their dear son or
their dear daughter to carry out their wishes. Nine times out
of ten, dear son and dear daughter find some very good reason
to do nothing of the kind. Human nature's human nature, and
53
AGATHA christie
nobody likes parting with money if they're not legally compelled
to! I tell you, Mary, my girl, you've been lucky. Miss
Carlisle's straighter than most."
Mary said slowly, "And yet--somehow--I feel she doesn't
like me."
"With good reason, I should say," said Nurse Hopkins
bluntly. "Now, don't look so innocent, Mary! Mr. Roderick's
been making sheep's eyes at you for some time now."
Mary went red.
Nurse Hopkins went on: "He's got it badly, in my opinion.
Fell for you all of a sudden. What about you, my girl? Got any
feeling for him?"
Mary said hesitatingly, "I--I don't know. I don'<' think so.
But, of course, he's very nice."
"H'm," said Nurse Hopkins. "He wouldn't be my fancy!
One of those men who are finicky and a bundle of nerves.
Fussy about their food, too, as likely as not. Men aren't much
at the best of times. Don't be in too much of a hurry, Mary,
my dear. With your looks you can afford to pick and choose.
Nurse O'Brien passed the remark to me the other day that
you ought to go on the films. They like blondes, I've always
heard."
Mary said, with a slight frown creasing her forehead, "Nurse,
what do you think I ought to do about Father? He thinks I
ought to give some of this money to him."
"Don't you do anything of the kind," said Nurse Hopkins
wrathfully. "Mrs. Welman never meant that money for him.
It's my opinion he'd have lost his job years ago if it hadn't
been for you. A lazier man never stepped!"
Mary said, "It seems funny when she'd all that money that
she never made a will to say how it was to go."
Nurse Hopkins shook her head. "People are like that. You'd
be surprised. Always putting it off."
Mary said, "It seems downright silly to me."
Nurse Hopkins said with a faint twinkle, "Made a will
yourself, Mary?"
Mary stared at her. "Oh, no."
54
k. sad cypress
"And yet you're over twenty-one."
"But I--I haven't got anything to leave--at least I suppose I
have now."
Nurse Hopkins said sharply, "Of course you have. And a
nice tidy little sum, too."
Mary said, "Oh, well, there's no hurry."
"There you go," said Nurse Hopkins dryly. "Just like everyone
else. Because you're a healthy young girl isn't a reason
why you shouldn't be smashed up in a charabanc or a bus, or
run over in the street, any minute."
Mary laughed. She said, "I don't even know how to make a
will."
"Easy enough. You can get a form at the post office. Let's go
and get one right away."
In Nurse Hopkins's cottage the form was spread out and
the important matter discussed. Nurse Hopkins was enjoying
herself thoroughly. A will, as she said, was next best to a
death, in her opinion.
Mary said, "Who'd get the money if I didn't make a will?"
Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully, "Your father, I
suppose."
Mary said sharply, "He shan't have it. I'd rather leave it to
my auntie in New Zealand."
"It wouldn't be much use leaving it to your father, anyway-- he's not long for this world, I should say."
Mary had heard Nurse Hopkins make this kind of pronouncement
too often to be impressed by it.
"I can't remember my auntie's address. We've not heard
from her for years."
"I don't suppose that matters," said Nurse Hopkins. "You
know her Christian name?"
"Mary. Mary Riley."
"That's all right. Put down you leaving everything to Mary
Riley, sister of the late Eliza Gerrard of Hunterbury, Maidensford."
Mary
bent over the form, writing. As she came to the end
she shivered suddenly. A shadow had come between her and
55
agatha christie
the sun. She looked up to see Elinor Carlisle standing outside
the window looking in.
Elinor said, "What are you doing so busily?''
Nurse Hopkins said with a laugh, "She's making her will,
that's what she's doing."
"Making her will?" Suddenly Elinor laughed_a strange
laugh—almost hysterical.
She said, "So you're making your will, Mary. That's funny.
That's very funny."
Still laughing, she turned away and walked rapidly along
the street.
Nurse Hopkins stared.
"Did you ever? What's come to her?"
Elinor had not taken more than half a dozen steps_she was
still laughing—when a hand fell on her arm from behind. She
stopped abruptly and turned.
Dr. Lord looked straight at her, his brow creased into a
frown. He said peremptorily, "What were you laughing at?"
Elinor said, "Really—I don't know."
Peter Lord said, "That's rather a silly answer!"
Elinor flushed. She said, "I think I must l^g nervous_or
something. I looked in at the District Nurse's cottage and_
and Mary Gerrard was writing out her will. ^ made me
laugh; I don't know why!"
Lord said abruptly, "Don't you?"
Elinor said, "It was silly of me—I tell you—I'm nervous."
Peter Lord said, "I'll write you out a tonic."
Elinor said incisively, "How useful!"
He grinned disarmingly. "Quite useless, I agree. But it's
the only thing one can do when people won't tell one what is
the matter with them!"
Elinor said, "There's nothing the matter with me."
Peter Lord said calmly, "There's quite a lot the matter
with you."
Elinor said, "I've had a certain amount of nervous strain I
suppose."
56
sad cypress
He said, "I expect you've had quite a lot. But that's not
what I'm talking about." He paused. "Are you—are you staying
downtiere much longer?"
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"You won't—live down here?"
Elinor shook her head. "No—never. I think—I think—I
shall sell the place if I can get a good offer."
Dr. Lord said rather flatly, "I see."
Elinor said, "I must be getting home now."
She held out her hand very firmly. Peter Lord took it. He
held it. He said very earnestly, "Miss Carlisle, will you please
tell me what was in your mind when you laughed just now?"
She wrenched her hand away quickly. "What should there
be in my mind?"
"That's what I'd like to know."
His face was grave and a little unhappy.
Elinor said impatiently, "It just struck me as funny, that
was all!"
"That Mary Gerrard was making a will? Why? Making a
will is a perfectly sensible procedure. Saves a lot of trouble.
Sometimes, of course, it makes trouble!"
Elinor said impatiently, "Of course—everyone should make
a will. I didn't mean that."
Dr. Lord said, "Mrs. Welman ought to have made a will."
Elinor said with feeling, "Yes, indeed."
The color rose in her face.
Dr. Lord said unexpectedly, "What about you?"
"Me?"
"Yes, you said just now everyone should make a will! Have
you?"
Elinor stared at him for a minute, then she laughed. "How
extraordinary!" she said. "No, I haven't. I hadn't thought of
it! I'm just like Aunt Laura. Do you know, Dr. Lord, I shall go
home and write to Mr. Seddon about it at once."
Peter Lord said, "Very sensible."
¥ ¥ ¥
57
agatha christie
In the library Elinor had just finished a letter:
DEAR mr. seddon,—Will you draft a will for me to
sign? Quite a simple one. I want to leave everything to
Roderick Welman absolutely.
Yours sincerely,
elinor carlisle.
«
She glanced at the clock. The post would be going in a few
minutes.
She opened the drawer of the desk, then remembered she
had used the last stamp that morning.
There were some in her bedroom she was sure.
She went upstairs. When she re-entered the library with
the stamp in her hand, Roddy was standing by the window.
He said, "So we leave here tomorrow. Good old Hunterbury.
We've had some good times here."
Elinor said, "Do you mind its being sold?"
"Oh, no, no! I quite see it's the best thing to be done."
There was a silence. Elinor picked up her letter, glanced
through it to see if it was all right. Then she sealed and
stamped it.
58
V
chapter VI
.jetter from Nurse O'Brien to Nurse Hopkins, July 14th:
Laborough Court.
dear hopkins,—Have been meaning to write to you for
some days now. This is a lovely house and the pictures, I
believe, quite famous. But I can't say it's as comfortable as
Hunterbury was, if you know what I mean. Being in the dead.
country it's difficult to get maids, and the girls they have got
are a raw lot, and some of them not too obliging, and though
I'm sure I'm never one to give trouble, meals sent up on a
tray should at least be hot, and no facilities for boiling a
kettle and the tea not always made with boiling water! Still,
all that's neither here nor there. The patient's a nice quiet
gentleman—double pneumonia, but the crisis is past.
What I've got to tell you that will really interest you is the
very queerest coincidence you ever knew. In the drawingroom,
on the grand piano, there's a photograph in a big silver
frame, and would you believe it, it's the same photograph
that I told you about—the one signed Lewis that old Mrs.
Welman asked for. Well, of course I was intrigued—and who
wouldn't be? And I asked the butler who it was, which he
answered at once saying it was Lady Rattery's brother—Sir
Lewis Ry croft. He lived not far from here, and he was killed
in the War. Very sad, wasn't it? I asked casual like was he
59
agatha christie
married, and the butler said yes, but that Lady Rycroft went
into an asylum, poor thing, soon after the marriage. She was
still alive, he said. Now, isn't that interesting? And we were
quite wrong, you see, in all our ideas. They must have been
very fond of each other, he and Mrs. W., and unable to marry
because of the wife being in an asylum. Just like the pictures,
isn't it? And her remembering all those years and looking at
his photograph just before she died. He was killed in 1917,
the butler said. Quite a romance^ that's what I feel.
No movies anywhere near here! Oh, it's awful to be buried
in the country. No wonder they can't get decent maids I
Well, good-by for the present, dear, write and tell me all
the news.
Yowrs sincerely,
ElLEEN O'BRIEN.
Letter from Nurse Hopkins to Nurse O'Brien, July 14th:
Rose Cottage.
dear O'BRIEN,—Everything goes on here much as usual.
Hunterbury is deserted—all the servants gone and a board
up: For Sale. I saw Mrs. Bishop the other day, she is staying
with her sister who lives about a mile away. She was very
upset, as you can imagine, at the place being sold. It seems
she made sure Miss Carlisle would marry Mr. Welman and
live there. Mrs. B. says that the engagement is off! Miss
Carlisle went to London soon after you left. She was very
peculiar in her manner once or twice. I really didn't know
what to make of her! Mary Gerrard has gone to London and
is starting to train for a masseuse. Very sensible of her, I
think. Miss Carlisle's going to settle two thousand pounds on
her, which 1 call very handsome and more than what many
would do.
By the way, it's funny how things come about. Do you
remember telling me something about a photograph signed
Lewis that Mrs. Welman showed you ? 1 was having a chat
the other day with Mrs. Slattery (she was housekeeper to old
60
sad cypress
Dr. Ransome who had the practice before Dr. Lord), and of
course she's lived here all her life and knows a lot about the
gentry round about. I just brought the subject up in a casual
manner, speaking of Christian names and saying that the
name of Lewis was uncommon and among others she mentioned
Sir Lewis Rycroft over at Forbes Park. He served in
the War in the 17th Lancers and was killed toward the end
of the War. So I said he was a great friend of Mrs. Welman's
at Hunterbury, wasn't he? And at once she gave me a look and said, Yes, very close friends they'd been, and some said
more than friends, but that she herself wasn't one to talk-- and why shouldn't they befriends? So I said but surely Mrs.
Welman was a widow at the time, and she said. Oh, yes, she was a widow. So, dear, 1 saw at once she meant something
by that, so I said it was odd then, that they'd never married,
and she said at once, "They couldn't marry. He'd got a wife
in an asylum!" So now, you see, we know all about it!
Curious the way things come about, isn't it? Considering the
easy way you get divorces nowadays, it does seem a shame
that insanity shouldn't have been a ground for it then.
Do you remember a good-looking young chap, Ted Bigland,
who used to hang around after Mary Gerrard a lot? He's
been at me for her address in London, but I haven't given it
to him. In my opinion, Mary's a cut above Ted Bigland. 1
don't know if you realized it, dear, but Mr. R---- W----
was taken with her. A pity, because it's made trouble. Mark
my words, that's the reason for the engagement between him
and Miss Carlisle being off. And, if you ask me, it's hit her badly. I don't know what she saw in him, I'm sure--he
wouldn't have been my cup of tea, but I hear from reliable
sources that she's always been madly in love with him. It
does seem a mix-up, doesn't it? And she's got all that money,
too. I believe he was always led to expect his aunt would
leave him something substantial.
Old Gerrard at the lodge is failing rapidly--has had several
nasty dizzy spells. He's just as rude and crossgrained as
ever. He actually said the other day that Mary wasn't his
61
agatha christie
daughter. "Well," 1 said, "I'd be ashamed to say a thing like
that about your wife if I were you." He just looked at me and
said, "You're nothing but a fool. You don't understand."
Polite, wasn't it? I took him up pretty sharply, I can tell you.
His wife was lady's maid to Mrs. Welman before her marriage,
I believe.
Yours ever,
JESSIE hopkins.
Post card from Nurse Hopkins" to Nurse O'Brien:
fancy our letters just crossing'. Isn't this weather awful? Post card from Nurse O'Brien to Nurse Hopkins:
Got your letter this morning. What a coincidence /
Letter from Roderick Welman to Elinor Carlisle, July 15th:
DEAR elinor,--jms( got your letter. No, really, I have no feelings about Hunterbury being sold. Vice of you to consult
me. 1 think you're doing the wisest thing if you don't fancy
living there, which you obviously don't. You may have some
difficulty in getting rid of it, though. It's a biggish place for
present-day needs, though, of course, it's been modernized
and is up to date, with good servants' quarters, and gas
and electric light and all that. Anyway, 1 hope you'll have
luck!
The heat here is glorious. 1 spend hours in the sea. Rather
a funny crowd of people, but I don't mix much. You told me
once that Z wasn't a good mixer. I'm afraid it's true. I find
most of the human race extraordinarily repulsive. They probably
reciprocate this feeling.
1 have long felt that you are one of the only really satisfactory
representatives of humanity. Am thinking of wandering
on to the Damnation coast in a week or two. Address do
62
«.
sad cypress
Thomas Cook, Dubrovnik, from the 22nd onward. If there's
anything I can do, let me know.
-» Yours, with admiration and gratitude,
RODDY.
Letter from Mr. Seddon of Messrs. Seddon, Blatherwick &
Seddon to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 20th:
104 Bloomsbury Square.
dear miss carlisle,--I certainly think you should accept
Major Somervell's offer of twelve thousand five hundred
(£12,500) for Hunterbury. Large properties are extremely
difficult to sell at the moment, and the price offered seems to
be most advantageous. The offer depends, however, on immediate
possession, and I know Major Somervell has been
seeing other properties in the neighborhood, so I would advise
immediate acceptance.
Major Somervell is willing, I understand, to take the place
furnished for three months, by which time the legal formalities
should be accomplished and the sale can go through.
As regards the lodgekeeper, Gerrard, and the question of
pensioning him off, 1 hear from Dr. Lord that the old man is
seriously ill and not expected to live.
- Probate has not yet been granted, but I have advanced one
hundred pounds to Miss Mary Gerrard pending the settlement.
Yours sincerely,
edmund seddon.
Letter from Dr. Lord to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 24th:
DEAR MISS carlisle,--Old Gerrard passed away today.
Is there anything I can do for you ? I hear you have sold the
house to our new M.P., Major Somervell.
Yours sincerely,
peter lord.
63
AGATHA christie
Letter from Elinor Carlisle to Mary Gerrard, July 25th:
dear mary,--I am so sorry to hear of your father's
death.
1 have had an offer for Hunterbury--from a Major Sowerveil.
He is anxious to get in as soon as possible. I am going
down there to go through my aunt's papers and clear up
generally. Would it be possible for you to get your father's
things moved out of the lodge as quickly as possible ? I hope
you are doing well and not finding your massage training too
strenuous.
Yours very sincerely,
elinor carlisle.
Letter from Mary Gerrard to Nurse Hopkins, July 25th:
dear nurse hopkins,--Thank you so much for writing
to me about father. I'm glad he didn't suffer. Miss
Elinor writes me that the house is sold and that she would
like the lodge cleared out as soon as possible. Could you put
me up if I came down tomorrow for the funeral? Don't
bother to answer if that's all right.
Yours affectionately,
mary gerrard.
64
fc.
chapter VII

