Chapter IV. Poirot Investigates

by Agatha Christie

　　The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quiteclose to the park gates. One could save time by taking a narrowpath through the long grass, which cut off the detours of thewinding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had nearlyreached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the runningfigure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Wherehad he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?He accosted me eagerly."My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard.""Where have you been?" I asked."Denby kept me late last night. It was one o'clock before we'dfinished. Then I found that I'd forgotten the latch-key afterall. I didn't want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me abed.""How did you hear the news?" I asked."Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was soself-sacrificing--such a noble character. She over-taxed herstrength."A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocritethe man was!"I must hurry on," I said, thankful that he did not ask mewhither I was bound.In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A windowabove me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few briefwords, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that Iwanted his help."Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to methe affair whilst I dress."In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him upto his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related thewhole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance,however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful anddeliberate toilet.I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words, ofher husband's absence, of the quarrel the day before, of thescrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that Ihad overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp andEvelyn Howard, and of the latter's innuendoes.I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself severaltimes, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I hadforgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me."The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You areagitated; you are excited--it is but natural. Presently, when weare calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his properplace. We will examine--and reject. Those of importance we willput on one side; those of no importance, pouf!"--he screwed uphis cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough--"blow themaway!""That's all very well," I objected, "but how are you going todecide what is important, and what isn't? That always seems thedifficulty to me."Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging hismoustache with exquisite care."Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another--so we continue.Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We canproceed. This next little fact--no! Ah, that is curious! Thereis something missing--a link in the chain that is not there. Weexamine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possiblypaltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!" Hemade an extravagant gesture with his hand. "It is significant!It is tremendous!""Y--es--""Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that Iquailed before it. "Beware! Peril to the detective who says: 'Itis so small--it does not matter. It will not agree. I willforget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters.""I know. You always told me that. That's why I have gone intoall the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevantor not.""And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you havegiven me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you presentthem, I say nothing--truly, it is deplorable! But I makeallowances--you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstancethat you have omitted one fact of paramount importance.""What is that?" I asked."You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night."I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man'sbrain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat beforeputting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task."I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see----""You do not see? But it is of the first importance.""I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I canremember, she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and ithad taken her appetite away. That was only natural.""Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural."He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, thenturned to me."Now I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and studymatters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste,and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, herearranged it."Ca y est! Now, shall we start?"We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates.Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over thebeautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew."So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged insorrow, prostrated with grief."He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that Ireddened under his prolonged gaze.Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs.Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was anemotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not thegift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress,but she would not be passionately regretted.Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely."No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was ablood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes,but she was not their own mother. Blood tells--always rememberthat--blood tells.""Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted toknow if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turningit over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to dowith the matter?"He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finallyhe said:"I do not mind telling you--though, as you know, it is not myhabit to explain until the end is reached. The presentcontention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning,presumably administered in her coffee.""Yes?""Well, what time was the coffee served?""About eight o'clock.""Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight--certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapidpoison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in aboutan hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do notmanifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: ninehours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as thepoison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent.Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But,according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet thesymptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that isa curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at theautopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it."As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His facelooked weary and haggard."This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said."Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for nopublicity?""I comprehend perfectly.""You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to goupon.""Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only."John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting acigarette as he did so."You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?""Yes. I met him."John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceedingwhich was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, andburied it neatly."It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him.""That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly.John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of thiscryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein hadgiven him to me."Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see.""The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot."Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."Poirot nodded thoughtfully."Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us."We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenienceI append a plan of the room and the principal articles offurniture in it.Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minuteinspection of the room. He darted from one object to the otherwith the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door,fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seemgrateful to me for my forbearance."What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain therelike--how do you say it?--ah, yes, the stuck pig?"I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks."Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practicallyan army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No,come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my littlecase until I need it."He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was anill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tiltedup, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor."Eh viola une table!" cried Poirot. "An, my friend, one may livein a big house and yet have no comfort."After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on thewriting-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took outthe key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I sawnothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yaletype, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in,assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then hewent to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That doorwas also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the lengthof unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; thishe did with the utmost precaution against making any noise.Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet hisattention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whippingout a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out someminute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and asmall saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remainedin the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunkout of stood near it.I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlookthis. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dippedhis finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made agrimace."Coco--with--I think--rum in it."He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by thebed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, abunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup layscattered about."Ah, this is curious," said Poirot."I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious aboutit.""You do not? Observe the lamp--the chimney is broken in twoplaces; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup isabsolutely smashed to powder.""Well," I said wearily, "I suppose some one must have stepped onit.""Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Some one stepped onit."He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to themantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments,and straightening them--a trick of his when he was agitated."Mon ami," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup,grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was eitherbecause it contained strychnine or--which is far moreserious--because it did not contain strychnine!"I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was nogood asking him to explain. In a moment or two he rousedhimself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up thebunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in hisfingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which hetried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and heopened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed andrelocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the keythat had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket."I have no authority to go through these papers. But it shouldbe done--at once!"He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of thewash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a roundstain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed tointerest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examiningit minutely--even going so far as to smell it.Finally, he poured a few drops of the coco into a test tube,sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out alittle notebook."We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "sixpoints of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?""Oh, you," I replied hastily."Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground intopowder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, astain on the floor.""That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted."No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee.Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric--only a thread or two,but recognizable.""Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope.""Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp'sown dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, this!"With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candlegrease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have beendone since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have atonce removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of mybest hats once--but that is not to the point.""It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Orperhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle.""You brought only one candle into the room?""Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was veryupset. He seemed to see something over here"--I indicated themantelpiece--"that absolutely paralysed him.""That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it issuggestive"--his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall-- "butit was not his candle that made this great patch, for youperceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence'scandle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On theother hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, onlya reading-lamp.""Then," I said, "what do you deduce?"To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging meto use my own natural faculties."And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample ofcoco.""No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that inthe six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep tomyself for the present."He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to bedone here, I think, unless"--he stared earnestly and long at thedead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns--and it destroys. Butby chance--there might be--let us see!"Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from thegrate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution.Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation."The forceps, Hastings!"I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a smallpiece of half charred paper."There, mon ami!" he cried. "What do you think of that?"I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction ofit:--I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinarynotepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me."Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!""Exactly."I looked up at him sharply."You are not surprised?""No," he said gravely, "I expected it."I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away inhis case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed oneverything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complicationof a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left thecandle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gainedadmission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside."Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I shouldlike to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid--Dorcas, her nameis, is it not?"We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayedlong enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examinationof it. We went out through that door, locking both it and thatof Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before.I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish tosee, and went myself in search of Dorcas.When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty."Poirot," I cried, "where are you?""I am here, my friend."He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing,apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flowerbeds."Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observethat crescent; and those diamonds--their neatness rejoices theeye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has beenrecently done; is it not so?""Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But comein--Dorcas is here.""Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction ofthe eye.""Yes, but this affair is more important.""And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equalimportance?"I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him ifhe chose to take that line."You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will comein and interview the brave Dorcas."Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front ofher, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap.She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashionedservant.In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to besuspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forwarda chair."Pray be seated, mademoiselle.""Thank you, sir.""You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?""Ten years, sir.""That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were muchattached to her, were you not?""She was a very good mistress to me, sir.""Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I putthem to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval.""Oh, certainly, sir.""Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterdayafternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?""Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought----" Dorcas hesitated.Poirot looked at her keenly."My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detailof that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you arebetraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, andit is necessary that we should know all--if we are to avenge her.Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there hasbeen foul play, to bring the murderer to justice.""Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names,there's one in this house that none of us could ever abide! Andan ill day it was when first he darkened the threshold."Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuminghis business-like tone, he asked:"Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?""Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outsideyesterday----""What time was that?""I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a longway. Perhaps four o'clock--or it may have been a bit later.Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when Iheard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly meanto listen, but--well, there it is. I stopped. The door wasshut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and Iheard what she said quite plainly. 'You have lied to me, anddeceived me,' she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorpreplied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did--but sheanswered: 'How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fedyou! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! Bybringing disgrace upon our name!' Again I didn't hear what hesaid, but she went on: 'Nothing that you can say will make anydifference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. Youneed not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal betweenhusband and wife will deter me.' Then I thought I heard themcoming out, so I went off quickly.""You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?""Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?""Well, what happened next?""Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At fiveo'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her acup of tea--nothing to eat--to the boudoir. She was lookingdreadful--so white and upset. 'Dorcas,' she says, 'I've had agreat shock.' 'I'm sorry for that, m'm,' I says. 'You'll feelbetter after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' She had something inher hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece ofpaper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it,almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. Shewhispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:'These few words--and everything's changed.' And then she says tome: 'Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' I hurriedoff, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me,and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it. 'I don't knowwhat to do,' she says. 'Scandal between husband and wife is adreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' Mrs.Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more.""She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?""Yes, sir.""What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?""Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in thatpurple case of hers.""Is that where she usually kept important papers?""Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and tookit up every night.""When did she lose the key of it?""She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to lookcarefully for it. She was very much put out about it.""But she had a duplicate key?""Oh, yes, sir."Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth,so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled."Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is thisthe key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that hehad found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs.Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head."That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? Ilooked everywhere for it.""Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it wasto-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress adark green dress in her wardrobe?"Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question."No, sir.""Are you quite sure?""Oh, yes, sir.""Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?"Dorcas reflected."Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress.""Light or dark green?""A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it.""Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anythinggreen?""No, sir--not that I know of."Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he wasdisappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked:"Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason tobelieve that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powderlast night?""Not last night, sir, I know she didn't.""Why do you know so positively?""Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago,and she didn't have any more made up.""You are quite sure of that?""Positive, sir.""Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't askyou to sign any paper yesterday?""To sign a paper? No, sir.""When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening,they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you cangive me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?""I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. PerhapsAnnie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Nevercleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happenswhen I'm not here to look after things."Poirot lifted his hand."Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, Ipray you. I should like to examine them.""Very well, sir.""What time did you go out last evening?""About six o'clock, sir.""Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose andstrolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds.How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?""Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it waskept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could haveseen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's onlyold Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned womangardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadfultimes!""The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so.Now, will you send Annie to me here?""Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.""How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" Iasked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And aboutthe lost key and the duplicate?""One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew bythis." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such aschemists use for powders."Where did you find it?""In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It wasNumber Six of my catalogue.""But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it isnot of much importance?""Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you aspeculiar about this box?"I examined it closely."No, I can't say that I do.""Look at the label."I read the label carefully: " 'One powder to be taken at bedtime,if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' No, I see nothing unusual.""Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?""Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!""Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that,without his printed name?""No, I can't say that I have."I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour byremarking:"Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigueyourself, my friend."An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had notime to reply.Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouringunder intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulishenjoyment of the tragedy.Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness."I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able totell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote lastnight. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the namesand addresses?"Annie considered."There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and onewas to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think Iremember, sir--oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers inTadminster. The other one, I don't remember.""Think," urged Poirot.Annie racked her brains in vain."I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can havenoticed it.""It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign ofdisappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else.There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some coco init. Did she have that every night?""Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmedit up in the night--whenever she fancied it.""What was it? Plain coco?""Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and twoteaspoonfuls of rum in it.""Who took it to her room?""I did, sir.""Always?""Yes, sir.""At what time?""When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir.""Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?""No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so Cookused to make it early, before putting the vegetables on forsupper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table bythe swing door, and take it into her room later.""The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?""Yes, sir.""And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on thefarther--servants' side?""It's this side, sir.""What time did you bring it up last night?""About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir.""And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?""When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs.Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished.""Then, between 7.15 and 8 o'clock, the coco was standing on thetable in the left wing?""Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face,and now she blurted out unexpectedly:"And if there was salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never tookthe salt near it.""What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot."Seeing it on the tray, sir.""You saw some salt on the tray?""Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when Itook the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress'sroom I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken itdown again, and asked Cook to make some fresh. But I was in ahurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the cocoitself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. SoI dusted it off with my apron, and took it in."I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement.Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important pieceof evidence. How she would have gaped if she had realized thather "coarse kitchen salt" was strychnine, one of the most deadlypoisons known to mankind. I marvelled at Poirot's calm. Hisself-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question withimpatience, but it disappointed me."When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was the door leadinginto Miss Cynthia's room bolted?""Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened.""And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you notice if thatwas bolted too?"Annie hesitated."I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn't saywhether it was bolted or not.""When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt thedoor after you?""No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually didlock it at night. The door into the passage, that is.""Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did theroom yesterday?""Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn't have acandle, only a reading-lamp.""Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on thefloor, you think you would have been sure to have seen it?""Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece ofblotting-paper and a hot iron."Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:"Did your mistress ever have a green dress?""No, sir.""Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a--how do you call it?--a sportscoat?""Not green, sir.""Nor anyone else in the house?"Annie reflected."No, sir.""You are sure of that?""Quite sure.""Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very much."With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of theroom. My pent-up excitement burst forth."Poirot," I cried, "I congratulate you! This is a greatdiscovery.""What is a great discovery?""Why, that it was the coco and not the coffee that was poisoned.That explains everything! Of course it did not take effect untilthe early morning, since the coco was only drunk in the middle ofthe night.""So you think that the coco--mark well what I say, Hastings, thecoco--contained strychnine?""Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?""It might have been salt," replied Poirot placidly.I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter thatway, it was no good arguing with him. The idea crossed my mind,not for the first time, that poor old Poirot was growing old.Privately I thought it lucky that he had associated with him someone of a more receptive type of mind.Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes."You are not pleased with me, mon ami?""My dear Poirot," I said coldly, "it is not for me to dictate toyou. You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have tomine.""A most admirable sentiment," remarked Poirot, rising briskly tohis feet. "Now I have finished with this room. By the way,whose is the smaller desk in the corner?""Mr. Inglethorp's.""Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively. "Locked. But perhapsone of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it." He tried several,twisting and turning them with a practiced hand, and finallyuttering an ejaculation of satisfaction. "Viola! It is not thekey, but it will open it at a pinch." He slid back the roll top,and ran a rapid eye over the neatly filed papers. To mysurprise, he did not examine them, merely remarking approvinglyas he relocked the desk: "Decidedly, he is a man of method, thisMr. Inglethorp!"A "man of method" was, in Poirot's estimation, the highest praisethat could be bestowed on any individual.I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled ondisconnectedly:"There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh,mon ami? There might have been? Yes"--his eyes wandered round theroom--"this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did notyield much. Only this."He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed itover to me. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirtylooking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it,apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of it.