The Labours of Hercules

Her eyes met his. She said coldly:

‘What can you do?’

Poirot said quietly:

‘There might be a way of tackling the situation.’

‘What way?’ She threw the words at him scornfully. ‘Do you mean go round to all the whispering old women and say “Really, please, you must stop talking like this. It’s so bad for poor Doctor Oldfield.” And they’d answer you and say: “Of course, I have never believed the story!” That’s the worst of the whole thing–they don’t say: “My dear, has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Mrs Oldfield’s death wasn’t quite what it seemed?” No, they say: “My dear, of course I don’t believe that story about Doctor Oldfield and his wife. I’m sure he wouldn’t do such a thing, though it’s true that he did neglect her just a little perhaps, and I don’t think, really, it’s quite wise to have quite a young girl as his dispenser–of course, I’m not saying for a minute that there was anything wrong between them. Oh no, I’m sure it was quite all right…”’ She stopped. Her face was flushed and her breath came rather fast.

Hercule Poirot said:

‘You seem to know very well just what is being said.’

Her mouth closed sharply. She said bitterly:

‘I know all right!’

‘And what is your own solution?’

Jean Moncrieffe said:

‘The best thing for him to do is to sell his practice and start again somewhere else.’

‘Don’t you think the story might follow him?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘He must risk that.’

Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

‘Are you going to marry Doctor Oldfield, Miss Moncrieffe?’

She displayed no surprise at the question. She said shortly:

‘He hasn’t asked me to marry him.’

‘Why not?’

Her blue eyes met his and flickered for a second. Then she said:

‘Because I’ve choked him off.’

‘Ah, what a blessing to find someone who can be frank!’

‘I will be as frank as you please. When I realized that people were saying that Charles had got rid of his wife in order to marry me, it seemed to me that if we did marry it would just put the lid on things. I hoped that if there appeared to be no question of marriage between us, the silly scandal might die down.’

‘But it hasn’t?’

‘No it hasn’t.’

‘Surely,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘that is a little odd?’

Jean said bitterly:

‘They haven’t got much to amuse them down here.’

Poirot asked:

‘Do you want to marry Charles Oldfield?’

The girl answered coolly enough.

‘Yes, I do. I wanted to almost as soon as I met him.’

‘Then his wife’s death was very convenient for you?’

Jean Moncrieffe said:

‘Mrs Oldfield was a singularly unpleasant woman. Frankly, I was delighted when she died.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘You are certainly frank!’

She gave the same scornful smile.

Poirot said:

‘I have a suggestion to make.’

‘Yes?’

‘Drastic means are required here. I suggest that somebody–possibly yourself–might write to the Home Office.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean that the best way of disposing of this story once and for all is to get the body exhumed and an autopsy performed.’

She took a step back from him. Her lips opened, then shut again. Poirot watched her.

‘Well, Mademoiselle?’ he said at last.

Jean Moncrieffe said quietly:

‘I don’t agree with you.’

‘But why not? Surely a verdict of death from natural causes would silence all tongues?’

‘If you got that verdict, yes.’