Ei
jlinor Carlisle came out of the King's Arms on the morning
of Thursday, July 27th, and stood for a minute or two
looking up and down the main street of Maidensford. Suddenly,
with an 'exclamation of pleasure, she crossed the road.
There was no mistaking that large, dignified presence, that
serene gait as of a galleon in full sail.
"Mrs. Bishop!"
"Why, Miss Elinor! This is a surprise! I'd no notion you
were in these parts! If I'd known you were coming to
Hunterbury I'd have been there myself! Who's doing for you
there? Have you brought someone down from London?"
Elinor shook her head. "I'm not staying at the house. I am
staying at the King's Arms."
Mrs. Bishop looked across the road and sniffed dubiously.
"It is possible to stay there, I've heard," she allowed. "It's
clean, I know. And the cooking, they say, is fair, but it's
hardly what you're accustomed to, Miss Elinor."
Elinor said, smiling, "I'm really quite comfortable. It's only
for a day or two. I have to sort out things at the house. All my
aunt's personal things, and then there are a few pieces of
furniture I should like to have in London."
"The house is really sold, then?"
"Yes. To a Major Somervell. Our new Member. Sir George
Kerr died, you know, and there's been a bye-election."
65
agatha christie
"Returned unopposed," said Mrs. Bishop grandly. "We've
never had anyone but a Conservative for Maidensford."
Elinor said, "I'm glad someone has bought the house who
really wants to live in it. I should have been sorry if it had
been turned into a hotel or built upon."
Mrs. Bishop shut her eyes and shivered all over her plump,
aristocratic person.
"Yes, indeed, that would have been dreadful--quite dreadful.
It's bad enough as it is to think ,of Hunterbury passing into
the hands of strangers."
Elinor said, "Yes, but, you see, it would have been a very
large house for me to live in--alone."
Mrs. Bishop sniffed.
Elinor said quickly, "I meant to ask you: Is there any
special piece of furniture that you might care to have? I
should be very glad for you to have it, if so."
Mrs. Bishop beamed. She said graciously, "Well, Miss Elinor,
that is very thoughtful of you--very kind, I'm sure. If it's not
taking a liberty--"
She paused and Elinor said, "Oh, no."
"I have always had a great admiration for the secretaire in
the drawing-room. Such a handsome piece."
Elinor remembered it, a somewhat flamboyant piece of inlaid
marquetry. She said quickly, "Of course you shall have
it, Mrs. Bishop. Anything else?"
"No, indeed, Miss Elinor. You have already been extremely
generous."
Elinor said, "There are some chairs in the same style as the
secretaire. Would you care for those?"
Mrs. Bishop accepted the chairs with becoming thanks. She
explained, "I am staying at the moment with my sister. Is
there anything I can do for you up at the house, Miss Elinor?
I could come up there with you, if you like."
"No, thank you."
Elinor spoke quickly, rather abruptly.
Mrs. Bishop said, "It would be no trouble, I assure you--a
66
sad cypress
pleasure. Such a melancholy task going through all dear Mrs.
Welman's things."
Elinor said, "Thank you, Mrs. Bishop, but I would rather
tackle it alone. One can do some things better alone--"
Mrs. Bishop said stiffly, "As you please, of course."
She went on: "That daughter of Gerrard's is down here.
The funeral was yesterday. She's staying with Nurse Hopkins.
I did hear they were going up to the lodge this morning."
Elinor nodded. She said, "Yes, I asked Mary to come down
and see to that. Major Somervell wants to get in as soon as
possible."
"I see."
Elinor said, "Well, I must be getting on now. So glad to
have seen you, Mrs. Bishop. I'll remember about the secretaire
and the chairs."
She shook hands and passed on.
She went into the baker's and bought a loaf of bread. Then
she went into the dairy and bought half a pound of butter and
some milk. Finally she went into the grocer's.
"I want some paste for sandwiches, please."
"Certainly, Miss Carlisle." Mr. Abbott himself bustled
forward, elbowing aside his junior apprentice. "What would
you like? Salmon and shrimp? Turkey and tongue? Salmon
and sardine? Ham and tongue?"
He whipped down pot after pot and arrayed them on the
counter.
Elinor said with a faint smile, "In spite of their names, I
always think they taste much alike."
Mr. Abbott agreed instantly. "Well, perhaps they do in a
way. Yes, in a way. But, of course, they're very tasty--very
tasty."
Elinor said, "One used to be rather afraid of eating fish
pastes. There have been cases of ptomaine poisoning from
them, haven't there?"
Mr. Abbott put on a horrified expression. "I can assure you
this is an excellent brand--most reliable--we never have any
complaints."
67
AGATHA christie
Elinor said, "I'll have one of salmon and anchovy and
one of salmon and shrimp. Thank you."
Elinor Carlisle entered the grounds of Hunterbury by the
back gate.
It was a hot, clear summer's day. There were sweet peas in
flower. Elinor passed by a row of them. The undergardener,
Horlick, who was remaining dn to keep the place in order,
greeted her respectfully.
"Good morning, miss. I got your letter. You'll find the side
door open, miss. I've unfastened the shutters and opened
most of the windows."
Elinor said, "Thank you, Horlick."
As she moved on, the young man said nervously, his Adam's
apple jerking up and down in spasmodic fashion, "Excuse
me, miss--"
Elinor turned back. "Yes?"
"Is it true that the house is sold? I mean, is it really
settled?"
"Oh, yes!"
Horlick said nervously, "I was wondering, miss, if you
would say a word for me--to Major Somervell, I mean. He'll
be wanting gardeners. Maybe he'll think I'm too young for
head gardener, but I've worked under Mr. Stephens for four
years now, and I reckon I know a tidyish bit, and I've kept
things going fairly well since I've been here, single-handed."
Elinor said quickly, "Of course I will do all I can for you,
Horlick. As a matter of fact, I intended to mention you to
Major Somervell and tell him what a good gardener you are."
Horlick's face grew dusky red. "Thank you, miss. That's
very kind of you. You can understand it's been a bit of a blow,
like--Mrs. Welman dying, and then the place being sold off so
quick--and I--well, the fact of the matter is I was going to get
married this autumn, only one's got to be sure--"
He stopped.
Elinor said kindly, "I hope Major Somervell will take you
on. You can rely on me to do all I can."
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sad cypress
Horhtk said again, "Thank you, miss. We all hoped, you
see, as how the place would be kept on by the family. Thank
you, miss."
Elinor walked on.
Suddenly, rushing over her like the stream from a broken
dam, a wave of wild resentment swept over her.
"We all hoped the place would be kept on by the family. ..."
She and Roddy could have lived here! She and Roddy. . . . Roddy would have wanted that. It was what she herself
would have wanted. They had always loved Hunterbury, both of them. Dear Hunterbury. ... In the years before her parents
had died, when they had been in India, she had come here for
holidays. She had played in the woods, rambled by the stream,
picked sweet peas in great flowering armloads, eaten fat green
gooseberries and dark red luscious raspberries. Later, there
had been apples. There had been places, secret lairs, where
she had curled up with a book and read for hours.
She had loved Hunterbury. Always, at the back of her
mind, she had felt sure of living there permanently some day.
Aunt Laura had fostered that idea. Little words and phrases:
"Some day, Elinor, you may like to cut down those yews.
They are a little gloomy, perhaps!" "One might have a water
garden here. Some day, perhaps, you will."
And Roddy ? Roddy, too, had looked forward to Hunterbury
being his home. It had lain, perhaps, behind his feeling for
her, Elinor. He had felt, subconsciously, that it was fitting
and right that they two should be together at Hunterbury.
And they would have been together there. They would have
been together here--now--not packing up the house for selling,
but redecorating it, planning new beauties in house and garden,
walking side by side in gentle proprietary pleasure, happy--
yes, happy together--but for the fatal accident of a girl's wildrose
beauty.
What did Roddy know of Mary Gerrard? Nothing--less
than nothing! What did he care for her--for the real Mary?
She had, quite possibly, admirable qualities, but did Roddy
69
AGATHA christie
month or so before the money can be definitely made over to
me, so he said."
Nurse Hopkins said, "How do you like your work?"
"I think I shall like it very much. It's rather strenuous at
first. I come home tired to death."
Nurse Hopkins said grimly, "I thought I was going to die
when I was a probationer at St. Luke's. I felt I could never
stick it for three years. But I did."
They had sorted through the old man's clothes. Now they
came to a tin box full of papers.
Mary said, "We must go through these, I suppose."
They sat down one on each side of the table.
Nurse Hopkins grumbled as she started with a handful.
"Extraordinary what rubbish people keep! Newspaper cuttings!
Old letters. All sorts of things!"
Mary said, unfolding a document, "Here's Dad's and Mum's
marriage certificate. At St. Albans, 1919."
Nurse Hopkins said, "Marriage lines, that's the old-fashioned
term. Lots of the people in this village use that term yet."
Mary said in a stifled voice, "But, Nurse--"
The other looked up sharply. She saw the distress in the
girl's eyes. She said sharply, "What's the matter?"
Mary Gerrard said in a shaky voice, "Don't you see? This is
1939. And I'm twenty-one. In 1919 I was a year old. That
means--that means--that my father and mother weren't married
till--till--after-ward."
Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said robustly, "Well, after all,
what of it? Don't go worrying about that, at this time of day!"
"But, Nurse, I can't help it."
Nurse Hopkins spoke with authority, "There's many couples
that don't go to church till a bit after they should do so.
But so long as they do it in the end, what's the odds? That's
what I say!"
Mary said in a low voice, "Is that why--do you think--my father never liked me? Because, perhaps, my mother made him marry her?"
Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She bit her lip, then she said, "It
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sad cypress
wasn't quite like that, I imagine." She paused. "Oh, well, if
you're g»ing to worry about it, you may as well know the
truth. You aren't Gerrard's daughter at all."
Mary said, "Then that was why!"
Nurse Hopkins said, "Maybe."
Mary said, a red spot suddenly burning in each cheek, "I
suppose it's wrong of me, but I'm glad! I've always felt uncomfortable
because I didn't care for my father, but if he wasn't my father, well that makes it all right! How did you know
about it?"
Nurse Hopkins said, "Gerrard talked about it a good deal
before he died. I shut him up pretty sharply, but he didn't
care. Naturally, I shouldn't have said anything to you about it
if this hadn't cropped up."
Mary said slowly, "I wonder who my real father was."
Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She opened her mouth, then shut
it again. She appeared to be finding it hard to make up her
mind on some point.
Then a shadow fell across the room, and the two women
looked round to see Elinor Carlisle standing at the window.
Elinor said, "Good morning."
Nurse Hopkins said, "Good morning, Miss Carlisle. Lovely
day, isn't it?"
Mary said, "Oh--good morning, Miss Elinor."
Elinor said, "I've been making some sandwiches. Won't you
come up and have some? It's just on one o'clock, and it's such
a bother to have to go home for lunch. I got enough for three
on purpose."
Nurse Hopkins said in pleased surprise, "Well, I must say,
Miss Carlisle, that's extremely thoughtful of you. It is a nuisance
to have to break off what you're doing and come all the
way back from the village. I hoped we might finish this
morning. I went round and saw my cases early. But, there,
turning out takes you longer than you think."
Mary said gratefully, "Thank you, Miss Elinor, it's very
kind of you."
The three of them walked up the drive to the house. Elinor
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AGATHA christie
had left the front door open. They passed inside into the cool
of the hall. Mary shivered a little. Elinor looked at her sharply.
She said, "What is it?"
Mary said, "Oh, nothing--just a shiver. It was coming in--
out of the sun."
Elinor said in a low voice, "That's queer. That's what I felt
this morning."
Nurse Hopkins said in a loud, cheerful voice and with a
laugh, "Come, now, you'll be pretending there are ghosts in
the house next. Z didn't feel anything!"
Elinor smiled. She led the way into the morning-room on
the right of the front door: The blinds were up and the
windows open. It looked cheerful.
Elinor went across the hall and brought back from the pantry a big plate of sandwiches. She handed it to Mary,
saying, "Have one?"
Mary took one. Elinor stood watching her for a moment as
the girl's even white teeth bit into the sandwich. She held her breath for a minute, then expelled it in a little sigh. Absentmindedly
she stood for a minute with the plate held to her
waist, then at sight of Nurse Hopkins's slightly parted lips
and hungry expression she flushed and quickly proffered the
plate to the older woman.
Elinor took a sandwich herself. She said apologetically, "I
meant to make some coffee, but I forgot to get any. There's
some beer on that table, though, if anyone likes that?"
Nurse Hopkins said sadly, "If only I'd thought to bring
along some tea now."
Elinor said absently, "There's a little tea still in the canister
in the pantry."
Nurse Hopkins's face brightened. "Then I'll just pop out
and put the kettle on. No milk, I suppose?"
Elinor said, "Yes, I brought some."
"Well, then, that's all right," said Nurse Hopkins and hurried
out.
Elinor and Mary were alone together. A queer tension crept
into the atmosphere. Elinor, with an obvious effort, tried to
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sad CYPRESS
make c(Tnversation. Her lips were dry. She passed her tongue
over them. She said, rather stiffly, "You--like your work in
London?"
"Yes, thank you. I--I'm very grateful to you--"
A sudden harsh sound broke from Elinor. A laugh so
discordant, so unlike her, that Mary stared at her in surprise.
Elinor said, "You needn't be so grateful!"
Mary, rather embarrassed, said, "I didn't mean--that is--"
She stopped.
Elinor was staring at her--a glance so searching, so, yes,
strange that Mary flinched under it.
She said, "Is--is anything wrong?"
Elinor got up quickly. She said, turning away, "What should
be wrong?"
Mary murmured, "You--you looked--"
Elinor said with a little laugh, "Was I staring? I'm so sorry.
I do sometimes--when I'm thinking of something else."
Nurse Hopkins looked in at the door and remarked brightly,
"I've put the kettle on," and went out again.
Elinor was taken with a sudden fit of laughter. "Polly put
the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle
on--we'll all have tea! Do you remember playing that, Mary,
when we were children?"
"Yes, indeed I do."
Elinor said, "When we were children. It's a pity, Mary, isn't
it, that one can never go back?"
Mary said, "Would you like to go back?"
Elinor said with force, "Yes--yes."
Silence fell between them for a little while.
Then Mary said, her face flushing, "Miss Elinor, you mustn't
think--"
She stopped, warned by the sudden stiffening of Elinor's
slender figure, the uplifted line of her chin.
Elinor said in a cold, steel-like voice, "What mustn't I
think?"
Mary murmured, "I--I've forgotten what I was going to
say."
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agatha christie
Elinor's body relaxed--as at a danger past.
Nurse Hopkins came in with a tray. On it was a brown
teapot, and milk and three cups.
She said, quite unconscious of anticlimax, "Here's the tea!"
She put the tray in front of Elinor. Elinor shook her head.
"I won't have any."
She pushed the tray along toward Mary. Mary poured out
two cups.
Nurse Hopkins sighed with satisfaction. "It's nice and
strong."
Elinor got up and moved over to the window. Nurse Hopkins
said persuasively, "Are you sure you won't have a cup,
Miss Carlisle? Do you good."
Elinor murmured, "No, thank you."
Nurse Hopkins drained her cup, replaced it in the saucer,
and murmured, "I'll just turn off the kettle. I put it on in case
we needed to fill up the pot again."
She bustled out.
Elinor wheeled round from the window. She said, and her
voice was suddenly charged with a desperate appeal, "Mary--"
Mary Gerrard answered quickly, "Yes?"
Slowly the light died out of Elinor's face. The lips closed.
The desperate pleading faded and left a mere mask--frozen
and still.
She said, "Nothing."
The silence came down heavily on the room.
Mary thought, How queer everything is today. As though--as
though we were waiting for something.
Elinor moved at last.
She came from the window and picked up the tea-tray,
placing on it the empty sandwich plate.
Mary jumped up. "Oh, Miss Elinor, let me."
Elinor said sharply, "No, you stay here. I'll do this."
She carried the tray out of the room. She looked back once
over her shoulder at Mary Gerrard by the window, young and
alive and beautiful. . . .
* * *
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sad CYPRESS
Nurse Hopkins was in the pantry. She was wiping her face
with aliandkerchief. She looked up sharply as Elinor entered.
She said, "My word, it's hot in here!"
Elinor answered mechanically, "Yes, the pantry faces south."
Nurse Hopkins relieved her of the tray.
"You let me wash up, Miss Carlisle. You're not looking
quite the thing."
Elinor said, "Oh, I'm all right."
She picked up a dish-cloth. "I'll dry."
Nurse Hopkins slipped off her cuffs. She poured hot water
from the kettle into the basin.
Elinor said idly, looking at her wrist, "You've pricked
yourself."
Nurse Hopkins laughed. "On the rose trellis at the lodge--a
thorn. I'll get it out presently."
The rose trellis at the lodge. Memory poured in waves over
Elinor. She and Roddy quarreling--the Wars of the Roses.
She and Roddy quarreling--and making it up. Lovely, laughing,
happy days. A sick wave of revulsion passed over her. What
had she come to now? What black abyss of hate--of evil? She
swayed a little as she stood.
She thought, I've been mad--quite mad.
Nurse Hopkins was staring at her curiously.
"Downright odd, she seemed," so ran Nurse Hopkins's narrative
later. "Talking as if she didn't know what she was
saying, and her eyes so bright and queer."
The cups and saucers rattled in the basin. Elinor picked up
an empty fish-paste pot from the table and put it into the
basin. As she did so she said, and marveled at the steadiness
of her voice, "I've sorted out some clothes upstairs, Aunt
Laura's things. I thought, perhaps, Nurse, you could advise
me where they would be useful in the village."
Nurse Hopkins said briskly, "I will indeed. There's Mrs.
Parkinson, and old Nellie, and that poor creature who's not
quite all there at Ivy Cottage. Be a godsend to them."
She and Elinor cleared up the pantry. Then they went
upstairs together.
77
agatha christie
In Mrs. Welman's room clothes were folded in neat bundles:
underclothing, dresses, and certain articles of handsome
clothing, velvet tea-gowns, a musquash coat. The latter, Elinor
explained, she thought of giving to Mrs. Bishop.
Nurse Hopkins nodded assent. She noticed that Mrs.
Welman's sables were laid on the chest of drawers. Going to
have them remodeled for herself, she thought.
She cast a look at the big tallboys. She wondered if Elinor
had found that photograph signed Lewis, and what she had
made of it, if so.
Funny, she thought to herself, the way O'Brien's letter crossed
mine. I never dreamed a thing like that could happen. Her hitting
on that photo just the day I wrote to her about Mrs. Slattery.
She helped Elinor sort through the clothing and volunteered
to tie them up in separate bundles for the different
families and see to their distribution herself.
She said, "I can be getting on with that while Mary goes
down to the lodge and finishes up there. She's only got a box
of papers to go through. Where is the girl, by the way? Did
she go down to the lodge?"
Elinor said, "I left her in the morning-room."
Nurse Hopkins said, "She'd not be there all this time." She
glanced at her watch. "Why, it's nearly an hour we've been
up here!"
She bustled down the stairs. Elinor followed her.
They went into the morning-room.
Nurse Hopkins exclaimed, "Well, I never, she's fallen asleep."
Mary Gerrard was sitting in a big armchair by the window.
She had dropped down a little in it. There was a queer sound
in the room: stertorous, labored breathing.
Nurse Hopkins went across and shook the girl. "Wake up,
my dear--"
She broke off. She bent lower, pulled down an eyelid. Then
she started shaking the girl in grim earnest.
She turned on Elinor. There was something menacing in
her voice as she said, "What's all this?"
Elinor said, "I don't know what you mean. Is she ill?"
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sad cypress
Nurse Hopkins said, "Where's the phone? Get hold of Dr.
Lord as soon as you can."
Elinor said, "What's the matter?"
"The matter? The girl's ill. She's dying."
Elinor recoiled a step. She said, "Dying?" Nurse Hopkins said, "She's been poisoned."
Her eyes, hard with suspicion, glared at Elinor.
79
chapter VIII

H,
lercule Poirot, his egg-shaped head gently tilted to one
side, his eyebrows raised inquiringly, his finger tips joined
together, watched the young man who was striding so savagely
up and down the room, his pleasant freckled face puckered
and drawn.
Hercule Poirot said, "Eh bien, my friend, what is all this?"
Peter Lord stopped dead in his pacing.
He said, "Monsieur Poirot, you're the only man in the
world who can help me. I've heard Stillingfleet talk about
you; he's told me what you did in that Benedict Parley case.
How every mortal soul thought it was suicide and you showed
that it was murder."
Hercule Poirot said, "Have you, then, a case of suicide
among your patients about which you are not satisfied?"
Peter Lord shook his head. He sat down opposite Poirot.
He said, "There's a young woman. She's been arrested and
she's going to be tried for murder! I want you to find evidence
that will prove that she didn't do it!"
Poirot's eyebrows rose a little higher. Then he assumed a
discreet and confidential manner.
He said, "You and this young lady--you are affianced--
yes? You are in love with each other?"
Peter Lord laughed--a sharp, bitter laugh.
He said, "No, it's not like that! She has the bad taste to
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sad cypress
prefer a long-nosed, supercilious ass with a face like a melancholy
horse! Stupid other, but there it is!"
Poirot said, "I see."
Lord said bitterly, "Oh, yes, you see all right! No need to be
so tactful about it. I fell for her straightaway. And because of
that I don't want her hanged. See?"
Poirot said, "What is the charge against her?"
"She's accused of murdering a girl called Mary Gerrard, by
poisoning her with morphine hydrochloride. You've probably
read the account of the inquest in the papers."
Poirot said, "And the motive?"
"Jealousy!"
"And in your opinion she didn't do it?"
"No, of course not."
Hercule Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a moment or
two, then said, "What is it exactly that you want me to do?
To investigate this matter?"
"I want you to get her off."
"I am not a defending counsel, mon cher."
"I'll put it more clearly: I want you to find evidence that will
enable her counsel to get her off."
Hercule Poirot said, "You put this a little curiously."
Peter Lord said, "Because I don't wrap it up, you mean? It
seems simple enough to me. I want this girl acquitted. I think you are'the only man who can do it!"
"You wish me to look into the facts? To find out the truth?
To discover what really happened?"
"I want you to find any facts that will tell in her favor."
Hercule Poirot, with care and precision, lighted a very tiny cigarette. He said, "But is it not a little unethical what you
say there? To arrive at the truth, yes, that always interests
me. But the truth is a two-edged weapon. Supposing that I
find facts against the lady? Do you demand that I suppress
them?"
Peter Lord stood up. He was very white. He said, "That's
impossible! Nothing that you could find could be more against
her than the facts are already! They're utterly and com81
agatha christie
pletely damning! There's any amount of evidence against her
black and plain for all the world to see! You couldn't find
anything that would damn her more completely than she is
already! I'm asking you to use all your ingenuity--Stillingfleet
says you're damned ingenious--to ferret out a loophole, a
possible alternative."
Hercule Poirot said, "Surely her lawyers will do that?"
"Will they?" The young man laughed scornfully. "They're
licked before they start! Think .it's hopeless! They've briefed
Bulmer, K.C., the forlorn hope man; that's a give-away in
itself! Big orator--sob stuff--stressing the prisoner's youth--
all that! But the judge won't let him get away with it. Not a
hope!"
Hercule Poirot said, "Supposing she is guilty--do you still
want to get her acquitted?"
Peter Lord said quietly, "Yes."
Hercule Poirot moved in his chair. He said, "You interest
me."
After a minute or two he said, "You had better, I think, tell
me the exact facts of the case."
"Haven't you read anything about it in the papers?"
Hercule Poirot waved a hand. "A mention of it--yes. But
the newspapers, they are so inaccurate, I never go by what
they say."
Peter Lord said, "It's quite simple. Horribly simple. This
girl, Elinor Carlisle, had just come into a place near here--
Hunterbury Hall--and a fortune from her aunt, who died
intestate. Aunt's name was Welman. Aunt had a nephew by
marriage--Roderick Welman. He was engaged to Elinor
Carlisle--long-standing business, known each other since
children. There was a girl down at Hunterbury: Mary Gerrard,
daughter of the lodgekeeper. Old Mrs. Welman had made a
lot of fuss about her, paid for her education, etc. Consequence
is, girl was to outward seeming a lady. Roderick Welman, it
seems, fell for her. In consequence, engagement is broken off.
"Now we come to the doings. Elinor Carlisle put up the
place for sale and a man called Somervell bought it. Elinor
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came down to clear out her aunt's personal possessions and so
on. Mary Gerrard, whose father had just died, was clearing
out the lodge. That brings us to the morning of July 27th.
"Elinor Carlisle was staying at the local pub. In the street
she met the former housekeeper, Mrs. Bishop. Mrs. Bishop
suggested coming up to the house to help her. Elinor refused--
rather overvehemently. Then she went to the grocer's shop
and bought some fish paste, and there she made a remark
about food poisoning. You see? Perfectly innocent thing to
do; but, of course, it tells against her! She went up to the
house, and about one o'clock she went down to the lodge,
where Mary Gerrard was busy with the District Nurse, a
Nosey Parker of a woman called Hopkins, helping her, and
told them that she had made some sandwiches ready up at
the house. They came up to the house with her, ate sandwiches,
and about an hour or so later I was sent for and found Mary
Gerrard unconscious. Did all I could, but it was no good.
Autopsy revealed large dose of morphine had been taken a
short time previously. And the police found a scrap of a label
with morphia hydrochlor on it just where Elinor Carlisle had
been spreading the sandwiches."
"What else did Mary Gerrard eat or drink?"
"She and the District Nurse drank tea with the sandwiches.
Nurse made it and Mary poured it out. Couldn't have been
anything there. Of course, I understand Counsel will make a
song and dance about sandwiches, too, saying all three ate
them, therefore impossible to ensure that only one person
should be poisoned. They said that in the Hearne case, you
remember."
Poirot nodded. He said, "But actually it is very simple. You
make your pile of sandwiches. In one of them is the poison. You
hand the plate. In our state of civilization it is a foregone
conclusion that the person to whom the plate is offered will
take the sandwich that is nearest to them. I presume that Elinor
Carlisle handed the plate to Mary Gerrard first?"
"Exactly."
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agatha christie
"Although the nurse, who was an older woman, was in the
room."
"Yes."
"That does not look very good."
"It doesn't mean a thing, really. You don't stand on ceremony
at a picnic lunch."
"Who cut the sandwiches?"
"Elinor Carlisle."
"Was there anyone else in the house?"
"No one."
Poirot shook his head. "It is bad, that. And the girl had nothing but the tea and the sandwiches?"
"Nothing. Stomach contents tell us that."
Poirot said, "It is suggested that Elinor Carlisle hoped the girl's death would be taken for food poisoning? How did she
propose to explain the fact that only one member of the party
was affected?"
Peter Lord said, "It does happen that way sometimes. Also,
there were two pots of paste--both much alike in appearance.
The idea would be that one pot was all right and that by a
coincidence all the bad paste was eaten by Mary."
"An interesting study in the laws of probability," said Poirot.
"The mathematical chances against that happening would
be high, I fancy. But another point, if food poisoning was to be
suggested: Why not choose a different poison? The symptoms of
morphine are not in the least like those of food poisoning.
Atropine, surely, would have been a better choice!"
Peter Lord said slowly, "Yes, that's true. But there's something
more. That damned District Nurse swears she lost a
tube of morphine!"
"When?"
"Oh, weeks earlier, the night old Mrs. Welman died. The
nurse says she left her case in the hall and found a tube of
morphine missing in the morning. All buncombe, I believe.
Probably smashed it at home some time before and forgot
about it."
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"She has only remembered it since the death of Mary
Gerrard?"
Pete» Lord said reluctantly, "As a matter of fact, she did mention it at the time--to the nurse on duty."
Hercule Poirot was looking at Peter Lord with some interest.
He said gently, "I think, mon cher, there is something else--
something that you have not yet told me."
Peter Lord said, "Oh, well, I suppose you'd better have it
all. They're applying for an exhumation order and going to
dig up old Mrs. Welman."
Poirot said, "Eh bien?"
Peter Lord said, "When they do, they'll probably find what
they're looking for--morphine I"
"You knew that?"
Peter Lord, his face white under the freckles, muttered, "I
suspected it."
Hercule Poirot beat with his hand on the arm of his chair.
He cried out, "Mow Dieu, I do not understand you! You knew when she died that she had been murdered?"
Peter Lord shouted, "Good Lord, no! I never dreamed of
such a thing! I thought she'd taken it herself."
Poirot sank back in his chair. "Ah! You thought that."
"Of course I did! She'd talked to me about it. Asked me
more than once if I couldn't 'finish her off.' She hated illness,
the helplessness of it--the--what she called the indignity of lying there tended like a baby. And she was a very determined
woman."
He was silent a moment, then he went on: "I was surprised
at her death. I hadn't expected it. I sent the nurse out of the
room and made as thorough an investigation as I could. Of
course, it was impossible to be sure without an autopsy. Well,
what was the good of that? If she'd taken a short-cut, why
make a song and dance about it and create a scandal? Better
sign the certificate and let her be buried in peace. After all, I
couldn't be sure. I decided wrong, I suppose. But I never
dreamed for one moment of foul play! I was quite sure she'd
done it herself."
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AGATHA christie
Poirot asked, "How did you think she had got hold of the
morphine?"
"I hadn't the least idea. But, as I tell you, she was a clever,
resourceful woman, with plenty of ingenuity and remarkable
determination."
"Would she have got it from the nurses?"
Peter Lord shook his head. "Never on your life! You don't
know nurses!"
"From her family?"
"Possibly. Might have worked on their feelings."
Hercule Poirot said, "You have told me that Mrs. Welman
died intestate. If she had lived, would she have made a will?"
Peter Lord grinned suddenly. "Putting your finger with
fiendish accuracy on all the vital spots, aren't you? Yes, she
was going to make a will; very agitated about it. Couldn't
speak intelligently, but made her wishes clear. Elinor Carlisle
was to have telephoned the lawyer first thing in the morning."
"So Elinor Carlisle knew that her aunt wanted to make a
will? And if her aunt died without making one, Elinor Carlisle
inherited everything?"
Peter Lord said quickly, "She didn't know that. She'd no
idea her aunt had never made a will."
"That, my friend, is what she says. She may have known."
"Look here, Poirot, are you the Prosecuting Counsel?"
"At the moment, yes. I must know the full strength of the
case against her. Could Elinor Carlisle have taken the morphine
from the attache case?"
"Yes. So could anyone else. Roderick Welman. Nurse
O'Brien. Any of the servants."
"Or Dr. Lord?"
Peter Lord's eyes opened wide. He said, "Certainly. But
what would be the idea?"
"Mercy, perhaps."
Peter Lord shook his head. "Nothing doing there! You'll
have to believe me!"
Hercule Poirot leaned back in his chair. He said, "Let us
entertain a supposition. Let us say that Elinor Carlisle did
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sad cypress
take that morphine from the attache case and did administer
it to her aunt. Was anything said about the loss of the
morprRne?"
"Not to the household. The two nurses kept it to themselves."
Poirot said, "What, in your opinion, will be the action of
the Crown?"
"You mean if they find morphine in Mrs. Welman's body?"
"Yes."
Peter Lord said grimly, "It's possible that if Elinor is acquitted
of the present charge she will be rearrested and charged
with the murder of her aunt."
Poirot said thoughtfully, "The motives are different; that
is to say, in the case of Mrs. Welman the motive would have
been gain, whereas in the case of Mary Gerrard the motive is
supposed to be jealousy."
"That's right."
Poirot said, "What line does the defense propose to take?"
Peter Lord said, "Bulmer proposes to take the line that
there was no motive. He'll put forward the theory that the
engagement between Elinor and Roderick was a family
business, entered into for family reasons, to please Mrs.
Welman, and that the moment the old lady was dead Elinor
broke it off of her own accord. Roderick Welman will give
evidence to that effect. I think he almost believes it!"
"Believes that Elinor did not care for him to any great
extent?"
"Yes."
"In which case," said Poirot, "she would have no reason for
murdering Mary Gerrard."
"Exactly."
"But in that case, who did murder Mary Gerrard?"
"As you say."
Poirot shook his head. "C'est difficile,"
Peter Lord said vehemently, "That's just it! If she didn't, who did? There's the tea; but both Nurse Hopkins and Mary
drank that. The defense will try and suggest that Mary Gerrard
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AGATHA christie
took the morphine herself after the other two had left the
room--that she committed suicide, in fact."
"Had she any reason for committing suicide?"
"None whatever."
"Was she of a suicidal type?"
"No."
Poirot said, "What was she like, this Mary Gerrard?"
Peter Lord considered, "She was--well, she was a nice kid.
Yes, definitely a nice kid."
Poirot sighed. He murmured^ "This Roderick Welman, did
he fall in love with her because she was a nice kid?"
Peter Lord smiled. "Oh, I get what you mean. She was
beautiful, all right."
"And you yourself? You had no feeling for her?"
Peter Lord stared, "Good Lord, no."
Hercule Poirot reflected for a moment or two, then he said,
"Roderick Welman says that there was affection between him
and Elinor Carlisle, but nothing stronger. Do you agree to
that?"
"How the hell should I know?"
Poirot shook his head. "You told me when you came into
this room that Elinor Carlisle had the bad taste to be in love
with a long-nosed, supercilious ass. That, I presume, is a
description of Roderick Welman. So, according to you, she does care for him."
Peter Lord said in a low, exasperated voice, "She cares for
him all right! Cares like hell!"
Poirot said, "Then there was a motive."
Peter Lord swerved round on him, his face alight with
anger. "Does it matter? She might have done it, yes! I don't
care if she did."
Poirot said, "Aha!"
"But I don't want her hanged, I tell you! Supposing she was driven desperate? Love's a desperate and twisting business.
It can turn a worm into a fine fellow---and it can bring a
decent, straight man down to the dregs! Suppose she did do it.
Haven't you got any pity?"
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sad cypress
Hercule Poirot said, "I do not approve of murder."
Peter Lord stared at him, looked away, stared again, and
finally burst out laughing.
"Of all the things to say--so prim and smug, too! Who's
asking you to approve? I'm not asking you to tell lies! Truth's
truth, isn't it? If you find something that tells in an accused
person's favor, you wouldn't be inclined to suppress it because
she's guilty, would you?"
"Certainly not."
"Then why the hell can't you do what I ask you?"
Hercule Poirot said, "My friend, I am perfectly prepared to
do so."
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chapter IX

