Sad Cypress (12 page)

S
ince it was a 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 childlike 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 amok. Miss Elinor—a nice quiet young lady like that—”

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 other 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.”

II

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' “
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
accident!
”

He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own lack of eloquence.

Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be 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 any
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 colour 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 surpressed 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 spoilt 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 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 left 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 done. 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?”

“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 a 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?”

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, his 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—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.
I 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.”

P
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, M. Poirot. But I don't see what Dr. Lord thinks you can do in this matter! And, anyway, what business is it of
his?
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 endeavour to be of assistance to Miss Elinor Carlisle?”

“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, M. 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 exactly 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?”

Roddy spread out his hands in exasperation.

“That's the devil of 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:

“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 blind tassel. He said:

“Yes.”

“You fell in love with her?”

“I suppose so.”

“Ah, and you are now heartbroken by her death—”

“I—I suppose—I mean—well, really, M. Poirot—”

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 well-ordered 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?”

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 defences. 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 burnt 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?”

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 afterwards she had another attack
of her illness. She then wished 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 favour of an outsider. The letter has warned her—her aunt's broken murmurings confirm that fear. In the hall below is an attaché case with various drugs and medical supplies. It is easy to abstract a tube of morphine. And afterwards, so I have learned,
she sits in the sick room alone with her aunt while you and the nurses are at dinner
….”

Roddy cried:

“Good God, M. 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.

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 at 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 something 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 were 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' 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?”