Poirot’s Early Cases

‘Yes, Freda Stanton, the child of my husband’s only sister. She has lived with us for the last eight years—that is, until a week ago.’

‘Oh, and what happened a week ago?’

‘Things hadn’t been very pleasant for some time; I don’t know what had come over Freda. She was so rude and impertinent, and her temper something shocking, and in the end she flared up one day, and out she walked and took rooms of her own in the town. I’ve not seen her since. Better leave her to come to her senses, so Mr Radnor says.’

‘Who is Mr Radnor?’

Some of Mrs Pengelley’s initial embarrassment returned.

‘Oh, he’s—he’s just a friend. Very pleasant young fellow.’

‘Anything between him and your niece?’

‘Nothing whatever,’ said Mrs Pengelley emphatically.

Poirot shifted his ground.

‘You and your husband are, I presume, in comfortable circumstances?’

‘Yes, we’re very nicely off.’

‘The money, is it yours or your husband’s?’

‘Oh, it’s all Edward’s. I’ve nothing of my own.’

‘You see, madame, to be businesslike, we must be brutal. We must seek for a motive. Your husband, he would not poison you just pour passer le temps! Do you know of any reason why he should wish you out of the way?’

‘There’s the yellow-haired hussy who works for him,’ said Mrs Pengelley, with a flash of temper. ‘My husband’s a dentist, M. Poirot, and nothing would do but he must have a smart girl, as he said, with bobbed hair and a white overall, to make his appointments and mix his fillings for him. It’s come to my ears that there have been fine goings-on, though of course he swears it’s all right.’

‘This bottle of weed-killer, madame, who ordered it?’

‘My husband—about a year ago.’

‘Your niece, now, has she any money of her own?’

‘About fifty pounds a year, I should say. She’d be glad enough to come back and keep house for Edward if I left him.’

‘You have contemplated leaving him, then?’

‘I don’t intend to let him have it all his own way. Women aren’t the downtrodden slaves they were in the old days, M. Poirot.’

‘I congratulate you on your independent spirit, madame; but let us be practical. You return to Polgarwith today?’

‘Yes, I came up by an excursion. Six this morning the train started, and the train goes back at five this afternoon.’

‘Bien! I have nothing of great moment on hand. I can devote myself to your little affair. Tomorrow I shall be in Polgarwith. Shall we say that Hastings, here, is a distant relative of yours, the son of your second cousin? Me, I am his eccentric foreign friend. In the meantime, eat only what is prepared by your own hands, or under your eye. You have a maid whom you trust?’

‘Jessie is a very good girl, I am sure.’

‘Till tomorrow then, madame, and be of good courage.’

II

Poirot bowed the lady out, and returned thoughtfully to his chair. His absorption was not so great, however, that he failed to see two minute strands of feather scarf wrenched off by the lady’s agitated fingers. He collected them carefully and consigned them to the wastepaper basket.

‘What do you make of the case, Hastings?’

‘A nasty business, I should say.’

‘Yes, if what the lady suspects be true. But is it? Woe betide any husband who orders a bottle of weed-killer nowadays. If his wife suffers from gastritis, and is inclined to be of a hysterical temperament, the fat is in the fire.’

‘You think that is all there is to it?’

‘Ah—voilà—I do not know, Hastings. But the case interests me—it interests me enormously. For, you see, it has positively no new features. Hence the hysterical theory, and yet Mrs Pengelley did not strike me as being a hysterical woman. Yes, if I mistake not, we have here a very poignant human drama. Tell me, Hastings, what do you consider Mrs Pengelley’s feelings towards her husband to be?’

‘Loyalty struggling with fear,’ I suggested.

‘Yet, ordinarily, a woman will accuse anyone in the world—but not her husband. She will stick to her belief in him through thick and thin.’

‘The “other woman” complicates the matter.’

‘Yes, affection may turn to hate, under the stimulus of jealousy. But hate would take her to the police—not to me. She would want an outcry—a scandal. No, no, let us exercise our little grey cells. Why did she come to me? To have her suspicions proved wrong? Or—to have them proved right? Ah, we have here something I do not understand—an unknown factor. Is she a superb actress, our Mrs Pengelley? No, she was genuine, I would swear that she was genuine, and therefore I am interested. Look up the trains to Polgarwith, I pray you.’

III

The best train of the day was the one-fifty from Paddington which reached Polgarwith just after seven o’clock. The journey was uneventful, and I had to rouse myself from a pleasant nap to alight upon the platform of the bleak little station. We took our bags to the Duchy Hotel, and after a light meal, Poirot suggested our stepping round to pay an after-dinner call on my so-called cousin.

The Pengelleys’ house stood a little way back from the road with an old-fashioned cottage garden in front. The smell of stocks and mignonette came sweetly wafted on the evening breeze. It seemed impossible to associate thoughts of violence with this Old World charm. Poirot rang and knocked. As the summons was not answered, he rang again. This time, after a little pause, the door was opened by a dishevelled-looking servant. Her eyes were red, and she was sniffing violently.

‘We wish to see Mrs Pengelley,’ explained Poirot. ‘May we enter?’

The maid stared. Then, with unusual directness, she answered: ‘Haven’t you heard, then? She’s dead. Died this evening—about half an hour ago.’

We stood staring at her, stunned.

‘What did she die of?’ I asked at last.

‘There’s some as could tell.’ She gave a quick glance over her shoulder. ‘If it wasn’t that somebody ought to be in the house with the missus, I’d pack my box and go tonight. But I’ll not leave her dead with no one to watch by her. It’s not my place to say anything, and I’m not going to say anything—but everybody knows. It’s all over the town. And if Mr Radnor don’t write to the ’Ome Secretary, someone else will. The doctor may say what he likes. Didn’t I see the master with my own eyes a-lifting down of the weed-killer from the shelf this very evening? And didn’t he jump when he turned round and saw me watching of him? And the missus’ gruel there on the table, all ready to take to her? Not another bit of food passes my lips while I am in this house! Not if I dies for it.’

‘Where does the doctor live who attended your mistress?’

‘Dr Adams. Round the corner in High Street. The second house.’

Poirot turned away abruptly. He was very pale.

‘For a girl who was not going to say anything, that girl said a lot,’ I remarked dryly.

Poirot struck his clenched hand into his palm.