p,
ETER Lord stared at him, took out a handkerchief, wiped
his face, and threw himself down in a chair.
"Whoof!" he said. "You got me all worked up! I didn't see
in the least what you were getting at!"
Poirot said, "I was examining the case against Elinor Carlisle.
Now I know it. Morphine was administered to Mary Gerrard;
and, as far as I can see, it must have been given in the
sandwiches. Nobody touched those sandwiches except Elinor
Carlisle. Elinor Carlisle had a motive for killing Mary Gerrard,
and she is, in your opinion, capable of killing Mary Gerrard,
and in all probability she did kill Mary Gerrard. I see no
reason for believing otherwise.
"That, mon ami, is one side of the question. Now we will
dismiss all those considerations from our mind and we will
approach the matter from the opposite angle: If Elinor Carlisle
did not kill Mary Gerrard, who did? Or did Mary Gerrard
commit suicide?"
Peter Lord sat up. A frown creased his forehead. He said,
"You weren't quite accurate just now."
"I? Not accurate^" Poirot sounded affronted.
Peter Lord pursued relentlessly, "No. You said nobody but
Elinor Carlisle touched those sandwiches. You don't know
that."
"There was no one else in the house."
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sad CYPRESS
"As far as we know. But you are excluding a short period of
time. There was a time during which Elinor Carlisle left the
house to go down to the lodge. During that period of time the
sandwiches were on a plate in the pantry, and somebody could have tampered with them."
Poirot drew a deep breath. He said, "You are right, my
friend. I admit it. There was a time during which somebody
could have had access to the plate of sandwiches. We must
try to form some idea who that somebody could be; that is to
say, what kind of person."
He paused.
"Let us consider this Mary Gerrard. Someone, not Elinor
Carlisle, desired her death. Why? Did anyone stand to gain by
her death? Had she money to leave?"
Peter Lord shook his head. "Not now. In another month she
would have had two thousand pounds. Elinor Carlisle was
making that sum over to her because she believed her aunt
would have wished it. But the old lady's estate isn't wound
up yet."
Poirot said, "Then we can wash out the money angle. Mary
Gerrard was beautiful, you say. With that there are always
complications. She had admirers?"
"Probably. I don't know much about it."
"Who would know?"
Peter Lord grinned. "I'd better put you on to Nurse Hopkins.
She's the town crier. She knows everything that goes on in
Maidensford."
"I was going to ask you to give me your impressions of the
two nurses."
"Well, O'Brien's Irish, good nurse, competent, a bit silly,
could be spiteful, a bit of a liar--the imaginative kind that's
not so much deceitful, but just has to make a good story out of
everything."
Poirot nodded.
"Hopkins is a sensible, shrewd, middle-aged woman, quite
kindly and competent, but a sight too much interested in
other people's business!"
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agatha christie
"If there had been trouble over some young man in the
village, would Nurse Hopkins know about it?"
"You bet!"
He added slowly, "All the same, I don't believe there can be
anything very obvious in that line. Mary hadn't been home
long. She'd been away in Germany for two years."
"She was twenty-one?"
"Yes."
"There may be some German complication."
Peter Lord's face brightened. He said eagerly, "You mean
that some German fellow may have had it in for her? He may
have followed her over here, waited his time, and finally
achieved his object?"
"It sounds a little melodramatic," said Hercule Poirot
doubtfully.
"But it's possible?"
"Not very probable, though."
Peter Lord said, "I don't agree. Someone might get all het
up about the girl, and see red when she turned him down. He
may have fancied she treated him badly. It's an idea."
"It is an idea, yes," said Hercule Poirot, but his tone was
not encouraging.
Peter Lord said pleadingly, "Go on, Poirot."
"You want me, I see, to be the conjurer. To take out of the
empty hat rabbit after rabbit."
"You can put it that way if you like."
"There is another possibility," said Hercule Poirot.
"Go on."
"Someone abstracted a tube of morphine from Nurse
Hopkins's case that evening in June. Suppose Mary Gerrard
saw the person who did it?"
"She would have said so."
"No, no, mon cher. Be reasonable. If Elinor Carlisle, or
Roderick Welman, or Nurse O'Brien, or even any of the
servants, were to open that case and abstract a little glass
tube, what would anyone think? Simply that the person in
question had been sent by the nurse to fetch something from
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sad cypress
it. The matter would pass straight out of Mary Gerrard's
mind again, but it is possible that, later, she might recollect
the fact and might mention it casually to the person in
question--oh, without the least suspicion in the world. But to
the person guilty of the murder of Mrs. Welman, imagine the
effect of that remark! Mary had seen; Mary must be silenced
at all costs! I can assure you, my friend, that anyone who has
once committed a murder finds it only too easy to commit
another!"
Peter Lord said with a frown, "I've believed all along that
Mrs. Welman took the stuff herself."
"But she was paralyzed--helpless--she had just had a second
stroke."
"Oh, I know. My idea was that, having got hold of morphine
somehow or other, she kept it by her in a receptacle
close at hand."
"But in that case she must have got hold of the morphine before her second attack, and the nurse missed it afterward."
"Hopkins may only have missed the morphine that morning.
It might have been taken a couple of days before, and she
hadn't noticed it."
"How would the old lady have got hold of it?"
"I don't know. Bribed a servant, perhaps. If so, that servant's
never going to tell."
"You don't think either of the nurses were bribable?"
Lord shook his head. "Not on your life! To begin with,
they're both very strict about their professional ethics--and
in addition they'd be scared to death to do such a thing.
They'd know the danger to themselves."
Poirot said, "That is so."
He added thoughtfully, "It looks, does it not, as though we
return to our muttons? Who is the most likely person to have
taken that morphine tube? Elinor Carlisle. We may say that
she wished to make sure of inheriting a large fortune. We may
be more generous and say that she was actuated by pity, that
she took the morphine and administered it in compliance
with her aunt's often-repeated request; but she took it--and
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agatha CHRISTIE
Mary Gerrard saw her do it. And so we are back at the sandwiches
and the empty house, and we have Elinor Carlisle
once more--but this time with a different motive to save her
neck."
Peter Lord cried out, "That's fantastic. I tell you, she isn't
that kind of person! Money doesn't really mean anything to
her--or to Roderick Welman, either, I'm bound to admit. I've
heard them both say as much!"
"You have? That is very interesting. That is the kind of
statement I always look upon with a good deal of suspicion
myself."
Peter Lord said, "Damn you, Poirot, must you always twist
everything round so that it comes back to that girl?"
"It is not I that twist things round; they come round of
themselves. It is like the pointer at the fair. It swings round,
and when it comes to rest it points always at the same name-- Elinor Carlisle."
Peter Lord said, "No!"
Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. Then he said, "Has
she relations, this Elinor Carlisle? Sisters, cousins? A father
or mother?"
"No. She's an orphan--alone in the world."
"How pathetic it sounds! Bulmer, I am sure, will make
great play with that! Who, then, inherits her money if she
dies?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought."
Poirot said reprovingly, "One should always think of these
things. Has she made a will, for instance?"
Peter Lord flushed. He said uncertainly, "I--I don't know."
Hercule Poirot looked at the ceiling and joined his finger
tips. He remarked, "It would be well, you know, to tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Exactly what is in your mind--no matter how damaging it
may happen to be to Elinor Carlisle."
"How do you know--"
"Yes, yes, I know. There is something--some incident in
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sad cypress
your mind! It will be as well to tell me, otherwise I shall
imagine it is something worse than it is!"
"It's nothing, really--"
"We will agree it is nothing. But let me hear what it is."
Slowly, unwillingly, Peter Lord allowed the story to be
dragged from him--that scene of Elinor leaning in at the
window of Nurse Hopkins's cottage, and of her laughter.
Poirot said thoughtfully, "She said that, did she, 'So you're
making your will, Mary? That's funny--that's very funny.' And
it was very clear to you what was in her mind. She had been
thinking perhaps, that Mary Gerrard was not going to live long." Peter Lord said, "I only imagined that. I don't know."
Poirot said, "No, you did not only imagine it."
95
chapter X

H,
lercule Poirot sat in Nurse Hopkins's cottage.
Dr. Lord had brought him there, had introduced him,
and had then, at a glance from Poirot, left him to a teteatete.

Having, to begin with, eyed his foreign appearance somewhat
askance, Nurse Hopkins was now thawing rapidly.
She said with a faintly gloomy relish, "Yes, it's a terrible
thing. One of the most terrible things I've ever known. Mary
was one of the most beautiful girls you've ever seen. Might
have gone on the films any time! And a nice steady girl, too,
and not stuck-up, as she might have been with all the notice
taken of her."
Poirot, inserting a question adroitly, said, "You mean the
notice taken of her by Mrs. Welman?"
"That's what I mean. The old lady had taken a tremendous
fancy to her--really, a tremendous fancy."
Hercule Poirot murmured, "Surprising, perhaps?"
"That depends. It might be quite natural, really. I mean--"
Nurse Hopkins bit her lip and looked confused. "What I mean
is, Mary had a very pretty way with her; nice soft voice and
pleasant manners. And it's my opinion it does an elderly
person good to have a young face about."
Hercule Poirot said, "Miss Carlisle came down occasionally,
I suppose, to see her aunt?"
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sad cypress
Nurse Hopkins said sharply, "Miss Carlisle came down
when it. suited her."
Poirot murmured, "You do not like Miss Carlisle."
Nurse Hopkins cried out, "I should hope not, indeed! A
poisoner! A cold-blooded poisoner!"
"Ah," said Hercule Poirot, "I see you have made up your
mind."
Nurse Hopkins said suspiciously, "What do you mean?
Made up my mind?"
"You are quite sure that it was she who administered morphine
to Mary Gerrard?"
"Who else could have done it, I should like to know? You're
not suggesting that I did?"
"Not for a moment. But her guilt has not yet been proved,
remember."
Nurse Hopkins said with calm assurance, "She did it, all
right. Apart from anything else, you could see it in her face.
Queer she was, all the time. And taking me away upstairs and
keeping me there--delaying as long as possible. And then
when I turned on her, after finding Mary like that, it was
there in her face as plain as anything. She knew I knew!"
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully, "It is certainly difficult
to see who else could have done it. Unless, of course, she did
it herself."
"What do you mean, did it herself? Do you mean that Mary
committed suicide? I never heard such nonsense!"
Hercule Poirot said, "One can never tell. The heart of a
young girl, it is very sensitive, very tender." He paused. "It
would have been possible, I suppose? She could have slipped
something into her tea without your noticing her?"
"Slipped it into her cup, you mean?"
"Yes. You weren't watching her all the time."
"I wasn't watching her--no. Yes, I suppose she could have
done that. . . . But it's all nonsense! What would she want to
do a thing like that for?" -
Hercule Poirot shook his head with a resumption of his
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agatha christie
former manner. "A young girl's heart—as I say, so sensitive.
An unhappy love affair, perhaps—"
Nurse Hopkins gave a snort. "Girls don't kill themselves
for love affairs—not unless they're in the family way—and
Mary wasn't that, let me tell you!" She glared at him
belligerently.
"And she was not in love?"
"Not she. Quite fancy free.'Keen on her job and enjoying
life."
"But she must have had admirers, since she was such an
attractive girl."
Nurse Hopkins said, "She wasn't one of these girls who are
all sex appeal. She was a quiet girl!"
"But there were young men, no doubt, in the village who
admired her."
"There was Ted Bigland, of course," said Nurse Hopkins.
Poirot extracted various details as to Ted Bigland.
"Very gone on Mary, he was," said Nurse Hopkins. "But as
I told her, she was a cut above him."
Poirot said, "He must have been angry when she would not
have anything to do with him?"
"He was sore about it, yes," admitted Nurse Hopkins.
"Blamed me for it, too."
"He thought it was your fault?"
"That's what he said. I'd a perfect right to advise the girl.
After all, I know something of the world. I didn't want the
girl to throw herself away."
Poirot said gently, "What made you take so much interest
in the girl?"
"Well, I don't know." Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She looked
shy and a little ashamed of herself. "There was something—
well—romantic about Mary."
Poirot murmured, "About her, perhaps, but not about her
circumstances. She was the lodgekeeper's daughter, wasn't
she?"
Nurse Hopkins said, "Yes—yes, of course. At least—"
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sad cypress
She hesitated, looked at Poirot, who was gazing at her in
the most sympathetic manner.
"As a matter of fact," said Nurse Hopkins, in a burst of
confidence, "she wasn't old Gerrard's daughter at all. He told
me so. Her father was a gentleman."
Poirot murmured, "I see. . . . And her mother?"
Nurse Hopkins hesitated, bit her lip, and then went on:
"Her mother had been lady's maid to old Mrs. Welman. She
married Gerrard after Mary was born."
"As you say, quite a romance—a mystery romance."
Nurse Hopkins's face lit up. "Wasn't it? One can't help
taking an interest in people when one knows something that
nobody else does about them. Just by chance I happened to
find out a good deal. As a matter of fact, it was Nurse O'Brien
who set me on the track; but that's another story. But, as you
say, it's interesting knowing past history. There's many a
tragedy that goes unguessed at. It's a sad world."
Poirot sighed and shook his head.
Nurse Hopkins said with sudden alarm, "But I oughtn't to
have gone talking like this. I wouldn't have a word of this get
out for anything! After all, it's nothing to do with the case. As
far as the world is concerned, Mary was Gerrard's daughter,
and there mustn't be a hint of anything else. Damaging her in
the eyes of the world after she's dead! He married her mother,
and that's enough."
Poirot murmured, "But you know, perhaps, who her real
father was?"
Nurse Hopkins said reluctantly, "Well, perhaps I do; but,
then again, perhaps I don't. That is, I don't know anything. I
could make a guess. Old sins have long shadows, as they say!
But I'm not one to talk, and I shan't say another word."
Poirot tactfully retired from the fray and attacked another
subject. "There is something else—a delicate matter. But I
am sure I can rely on your discretion."
Nurse Hopkins bridled. A broad smile appeared on her
homely face.
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AGATHA christie
Poirot continued, "I speak of Mr. Roderick Welman. He
was, so I hear, attracted by Mary Gerrard."
Nurse Hopkins said, "Bowled over by her!"
"Although at the time he was engaged to Miss Carlisle?"
"If you ask me," said Nurse Hopkins, "he was never really
sweet on Miss Carlisle. Not what I'd call sweet on her."
Poirot asked, using an old-fashioned term, "Did Mary
Gerrard--er--encourage his advances?"
Nurse Hopkins said sharply, "She behaved very well. Nobody
could say she led him on!"
Poirot said, "Was she in love with him?"
Nurse Hopkins said sharply, "No, she wasn't."
"But she liked him?"
"Oh, yes, she liked him well enough."
"And I suppose, in time, something might have come of
it?"
"That may be. But Mary wouldn't have done anything in a
hurry. She told him down here he had no business to speak
like that to her when he was engaged to Miss Elinor. And
when he came to see her in London she said the same."
Poirot asked with- an air of engaging candor, "What do you
yourself think of Mr. Roderick Welman?"
Nurse Hopkins said, "He's a nice enough young fellow.
Nervy, though. Looks as though he might be dyspeptic later on.
Those nervy ones often are."
"Was he very fond of his aunt?"
"I believe so."
"Did he sit with her much when she was so ill?"
"You mean when she had that second stroke? The night
before she died when they came down? I don't believe he
even went into her room!"
"Really."
Nurse Hopkins said quickly, "She didn't ask for him. And,
of course, we'd no idea the end was so near. There are a lot of
men like that, you know; fight shy of a sickroom. They can't
help it. And it's not heartlessness. They just don't want to be
upset in their feelings."
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SAD CYPRESS
Poirot nodded comprehendingly. He said, "Are you sure Mr. Weiman did not go into his aunt's room before she died?"
"Well, not while I was on duty! Nurse O'Brien relieved me
at three a.m., and she may have fetched him before the end;
but, if so, she didn't mention it to me."
Poirot suggested, "He may have gone into her room when
you were absent?"
Nurse Hopkins snapped, "I don't leave my patients unattended,
Mr. Poirot."
"A thousand apologies. I did not mean that. I thought perhaps
you might have had to boil water, or to run downstairs
for some necessary stimulant."
Mollified, Nurse Hopkins said, "I did go down to change
the bottles and get them refilled. I knew there'd be a kettle on
the boil down in the kitchen."
"You were away long?"
"Five minutes, perhaps."
"Ah, yes, then Mr. Welman may have just looked in on her
then?"
"He must have been very quick about it if he did."
Poirot sighed. He said, "As you say, men fight shy of illness.
It is the women who are the ministering angels. What should
we do without them? Especially women of your profession--a
truly noble calling."
Nurse Hopkins, slightly red in the face, said, "It's very
kind of you to say that. I've never thought of it that way
myself. Too much hard work in nursing to think about the
noble side of it."
Poirot said, "And there is nothing else you can tell me
about Mary Gerrard?"
There was an appreciable pause before Nurse Hopkins
answered, "I don't know of anything."
"Are you quite sure?"
Nurse Hopkins said rather incoherently, "You don't understand.
I was fond of Mary."
"And there's nothing more you can tell me?"
"No, there is not! And that's flat."
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FR1;chapter XI

I
N the awesome majesty of Mrs. Bishop's black-clad presence
Hercule Poirot sat humbly insignificant.
The thawing of Mrs. Bishop was no easy matter. For Mrs.
Bishop, a lady of conservative habits and views, strongly
disapproved of foreigners. And a foreigner most indubitably
Hercule Poirot was. Her responses were frosty and she eyed
him with disfavor and suspicion.
Dr. Lord's introduction of him had done little to soften the
situation.
"I am sure," said Mrs. Bishop when Dr. Lord had gone,
"Dr. Lord is a very clever doctor and means well. Dr. Ransome,
his predecessor, had been here many years!"
Dr. Ransome, that is to say, could be trusted to behave in a
manner suitable to the county. Dr. Lord, a mere irresponsible
youngster, an upstart who had taken Dr. Ransome's place,
had only one recommendation: "cleverness" in his profession.
Cleverness, the whole demeanor of Mrs. Bishop seemed to
say, is not enough!
Hercule Poirot was persuasive. He was adroit. But charm
he never so wisely, Mrs. Bishop remained aloof and implacable.
The death of Mrs. Welman had been very sad. She had
been much respected in the neighborhood. The arrest of Miss
Carlisle was "Disgraceful!" and believed to be the result of
"these new-fangled police methods." The views of Mrs. Bishop
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sad cypress
upon the death of Mary Gerrard were vague in the extreme,
"I couldn't say, I'm sure," being the most she could be brought
to say.
Hercule Poirot played his last card. He recounted with
naive pride a recent visit of his to Sandringham. He spoke
with admiration of the graciousness and delightful simplicity
and kindness of Royalty.
Mrs. Bishop, who followed daily in the court circular the
exact movements of Royalty, was overborne. After all, if They
had sent for Mr. Poirot-- Well, naturally, that made All the
Difference. Foreigner or no foreigner, who was she, Emma
Bishop, to hold back where Royalty had led the way?
Presently she and M. Poirot were engaged in pleasant conversation
on a really interesting theme--no less than the
selection of a suitable future husband for the Princess.
Having finally exhausted all possible candidates as Not
Good Enough, the talk reverted to less exalted circles.
Poirot observed sententiously, "Marriage, alas, is fraught
with dangers and pitfalls!"
Mrs. Bishop said, "Yes, indeed--with this nasty divorce,"
rather as though she were speaking of a contagious disease
such as chicken pox.
"I suspect," said Poirot, "that Mrs. Welman, before her
death, must have been anxious to see her niece suitably settled
for life?"
Mrs. Bishop bowed her head. "Yes, indeed. The engagement
between Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick was a great
relief to her. It was a thing she had always hoped for."
Poirot ventured, "The engagement was perhaps entered
into partly from a wish to please her?"
"Oh, no, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Poirot. Miss Elinor has
always been devoted to Mr. Roddy--always was, as a tiny
tot--quite beautiful to see. Miss Elinor has a very loyal and
devoted nature!"
Poirot murmured, "And he?"
Mrs. Bishop said austerely, "Mr. Roderick was devoted to
Miss Elinor."
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agatha christie
Poirot said, "Yet the engagement, I think, was broken off?"
The color rose in Mrs. Bishop's face. She said, "Owing, Mr.
Poirot, to the machinations of a snake in the grass."
Poirot said, appearing suitably impressed, "Indeed?"
Mrs. Bishop, her face becoming redder still, explained, "In
this country, Mr. Poirot, there is a certain Decency to be
observed when mentioning the Dead, But that young woman,
Mr. Poirot, was Underhand in her Dealings."
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he
said with an apparent lack of* guile, "You surprise me. I had
been given the impression that she was a very simple and
unassuming girl."
Mrs. Bishop's chin trembled a little. "She was Artful, Mr.
Poirot. People were Taken In by her. That Nurse Hopkins,
for instance! Yes, and my poor dear mistress, too!"
Poirot shook his head sympathetically and made a clacking
noise with his tongue.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Bishop, stimulated by these encouraging
noises. "She was failing, poor dear, and that young
woman Wormed her way into her Confidence. She knew
which side of her bread was buttered. Always hovering about,
reading to her, bringing her little nosegays of flowers. It was
Mary this and Mary that and "Where's Mary?' all the time! The
money she spent on the girl, too! Expensive schools and finishing
places abroad--and the girl nothing but old Gerrard's daughter! He didn't like it, I can tell you! Used to complain of her Fine
Lady ways. Above Herself, that's what She was."
This time Poirot shook his head and said commiseratingly,
"Dear, dear."
"And then Making Up to Mr. Roddy the way she did! He
was too simple to See Through her. And Miss Elinor, a niceminded
young lady as she is, of course she wouldn't realize
what was Going On. But Men, they are all alike: easily caught
by flattery and a pretty face!"
Poirot sighed. "She had, I suppose, admirers of her own
class?" he asked.
"Of course she had. There was Rufus Bigland's son Ted--as
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nice a boy as you could find. But, oh, no, my fine lady was too
good for himi I'd no patience with such airs and graces!"
Poirot said, "Was he not angry about her treatment of
him?"
"Yes, indeed. He accused her of carrying on with Mr. Roddy.
I know that for a fact. I don't blame the boy for feeling sore!"
"Nor I," said Poirot. "You interest me extremely, Mrs.
Bishop. Some people have the knack of presenting a character
clearly and vigorously in a few words. It is a great gift. I have
at last a clear picture of Mary Gerrard."
"Mind you," said Mrs. Bishop, "I'm not saying a word
against the girl! I wouldn't do such a thing—and she in her
grave. But there's no doubt that she caused a lot of trouble!"
Poirot murmured, "Where would it have ended, I wonder?"
"That's what I say!" said Mrs. Bishop. "You can take it
from me, Mr. Poirot, that if my dear mistress hadn't died
when she did—awful as the shock was at the time, I see now
that it was a Mercy in Disguise—I don't know what might
have been the end of it!"
Poirot said invitingly, "You mean?"
Mrs. Bishop said solemnly, "I've come across it time and
again. My own sister was in service where it happened. Once
when old Colonel Randolph died and left every penny away
from his poor wife to a hussy living at Eastbourne—and once
old Mrs. Dacres—left it to the organist of the church—one of
those long-haired young men—and she with married sons and
daughters."
Poirot said, "You mean, I take it, that Mrs. Welman might
have left all her money to Mary Gerrard?"
"It wouldn't have surprised me!" said Mrs. Bishop. "That's
what the young woman was working up to, I've no doubt. And
if I ventured to say a word, Mrs. Welman was ready to bite
my head off, though I'd been with her nearly twenty years.
It's an ungrateful world, Mr. Poirot. You try to do your duty
and it is not appreciated."
"Alas," sighed Poirot, "how true that is!"
"But Wickedness doesn't always flourish," said Mrs. Bishop.
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AGATHA christie
Poirot said, "True. Mary Gerrard is dead."
Mrs. Bishop said comfortably, "She's gone to her reckoning,
and we mustn't judge her."
Poirot mused, "The circumstances of her death seem quite
inexplicable."
"These police and their new-fangled ideas," said Mrs. Bishop.
"Is it likely that a well-bred, nicely brought-up young lady
like Miss Elinor would go about poisoning anyone? Trying to
drag me into it, too, saying I said her manner was peculiar!"
"But was it not peculiar?"
"And why shouldn't it be?" Mrs. Bishop's bust heaved
with a flash of jet. "Miss Elinor's a young lady of feelings.
She was going to turn out her aunt's things--and that's always
a painful business."
Poirot nodded sympathetically. He said, "It would have
made it much easier for her if you had accompanied her."
"I wanted to, Mr. Poirot, but she took me up quite sharp.
Oh, well, Miss Elinor was always a very proud and reserved
young lady. I wish, though, that I had gone with her."
Poirot murmured, "You did not think of following her up to
the house?"
Mrs. Bishop reared her head majestically. "I don't go where
I'm not wanted, Mr. Poirot."
Poirot looked abashed. He murmured, "Besides, you had
doubtless matters of importance to attend to that morning?"
"It was a very warm day, I remember. Very sultry." She
sighed. "I walked to the cemetery to place a few flowers on
Mrs. Welman's grave, a token of respect, and I had to rest
there quite a long time. Quite overcome by the heat, I was. I
got home late for lunch, and my sister was quite upset when
she saw the State of Heat I was in! Said I never should have
done it on a day like that."
Poirot looked at her with admiration. He said, "I envy you,
Mrs. Bishop. It is pleasant indeed to have nothing with which
to reproach oneself after a death. Mr. Roderick Welman, I
fancy, must blame himself for not going in to see his aunt that
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night, though naturally he could not know she was going to
pass awgy so soon."
"Oh, but you're quite wrong, Mr. Poirot. I can tell you that
for a fact. Mr. Roddy did go into his aunt's room. I 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!"
107
chapter XII

