Sad Cypress (11 page)

H
ercule Poirot sat in Nurse Hopkins' cottage.

Dr. Lord had brought him there, had introducd him and had then, at a glance from Poirot, left him to a tête-à-tête.

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?”

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 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 her 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 S.A. and IT. 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 lodge keeper's daughter, wasn't she?”

Nurse Hopkins said:

“Yes—yes, of course. At least—”

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 a 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' 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 take 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.

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?”

Nurse Hopkins admitted that.

“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 candour:

“What do you think yourself 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.”

Poirot nodded comprehendingly.

He said:

“Are you
sure
Mr. Welman did not go into his aunt's room before she died?”

“Well not while
I
was on duty! Nurse O'Brien relieved me at 3 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 is nothing more you can tell me?”

“No, there is not! And that's flat.”

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 disfavour 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 demeamour 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 neighbourhood. The arrest of Miss Carlisle was “Disgraceful!” and believed to be the result of “these newfangled police methods.” The views of Mrs. Bishop 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 naïve 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 Princess Elizabeth.

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 chickenpox.

“I expect,” said Poirot, “that Mrs. Welman, before her death, must have been anxious to see her niece suitably settled in 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.”

Poirot said:

“Yet the engagement, I think, was broken off?”

The colour 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 nice-minded 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 nice a boy as you could find. But oh, no, my fine lady was too good for
him!
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.

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 newfangled 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 night, though naturally he could not know she was going to pass away 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 judgement. 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!”