S,
> INCE 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, 'tisn'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--"
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SAD CYPRESS
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 accidenti"
He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own
lack of eloquence.
Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be
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agatha christie
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 color 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
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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?"
Ted Bigland said, "She'd have been happy enough, I dare
say, if Nurse had let her alone. Nurse Hopkins, I mean.
Putting ideas into her head of earning her living and going off
to do massage."
"She was fond of Mary, though?"
"Oh, yes, she was fond enough of her; but she's the kind
who always knows what's best for everyone!"
Poirot said slowly, "Supposing that Nurse Hopkins knows
something--something, let us say, that would throw a discreditable
light on Mary--do you think she would keep it to
herself?"
Ill
agatha CHRISTIE
Ted Bigland looked at him curiously.
"I don't quite get your meaning, sir."
"Do you think that if Nurse Hopkins knew something against
Mary Gerrard she would hold her tongue about it?"
Ted Bigland said, "I doubt if that woman could hold her
tongue about anything! She's the greatest gossip in the village.
But if she'd hold her tongue about anybody, it would probably
be about Mary." He added, hi? curiosity getting the better of
him, "I'd like to know why you ask that?"
Hercule Poirot said, "One has, in talking to people, a certain
impression. Nurse Hopkins was, to all seeming, perfectly
frank and outspoken, but I formed the impression--and very
strongly--that she was keeping something back. It is not necessarily
an important thing. It may have no bearing on the crime. But, there is something that she knows which she has not told. 1 also formed the impression that this something--whatever it
is--is something definitely damaging or detrimental to the
character of Mary Gerrard."
Ted shook his head helplessly.
Hercule Poirot sighed. "Ah, well, I shall learn what it is in time."
112
FR1;chapter XIII
\. OIROT looked with interest at the long, sensitive face of
Roderick Welman.
Roddy's nerves were in a pitiable condition. His hands
twitched, his eyes were bloodshot, his voice was husky and
irritable.
He said, looking down at the card, "Of course, I know your
name, Monsieur Poirot. But I don't see what Dr. Lord thinks
you can do in this matter! And, anyway, what business is it of feis? He attended my aunt, but otherwise he's a complete
stranger. Elinor and I had not even met him until we went
down there this June. Surely it is Seddon's business to attend
to all this sort of thing?"
Hercule Poirot said, "Technically that is correct."
Roddy went on unhappily, "Not that Seddon gives me
much confidence. He's so confoundedly gloomy."
"It is a habit, that, of lawyers."
"Still," said Roddy, cheering up a little, "we've briefed
Bulmer. He's supposed to be pretty well at the top of the tree,
isn't he?"
Hercule Poirot said, "He has a reputation for leading forlorn
hopes."
Roddy winced palpably.
Poirot said, "It does not displease you, I hope, that I should
endeavor to be of assistance to Miss Carlisle?"
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agatha christie
"No, no, of course not. But—"
"But what can I do? It is that, that you would ask?"
A quick smile flashed across Roddy's worried face—a smile
so suddenly charming that Hercule Poirot understood the
subtle attraction of the man.
Roddy said apologetically, "It sounds a little rude, put like
that. But, really, of course, that is the point. I won't beat
about the bush. What can you do, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot said, "I can search for the truth."
"Yes." Roddy sounded a little doubtful.
Poirot said, "I might discover facts that would be helpful to
the accused."
Roddy sighed. "If you only could!"
Hercule Poirot went on: "It is my earnest desire to be
helpful. Will you assist me by telling me just what you think
of the whole business?"
Roddy got up and walked restlessly up and down.
"What can I say? The whole thing's so absurd—so fantastic!
The mere idea of Elinor—Elinor, whom I've known since she
was a child—actually doing such a melodramatic thing as
poisoning someone. It's quite laughable, of course! But how
on earth explain that to a jury?"
Poirot said stolidly, "You consider it quite impossible that
Miss Carlisle should have done such a thing?"
"Oh, quite! That goes without saying! Elinor's an exquisite
creature—beautifully poised and balanced—no violence in her
nature. She's intellectual, sensitive, and altogether devoid of
animal passions. But get twelve fatheaded fools in a jury box,
and God knows what they can be made to believe! After all,
let's be reasonable: they're not there to judge character; they're
there to sift evidence. Facts—facts—facts! And the facts are
unfortunate!"
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He said, "You are a
person, Mr. Welman, of sensibility and intelligence. The facts
condemn Miss Carlisle. Your knowledge of her acquits her.
What, then, really happened? What can have happened?"
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sad cypress
Roddy spread out his hands in exasperation. "That's the
devil ef it all! I suppose the nurse couldn't have done it?"
"She was never near the sandwiches--oh, I have made the
inquiries very minutely--and she could not have poisoned the
tea without poisoning herself as well. I have made quite sure
of that. Moreover, why should she wish to kill Mary Gerrard?"
Roddy cried out, "Why should anyone wish to kill Mary
Gerrard?"
"That," said Poirot, "seems to be the unanswerable question
in this case. No one wished to kill Mary Gerrard." (He
added in his own mind, Except Elinor Carlisle.) "Therefore,
the next step logically would seem to be: Mary Gerrard was
not killed! But that, alas, is not so. She was killed!"
He added, slightly melodramatically, "But she is in her grave,
and oh. The difference to me!"
"I beg your pardon," said Roddy.
Hercule Poirot explained, "Wordsworth. I read him much.
Those lines express, perhaps, what you feel?"
"I?"
Roddy looked stiff and unapproachable.
Poirot said, "I apologize--I apologize deeply! It is so hard--to
be a detective and also a pukka sahib. As it is so well expressed
in your language, there are things that one does not
say. But, alas, a detective is forced to say them! He must ask
questions: about people's private affairs, about their feelings!"
Roddy said, "Surely all this is quite unnecessary?"
Poirot said quickly and humbly, "If I might just understand
the position? Then we will pass from the unpleasant
subject and not refer to it again. It is fairly widely known,
Mr. Welman, that you--admired Mary Gerrard? That is, I
think, true?"
Roddy got up and stood by the window. He played with the
shade tassel. He said, "Yes."
"You fell in love with her?"
"I suppose so."
"Ah, and you are now heart-broken by her death--"
"I--I suppose--I mean--well, really, M. Poirot--"
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AGATHA CHRISTIE
He turned—a nervous, irritable, sensitive creature at bay.
Hercule Poirot said, "If you could just tell me—just show
me clearly—then it would be finished with."
Roddy Welman sat down in a chair. He did not look at the
other man. He spoke in a series of jerks.
"It's very difficult to explain. Must we go into it?"
Poirot said, "One cannot always turn aside and pass by
from the unpleasantnesses of life, Mr. Welman! You say you
suppose you cared for this girl. You are not sure, then?"
Roddy said, "I don't know.'. . . She was so lovely. Like a
dream. That's what it seems like now. A dream! Not real! All
that—my seeing her first—my—well, my infatuation for her!
A kind of madness! And now everything is finished—gone—as
though—as though it had never happened."
Poirot nodded his head. He said, "Yes, I understand."
He added, "You were not in England yourself at the time of
her death?"
"No, I went abroad on July 9th and returned on August 1st.
Elinor's telegram followed me about from place to place. I
hurried home as soon as I got the news."
Poirot said, "It must have been a great shock to you. You
had cared for the girl very much."
Roddy said, and there was bitterness and exasperation in
his voice, "Why should these things happen to one? It's not as
though one wished them to happen! It is contrary to all—to all
one's ordered expectation of life!"
Hercule Poirot said, "Ah, but life is like that! It does not
permit you to arrange and order it as you will. It will not
permit you to escape emotion, to live by the intellect and by
reason! You cannot say, 'I will feel so much and no more.'
Life, Mr. Welman, whatever else it is, is not reasonable\"
Roderick Welman murmured, "So it seems."
Poirot said, "A spring morning, a girl's face—and the wellordered
sequence of existence is routed."
Roddy winced and Poirot went on: "Sometimes it is little
more than that—a face. What did you really know of Mary
Gerrard, Mr. Welman?"
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Roddy said heavily, "What did I know? So little; I see that
now. She was sweet, I think, and gentle; but really, I know
nothing—nothing at all. . . . That's why, I suppose, I don't
miss her."
His antagonism and resentment were gone now. He spoke
naturally and simply. Hercule Poirot, as he had a knack of
doing, had penetrated the other's defenses. Roddy seemed to
feel a certain relief in unburdening himself.
He said, "Sweet—gentle—not very clever. Sensitive, I think,
and kind. She had a refinement that you would not expect to
find in a girl of her class."
"Was she the kind of girl who would make enemies
unconsciously?"
Roddy shook his head vigorously. "No, no, I can't imagine
anyone disliking her—really disliking her, I mean. Spite is
different."
Poirot said quickly, "Spite? So there was spite, you think?"
Roddy said absently, "Must have been—to account for that
letter."
Poirot said sharply, "What letter?"
Roddy flushed and looked annoyed. He said, "Oh, nothing
important."
Poirot repeated, "What letter?"
"An anonymous letter." He spoke reluctantly.
"When did it come? To whom was it written?"
Rather unwillingly Roddy explained.
Hercule Poirot murmured, "It is interesting, that. Can I see
it, this letter?"
"Afraid you can't. As a matter of fact, I burned it."
"Now, why did you do that, Mr. Welman?"
Roddy said rather stiffly, "It seemed the natural thing to
do at the time."
Poirot said, "And in consequence of this letter, you and
Miss Carlisle went hurriedly down to Hunterbury?"
"We went down, yes. I don't know about hurriedly."
"But you were a little uneasy, were you not? Perhaps,
even, a little alarmed?"
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agatha christie
Roddy said even more stiffly, "I won't admit that."
Hercule Poirot cried, "But surely that was only natural!
Your inheritance—that which was promised you—was in
jeopardy! Surely it is natural that you should be unquiet
about the matter! Money, it is very important!"
"Not as important as you make out."
Poirot said, "Such unworldliness is indeed remarkable!"
Roddy flushed. He said, "Oh, of course, the money did
matter to us. We weren't completely indifferent to it. But our
main object was to—to see my aunt and make sure she was all
right."
Poirot said, "You went down there with Miss Carlisle. At
that time your aunt had not made a will. Shortly afterward
she had another attack other illness. She then wishes to make
a will, but, conveniently for Miss Carlisle, perhaps, she dies
that night before that will can be made."
"Look here, what are you hinting at?" Roddy's face was
wrathful.
Poirot answered him like a flash: "You have told me, Mr.
Welman, as regards the death of Mary Gerrard, that the
motive attributed to Elinor Carlisle is absurd—that she was,
emphatically, not that kind of a person. But there is now
another interpretation. Elinor Carlisle had reason to fear that
she might be disinherited in favor of an outsider. The letter
has warned her—her aunt's broken murmurings confirm that
fear. In the hall below is an attache case with various drugs
and medical supplies. It is easy to abstract a tube of morphine.
And afterward, so I have learned, she sits in the sickroom alone
with her aunt while you and the nurses are at dinner."
Roddy cried, "Good God, Monsieur Poirot, what are you
suggesting now? That Elinor killed Aunt Laura? Of all the
ridiculous ideas!"
Poirot said, "But you know, do you not, that an order to
exhume Mrs. Welman's body has been applied for?"
"Yes, I know. But they won't find anything!"
"Suppose they do?"
"They won't!" Roddy spoke positively.
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Poirot shook his head. "I am not so sure. And there was only one person, you realize, who would benefit by Mrs. Welman's
dying al that moment."
Roddy sat down. His face was white, and he was shaking a
little. He stared at Poirot. Then he said, "I thought--you
were on her side."
Hercule Poirot said, "Whatever side one is on, one must
face facts! I think, Mr. Welman, that you have so far preferred
in life to avoid facing an awkward truth whenever it is
possible."
Roddy said, "Why harrow oneself by looking on the worst
side?"
Hercule Poirot replied gravely, "Because it is sometimes
necessary."
He paused a minute and then said, "Let us face the possibility
that your aunt's death may be found to be due to the
administration of morphine. What then?"
Roddy shook his head helplessly. "I don't know."
"But you must try to think. Who could have given it to her?
You must admit that Elinor Carlisle had the best opportunity
to do so?"
"What about the nurses?"
"Either of them could have done so, certainly. But Nurse
Hopkins was concerned about the disappearance of the tube
at the time and mentioned it openly. There was no need for
her to do so. The death certificate had been signed. Why call
attention to the missing morphine if she was guilty? It will
probably bring her censure for carelessness as it is, and if she
poisoned Mrs. Welman it was surely idiotic to draw attention
to the morphine. Besides, what could she gain by Mrs.
Welman's death? Nothing. The same applies to Nurse O'Brien.
She could have administered morphine, could have taken it
from Nurse Hopkins's case; but, again--why should she?"
Roddy shook his head. "All that's true enough."
Poirot said, "Then there is yourself."
Roddy started like a nervous horse. "Me?"
"Certainly. You could have abstracted the morphine. You
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AGATHA christie
could have given it to Mrs. Welman! You were alone with her
for a short period that night. But, again, why should you? If
she lived to make a will, it is at least probable that you would
have been mentioned in it. So again, you see, there is no
motive. Only two people had a motive."
Roddy's eyes brightened. "Two people?"
"Yes. One was Elinor Carlisle."
"And the other?"
Poirot said slowly, "The other was the writer of that anonymous
letter."
Roddy looked incredulous.
Poirot said, "Somebody wrote that letter--somebody who
hated Mary Gerrard or at least disliked her--somebody who
was, as they say, 'on your side.' Somebody, that is, who did not
want Mary Gerrard to benefit at Mrs. Welman's death. Now,
have you any idea, Mr. Welman, who the writer of that letter
could be?"
Roddy shook his head. "I've no idea at all. It was an illiterate
letter, misspelled, cheap-looking."
Poirot waved a hand. "There is nothing much to that! It
might easily have been written by an educated person who
chose to disguise the fact. That is why I wish you had the
letter still. People who try to write in an uneducated manner
usually give themselves away."
Roddy said doubtfully, "Elinor and I thought it might be
one of the servants."
"Had you any idea which of them?"
"No--no idea whatsoever."
"Could it, do you think, have been Mrs. Bishop, the
housekeeper?"
Roddy looked shocked. "Oh, no, she's a most respectable,
high-and-mighty creature. Writes beautifully involved and
ornate letters with long words in them. Besides, I'm sure she
would never--"
As he hesitated, Poirot cut in, "She did not like Mary
Gerrard!"
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sad CYPRESS
"I suppose she didn't. I never noticed anything, though."
"But perhaps, Mr. Welman, you do not notice very much?"
Rodtly said slowly, "You don't think, Poirot, that my aunt
could have taken that morphine herself?"
Poirot said, "It is an idea, yes."
Roddy said, "She hated her--her helplessness, you know.
Often said she wished she could die."
Poirot said, "But, then, she could not have risen from her
bed, gone downstairs, and helped herself to the tube of morphine
from the nurse's case."
Roddy said slowly, "No, but somebody could have got it for
her."
"Who?"
"Well, one of the nurses."
"No, neither of the nurses. They would understand the
danger to themselves far too well! The nurses are the last
people to suspect."
"Then--somebody else--"
He started, opened his mouth, shut it again.
Poirot said quietly, "You have remembered something, have
you not?"
Roddy said doubtfully, "Yes--but--"
"You wonder if you ought to tell me?"
"Well, yes."
Poirot said, a curious smile tilting the corners of his mouth,
"When did Miss Carlisle say it?"
Roddy drew a deep breath.
"By Jove, you are a wizard! It was in the train coming
down. We'd had the telegram, you know, saying Aunt Laura
had had another stroke. Elinor said how terribly sorry she
was for her, how the poor dear hated being ill, and that now
she would be more helpless still and that it would be absolute
hell for her. Elinor said, 'One does feel that people ought to be
set free if they themselves really want it.' "
"And you said--what?"
"I agreed."
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agatha christie
Poirot spoke very gravely, "Just now, Mr. Welman, you
scouted the possibility of Miss Carlisle having killed your
aunt for monetary gain. Do you also scout the possibility that
she may have killed Mrs. Welman out of compassion?"
Roddy said, "I—I—no, I can't."
Hercule Poirot bowed his head. He said, "Yes, I thought—I
was sure—that you would say that."
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FR1;chapter XIV
J-N the offices of Messrs. Seddon, Blatherwick & Seddon,
Hercule Poirot was received with extreme caution, not to say
distrust.
Mr. Seddon, a forefinger stroking his closely shaven chin,
was noncommittal and his shrewd gray eyes appraised the
detective thoughtfully.
"Your name is familiar to me, Monsieur Poirot, of course.
But I am at a loss to understand your position in this case."
Hercule Poirot said, "I am acting, Monsieur, in the interests
of your client."
"Ah--indeed? And who--er--engaged you in that capacity?"
"I am here at the request of Dr. Lord."
Mr. Seddon's eyebrows rose very high. "Indeed! That seems
to me very irregular--very irregular. Dr. Lord, I understand,
has been subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution."
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Does that matter?"
Mr. Seddon said, "The arrangements for Miss Carlisle's
defense are entirely in our hands. I really do not think we
need any outside assistance in this case."
Poirot asked, "Is that because your client's innocence will
be so easily proved?"
Mr. Seddon winced. Then he became wrathful in a dry
legal fashion. "That," he said, "is a most improper question.
Most improper."
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agatha christie
Hercule Poirot said, "The case against your client is a very
strong one."
"I really fail to see, Poirot, how you know anything about
it."
Poirot said, "Although I am actually retained by Dr. Lord, I
have here a note from Mr. Roderick Welman."
He handed it over with a bow.
Mr. Seddon perused the few lines it contained and remarked
grudgingly, "That, of'course, throws a new complexion
on the matter. Mr. Welman has made himself responsible
for Miss Carlisle's defense. We are acting at his request."
He added with visible distaste, "Our firm does very little
in--er--criminal procedure, but I felt it my duty to my--er--
late client--to undertake the defense of her niece. I may say
we have already briefed Sir Edwin Bulmer, K.C."
Poirot said, and his smile was suddenly ironic, "No expense
will be spared. Very right and proper!"
Looking over his glasses, Mr. Seddon said, "Really, Monsieur
Poirot--"
Poirot cut into his protest. "Eloquence and emotional appeal
will not save your client. It will need more than that."
Mr. Seddon said dryly, "What do you advise?"
"There is always the truth."
"Quite so."
"But in this case will truth help us?"
Mr. Seddon said sharply, "That, again, is a most improper
remark."
Poirot said, "There are certain questions to which I should
like answers."
Mr. Seddon said cautiously, "I cannot, of course, guarantee
to answer without the consent of my client."
"Naturally I understand that." He paused and then said,
"Has Elinor Carlisle any enemies?"
Mr. Seddon showed a faint surprise. "As far as I know,
none."
"Did the late Mrs. Welman, at any period of her life, make
a will?"
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sad CYPRESS
"Never. She always put it off."
"H&s Elinor Carlisle made a will?"
"Yes."
"Recently? Since her aunt's death?"
"Yes."
"To whom has she left her property?"
"That, Poirot, is confidential. I cannot tell you without
authorization from my client."
Poirot said, "Then I shall have to interview your client!"
Mr. Seddon said with a cold smile, "That, I fear, will not be
easy."
Poirot rose and made a gesture. "Everything," he said, "is
easy to Hercule Poirot."
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chapter XV
\^HIEF Inspector Marsden was affable. "Well, Monsieur
Poirot," he said. "Come to set me right about one of my
cases?"
Poirot murmured deprecatingly, "No, no. A little curiosity
on my part, that is all."
"Only too happy to satisfy it. Which case is it?"
"Elinor Carlisle."
"Oh, yes, girl who poisoned Mary Gerrard. Coming up for
trial in two weeks' time. Interesting case. She did in the old
woman too, by the way. Final report isn't in yet, but it seems
there's no doubt of it. Morphia. Cold-blooded bit of goods.
Never turned a hair at the time of her arrest or after. Giving
nothing away. But we've got the goods on her all right. She's
for it."
"You think she did it?"
Marsden, an experienced, kindly looking man, nodded his
head affirmatively. "Not a doubt of it. Put the stuff in the top
sandwich. She's a cool customer."
"You have no doubts? No doubts at all?"
"Oh, no. I'm quite sure. It's a pleasant feeling when you are
sure! We don't like making mistakes any more than anyone
else would. We're not just out to get a conviction, as some
people think. This time I can go ahead with a clear conscience."
Poirot said slowly, "I see."
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SAD CYPRESS
The Scotland Yard man looked at him curiously. "Is there
anything on the other side?"
Slowly Poirot shook his head. "As yet, no. So far everything
I have found out about the case points to Elinor Carlisle's
being guilty."
Inspector Marsden said with cheerful certainty, "She's guilty,
all right."
Poirot said, "I should like to see her."
Inspector Marsden smiled indulgently. He said, "Got the
present Home Secretary in your pocket, haven't you? That
will be easy enough."
127
FR1;chapter XVI

p,
ETER Lord said, "Well?"
Hercule Poirot said, "No, it is not very well."
Peter Lord said heavily, "You haven't got hold of anything?"
Poirot said slowly, "Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard
out of jealousy--Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt so as to inherit
her money--Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt out of
compassion. My friend, you may make your choice!"
Peter Lord said, "You're talking nonsense!"
Hercule Poirot said, "Am I?"
Lord's freckled face looked angry. He said, "What is all
this?"
Hercule Poirot said, "Do you think it is possible, that?"
"Do I think what is possible?"
"That Elinor Carlisle was unable to bear the sight of her
aunt's misery and helped her out of existence?"
"Nonsense!"
"Is it nonsense? You have told me yourself that the old lady
asked you to help her."
"She didn't mean it seriously. She knew I wouldn't do
anything of the sort."
"Still, the idea was in her mind. Elinor Carlisle might have
helped her."
Peter Lord strolled up and down. He said at last, "One
can't deny that that sort of thing is possible. But Elinor
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sad CYPRESS
Carlisle is a level-headed, clear-thinking kind of young woman.
I don't think she'd be so carried away by pity as to lose sight
of the risk. And she'd realize exactly what the risk was. She'd
be liable to stand accused of murder."
"So you don't think she would do it?"
Peter Lord said slowly, "I think a woman might do such a
thing for her husband, or for her child, or for her mother,
perhaps. I don't think she'd do it for an aunt, though she
might be fond of that aunt. And I think in any case she'd only
do it if the person in question was actually suffering unbearable
pain."
Poirot said thoughtfully, "Perhaps you are right."
Then he added, "Do you think Roderick Welman's feelings
could have been sufficiently worked upon to induce him to do
such a thing?"
Peter Lord replied scornfully, "He wouldn't have the
guts!"
Poirot murmured, "I wonder. In some ways, mon cher, you
underestimate that young man."
"Oh, he's clever and intellectual and all that, I dare
say."
"Exactly," said Poirot. "And he has charm, too. Yes, I felt
that."
"Did you? I never have!"
Then Peter Lord said earnestly, "Look here, Poirot, isn't
there anything'?"
Poirot said, "They are not fortunate so far, my investigations!
They lead always back to the same place. No one stood to gain
by Mary Gerrard's death. No one hated Mary Gerrard—except
Elinor Carlisle. There is only one question that we might
perhaps ask ourselves. We might say, perhaps, Did anyone
hate Elinor Carlisle?"
Slowly Dr. Lord shook his head. "Not that I know of. ...
You mean—that someone might have framed her for the
crime?"
Poirot nodded. He said, "It is a very far-fetched speculation,
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agatha CHRISTIE
that, and there is nothing to support it--except, perhaps, the
very completeness of the case against her."
He told the other of the anonymous letter.
"You see," he said, "that makes it possible to outline a
very strong case against her. She was warned that she might
be completely cut out of her aunt's will--that this girl, a
stranger, might get all the money. So, when her aunt in her
halting speech was asking for a lawyer, Elinor took no
chances, and saw to it that the old lady should die that
night!"
Peter Lord cried, "What about Roderick Welman? He stood
to lose, too!"
Poirot shook his head. "No, it was to his advantage that the
old lady should make a will. If she died intestate, he got
nothing, remember. Elinor was the next of kin."
Lord said, "But he was going to marry Elinor!"
Poirot said, "True. But remember that immediately afterward
the engagement was broken off--that he showed her
clearly that he wished to be released from it."
Peter Lord groaned and held his head. He said, "It comes
back to her, then. Every time!"
"Yes. Unless--"
He was silent for a minute. Then he said, "There is something--"
"Yes?"
"Something--some little piece of the puzzle that is missing.
It is something--of that I am certain--that concerns Mary
Gerrard. My friend, you hear a certain amount of gossip, of
scandal, down here. Have you ever heard anything against
her?"
"Against Mary Gerrard? Her character, you mean?"
"Anything. Some bygone story about her. Some indiscretion
on her part. A hint of scandal. A doubt of her
honesty. A malicious rumor concerning her. Anything--anything
at all--but something that definitely is damaging to
her."
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SAD cypress
Peter Lord said slowly, "I hope you're not going to suggest
that line. Trying to rake up things about a harmless young
woman who's dead and can't defend herself. And, anyway, I
don't believe you can do it!"
"She was like the female Sir Galahad—a blameless life?"
"As far as I know, she was. I never heard anything else."
Poirot said gently, "You must not think, my friend, that I
would stir the mud where no mud is. No, no, it is not like
that at all. But the good Nurse Hopkins is not adept at hiding
her feelings. She was fond of Mary, and there is something
about Mary she does not want known; that is to say, there is
something against Mary that she is afraid I will find out. She
does not think that it has any bearing on the crime. But, then,
she is convinced that the crime was committed i>y Elinor
Carlisle, and clearly this fact, whatever it is, has nothing to
do with Elinor. But, you see, my friend, it is imperative that I
should know everything. For it may be that there is a wrong
done by Mary to some third person, and in that case, that
third person might have a motive for desiring her death."
Peter Lord said, "But surely, in that case, Nurse Hopkins
would realize that, too."
Poirot said, "Nurse Hopkins is quite an intelligent woman
within her limitations, but her intellect is hardly the equal of
mine. She might not see, but Hercule Poirot would!"
Peter Lord said, shaking his head, "I'm sorry. I don't know
anything."
Poirot said thoughtfully, "No more does Ted Bigland—and
he has lived here all his life and Mary's. No more does Mrs.
Bishop, for if she knew anything unpleasant about the girl,
she would not have been able to keep it to herself! Eh bien,
there is one more hope."
"Yes?"
"I am seeing the other nurse, Nurse O'Brien, today."
Peter Lord said, shaking his head, "She doesn't know much
about this part of the world. She was only here for a month or
two."
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agatha CHRISTIE
Poirot said, "I am aware of that. But, my friend, Nurse
Hopkins, we have been told, has the long tongue. She has not
gossiped in the village, where such talk might have done
Mary Gerrard harm. But I doubt if she could refrain from
giving at least a hint about something that was occupying her
mind to a stranger and a colleague! Nurse O'Brien may know
something."
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chapter XVII
1^1 URSE O'Brien tossed her red head and smiled widely
across the tea-table at the little man opposite her.
She thought to herself, It's the funny little fellow he is—and
his eyes green like any cat's, and with all that Dr. Lord saying he's
the clever one!
Hercule Poirot said, "It is a pleasure to meet someone so
full of health and vitality. Your patients, I am sure, must all
recover."
Nurse O'Brien said, "I'm not one for pulling a long face, and
not many of my patients die on me, I'm thankful to say."
Poirot said, "Of course, in Mrs. Welman's case, it was a
merciful release."
"Ah! it was that, the poor dear." Her eyes were shrewd as
she looked at Poirot and asked, "Is it about that you want to
talk to me? I was after hearing that they're digging her up."
Poirot said, "You yourself had no suspicion at the time?"
"Not the least in the world, though indeed I might have
had, with the face Dr. Lord had on him that morning, and
him sending me here, there, and everywhere for things he
didn't need! But he signed the certificate, for all that."
Poirot began, "He had his reasons—" but she took the
words out of his mouth.
"Indeed and he was right. It does a doctor no good to think
things and offend the family, and then if he's wrong it's the
133
agatha CHRISTIE
end of him, and no one would be wishing to call him in any
more. A doctor's got to be sure\"
Poirot said, "There is a suggestion that Mrs. Welman might
have committed suicide."
"She? And her lying there helpless? Just lift one hand, that
was all she could do!"
"Someone might have helped her?"
"Ah! I see now what you're meaning. Miss Carlisle, or Mr.
Welman, or maybe Mary Gerrard?"
"It would be possible, would it not?"
Nurse O'Brien shook her head. She said, "They'd not dare—
any of them!"
Poirot said slowly, "Perhaps not."
Then he said, "When was it Nurse Hopkins missed the
tube of morphine?"
"It was that very morning. T'm sure I had it here,' she said.
Very sure she was at first, but you know how it is; after a
while your mind gets confused, and in the end she made sure
she'd left it at home."
Poirot murmured, "And even then you had no suspicion?"
"Not the least in the world! Sure, it never entered my head
for a moment that things weren't as they should be. And even
now 'tis only a suspicion they have."
"The thought of that missing tube never caused either you
or Nurse Hopkins an uneasy moment?"
"Well, I wouldn't say that. I do remember that it came into
my head—and into Nurse Hopkins's head, too, I believe—in
the Blue Tit Cafe we were at the time. And I saw the thought
pass into her mind from mine. Tt couldn't be any other way
than that I left it on the mantelpiece and it fell into the
dustbin, could it?' she says. And 'No, indeed, that was the
way of it,' I said to her, and neither of us saying what was in
our minds and the fear that was on us."
Hercule Poirot asked, "And what do you think now?"
Nurse O'Brien said, "If they find morphine in her there'll
be little doubt who took the tube, nor what it was used
134
sad cypress
for—though I'll not be believing she sent the old lady the
same road till it's proved there's morphine in her."
Poirol said, "You have no doubt at all that Elinor Carlisle
killed Mary Gerrard?"
"There's no question of it at all, in my opinion! Who else
had the reason or the wish to do it?"
"That is the question," said Poirot.
Nurse O'Brien went on dramatically: "Wasn't I there that
night when the old lady was trying to speak, and Miss Elinor
promising her that everything should be done decently and
according to her wishes? And didn't I see her face looking
after Mary as she went down the stairs one day, and the black
hate that was on it? 'Twas murder she had in her heart that
minute."
Poirot said, "If Elinor Carlisle killed Mrs. Welman, why
did she do it?"
"Why? For the money, of course. Two hundred thousand
pounds, no less. That's what she got by it, and that's why she
did it—if she did it. She's a bold, clever young lady, with no
fear in her, and plenty of brains."
Hercule Poirot said, "If Mrs. Welman had lived to make a
will, how do you think she'd have left her money?"
"Ah, it's not for me to be saying that," said Nurse O'Brien,
betraying, however, every symptom of being about to do so.
"But it's my opinion that every penny the old lady had would
have gone to Mary Gerrard."
"Why?" said Hercule Poirot.
The simple monosyllable seemed to upset Nurse O'Brien.
"Why? Is it why you're asking? Well—I'd say that that would
be the way of it."
Poirot murmured, "Some people might say that Mary
Gerrard had played her cards very cleverly, that she had
managed so to ingratiate herself with the old woman as to
make her forget the ties of blood and affection."
"They might that," said Nurse O'Brien slowly.
Poirot asked, "Was Mary Gerrard a clever, scheming girl?"
Nurse O'Brien said, still rather slowly, "I'll not think that
135
agatha CHRISTIE
of her. All she did was natural enough, with no thought of
scheming. She wasn't that kind. And there's reasons often for
these things that never get made public."
Hercule Poirot said softly, "You are, I think, a very discreet
woman, Nurse O'Brien."
"I'm not one to be talking of what doesn't concern me."
Watching her very closely, Poirot went on: "You and Nurse
Hopkins, you have agreed together, have you not, that there
are some things which are best not brought out into the light
of day?"
Nurse O'Brien said, "What would you be meaning by that?"
Poirot said quickly, "Nothing to do with the crime—or
crimes. I mean—the other matter."
Nurse O'Brien said, nodding her head, "What would be the
use of raking up mud and an old story, and she a decent
elderly woman with never a breath of scandal about her, and
dying respected and looked up to by everybody."
Hercule Poirot nodded in assent. He said cautiously, "As
you say, Mrs. Welman was much respected in Maidensford."
The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but his
face expressed no surprise or puzzlement.
Nurse O'Brien went on; "It's so long ago, too. All dead and
forgotten. I've a soft heart for a romance myself, and I do say
and I always have said that it's hard for a man who's got a
wife in an asylum to be tied all his life with nothing but
death that can free him."
Poirot murmured, still in bewilderment, "Yes, it is hard."
Nurse O'Brien said, "Did Nurse Hopkins tell you how her
letter crossed mine?"
Poirot said truthfully, "She did not tell me that."
" 'Twas an odd coincidence. But there, that's always the
way of it! Once you hear a name, maybe, and a day or two
later you'll come across it again, and so on and so on. That I
should be seeing the self-same photograph on the piano and at
the same minute Nurse Hopkins was hearing all about it from
the doctor's housekeeper."
"That," said Poirot, "is very interesting."
136
sad CYPRESS
He murmured tentatively, "Did Mary Gerrard know—about
this?"
"Who'a be telling her?" said Nurse O'Brien. "Not I—and
not Hopkins. After all, what good would it be to her?"
She flung up her red head and gazed at him steadily.
Poirot said with a sigh, "What, indeed?"
137
FR1;chapter XVIII

E,
jLINOR Carlisle. Across the width of the table that separated
them Poirot looked at her searchingly.
They were alone together. Through a glass wall a warder
watched them.
Poirot noted the sensitive, intelligent face with the square,
white forehead, and the delicate modeling of the ears and
nose. Fine lines; a proud, sensitive creature, showing breeding,
self-restraint and--something else--a capacity for passion.
He said, "I am Hercule Poirot. I have been sent to you by Dr. Peter Lord. He thinks that I can help you."
Elinor Carlisle said, "Peter Lord. . . ."
Her tone was reminiscent. For a moment she smiled a little
wistfully. She went on formally: "It was kind of him, but I do
not think there is anything you can do."
Hercule Poirot said, "Will you answer my questions?"
She sighed. She said, "Believe me--really--it would be
better not to ask them. I am in good hands. Mr. Seddon has
been most kind. I am to have a very famous counsel."
Poirot said, "He is not so famous as I am!"
Elinor Carlisle said with a touch of weariness, "He has a
great reputation."
"Yes, for defending criminals. I have a great reputation--
for demonstrating innocence."
She lifted her eyes at last--eyes of a vivid, beautiful blue.
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SAD CYPRESS
They looked straight into Poirot's. She said, "Do you believe I
am innocent?"
Hercule Poirot said, "Are you?"
Elinor smiled, an ironic little smile. She said, "Is that a
sample of your questions? It is very easy, isn't it, to answer
Yes?"
He said unexpectedly, "You are very tired, are you not?"
Her eyes widened a little. She answered, "Why, yes--that
more than anything. How did you know?"
Hercule Poirot said, "I knew."
Elinor said, "I shall be glad when it is--over."
Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said,
"I have seen your--cousin, shall I call him for convenience?--
Mr. Roderick Welman."
Into the white, proud face the color crept slowly. He knew
then that one question of his was answered without his asking
it.
She said, and her voice shook very slightly, "You've seen
Roddy?"
Poirot said, "He is doing all he can for you."
"I know."
Her voice was quick and soft.
Poirot said, "Is he poor or rich?"
"Roddy? He has not very much money of his own."
"And he is extravagant?"
She said, almost absently, "Neither of us ever thought it
mattered. We knew that some day--"
She stopped.
Poirot said quickly, "You counted on your inheritance?
That is understandable."
He went on: "You have heard, perhaps, the result of the
autopsy on your aunt's body. She died of morphine poisoning."
Elinor Carlisle said coldly, "I did not kill her."
"Did you help her to kill herself?"
"Did I help--? Oh, I see. No, I did not."
"Did you know that your aunt had not made a will?"
"No, I had no idea of that."
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agatha christie
Her voice was flat now--dull. The answer was mechanical,
uninterested.
Poirot said, "And you yourself, have you made a will?"
"Yes."
"Did you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke to you about it?"
"Yes." Again that swift wave of color.
Poirot said, "How have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?"
Elinor said quietly, "I have left everything to Roddy--to
Roderick Welman."
Poirot said, "Does he know that?"
She said quickly, "Certainly not."
"You didn't discuss it with him?"
"Of course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed
and would have disliked what I was doing very much."
"Who else knows the contents of your will?"
"Only Mr. Seddon--and his clerks, I suppose."
"Did Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?"
"Yes. I wrote to him that same evening--I mean the evening
of the day Dr. Lord spoke to me about it."
"Did you post your letter yourself?"
"No. It went in the box from the house with the other
letters."
"You wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it,
and put it in the box--comme pa? You did not pause to
reflect? To read it over?"
Elinor said, staring at him, "I read it over--yes, I had gone
to look for some stamps. When I came back with them, I just
re-read the letter to be sure I had put it clearly."
"Was anyone in the room with you?"
"Only Roddy."
"Did he know what you were doing?"
"I told you--no."
"Could anyone have read that letter when you were out of
the room?"
"I don't know. One of the servants, you mean? I suppose
they could have if they had chanced to come in while I was
out of the room."
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"And before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?"
"Yes."
Poir<% said, "And he could have read it, too?"
Elinor's voice was clear and scornful. She said, "I can
assure you, Monsieur Poirot, that my 'cousin,' as you call
him, does not read other people's letters."
Poirot said, "That is the accepted idea, I know. You would
be surprised how many people do the things that 'are not
done.' "
Elinor shrugged her shoulders.
Poirot said in a casual voice, "Was it on that day that the
idea of killing Mary Gerrard first came to you?"
For the third time color swept over Elinor Carlisle's face.
This time it was a burning tide. She said, "Did Peter Lord
tell you that?"
Poirot said gently, "It was then, wasn't it? When you looked
through the window and saw her making her will. It was
then, was it not, that it struck you how funny it would
be—and how convenient—if Mary Gerrard should happen to
die?"
Elinor said in a low, suffocated voice, "He knew—he looked
at me and he knew—"
Poirot said, "Dr. Lord knows a good deal. He is no fool, that
young man with the freckled face and the sandy hair."
Elinor said in a low voice, "Is it true that he sent you
to—help me?"
"It is true, Mademoiselle."
She sighed and said, "I don't understand. No, I don't
understand."
Poirot said, "Listen, Miss Carlisle. It is necessary that you
tell me just what happened that day when Mary Gerrard
died—where you went, what you did. More than that, I want
to know even what you thought."
She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to
her lips. She said, "You must be an incredibly simple man.
Don't you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?"
Hercule Poirot said placidly, "It does not matter."
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AGATHA christie
She was puzzled. "Not matter?"
"No. For lies, Mademoiselle, tell a listener just as much as
truth can. Sometimes they tell more. Come, now, commence.
You met your housekeeper, the good Mrs. Bishop. She wanted
to come and help you. You would not let her. Why?"
"I wanted to be alone."
"Why?"
"Why? Why? Because I wanted to--to think."
"You wanted to imagine--yes. And then what did you do
next?"
Elinor, her chin raised defiantly, said, "I bought some paste
for sandwiches."
"Two pots?"
"Two."
"And you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?"
"I went up to my aunt's room and began to go through her
things."
"What did you find?"
"Find?" She frowned. "Clothes--old letters--photographs--
jewelry."
Poirot said, "No secrets?"
"Secrets? I don't understand you."
"Then let us proceed. What next?"
Elinor said, "I came down to the pantry and I cut sandwiches."

Poirot said softly, "And you thought--what?"
Her blue eyes flashed suddenly. She said, "I thought of my
namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine."
Poirot said, "I understand perfectly."
"Do you?"
"Oh, yes. I know the story. She offered Fair Rosamond, did
she not, the choice of a dagger or a cup of poison. Rosamond
chose the poison."
Elinor said nothing. She was white now.
Poirot said, "But perhaps, this time, there was to be no
choice. Go on, Mademoiselle, what next?"
Elinor said, "I put the sandwiches ready on a plate and I
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SAD CYPRESS
went down to the lodge. Nurse Hopkins was there as well as
Mary. I told them I had some sandwiches up at the house."
Poirot was watching her. He said softly, "Yes, and you all
came up to the house together, did you not?"
"Yes. We--ate the sandwiches in the morning-room."
Poirot said in the same soft tone, "Yes, yes--still in the
dream. And then--"
"Then?" She stared. "I left her--standing by the window. I
went out into the pantry. It was still like you say--in a dream. Nurse was there washing up. I gave her the paste-pot."
"Yes--yes. And what happened then? What did you think
of next?"
Elinor said dreamily, "There was a mark on Nurse's wrist.
I mentioned it and she said it was a thorn from the rose trellis
by the lodge. The roses by the lodge. . . . Roddy and I had a
quarrel once--long ago--about the Wars of the Roses. I was
Lancaster and he was York. He liked white roses. I said they
weren't real--they didn't even smell! I liked red roses, big
and dark and velvety and smelling of summer. We quarreled
in the most idiotic way. You see, it all came back to me--
there in the pantry--and something--something broke--the
black hate I'd had in my heart--it went away--with remembering
how we were together as children. I didn't hate Mary
any more. I didn't want her to die."
She stopped.
"But later, when we went back into the morning-room, she
was dying."
She stopped. Poirot was staring at her very intently. She
flushed and said, "Will you ask me--again--did I kill Mary
Gerrard?"
Poirot rose to his feet. He said quickly, "I shall ask you--
nothing. There are things I do not want to know."
143
chapter XIX

Di
'R. Lord met the train at the station as requested.
Hercule Poirot alighted from it. He looked very Londonified
and was wearing pointed patent-leather shoes.
Peter Lord scrutinized his face anxiously, but Hercule Poirot
was giving nothing away.
Peter Lord said, "I've done my best to get answers to your
questions. First, Mary Gerrard left here for London on July
10th. Second, I haven't got a housekeeper--a couple of giggling
girls run my house. I think you must mean Mrs. Slattery,
who was Ransome's (my predecessor's) housekeeper. I can
take you to her this morning if you like. I've arranged that she
shall be in."
Poirot said, "Yes, I think it would be as well if I saw her
first."
"Then you said you wanted to go to Hunterbury. I could
come with you there. It beats me why you haven't been there
already. I can't think why you wouldn't go when you were
down here before. I should have thought the first thing to be
done in a case like this was to visit the place where the crime
took place."
Holding his head a little on one side, Hercule Poirot inquired, "Why?"
"Why?" Peter Lord was rather disconcerted by the question.
"Isn't it the usual thing to do?"
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Hercule Poirot said, "One does not practice detection with
a textbook! One uses one's natural intelligence."
PetQr Lord said, "You might find a clue of some sort there."
Poirot sighed. "You read too much detective fiction. Your
police force in this country is quite admirable. I have no
doubt that they searched the house and grounds most carefully."

"For evidence against Elinor Carlisle--not for evidence in
her favor."
Poirot sighed. "My dear friend, it is not a monster--this
police force! Elinor Carlisle was arrested because sufficient
evidence was found to make out a case against her--a very
strong case, I may say. It was useless for me to go over ground
when the police had gone over it already."
"But you do want to go there now?" objected Peter.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He said, "Yes--now it is
necessary. Because now I know exactly what 1 am looking for. One must understand with the cells of one's brain before one
uses one's eyes."
"Then you do think there might be--something--there still?"
Poirot said gently, "I have a little idea we shall find
something--yes."
"Something to prove Elinor's innocence?"
"Ah, I did not say that."
Peter Lord stopped dead. "You don't mean you still think
she's guilty?"
Poirot said gravely, "You must wait, my friend, before you
get an answer to that question."
Poirot lunched with the doctor in a pleasant square room
with a window open on to the garden.
Lord said, "Did you get what you wanted out of old
Slattery?"
"Yes."
"What did you want with her?"
"Gossip! Talk about old days. Some crimes have their roots
in the past. I think this one had."
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AGATHA CHRISTIE
Peter Lord said irritably, "I don't understand a word you
are talking about."
Poirot smiled. He said, "This fish is deliciously fresh."
Lord said impatiently, "I dare say. I caught it myself before
breakfast this morning. Look here, Poirot, am I to have any
idea what you're driving at? Why keep me in the dark?"
The other shook his head. "Because as yet there is no light.
I am always brought up short by the fact that there was no
one who had any reason to kill Mary Gerrard—except Elinor
Carlisle."
Peter Lord said, "You can't be sure of that. She'd been
abroad for some time, remember."
"Yes, yes, I have made the inquiries."
"You've been to Germany yourself?"
"Myself, no." With a slight chuckle he added, "I have my
spies!"
"Can you depend on other people?"
"Certainly. It is not for me to run here and there, doing
amateurishly the things that for a small sum someone else can
do with professional skill. I can assure you, mon cher, I have
several irons on the fire. I have some useful assistants—one of
them a former burglar."
"What do you use him for?"
"The last thing I have used him for was a very thorough
search of Mr. Welman's flat."
"What was he looking for?"
Poirot said, "One always likes to know exactly what lies
have been told one."
"Did Welman tell you a lie?"
"Definitely."
"Who else has lied to you?"
"Everybody, I think: Nurse O'Brien romantically; Nurse
Hopkins stubbornly; Mrs. Bishop venomously. You yourself—"
"Good God!" Peter Lord interrupted him unceremoniously.
"You don't think I've lied to you, do you?"
"Not yet," Poirot admitted.
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SAD CYPRESS
Dr. "Lord sank back in his chair. He said, "You're a disbelieving
sort of fellow, Poirot."
Then he said, "If you've finished, shall we set off for
Hunterbury? I've got some patients to see later, and then
there's the surgery."
"I am at your disposal, my friend."
They set off on foot, entering the grounds by the back gate.
Halfway to the house they met a tall, good-looking young
fellow wheeling a barrow. He touched his cap respectfully to Dr. Lord.
"Good morning, Horlick. This is Horlick, the gardener,
Poirot. He was working here that morning,"
Horlick said, "Yes, sir, I was. I saw Miss Elinor that morning
and talked to her."
Poirot asked, "What did she say to you?"
"She told me the house was as good as sold, and that rather
took me aback, sir; but Miss Elinor said as how she'd speak
for me to Major Somervell, and that maybe he'd keep me
on--if he didn't think me too young, perhaps, as head--seeing
as how I'd had good training under Mr. Stephens, here."
Dr. Eord said, "Did she seem much the same as usual,
Horlick?"
"Why, yes, sir, except that she looked a bit excited like--
and as though she had something on her mind."
Hercule Poirot said, "Did you know Mary Gerrard?"
"Oh, yes, sir. But not very well."
Poirot said, "What was she like?"
Horlick looked puzzled. "Eike, sir? Do you mean to look
at?"
"Not exactly. I mean, what kind of a girl was she?"
"Oh, well, sir, she was a very superior sort of & girl. Nice
spoken and all that. Thought a lot of herself, I should say.
You see, old Mrs. Welman had made a lot of fuss over her.
Made her father wild, that did. He was like a bear with a sore
head about it."
Poirot said, "By all that I've heard, he had not the best of
tempers, that old one?"
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AGATHA CHRISTIE
"No, indeed, he hadn't. Always grumbling, and crusty as
they make them. Seldom had a civil word for you."
Poirot said, "You were here on that morning. Whereabouts
were you working?"
"Mostly in the kitchen garden, sir."
"You cannot see the house from there?"
"No, sir."
Peter Lord said, "If anybody had come up to the house—up
to the pantry window—you wouldn't have seen them?"
"No, I wouldn't, sir."
Peter Lord said, "When did you go to your dinner?"
"One o'clock, sir."
"And you didn't see anything—any man hanging about—or
a car outside—anything like that?"
The man's eyebrows rose in slight surprise. "Outside the
back gate, sir? There was your car there—nobody else's."
Peter Lord cried, "My car? It wasn't my car! I was over
Withenbury direction that morning. Didn't get back till after
two."
Horlick looked puzzled. "I made sure it was your car, sir,"
he said doubtfully.
Peter Lord said quickly, "Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Good
morning, Horlick."
He and Poirot moved on. Horlick stared after them for a
minute or two, then slowly resumed his progress with the
wheelbarrow.
Peter Lord said softly—but with great excitement, "Something—at
last. Whose car was it standing in the lane that
morning?"
Poirot said, "What make is your car, my friend?"
"A Ford ten—sea-green. They're pretty common, of course."
"And you are sure that it was not yours? You haven't
mistaken the day?"
"Absolutely certain. I was over at Withenbury, came back
late, snatched a bit of lunch, and then the call came through
about Mary Gerrard and I rushed over."
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SAD cypress
Poirot said softly, "Then it would seem, my friend, that we
have "come upon something tangible at last."
Peter Lord said, "Someone was here that morning—someone
who was not Elinor Carlisle, nor Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse
Hopkins."
Poirot said, "This is very interesting. Come, let us make
our investigations. Let us see, for instance, supposing a man
(or woman) were to wish to approach the house unseen, how
they would set about it."
Halfway along the drive a path branched off through some
shrubbery. They took this and at a certain turn in it Peter
Lord clutched Poirot's arm, pointing to a window.
He said, "That's the window of the pantry where Elinor
Carlisle was cutting the sandwiches."
Poirot murmured, "And from here, anyone could see her
cutting them. The window was open, if I remember rightly?"
Peter Lord said, "It was wide open. It was a hot day,
remember."
Hercule Poirot said musingly, "Then if anyone wished to
watch unseen what was going on, somewhere about here would
be a good spot."
The two men cast about. Peter Lord said, "There's a place
here—behind these bushes. Some stuff's been trampled down
here. It's grown up again now, but you can see plainly enough."
Poirot joined him. He said thoughtfully, "Yes, this is a good
place. It is concealed from the path, and that opening in the
shrubs gives one a good view of the window. Now, what did
he do, our friend who stood here? Did he perhaps smoke?"
They bent down, examining the ground and pushing aside
the leaves and branches. Suddenly Hercule Poirot uttered a
grunt.
Peter Lord straightened up from his own search. "What is
it?"
"A match box, my friend. An empty match box, trodden
heavily into the ground, sodden and decayed."
With care and delicacy he salvaged the object. He displayed
it at last on a sheet of notepaper taken from his pocket.
149
agatha CHRISTIE
Peter Lord said, "It's foreign. My God! German matches!"
Hercule Poirot said, "And Mary Gerrard had recently come
from Germany!"
Peter Lord said exultingly, "We've got something now! You
can't deny it."
Hercule Poirot said slowly, "Perhaps."
"But, damn it all, man. Who on earth round here would
have had foreign matches?"
Hercule Poirot said, "I know—I know."
His eyes, perplexed eyes, went to the gap in the bushes and
the view of the window. He said, "It is not quite so simple as
you think. There is one great difficulty. Do you not see it
yourself?"
"What? Tell me."
Poirot sighed. "If you do not see for yourself— But come, let
us go on."
They went on to the house. Peter Lord unlocked the back
door with a key.
He led the way through the scullery to the kitchen, through
that, along a passage where there was a cloakroom on one side
and the butler's pantry on the other. The two men looked
round the pantry.
It had the usual cupboards with sliding glass doors for glass
and china. There was a gas ring and two kettles and canisters
marked Tea and Coffee on a shelf above. There was a sink
and draining-board and a washing-up bowl. In front of the
window was a table.
Peter Lord said, "It was on this table that Elinor Carlisle
cut the sandwiches. The fragment of the morphine label was
found in this crack in the floor under the sink."
Poirot said thoughtfully, "The police are careful searchers.
They do not miss much."
Peter Lord said violently, "There's no evidence that Elinor
ever handled that tube! I tell you, someone was watching her
from the shrubbery outside. She went down to the lodge and
he saw his chance and slipped in, uncorked the tube, crushed
some tablets of morphine to powder, and put them into the
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sad CYPRESS
top sandwich. He never noticed that he'd torn a bit off the
label of the tube, and that it had fluttered down the crack. He
hurried away, started up his car, and went off again."
Poirot sighed. "And still you do not see! It is extraordinary
how dense an intelligent man can be."
Peter Lord demanded angrily, "Do you mean to say that
you don't believe someone stood in those bushes watching
this window?"
Poirot said, "Yes, I believe that."
"Then we've got to find whoever it was!"
Poirot murmured, "We shall not have to look far, I fancy."
"Do you mean you know?"
"I have a very shrewd idea."
Peter Lord said slowly, "Then your minions who made
inquiries in Germany did bring you something."
Hercule Poirot said, tapping his forehead, "My friend, it is all
here, in my head. Come, let us look over the house."
They stood at last in the room where Mary Gerrard had
died.
The house had a strange atmosphere in it; it seemed alive
with memories and forebodings.
Peter Lord flung up one of the windows. He said with a
slight shiver, "This place feels like a tomb."
Poirot said, "If walls could speak. It is all here, is it not,
here in the house—the beginning of the whole story."
He paused and then said softly, "It was in this room that
Mary Gerrard died?"
Peter Lord said, "They found her sitting in that chair by
the window."
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully, "A young girl—beautiful—
romantic. Did she scheme and intrigue? Was she a superior
person who gave herself airs? Was she gentle and sweet, with
no thought of intrigue—just a young thing beginning life—a
girl like a flower?"
"Whatever she was," said Peter Lord, "someone wished her
dead."
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AGATHA CHRISTIE
Hercule Poirot murmured, "I wonder--"
Lord stared at him. "What do you mean?"
Poirot shook his head. "Not yet."
He turned about. "We have been all through the house. We
have seen all that there is to be seen here. Let us go down to
the lodge."
Here again all was in order, the rooms dusty, but neat and
emptied of personal possessions. The two men stayed only a
few minutes. As they came. out into the sun, Poirot touched
the leaves of a pillar rose growing up a trellis. It was pink and
sweet-scented. He murmured, "Do you know the name of this
rose? It is Zephyrine Droughin, my friend."
Peter Lord said irritably, "What of it?"
Hercule Poirot said, "When I saw Elinor Carlisle, she spoke
to me of roses. It was then that I began to see--not daylight,
but the little glimpse of light that one gets in a train when one is
about to come out of a tunnel. It is not so much daylight, but
the promise of daylight."
Peter Lord said harshly, "What did she tell you?"
"She told me of her childhood, of playing here in this
garden, and of how she and Roderick Welman were on different
sides. They were enemies, for he preferred the white rose
of York--cold and austere--and she, so she told me, loved red
roses, the red rose of Lancaster. Red roses that have scent and
color and passion and warmth. And that, my friend, is the
difference between Elinor Carlisle and Roderick Welman."
Peter Lord said, "Does that explain--anything?"
Poirot said, "It explains Elinor Carlisle--who is passionate
and proud and who loved desperately a man who was incapable
of loving her."
Peter Lord said, "I don't understand you."
Poirot said, "But I understand her. I understand both of
them. Now, my friend, we will go back once more to that
little clearing in the shrubbery."
They went there in silence. Peter Lord's freckled face was
troubled and angry.
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When they came to the spot, Poirot stood motionless for
some -time, and Peter Lord watched him.
Then suddenly the little detective gave a vexed sigh. He
said, "It is so simple, really. Do you not see, my friend, the
fatal fallacy in your reasoning? According to your theory,
someone, a man, presumably, who had known Mary Gerrard
in Germany came here intent on killing her. But look, my
friend, look! Use the two eyes of your body, since the eyes of
the mind do not seem to serve you. What do you see from
here? A window, is it not? And at that window—a girl. A girl
cutting sandwiches. That is to say, Elinor Carlisle. But think
for a minute of this: What on earth was to tell the watching man
that those sandwiches were going to be offered to Mary Gerrard?
No one knew that but Elinor Carlisle herself—nobody! Not
even Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse Hopkins.
"So what follows—if a man stood here watching, and if he
afterward went to that window and climbed in and tampered
with the sandwiches? What did he think and believe? He
thought, he must have thought, that the sandwiches were to be
eaten by Elinor Carlisle herself."
153
chapter XX

p<
'OIROT knocked at the door of Nurse Hopkins's cottage.
She opened it to him with her mouth full of Bath bun.
She said sharply, "Well, Mr. Poirot, what do you want now?"
"I may enter?"
Somewhat grudgingly Nurse Hopkins drew back and Poirot
was permitted to cross the threshold. Nurse Hopkins was
hospitable with the teapot, and a minute later Poirot was
regarding with some dismay a cup of inky beverage.
"Just made--nice and strong!" said Nurse Hopkins.
Poirot stirred his tea cautiously and took one heroic sip. He
said, "Have you any idea why I have come here?"
"I couldn't say, I'm sure, until you tell me. I don't profess
to be a mind-reader."
"I have come to ask you for the truth."
Nurse Hopkins uprose in wrath. "And what's the meaning
of that, I should like to know? A truthful woman I've always
been. Not one to shield myself in any way. I spoke up about
that missing tube of morphine at the inquest when many a
one in my place would have sat tight and said nothing. For
well enough did I know that I should get censured for carelessness in leaving my case about, and, after all, it's a thing
might happen to anybody! I was blamed for that--and it
won't do me any good in my profession, I can tell you. But
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FR1;SAD CYPRESS
that didn't make any difference to me! I knew something that
had a bearing on the case, and so I spoke out. And I'll thank
you, Mr. Poirot, to keep any nasty insinuation to yourself!
There's not a thing about Mary Gerrard's death that I haven't
been open and aboveboard as daylight about, and if you think
differently, I'd be obliged if you'd give chapter and verse for
it! I've concealed nothing--nothing at all! And I'm prepared
to take the oath and stand up in court and say so."
Poirot did not attempt to interrupt. He knew only too well
the technique of dealing with an angry woman. He allowed
Nurse Hopkins to flare up and simmer down. Then he spoke--
quietly and mildly.
He said, "I did not suggest that there is anything about the
crime which you have not told."
"Then what did you suggest, I'd like to know?"
"I asked you to tell the truth--not about the death, but
about the life of Mary Gerrard."
"Oh!" Nurse Hopkins seemed momentarily taken aback.
She said, "So that's what you're getting at? But it's got nothing
to do with the murder."
"I did not say that it had. I said that you were withholding
knowledge concerning her."
"Why shouldn't I--if it's nothing to do with the crime?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Why should you?"
Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said, "Because it's
common decency! They're all dead now--everyone concerned.
And it's no business of anyone else's!"
"If it is only surmise--perhaps not. But if you have actual
knowledge, that's different."
Nurse Hopkins said slowly, "I don't know exactly what you
mean."
Poirot said, "I will help you. I have had hints from Nurse
O'Brien and I have had a long conversation with Mrs. Slattery,
who has a very good memory for events that happened over
twenty years ago. I will tell you exactly what I have learned.
Well, over twenty years ago there was a love affair between
two people. One of them was Mrs. Welman, who had been a
155
FR1;agatha CHRISTIE I
widow for soi^6 V^s and who was a woman capable of a I;
deep and pas"1011316 love. The other party was Sir Lewis
Rycroft, who ^ Ae great misfortune to have a wife who
was hopelessly insa^. The law in those days gave no promise
of relief by div01""' ^d Lady Rycroft, whose physical health
was excellent, ""^t live to be ninety. The liaison between
those two peof^ was' I think, guessed at, but they were both
discreet and c^"6^ to keep up appearances. Then Sir Lewis
Rycroft was ki11^ in action.'"' I? "Well?" saic) ^"e Hopkins. 1
"I suggest," salu ^Qirot, "that there was a child born after
his death, and tnat ^at child was Mary Gerrard."
Nurse Hopk^ sal(^) "You seem to know all about it!"
f'Tl* *- '
Poirot said, ' lnat is what I think. But it is possible that you
have got define P^f that that is so."
Nurse Hopk^ sat silent a minute or two, frowning, then
abruptly she r0^' ^nt across the room, opened a drawer,
and took out aft enve^ope. She brought it across to Poirot.
She said, "1'^ te^ you how this came into my hands. Mind,
I'd had my su''?1"01^. The way Mrs. Welman looked at the
girl, for one tl^"8' B^d then hearing the gossip on top of it.
And old Gerr?" *i me when he was ill that Mary wasn't
his daughter.
"Well, after ^^ ^ied I finished clearing up the lodge, and
in a drawer an'011^ ^^e of the old man's things I came across
this letter. Yolt see ^at's written on it."
Poirot read l e ^Perscription written in faded ink: For Mary--to be se^ to ^er after my death.
Poirot said, ' lnls Writing is not recent?"
"It wasn't "G^ard who wrote that," explained Nurse
Hopkins. "It vV^ M^y's mother, who died fourteen years ago.
She meant this ror "^ girl, but the old man kept it among his
things and so ^e "^er saw it--and I'm thankful she didn't!
She was able to "°^ up her head to the end, and she'd no
cause to feel ^hame^."
She paused an" ^en said, "Well, it was sealed up, but
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SAD CYPRESS
when I found it I'll admit to you that I opened it and read it
then »nd there, which I dare say I should not have done. But
Mary was dead, and I guessed more or less at what was inside
it and I didn't see that it was any concern of anyone else's. All
the same, I haven't liked to destroy it, because I didn't feel
somehow it would be right to do that. But, there, you'd better
read it yourself."
Poirot drew out the sheet of paper covered in small, angular
writing:
This is the truth I've written down here in case it should
ever be needed. 1 was lady's maid to Mrs. Welman at
Hunterbury, and very kind to me she was. I got into trouble,
and she stood by me and took me back into her service when
it was all over; but the baby died. My mistress and Sir Lewis
Rycroft were fond of each other, but they couldn't marry,
because he had a wife already and she was in a madhouse,
poor lady. He was a fine gentleman and devoted to Mrs.
Welman. He was killed, and she told me soon after that she
was going to have a child. After that she went up to Scotland
and took me with her. The child was born there--at
Ardlochrie. Bob Gerrard, who had washed his hands of me
and flung me off when I had my trouble, had been writing to
me again. The arrangement was that we should marry and
live at the lodge and he should think that the baby was mine.
If we lived on the place it would seem natural that Mrs.
Welman should be interested in the child and she'd see to
educating her and giving her a place in the world. She thought
it would be better for Mary never to know the truth. Mrs.
Welman gave us both a handsome sum of money; but I
would have helped her without that. I've been quite happy
with Bob, but he never took to Mary. I've held my tongue
and never said anything to anybody, but I think it's right
in case 1 die that I should put this down in black and
white.
eliza gerrard (born eliza riley).
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agatha CHRISTIE
Hercule Poirot drew a deep breath and folded up the letter
again.
Nurse Hopkins said anxiously, "What are you going to do
about it? They're all dead now! It's no good raking up these
things. Everyone looked up to Mrs. Welman in these parts;
there's never been anything said against her. All this old
scandal--it would be cruel. The same with Mary. She was a
sweet girl. Why should anyone have to know she was a bastard?
Let the dead rest in peace in" their graves, that's what I say."
Poirot said, "One has to consider the living."
Nurse Hopkins said, "But this has got nothing to do with
the murder."
Hercule Poirot said gravely, "It may have a great deal to do
with it."
He went out of the cottage, leaving Nurse Hopkins with her
mouth open, staring after him.
He had walked some way when he became aware of hesitating
footsteps just behind him. He stopped and turned round.
It was Horlick, the young gardener from Hunterbury. He
was looking the picture of embarrassment and twisting his
cap round and round in his hands.
"Excuse me, sir. Could I have a word with you?"
Horlick spoke with a kind of gulp.
"Certainly. What is it?"
Horlick twisted the cap even more fiercely. He said, averting
his eyes and looking the picture of misery and embarrassment,
"It's about that car."
"The car that was outside the back gate that morning?"
"Yes, sir. Dr. Lord said this morning that it wasn't his
car--but it was, sir."
"You know that for a fact?"
"Yes, sir. Because of the number, sir. It was MSS 2022. I
noticed it particular--MSS 2022. You see, we know it in the
village, and always call it Miss Tou-Tou! I'm quite sure of it,
sir."
Poirot said with a faint smile, "But Dr. Lord says he was
over at Withenbury that morning."
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SAD CYPRESS
Horlick said miserably, "Yes, sir. I heard him. But it was
his car, sir. I'll take my oath on that."
Poirot said gently, "Thank you, Horlick, that's just exactly
what you may have to do."
159
chapter XXI

W.
VV AS it very hot in the court? Or very cold? Elinor Carlisle
could not be quite sure. Sometimes she felt burning and
immediately after she shivered.
She had not heard the end of the Prosecuting Counsel's
speech. She had gone back to the past--gone slowly through
the whole business again, from the day when that miserable
letter came to the moment when that smooth-faced police officer
had said with horrible fluency:
"You are Elinor Katharine Carlisle. I have here a warrant
for your arrest upon the charge of murdering Mary Gerrard
by administering poison to her on the 27th of July last, and I
must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in
writing and may be used as evidence at your trial."
Horrible, frightening fluency. She felt caught up in a smoothrunning,
well-oiled machine--inhuman, passionless.
And now here she was, standing in the dock in the open
glare of publicity, with hundreds of eyes that were neither
impersonal nor inhuman, feasting upon her and gloating.
Only the jury did not look at her. Embarrassed, they kept
their eyes studiously turned away. She thought, It's because--
soon--they know what they're going to say.
Dr. Lord was giving evidence. Was this Peter Lord--that
freckled, cheery young doctor who had been so kind and so
friendly at Hunterbury? He was very stiff now. Sternly
160
SAD CYPRESS
professional. His answers came monotonously. He had been
summoned by telephone to Hunterbury Hall; too late for
anything to be done; Mary Gerrard had died a few minutes
after his arrival; death consistent, in his opinion, with morphia
poisoning in one of its less common forms--the "foudroyante"
variety.
Sir Edwin Bulmer rose to cross-examine.
"You were the late Mrs. Welman's regular medical attendant?"

"I was."
"During your visits to Hunterbury in June last, you had
occasion to see the accused and Mary Gerrard together?"
"Several times."
"What should you say was the manner of the accused to
Mary Gerrard?"
"Perfectly pleasant and natural."
Sir Edwin Bulmer said with a slight, disdainful smile,
"You never saw any signs of this 'jealous hatred' we have
heard so much about?"
Peter Lord, his jaw set, said firmly, "No."
Elinor thought, But he did--he did. He told a lie for me there.
He knew.
Peter Lord was succeeded by the police surgeon. His evidence
was longer, more detailed. Death was due to morphia
poisoning of the "foudroyante" variety. Would he kindly explain
the term? With some enjoyment he did so. Death from
morphine poisoning might result in several different ways.
The most common was a period of intense excitement followed
by drowsiness and narcosis, pupils of eyes contracted.
Another not so common form had been named by the French
"foudroyante." In these cases deep sleep supervened in a
very short time--about ten minutes; the pupils of the eyes
were usually dilated.
The court had adjourned and sat again. There had been
some hours of expert medical testimony. Dr. Alan Garcia, the distinguished analyst, full of learned
161
AGATHA CHRISTIE ^
terms, spoke with gusto of the stomach contents. Bread, fish
paste, tea, presence of morphia--more learned terms and various
decimal points. Amount taken by the deceased estimated
to be about four grains. Fatal dose could be as low as one grain.
Sir Edwin rose, still bland. "I should like to get it quite
clear. You found in the stomach nothing but bread, butter,
fish paste, tea, and morphia. There were no other foodstuffs?"
"None."
"That is to say, the deceased had eaten nothing but sandwiches
and tea for some considerable time?"
"That is so."
"Was there anything to show in what particular vehicle the
morphia had been administered?"
"I don't quite understand."
"I will simplify that question. The morphia could have
been taken in the fish paste, or in the bread, or in the butter
on the bread, or in the tea, or in the milk that had been added
to the tea?"
"Certainly."
"There was no special evidence that the morphia was in
the fish paste rather than in the other mediums?"
"No."
"And, in fact, the morphia might have been taken separately--
that is to say, not in any vehicle at all? It could have been
simply swallowed in its tablet form?"
"That is so, of course."
Sir Edwin sat down.
Sir Samuel Attenbury reexamined.
"Nevertheless, you are of the opinion that, however the
morphia was taken, it was taken at the same time as the other
food and drink?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
Inspector Brill had taken the oath with mechanical fluency.
He stood there, soldierly and stolid, reeling off his evidence
with practiced ease.
162
sad CYPRESS
"Summoned to the house. . . . The accused said, 'It must
have been bad fish paste! . • • search of the premises . . . one
jar of fish paste washed out was standing on the drainingboard
in the pantry, another half full . . . further search of
pantry kitchen. ..."
"What did you find?"
"In a crack behind the table, between the floor-boards, I
found a tiny scrap of paper."
The exhibit went to the jury.
C TABLETS. 1
D. HydBP^
gr.i/y
"What did you take it to be?"
"A fragment off a printed label—such as are used on glass
tubes of morphia."
Counsel for the Defense arose with leisurely ease.
He said, "You found this scrap in a crack in the flooring?"
"Yes."
"Part of a label?"
"Yes."
"Did you find the rest of that label?"
"No."
"You did not find any glass tube or any bottle to which that
label might have been affixed?"
"No."
"What was the state of that scrap of paper when you found
it? Was it clean or dirty?"
"It was quite fresh."
"What do you mean, quite fresh?"
"There was surface dust on it from the flooring, but it was
quite clean otherwise."
"It could not have been there for any length of time?"
"No, it had found its way there quite recently."
"You would say, then, that it had come there on the actual
day you found it—not earlier?"
163
AGATHA CHRISTIE
"Yes."
With a grunt Sir Edwin sat down.
Nurse Hopkins in the box, her face red and self-righteous.
All the same, Elinor thought, Nurse Hopkins was not so
frightening as Inspector Brill. It was the inhumanity of Inspector
Brill that was so paralyzing. He was so definitely part
of a great machine. Nurse Hopkins had human passions,
prejudices. .
"Your name is Jessie Hopkins?"
"Yes."
"You are a certified District Nurse and you reside at Rose
Cottage, Hunterbury?"
"Yes."
"Where were you on the 28th of June last?"
"I was at Hunterbury Hall."
"You had been sent for?"
"Yes. Mrs. Welman had had a stroke--the second. I went to
assist Nurse O'Brien until a second nurse could be found."
"Did you take a small attache case with you?"
"Yes."
"Tell the jury what was in it."
"Bandages, dressings, a hypodermic syringe, and certain
drugs, including a tube of morphine hydrochloride."
"For what purpose was the morphine there?"
"One of the cases in the village had to have hypodermic
injections of morphia morning and evening."
"What were the contents of the tube?"
"There were twenty tablets, each containing half-grain Morphine
Hydrochloride."
"What did you do with your attache case?"
"I laid it down in the hall."
"That was on the evening of the 28th. When did you next
have occasion to look in the case?"
"The following morning about nine o'clock, just as I was
preparing to leave the house."
"Was anything missing?"
164
sad CYPRESS
"The tube of morphine was missing."
"Did*you mention this loss?"
"I spoke of it to Nurse O'Brien, the nurse in charge of the
patient."
"This case was lying in the hall, where people were in the
habit of passing to and fro?"
"Yes."
Sir Samuel paused. Then he said, "You knew the dead girl,
Mary Gerrard, intimately?"
"Yes."
"What was your opinion of her?"
"She was a very sweet girl--and a good girl."
"Was she of a happy disposition?"
"Very happy."
"She had no troubles that you know of?"
"No."
"At the time of her death was there anything whatever to
worry her or make her unhappy about the future?"
"Nothing."
"She would have had no reason to have taken her own
life?"
"No reason at all."
It went on and on--the damning story. How Nurse Hopkins
had accompanied Mary to the lodge, the appearance of Elinor,
her excitable manner, the invitation to sandwiches, the plate
being handed first to Mary. Elinor's suggestion that everything
be washed up, and her further suggestion that Nurse
Hopkins should come upstairs with her and assist in sorting
out clothes.
There were frequent interruptions and objections from Sir
Edwin Bulmer.
Elinor thought. Yes, it's all true--and she believes it. She's
certain I did it. And every word she says is the truth--that's
what's so horrible. It's all true.
Once more, as she looked across the court, she saw the face
of Hercule Poirot regarding her thoughtfully--almost kindly. Seeing her with too much knowledge.
165
AGATHA CHRISTIE
The piece of cardboard with the scrap of label pasted on it
was handed to the witness.
"Do you know what this is?"
"It's a bit of a label."
"Can you tell the jury what label?"
"Yes—it's a part of a label off a tube of hypodermic tablets.
Morphine tablets half-grain—like the one I lost."
"You are sure of that?"
"Of course I'm sure. It's off my tube."
The judge said, "Is there any special mark on it by which
you can identify it as the label of the tube you lost?"
"No, my lord, but it must be the same."
"Actually, all you can say is that it is exactly similar?"
"Well, yes, that's what I mean."
The court adjourned.
166
chapter XXII
I
T was another day. Sir Edwin Bulmer was on his feet
cross-examining. He was not at all bland now. He said sharply,
"This attache case we've heard so much about. On June 28th
it was left in the main hall of Hunterbury all night?"
Nurse Hopkins agreed: "Yes."
"Rather a careless thing to do, wasn't it?"
Nurse Hopkins flushed. "Yes, I suppose it was."
"Are you in the habit of leaving dangerous drugs lying about
where anyone could get at 'em?"
"No, of course not."
"Oh! You're not? But you did it on this occasion?"
"Yes."
"And it's a fact, isn't it, that anybody in the house could have
got at that morphia if they'd wanted to?"
"I suppose so."
"No suppose about it. It is so, isn't it?"
"Well—yes."
"It wasn't only Miss Carlisle who could have got it? Any of
the servants could? Or Dr. Lord? Or Mr. Roderick Welman?
Or Nurse O'Brien? Or Mary Gerrard herself?"
"I suppose so—yes."
"It is so, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Was anyone aware you'd got morphia in that case?"
167
agatha CHRISTIE
"I don't know."
"Well, did you talk about it to anyone?"
"No."
"So, as a matter of fact, Miss Carlisle couldn't have known
that there was any morphia there?"
"She might have looked to see."
"That's very unlikely, isn't it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure."
"There were people who'd be more likely to know about the
morphia than Miss Carlisle. Dr. Lord, for instance. He'd
know. You were administering this morphia under his orders,
weren't you?"
"Of course."
"Mary Gerrard knew you had it there, too?"
"No, she didn't."
"She was often in your cottage, wasn't she?"
"Not very often."
"I suggest to you that she was there very frequently, and
that she, of all the people in the house, would be the most
likely to guess that there was morphia in your case."
"I don't agree."
Sir Edwin paused a minute. "You told Nurse O'Brien in
the morning that the morphia was missing?"
"Yes."
"I put it to you that what you really said was, T have left
the morphia at home. I shall have to go back for it.' "
"No, I didn't."
"You didn't suggest that the morphia had been left on the
mantelpiece in your cottage?"
"Well, when I couldn't find it I thought that must have
been what had happened."
"In fact, you didn't really know what you'd done with it!"
"Yes, I did. I put it in the case."
"Then why did you suggest on the morning of June 29th
that you had left it at home?"
"Because I thought I might have."
"I put it to you that you're a very careless woman."
168
sad CYPRESS
"That's not true."
"You make rather inaccurate statements sometimes, don't
you?" *
"No, I don't. I'm very careful what I say."
"Did you make a remark about a prick from a rose tree on
July 27th—the day of Mary Gerrard's death?"
"I don't see what that's got to do with it!"
The judge said, "Is that relevant. Sir Edwin?"
"Yes, my lord, it is an essential part of the defense, and I
intend to call witnesses to prove that that statement was a lie."
He resumed. "Do you still say you pricked your wrist on a
rose tree on July 27th?"
"Yes, I did." Nurse Hopkins looked defiant.
"When did you do that?"
"Just before leaving the lodge and coming up to the house
on the morning of July 27th."
Sir Edwin said skeptically, "And what rose tree was this?"
"A climbing one just outside the lodge, with pink flowers."
"You're sure of that?"
"I'm quite sure."
Sir Edwin paused and then asked, "You persist in saying
the morphia was in the attache case when you came to
Hunterbury on June 28th?"
"I do. I had it with me."
"Supposing that presently Nurse O'Brien goes into the box
and swears that you said you had probably left it at home?"
"It was in my case. I'm sure of it."
Sir Edwin sighed. "You didn't feel at all uneasy about the
disappearance of the morphia?"
"Not—uneasy—no."
"Oh, so you were quite at ease, notwithstanding the fact
that a large quantity of a dangerous drug had disappeared?"
"I didn't think at the time anyone had taken it."
"I see. You just couldn't remember for the moment what
you had done with it?"
"Not at all. It was in the case."
169
AGATHA CHRISTIE
"Twenty half-grain tablets—that is, ten grains of morphia.
Enough to kill several people, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"But you are not uneasy—and you don't even report the
loss officially?"
"I thought it was all right."
"I put it to you that if the morphia had really disappeared
the way it did you would have been bound, as a conscientious
person, to report the loss officially."
Nurse Hopkins, very red ;n the face, said, "Well, I didn't."
"That was surely a piece of criminal carelessness on your
part. You don't seem to take your responsibilities very seriously.
Did you often mislay these dangerous drugs?"
"It never happened before."
It went on for some minutes. Nurse Hopkins, flustered, red
in the face, contradicting herself—an easy prey to Sir Edwin's
skill.
"Is it a fact that on Thursday, July 6th, the dead girl, Mary
Gerrard, made a will?"
"She did."
"Why did she do that?"
"Because she thought it was the proper thing to do. And so
it was."
"Are you sure it wasn't because she was depressed and
uncertain about her future?"
"Nonsense."
"It showed, though, that the idea of death was present in
her mind—that she was brooding on the subject."
"Not at all. She just thought it was the proper thing to do."
"Is this the will? Signed by Mary Gerrard, witn^fted by
Emily Biggs and Roger Wade, confectioners' assistants, and
leaving everything of which she died possessed to Mary Riley,
sister of Eliza Riley?"
"That's right."
It was handed to the jury.
"To your knowledge, had Mary Gerrard any property to
leave?"
170
SAD CYPRESS
"Not then, she hadn't."
"But she was shortly going to have?"
"Yes?'
"Is it not a fact that a considerable sum of money—two
thousand pounds—was being given to Mary by Miss Carlisle?"
"Yes."
"There was no compulsion on Miss Carlisle to do this? It
was entirely a generous impulse on her part?"
"She did it of her own free will, yes."
"But surely, if she had hated Mary Gerrard, as is suggested,
she would not of her own free will have handed over to her a
large sum of money."
"That's as may be."
"What do you mean by that answer?"
"I don't mean anything."
"Exactly. Now, had you heard any local gossip about Mary
Gerrard and Mr. Roderick Welman?"
"He was sweet on her."
"Have you any evidence of that?"
"I just knew it, that's all."
"Oh—you 'just knew it.' That's not very convincing to the
jury, I'm afraid. Did you say on one occasion Mary would
have nothing to do with him because he was engaged to Miss
Elinor and she said the same to him in London?"
"That's what she told me."
Sir Samuel Attenbury re-examined: "When Mary Gerrard
was discussing with you the wording of this will, did the
accused look in through the window?"
"Yes, she did."
"What did she say?"
"She said, 'So you're making your will, Mary. That's funny.'
And she laughed. Laughed and laughed. And it's my opinion,"
said the witness viciously, "that it was at that moment the
idea came into her head. The idea of making away with the
girl! She'd murder in her heart that very minute."
The judge spoke sharply: "Confine yourself to answering
171
agatha CHRISTIE
the questions that are asked you. The last part of that answer
is to be struck out."
Elinor thought, How queer. When anyone says what's true,
they strike it out.
She wanted to laugh hysterically.
Nurse O'Brien was in the box.
"On the morning of June 29th did Nurse Hopkins make a
statement to you?" *
"Yes. She said she had a tube of morphine hydrochloride
missing from her case." 1(
"What did you do?"
"I helped her to hunt for it."
"But you could not find it?"
"No."
"To your knowledge, was the case left overnight in the hall?"
"It was."
"Mr. Welman and the accused were both staying in the
house at the time^Hf Mrs. Welman's death—that is, on June
28th to 29th?"
"Yes."
"Will you tell us of an incident that occurred on June
29th—the day after Mrs. Welman's death?"
"I saw Mr. Roderick Welman with Mary Gerrard. He was
telling her he loved her, and he tried to kiss her."
"He was at the time engaged to the accused?"
"Yes."
"What happened next?"
"Mary told him to think shame of himself, and him engaged
to Miss Elinor!"
"In your opinion, what was the feeling of the accused
toward Mary Gerrard?"
"She hated her. She would look after her as though she'd
like to destroy her."
Sir Edwin jumped up.
Elinor thought, Why do they wrangle about it? What does it
matter?
172
sad CYPRESS
Sir Edwin Bulmer cross-examined: "Is it not a fact that
Nurse Hapkins said she thought she had left the morphia at
home?"
"Well, you see, it was this way. After—"
"Kindly answer my question. Did she not say that she had
probably left the morphia at home?"
"Yes."
"She was not really worried at the time about it?"
"No, not then."
"Because she thought she had left it at home. So naturally
she was not uneasy."
"She couldn't imagine anyone taking it."
"Exactly. It wasn't till after Mary Gerrard's death from
morphia that her imagination got to work."
The judge interrupted: "I think, Sir Edwin, that you have
already been over that point with the former witness."
"As your lordship pleases.
"Now, regarding the attitude of the accused to Mary Gerrard,
there was no quarrel between them at any time?"
"No quarrel, no."
"Miss Carlisle was always quite pleasant to the girl?"
"Yes. 'Twas the way she looked at her."
"Yes—yes—yes. But we can't go by that sort of thing. You're
Irish, I think?"
"I am that."
"And the Irish have rather a vivid imagination, haven't
they?"
Nurse O'Brien cried excitedly, "Every word I've told you
is the truth."
Mr. Abbott, the grocer, in the box. Flustered—unsure of
himself (slightly thrilled, though, at his importance). His
evidence was short. The purchase of two pots of fish paste.
The accused had said, "There's a lot of food poisoning with
fish paste." She had seemed excited and queer.
No cross-examination.
173
chapter XXIII

0,
opening speech for the Defense:
"Gentlemen of the jury, I might, if I like, submit to you
that there is no case against the accused. The onus of proof is
on the Prosecution, and so far, in my opinion--and, I have no
doubt, yours--they have proved exactly nothing at all! The
Prosecution avers that Elinor Carlisle, having obtained possession
of morphine (which everyone else in the house had had
equal opportunity of purloining, and as to which there exists
considerable doubt whether it was ever in the house at all),
proceeds to poison Mary Gerrard. Here the Prosecution has
relied solely on opportunity. It has sought to prove motive,
but I submit that that is just what it has not been able to
do. For, members of the jury, there is no motive! The Prosecution
has spoken of a broken engagement. I ask you--a broken
engagement! If a broken engagement is a cause for murder,
why are we not having murders committed every day? And
this engagement, mark you, was not an affair of desperate
passion, it was an engagement entered into mainly for family
reasons. Miss Carlisle and Mr. Welman had grown up together;
they had always been fond of each other, and gradually they
drifted into a warmer attachment; but I intend to prove to
you it was at best a very lukewarm affair."
(Oh, Roddy--Roddy. A lukewarm affair?)
"Moreover, this engagement was broken off, not by Mr.
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SAD CYPRESS
Welman--but by the prisoner. I submit to you that the engagement
between Elinor Carlisle and Roderick Welman was entered
into mainly to please old Mrs. Welman. When she died,
both parties realized that their feelings were not strong enough
to justify them in entering upon matrimony. They remained,
however, good friends. Moreover, Elinor Carlisle, who had
inherited her aunt's fortune, in the kindliness of her nature,
was planning to settle a considerable sum of money on Mary
Gerrard. And this is the girl she is accused of poisoning! The
thing is farcical.
"The only thing that there is against Elinor Carlisle is the
circumstances under which the poisoning took place.
"The Prosecution has said in effect:
"No one but Elinor Carlisle could have killed Mary Gerrard.
Therefore they have had to search about for a possible motive.
But, as I have said to you, they have been unable to find any
motive, because there was none.
"Now, is it true that no one but Elinor Carlisle could have
killed Mary Gerrard? No, it is not. There is the possibility
that Mary Gerrard committed suicide. There is the possibility
that someone tampered with the sandwiches while Elinor
Carlisle was out of the house at the lodge. There is a third
possibility. It is a fundamental law of evidence that if it can
be shown that there is an alternative theory which is possible
and consistent with the evidence, the accused must be
acquitted. I propose to show you that there was another person
who had not only an equal opportunity to poison Mary
Gerrard, but who had a far better motive for doing so. I
propose to call evidence to show you that there was another
person who had access to the morphine, and who had a very
good motive for killing Mary Gerrard, and I can show that
that person had an equally good opportunity of doing so. I
submit to you that no jury in the world will convict this
woman of murder when there is no evidence against her
except that of opportunity, and when it can be shown that
there is not only evidence of opportunity against another
person, but an overwhelming motive. I shall also call witnesses
175
agatha CHRISTIE
to prove that there has been deliberate perjury on the part of
one of the witnesses for the Crown. But first I will call the
prisoner, that she may tell you her own story, and that you
may see for yourself how entirely unfounded the charges
against her are."
She had taken the oath. She was answering Sir Edwin's
questions in a low voice. The judge leaned forward. He told
her to speak louder.
Sir Edwin was talking gently and encouragingly—all the
questions to which she had rehearsed the answers.
"You were fond of Roderick Welman?"
"Very fond. He was like a brother to me—or a cousin. I
always thought of him as a cousin."
The engagement . . . drifted into it ... very pleasant to
marry someone you had known all your life. . . .
"Not, perhaps, what might be called a passionate affair?"
(Passionate? Oh, Roddy.)
"Well, no ... you see, we knew each other so well . . ."
"After the death of Mrs. Welman, was there a slightly
strained feeling between you?"
"Yes, there was."
"How did you account for this?"
"I think it was partly the money."
"The money?"
"Yes. Roderick felt uncomfortable. He thought people might
think he was marrying me for that."
"The engagement was not broken off on account of Mary
Gerrard?"
"I did think Roderick was rather taken with her, but I
didn't believe it was anything serious."
"Would you have been upset if it had been?"
"Oh, no. I should have thought it rather unsuitable, that is
all."
"Now, Miss Carlisle. Did you or did you not take a tube of
morphine from Nurse Hopkins's attache case on June 28th?"
"I did not."
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SAD cypress
"Have,you at any time had morphine in your possession?"
"Never."
"Were you aware that your aunt had not made a will?"
"No. It came as a great surprise to me."
"Did you think she was trying to convey to you a message
on the night of June 28th when she died?"
"I understood that she had made no provision for Mary
Gerrard, and was anxious to do so."
"And in order to carry out her wishes, you yourself were
prepared to settle a sum of money on the girl?"
"Yes. I wanted to carry out Aunt Laura's wishes. And I was
grateful for the kindness Mary had shown to my aunt."
"On July 28th did you come down from London to Maidensford
and stay at the King's Arms?"
"Yes."
"What was your purpose in coming down?"
"I had an offer for the house, and the man who had bought
it wanted possession as quickly as possible. I had to look
through my aunt's personal things and settle things up
generally."
"Did you buy various provisions on your way to Hunterbury
Hall on July 27th?"
"Yes. I thought it would be easier to have a picnic lunch
there than to come back to the village."
"Did you then go on to the house, and did you sort through
your aunt's personal effects?"
"I did."
"And after that?"
"I came down to the pantry and cut some sandwiches. I
then went down to the lodge and invited the District Nurse
and Mary Gerrard to come up to the house."
"Why did you do this?"
"I wished to save them a hot walk back to the village and
back again to the lodge."
"It was, in fact, a natural and kindly action on your part.
Did they accept the invitation?"
"Yes. They walked up to the house with me."
177
AGATHA CHRISTIE
"Where were the sandwiches you had cut?"
"I left them in the pantry on a plate."
"Was the window open?"
"Yes."
"Anyone could have got into the pantry while you were
absent?"
"Certainly."
"If anybody had observed you from outside while you were
cutting the sandwiches, what would they have thought?"
"I suppose that I was preparing to have a picnic lunch."
"They could not know, could they, that anyone was to
share the lunch?"
"No. The idea of inviting the other two only came to me
when I saw what a quantity of food I had."
"So that if anyone had entered the house during your absence
and placed morphine in one of those sandwiches, it
would be you they were attempting to poison?"
"Well, yes, it would."
"What happened when you had all arrived back at the
house?"
"We went into the morning-room. I fetched the sandwiches
and handed them to the other two."
"Did you drink anything with them?"
"I drank water. There was beer on a table, but Nurse
Hopkins and Mary preferred tea. Nurse Hopkins went into
the pantry and made it. She brought it in on a tray and Mary
poured it out."
"Did you have any?"
"No."
"But Mary Gerrard and Nurse Hopkins both drank tea?"
"Yes."
"What happened next?"
"Nurse Hopkins went and turned the gas-ring off."
"Leaving you alone with Mary Gerrard?"
"Yes."
"What happened next?"
"After a few minutes I picked up the tray and the sand178
sad CYPRESS
wich plate and carried them into the pantry. Nurse Hopkins
was there, and we washed them together."
"Did Nurse Hopkins have her cuffs off at the time?"
"Yes. She was washing the things, while I dried them."
"Did you make a certain remark to her about a scratch on
her wrist?"
"I asked her if she had pricked herself."
"What did she reply?"
"She said, "It was a thorn from the rose tree outside the
lodge. I'll get it out presently.' "
"What was her manner at the time?"
"I think she was feeling the heat. She was perspiring and
her face was a queer color."
"What happened after that?"
"We went upstairs, and she helped me with my aunt's
things."
"What time was it when you went downstairs again?"
"It must have been an hour later."
"Where was Mary Gerrard?"
"She was sitting in the morning-room. She was breathing
very queerly and was in a coma. I rang up the doctor on
Nurse Hopkins's instructions. He arrived just before she died."
Sir Edwin squared his shoulders dramatically.
"Miss Carlisle, did you kill Mary Gerrard?"
(That's your cue. Head up, eyes straight.)
"No!"
Sir Samuel Attenbury. A sick beating at one's heart. Now—
now she was at the mercy of an enemy! No more gentleness,
no more questions to which she knew the answers!
But he began quite mildly.
"You were engaged to be married, you have told us, to Mr.
Roderick Welman?"
"Yes."
"You were fond of him?"
"Very fond."
"I put it to you that you were deeply in love with Roderick
179
FR1;AGATHA CHRISTIE
Welman and that you were wildly jealous of his love for Mary
Gerrard?"
"No." (Did it sound properly indignant, that "no"?)
Sir Samuel said menacingly, "I put it to you that you
deliberately planned to put this girl out of the way, in the
hope that Roderick Welman would return to you."
"Certainly not." (Disdainful--a little weary. That was better.)
The questions went on. It was just like a dream--a bad
dream--a nightmare ...
Question after question--horrible, hurting questions. Some
of them she was prepared for, some took her unawares.
Always trying to remember her part. Never once to let go,
to say, "Yes, I did hate her. . . . Yes, I did want her dead. . . .
Yes, all the time I was cutting the sandwiches I was thinking
of her dying. ..."
To remain calm and cool and answer as briefly and passionlessly
as possible. . . .
Fighting. . . .
Fighting every inch of the way. . . .
Over now. .. . The horrible man was sitting down. And the
kindly, unctuous voice of Sir Edwin Bulmer was asking a few
more questions. Easy, pleasant questions, designed to remove any
bad impression she might have made under cross-examination.
She was back again in the dock. Looking at the jury,
wondering. . . .
(Roddy. Roddy standing there, blinking a little, hating it all.
Roddy--looking somehow--not quite real.)
(But nothing's real any more. Everything is whirling round in a
devilish way. Black's white, and top is bottom and east is west. . . .
And I'm not Elinor Carlisle; I'm "the accused." And, whether
they hang me or whether they let me go, nothing will ever be the
same again. If there were just something--just one sane thing to
hold to. . . .)
(Peter Lord's face, perhaps, with its freckles and its extraordinary
air of being just the same as usual. . . .)
Where had Sir Edwin got to now ?
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sad CYPRESS
"Will you tell us what was the state of Miss Carlisle's
feelings.toward you?"
Roddy answered in his precise voice, "I should say she was
deeply attached to me, but certainly not passionately in love
with me."
"You considered your engagement satisfactory?"
"Oh, quite. We had a good deal in common."
"Will you tell the jury, Mr. Welman, exactly why that
engagement was broken off?"
"Well, after Mrs. Welman died it pulled us up, I think,
with a bit of a shock. I didn't like the idea of marrying a rich
woman when I myself was penniless. Actually the engagement
was dissolved by mutual consent. We were both rather
relieved."
"Now, will you tell us just what your relations were with
Mary Gerrard?"
(Oh, Roddy, poor Roddy, how you must hate all this!)
"I thought her very lovely."
"Were you in love with her?"
"Just a little."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
"Let me see. It must have been the 5th or 6th of July."
Sir Edwin said, a touch of steel in his voice, "You saw her
after that, I think."
"No, I went abroad--to Venice and Dalmatia."
"You returned to England--when?"
"When I received a telegram--let me see--on the 1st of
August, it must have been."
"But you were actually in England on July 27th, I think."
"No."
"Come, now, Mr. Welman. You are on oath, remember. Is it
not a fact that your passport shows that you returned to
England on July 25th and left it again on the night of the
27th?"
Sir Edwin's voice held a subtly menacing note. Elinor
frowned, suddenly jerked back to reality. Why was Counsel
bullying his own witness?
181
agatha christie
Roderick had turned rather pale. He was silent for a minute
or two, then he said with an effort, "Well--yes, that is
so."
"Did you go to see this girl Mary Gerrard in London on the
25th at her lodgings?"
"Yes, I did."
"Did you ask her to marry you?"
"Er--er--yes."
"What was her answer?" «
"She refused."
"You are not a rich man, Mr. Welman?"
"No."
"And you are rather heavily in debt?"
"What business is that of yours?"
"Were you not aware of the fact that Miss Carlisle had left
all her money to you in the event of her death?"
"This is the first I have heard of it."
"Were you in Maidensford on the morning of July 27th?"
"I was not."
Sir Edwin sat down.
Counsel for the Prosecution said: "You say that in your
opinion the accused was not deeply in love with you."
"That is what I said."
"Are you a chivalrous man, Mr. Welman?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"If a lady were deeply in love with you and you were not in
love with her, would you feel it incumbent upon you to
conceal the fact?"
"Certainly not."
"Where did you go to school, Mr. Welman?"
"Eton."
Sir Samuel said with a quiet smile, "That is all."
Alfred James Wargrave.
"You are a rose-grower and live at Emsworth, Berks?"
"Yes."
"Did you on October 20th go to Maidensford and examine a
rose tree growing at the lodge of Hunterbury Hall?"
182
sad cypress
"I did."
"Will you describe this tree?"
"It was a climbing rose--Zephyrine Droughin. It bears a
sweetly scented pink flower. It has no thorns."
"It would be impossible to prick oneself on a rose tree of
this description?"
"It would be quite impossible. It is a thornless tree."
No cross-examination.
"You are James Arthur Littledale. You are a qualified chemist
and employed by the wholesale chemists, Jenkins & Hale?"
"I am."
"Will you tell me what this scrap of paper is?"
The exhibit was handed to him.
"It is a fragment of one of our labels."
"What kind of a label?"
"The label we attach to tubes of hypodermic tablets."
"Is there enough here for you to say definitely what drug
was in the tube to which this label was attached?"
"Yes. I should say quite definitely that the tube in question
contained hypodermic tablets of apomorphine hydrochloride
1/20 grain."
"Not morphine hydrochloride?"
"No, it could not be that."
"Why not?"
"On such a tube the word morphine is spelled with a
capital M. The end of the line of the m here, seen under my
magnifying glass, shows plainly that it is part of a small m, not a capital M."
"Please let the jury examine it with the glass. Have you
labels here to show what you mean?"
The labels were handed to the jury.
Sir Edwin resumed:
"You say this is from a tube of apomorphine hydrochloride?
What exactly is apomorphine hydrochloride?"
"The formula is C^H^NOa. It is a derivative of morphine
prepared by saponifying morphine by heating it with dilute
183
AGATHA christie
hydrochloric acid in sealed tubes. The morphine loses one
molecule of water."
"What are the special properties of apomorphine ?"
Mr. Littledale said quietly, "Apomorphine is the quickest
and most powerful emetic known. It acts within a few
minutes."
"So if anybody had swallowed a lethal dose of morphine
and were to inject a dose of apomorphine hypodermically within
a few minutes, what would result?"
"Vomiting would take place almost immediately and the
morphine would be expelled from the system."
"Therefore, if two people were to share the same sandwich or drink from the same pot of tea, and one of them were then to
inject a dose of apomorphine hypodermically, what would be
the result, supposing the shared food or drink to have contained
morphine?"
"The food or drink together with the morphine would be
vomited by the person who injected the apomorphine."
"And that person would suffer no ill results?"
"No."
There was suddenly a stir of excitement in court and order
for silence from the judge.
"You are Amelia Mary Sedley and you reside ordinarily at
17 Charles Street, Boonamba, Auckland?"
"Yes."
"Do you know a Mrs. Draper?"
"Yes. I have known her for over twenty years."
"Do you know her maiden name?"
"Yes. I was at her marriage. Her name was Mary Riley."
"Is she a native of New Zealand?"
"No, she came out from England."
"You have been in court since the beginning of these
proceedings?"
"Yes, I have."
"Have you seen this Mary Riley--or Draper--in court?"
"Yes."
184
sad cypress
"Where did you see her?"
"Giving evidence in this box."
"Under what name?"
"Jessie Hopkins."
"And you are quite sure that this Jessie Hopkins is the
woman you know as Mary Riley or Draper?"
"Not a doubt of it."
A slight commotion at the back of the court.
"When did you last see Mary Draper--until today?"
"Five years ago. She went to England."
Sir Edwin said with a bow, "Your witness."
Sir Samuel, rising with a highly perplexed face, began: "I
suggest to you, Mrs.--Sedley, that you may be mistaken."
"I'm not mistaken."
"You may have been misled by a chance resemblance."
"I know Mary Draper well enough."
"Nurse Hopkins is a certified District Nurse."
"Mary Draper was a hospital nurse before her marriage."
"You understand, do you not, that you are accusing a Crown
witness of perjury?"
"I understand what I'm saying."
"Edward John Marshall, you lived for some years in
Auckland, New Zealand, and now reside at 14 Wren Street,
Deptford?"
"That's right."
"Do you know Mary Draper?"
"I've known her for years in New Zealand."
"Have you seen her today in court?"
"I have. She called herself Hopkins, but it was Mrs. Draper
all right."
The judge lifted his head. He spoke in a small, clear, penetrating
voice, "It is desirable, I think, that the witness Jessie
Hopkins should be recalled."
A pause, a murmur.
"Your lordship, Jessie Hopkins left the court a few minutes
ago."
185
agatha CHRISTIE
» » »
"Hercule Poirot."
Hercule Poirot entered the box, took the oath, twirled his
mustache, and waited, with his head a little on one side. He
gave his name and address and calling.
"Poirot, do you recognize this document?"
"Certainly."
"How did it originally come into your possession?"
"It was given me by the District Nurse, Nurse Hopkins."
Sir Edwin said, "With your permission, my lord, I will read
this aloud, and it can then go to the jury." ^
186
- chapter XXIV

G
^LOSING speech for the Defense:
"Gentlemen of the jury, the responsibility now rests with
you. It is for you to say if Elinor Carlisle is to go forth free
from the court. If, after the evidence you have heard, you are
satisfied that Elinor Carlisle poisoned Mary Gerrard, then it
is your duty to pronounce her guilty,
"But if it should seem to you that there is equally strong
evidence, and perhaps far stronger evidence, against another
person, then it is your duty to free the accused without more
ado.
"You will have realized by now that the facts of the case
are very different from what they originally appeared to be.
"Yesterday, after the dramatic evidence given by Monsieur
Hercule Poirot, I called other witnesses to prove beyond any
reasonable doubt that the girl Mary Gerrard was the illegitimate
daughter of Laura Welman. That being true, it follows,
as his lordship will doubtless instruct you, that Mrs. Welman's
next of kin was not her niece, Elinor Carlisle, but her illegitimate
daughter who went by the name of Mary Gerrard. And
therefore Mary Gerrard at Mrs. Welman's death inherited a
vast fortune. That, gentlemen, is the crux of the situation. A
sum in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand pounds
was inherited by Mary Gerrard. But she herself was unaware
of the fact. She was also unaware of the true identity of the
187
agatha christie
woman Hopkins. You may think, gentlemen, th^t Mary Riley
or Draper may have had some perfectly legitimate reason for
changing her name to Hopkins. If so, why has she not come
forward to state what the reason was?
"All that we do know is this: That at Nui-se Hopkins's
instigation, Mary Gerrard made a will leaving everything she
had to 'Mary Riley, sister of Eliza Riley.' We know that
Nurse Hopkins, by reason of her profession, l^ad access to
morphine and to apomorphine and was well acquainted with
their properties. Furthermore, it has been proved that Nurse
Hopkins was not speaking the truth when she said that her
wrist had been pricked by a thorn from a thornless rose tree.
Why did she lie, if it were not that she wantecl hurriedly to account for the mark just made by the hypodermic needle? Remember, too, that the accused has stated on oath that
Nurse Hopkins, when she joined her in the pantrv was looking
ill, and her face was of a greenish color--comprehensible
enough if she had just been violently sick.
"I will underline yet another point: If Mrs. Welman had
lived twenty-four hours longer, she would have made a will;
and in all probability that will would have made a suitable
provision for Mary Gerrard, but would not hav^ left her the
bulk of her fortune, since it was Mrs. Welman's belief that
her unacknowledged daughter would be happier if she remained
in another sphere of life.
"It is not for me to pronounce on the evidence against
another person, except to show that this othe^- person had
equal opportunities and a far stronger motive for the murder.
"Looked at from that point of view, gentlemen of the jury, I
submit to you that the case against Elinor Carlisle falls to the
ground."
From Mr. Justice Beddingfeld's summing-up:
". . . You must be perfectly satisfied that this woman did,
in fact, administer a dangerous dose of morphia to Mary
Gerrard on July 27th. If you are not satisfied, you must acquit
the prisoner.
188
sad CYPRESS
"The Prosecution has stated that the only person who had
the opportunity to administer poison to Mary Gerrard was the accused. The Defense has sought to prove that there were
other alternatives.There is the theory that Mary Gerrard committed
suicide, but the only evidence in support of that theory
is the fact that Mary Gerrard made a will shortly before
she died. There is not the slightest proof that she was depressed
or unhappy or in a state of mind likely to lead her to
take her own life. It has also been suggested that the morphine
might have been introduced into the sandwiches by
someone entering the pantry during the time that Elinor
Carlisle was at the lodge. In that case, the poison was intended
for Elinor Carlisle, and Mary Gerrard's death was a
mistake. The third alternative suggested by the Defense is
that another person had an equal opportunity to administer
morphine, and that in the latter case the poison was introduced
into the tea and not into the sandwiches. In support of
that theory the Defense has called the witness Littledale,
who has sworn that the scrap of paper found in the pantry
was part of a label on a tube containing tablets of apomorphine
hydrochloride, a very powerful emetic. You have had
an example of both types of labels submitted to you. In my
view, the police were guilty of gross carelessness in not checking
the original fragment more closely and in jumping to the
conclusion that it was a morphine label.
"The witness Hopkins has stated that she pricked her wrist
on a rose tree at the lodge. The witness Wargrave has examined
that tree, and it has no thorns on it. You have to decide
what caused the mark on Nurse Hopkins's wrist and why she
should tell a lie about it. ...
"If the Prosecution has convinced you that the accused
and no other committed the crime, then you must find the
accused guilty.
"If the alternative theory suggested by the Defense is possible
and consistent with the evidence, the accused must be
acquitted.
189
agatha christie
"I will ask you to consider the verdict with courage and
diligence, weighing only the evidence that has been put before
you."
Elinor was brought back into the court.
The jury filed in.
"Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?"
"Yes."
"Look upon the prisoner at the bar, and say whether she is
guilty or not guilty." "Not guilty."
190
chapter XXV
T,
HEY had brought her out by a side door.
She had been aware of faces welcoming her—Roddy—the
detective with the big mustache.
But it was to Peter Lord she had turned.
"I want to get away."
She was with him now in the smooth Daimler, driving
rapidly out of London.
He had said nothing to her. She had sat in the blessed
silence.
Every minute taking her farther and farther away.
A new life. . . .
That was what she wanted. . . .
A new life.
She said suddenly, "I—I want to go somewhere quiet—where
there won't be any faces."
Peter Lord said quietly, "That's all arranged. You're going
to a sanatorium. Quiet place. Lovely gardens. No one will
bother you—or get at you."
She said with a sigh, "Yes—that's what I want."
It was being a doctor, she supposed, that made him
understand. He knew—and didn't bother her. So blessedly
peaceful to be here with him, going away from it all, out of
London—to a place that was safe.
She wanted to forget—forget everything. None of it was
191
AGATHA christie
real any longer. It was all gone, vanished, finished with--the
old life and the old emotions. She was a new, strange, defenseless
creature, very crude and raw, beginning all over
again. Very strange and very afraid.
But it was comforting to be with Peter Lord.
They were out of London now, passing through suburbs. She said at last, "It was all you--all you."
Peter Lord said, "It was Hercule Poirot. The fellow's a
kind of magician!"
But Elinor shook her head. She said obstinately, "It was you.
You got hold of him and made him do it!"
Peter grinned. "I made him do it, all right."
Elinor said, "Did you know I hadn't done it, or weren't you
sure?"
Peter said simply, "I was never quite sure."
Elinor said, "That's why I nearly said 'guilty' right at the
beginning--because, you see, I had thought of it. ... I thought
of it that day when I laughed outside the cottage."
Peter said, "Yes, I knew."
She said wonderingly, "It seems so queer now--like a kind
of possession. That day I bought the paste and cut the sandwiches
I was pretending to myself, I was thinking, 'I've mixed
poison with this, and when she eats she will die--and then
Roddy will come back to me.' "
Peter Lord said, "It helps some people to pretend that sort
of thing to themselves. It isn't a bad thing, really. You take it
out of yourself in a fantasy. Like sweating a thing out of your
system."
Elinor said, "Yes, that's true. Because it went--suddenly!
The blackness, I mean! When that woman mentioned the rose
tree outside the lodge--it all swung back into--into being normal
again."
Then with a shiver she said, "Afterward when we went
into the morning-room and she was dead--dying, at least--I
felt then: Is there much difference between thinking and doing murder?"
Peter Lord said, "All the difference in the world!"
192
sad cypress
"Yes, but is there?"
"Of course there is! Thinking murder doesn't really do any
harm. People have silly ideas about that; they think it's the
same as planning murder! It isn't. If you think murder long
enough, you suddenly come through the blackness and feel
that it's all rather silly!"
Elinor cried, "Oh! you are a comforting person."
Peter Lord said rather incoherently, "Not at all. Just common
sense."
Elinor said, and there were suddenly tears in her eyes,
"Every now and then--in court--I looked at you. It gave me
courage. You looked so--so ordinary."
Then she laughed. "That's rude!"
He said, "I understand. When you're in the middle of a
nightmare something ordinary is the only hope. Anyway, ordinary
things are the best. I've always thought so."
For the first time since she had entered the car she turned
her head and looked at him.
The sight of his face didn't hurt her as Roddy's face
always hurt her; it gave her no sharp pang of pain and
pleasure mixed; instead, it made her feel warm and comforted.
She thought, How nice his face is--nice and funny--and, yes,
comforting.
They drove on. They came at last to a gateway and a drive
that wound upward till it reached a quiet white house on the
side of a hill.
He said, "You'll be quite safe here. No one will bother
you."
Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. She said, "You--
you'll come and see me?"
"Of course."
"Often?"
Peter Lord said, "As often as you want me."
She said, "Please come--very often."
193
chapter XXVI
H,
lercule Poirot said, "So you see, my friend, the lies
people tell me are just as useful as the truth."
Peter Lord said, "Did everyone tell you lies?"
Hercule Poirot nodded. "Oh, yes! For one reason or another,
you comprehend. The one person to whom truth was an
obligation and who was sensitive and scrupulous concerning
it—that person was the one who puzzled me most!"
Peter Lord murmured, "Elinor herself!"
"Precisely. The evidence pointed to her as the guilty party.
And she herself, with her sensitive and fastidious conscience,
did nothing to dispel that assumption. Accusing herself of the
will, if not the deed, she came very near to abandoning a
distasteful and sordid fight and pleading guilty in court to a
crime she had not committed."
Peter Lord breathed a sigh of exasperation. "Incredible."
Poirot shook his head. "Not at all. She condemned herself—
because she judged herself by a more exacting standard than
ordinary humanity applies!"
Peter Lord said thoughtfully, "Yes, she's like that."
Hercule Poirot went on: "From the moment that I started
my investigations there was always the strong possibility that
Elinor Carlisle was guilty of the crime of which she was accused.
But I fulfilled my obligations toward you and I discovered that
a fairly strong case could be made out against another person."
194
sad CYPRESS
"Nurse Hopkins?"
"Not to begin with. Roderick Welman was the first person
to attract my attention. In his case, again, we start with a lie.
He told me that he left England on July 9th and returned on
August 1st. But Nurse Hopkins had mentioned casually
that Mary Gerrard had rebuffed Roderick Welman's advances
both in Maidensford 'and again when she saw him in London.'
Mary Gerrard, you informed me, went to London on July
10th--a day after Roderick Welman had left England. When
did Mary Gerrard have an interview with Roderick Welman
in London? I set my burglarious friend to work, and by an
examination of Welman's passport I discovered that he had
been in England from July 25th to the 27th. And he had
deliberately lied about it.
"There had always been that period of time in my mind
when the sandwiches were on a plate in the pantry and
Elinor Carlisle was down at the lodge. But all along I realized
that in that case Elinor must have been the intended victim,
not Mary. Had Roderick Welman any motive for killing Elinor
Carlisle? Yes, a very good one. She had made a will
leaving him her entire fortune, and by adroit questioning I
discovered that Roderick Welman could have made himself
acquainted with that fact."
Peter Lord said, "And why did you decide that he was
innocent?"
"Because of one more lie. Such a silly, stupid, negligible
little lie, too. Nurse Hopkins said that she had scratched her
wrist on a rose tree, that she had got a thorn in it. And I went
and saw the rose tree, and it had no thorns. So clearly Nurse
Hopkins had told a lie--and the lie was so silly and so seemingly
pointless that it focused my attention upon her.
"I began to wonder about Nurse Hopkins. Up till then she
had struck me as a perfectly credible witness, consistent
throughout, with a strong bias against the accused arising
naturally enough out of her affection for the dead girl. But
now, with that silly, pointless lie in my mind, I considered
Nurse Hopkins and her evidence very carefully, and I realized
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something that I had not been clever enough to see before.
Nurse Hopkins knew something about Mary Gerrard which
she was very anxious should come out."
Peter Lord said in surprise, "I thought it was the other way
round?"
"Ostensibly, yes. She gave a very fine performance of someone
who knows something and isn't going to tell! But when I
thought it over carefully I realized that every word she had
said on the subject had been uttered with diametrically the
opposite end in view. My conversation with Nurse O'Brien
confirmed that belief. Hopkins had used her very cleverly
without Nurse O'Brien being conscious of the fact.
"It was clear then that Nurse Hopkins had a game of
her own to play. I contrasted the two lies, hers and Roderick
Welman's. Was either of them capable of an innocent
explanation?
"In Roderick's case, I answered immediately. Yes. Roderick
Welman is a very sensitive creature. To admit that he had
been unable to keep to his plan of staying abroad, and had been
compelled to slink back and hang around the girl, who would
have nothing to do with him, would have been most hurtful to
his pride. Since there was no question of his having been near
the scene of the murder or of knowing anything about it, he
took the line of least resistance and avoided unpleasantness (a
most characteristic trait!) by ignoring that hurried visit to
England and simply stating that he returned on August 1st
when the news of the murder reached him.
"Now as to Nurse Hopkins, could there be an innocent
explanation of her lie? The more I thought of it, the more
extraordinary it seemed to me. Why should Nurse Hopkins
find it necessary to lie because she had a mark on her wrist?
What was the significance of that mark?
"I began to ask myself certain questions. Who did the morphine
that was stolen belong to? Nurse Hopkins. Who could
have administered that morphine to old Mrs. Welman? Nurse
Hopkins. Yes, but why call attention to its disappearance?
There could be only one answer to that if Nurse Hopkins was
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guilty: because the other murder, the murder of Mary Gerrard,
was already planned, and a scapegoat had been selected, but
that scapegoat must be shown to have had a chance of obtaining
morphine.
"Certain other things fitted in. The anonymous letter written
to Elinor. That was to create bad feeling between Elinor
and Mary. The idea doubtless was that Elinor would come
down and object to Mary's influence over Mrs. Welman. The
fact that Roderick Welman fell violently in love with Mary
was, of course, a totally unforeseen circumstance--but one
that Nurse Hopkins was quick to appreciate. Here was a
perfect motive for the scapegoat, Elinor.
"But what was the reason for the two crimes? What motive
could there be for Nurse Hopkins to do away with Mary
Gerrard? I began to see a light--oh, very dim as yet. Nurse
Hopkins had a good deal of influence over Mary, and one of
the ways she had used that influence was to induce the girl to make a will. But the will did not benefit Nurse Hopkins. It
benefited an aunt of Mary's who lived in New Zealand. And
then I remembered a chance remark that someone in the
village had made to me. That aunt had been a hospital nurse.
"The light was not quite so dim now. The pattern--the
design of the crime--was becoming apparent. The next step
was easy. I visited Nurse Hopkins once more. We both played
the comedy very prettily. In the end she allowed herself to be
persuaded to tell what she had been aiming to tell all along!
Only she tells it, perhaps, just a little sooner than she meant
to do! But the opportunity is so good that she cannot resist.
And, after all, the truth has got to be known sometime. So,
with well-feigned reluctance, she produces the letter. And
then, my friend, it is no longer conjecture. I know\ The letter
gives her away."
Peter Lord frowned and said, "How?"
"Mow cher! The superscription on that letter was as follows:
For Mary, to be sent to her after my death. But the gist of the
contents made it perfectly plain that Mary Gerrard was not to
know the truth. Also, the word sent (not given) on the enve-
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lope was illuminating. It was not Mary Gerrard to whom that
letter was written, but another Mary. It was to her sister,
Mary Riley, in New Zealand that Eliza Riley wrote the truth.
"Nurse Hopkins did not find that letter at the lodge after
Mary Gerrard's death. She had had it in her possession for
many years. She received it in New Zealand, where it was
sent to her after her sister's death."
He paused. "Once one had seen the truth with the eyes of
the mind the rest was easy. The quickness of air travel made
it possible for a witness who knew Mary Draper well in New
Zealand to be present in court."
Peter Lord said, "Supposing you had been wrong and Nurse
Hopkins and Mary Draper had been two entirely different
people?"
Poirot said coldly, "I am never wrong!"
Peter Lord laughed.
Hercule Poirot went on: "My friend, we know something
now of this woman Mary Riley or Draper. The police of New
Zealand were unable to get sufficient evidence for a conviction,
but they had been watching her for some time when she
suddenly left the country. There was a patient of hers, an old
lady, who left her 'dear Nurse Riley' a very snug little legacy,
and whose death was somewhat of a puzzle to the doctor
attending her. Mary Draper's husband insured his life in her
favor for a considerable sum, and his death was sudden and
unaccountable. Unfortunately for her, though he had made
out a check to the insurance company, he had forgotten to
post it. Other deaths may lie at her door. It is certain she is a
remorseless and unscrupulous woman.
"One can imagine that her sister's letter suggested possibilities
to her resourceful mind. When New Zealand became too
hot, as you say, to hold her, and she came to this country and
resumed her profession in the name of Hopkins (a former
colleague of hers in hospital who died abroad), Maidensford
was her objective. She may perhaps have contemplated some
form of blackmail. But old Mrs. Welman was not the kind of
woman to allow herself to be blackmailed, and Nurse Riley,
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sad cypress
or Hopkins, very wisely, did not attempt anything of the sort.
Doubtless she made inquiries and discovered that Mrs. Welman
was a very wealthy woman, and some chance word of Mrs.
Welman's may have revealed the fact that the old lady had
not made a will.
"So, on that June evening, when Nurse O'Brien retailed to
her colleague that Mrs. Welman was asking for her lawyer,
Hopkins did not hesitate. Mrs. Welman must die intestate so
that her illegitimate daughter would inherit her money. Hopkins
had already made friends with Mary Gerrard and acquired
a good deal of influence over the girl. All that she had
to do now was to persuade the girl to make a will leaving her
money to her mother's sister, and she inspired the wording of
that will very carefully. There was no mention of the
relationship, just 'Mary Riley, sister of the late Eliza Riley.'
Once that was signed, Mary Gerrard was doomed. The woman
only had to wait for a suitable opportunity. She had, I fancy,
already planned the method of the crime, with the use of the
apomorphine to secure her own alibi. She may have meant to
get Elinor to her cottage, but when Elinor came down to the
lodge and asked them both to come up and have sandwiches
she realized at once that a perfect opportunity had arisen.
The circumstances were such that Elinor was practically
certain to be convicted."
Peter Lord said slowly, "If it hadn't been for you--she
would have been convicted."
Hercule Poirot said quickly, "No, it is you, my friend, she
has to thank for her life."
"I? I didn't do anything. I tried--"
He broke off. Hercule Poirot smiled a little. "Mais oui, you
tried very hard, did you not? You were impatient because I
did not seem to you to be getting anywhere. And you were
afraid, too, that she might, after all, be guilty. And so, with
great impertinence, you also told me the lies! But, mon cher, you were not very clever about it. In future I advise you to
stick to the measles and the whooping cough and leave crime
detection alone."
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agatha christie
Peter Lord blushed. He said, "Did you know--all the time?"
Poirot said severely, "You lead me by the hand to a clearing
in the shrubs, and you assist me to find a German matchbox
that you have just put there! C'est I'enfantillage!"
Peter Lord winced. He groaned. "Rub it in!"
Poirot went on: "You converse with the gardener and lead
him to say that he saw your car in the road, and then you give
a start and pretend that it was not your car. And you look
hard at me to make sure that I realize that someone, a
stranger, must have been there that morning."
"I was a damned fool," said Peter Lord.
"What were you doing at Hunterbury that morning?"
Peter Lord blushed. "It was just sheer idiocy. I--I'd heard
she was down. I went up to the house on the chance of seeing
her. I didn't mean to speak to her. I--I just wanted to--well--
see her. From the path in the shrubbery I saw her in the
pantry cutting bread and butter--"
"Charlotte and the poet Werther. Continue, my friend."
"Oh, there's nothing to tell. I just slipped into the bushes
and stayed there watching her till she went away."
Poirot said gently, "Did you fall in love with Elinor Carlisle
the first time you saw her?"
"I suppose so."
There was a long silence.
Then Peter Lord said, "Oh, well, I suppose she and Roderick
Welman will live happily ever afterward."
Hercule Poirot said, "My dear friend, you suppose nothing
of the sort!"
"Why not? She'll forgive him the Mary Gerrard business. It was only a wild infatuation on his part, anyway."
Hercule Poirot said, "It goes deeper than that. There is,
sometimes, a deep chasm between the past and the future.
When one has walked in the valley of the shadow of death,
and come out of it into the sunshine--then, won cher, it is a
new life that begins. The past will not serve."
He waited a minute and then went on: "A new life--that is
200
sad cypress
what Elinor Carlisle is beginning now—and it is you who
have given her that life."
"No."
"Yes. It was your determination, your arrogant insistence,
that compelled me to do as you asked. Admit now, it is to you
she turns in gratitude, is it not?"
Peter Lord said slowly, "Yes, she's very grateful—now. She
asked me to go and see her—often,"
"Yes, she needs you."
Peter Lord said violently, "Not as she needs—him!"
Hercule Poirot shook his head. "She never needed Roderick
Welman. She loved him, yes, unhappily—even desperately."
Peter Lord, his face set and grim, said harshly, "She will
never love me like that."
Hercule Poirot said softly, "Perhaps not. But she needs you,
my friend, because it is only with you that she can begin the
world again."
Peter Lord said nothing.
Hercule Poirot's voice was very gentle as he said, "Can you
not accept facts'? She loved Roderick Welman. What of it?
With you, she can be happy."
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