Chapter Text
The next morning, I was awoken early by an impatient knock on the door—it was not my door, though, but that of one of the adjacent rooms.
"Mr Poirot? Mr Poirot, please wake up!" someone called, unmistakably in despair.
Immediately, I leapt out of bed and pulled on my dressing gown. My heart pounded and I had the uneasy feeling that something sensational must have happened. I stepped out into the hall where I could see one of the maids rapping on Poirot's door. Tears were running down her face.
"Un moment! J'arrive, j'arrive!" I could hear Poirot's muffled reply through the door.
When he finally opened the door, tying the belt of his garish silk dressing gown, the maid cried out, "She's dead!"
"Who is dead?" Poirot asked, but the maid was too hysterical to listen.
"You must come! Hurry! You must do something!" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and ran down the hall.
Poirot followed her. In all the time I have known Poirot, and also during the time we had been living together, I had never witnessed him being anything other than neatly dressed and well-groomed; even those few times when he had been ill and had to stay in bed he had always taken care of his appearance as best as he was able to before he had let me, or the doctor, see him. Looking at him now in his pyjamas and dressing gown, with his hair still ruffled from sleep and even his moustache out of order, would on its own be enough for me to perceive the urgency of the situation.
We left the west wing and entered a hall where I suspected the private bedrooms of James and Mrs Stanwood to be. One of the doors stood open, and a small crowd of people had gathered in front of it. Poirot pushed his way through, gently but decidedly. I followed.
The room was in chaotic disarray. Sheets of paper were scattered all over the floor, and under the window was a large puddle of water. The white linen of the bed was covered in dirty stains, still damp. A glass decanter had fallen from the nightstand and had shattered into pieces on the floor. On the rug in front of the washstand lay lifelessly and with open eyes—Mrs Stanwood.
Poirot knelt down beside her and felt her pulse.
"The body, it is already cooling," he muttered.
"I ... am sorry to have woken you," James stuttered and raked a hand through his hair. "But ... I don't know what to do..."
Poirot stood up. "You have done the right thing," he said soothingly. "Have you sent for a docteur?"
"Yes. Doctor Lewiston should be here soon."
"Very good. Who found her?"
"Mary did. The maid." James nodded towards the girl who had awoken Poirot.
Poirot turned towards her. "What happened?"
"Mistress asked to be woken at 6 o'clock, as she does every day. So I knocked at her door this morning. She’s a very light sleeper, mistress is, so I was surprised when she didn't answer. I knocked louder, and finally I opened the door. And there she lay..." Mary sobbed.
Poirot nodded. "I see. Thank you, Mary." Addressing no-one in particular, he added, "Has anyone touched anything?"
"Well, we have touched Edna to see if she's ... you know," James answered. "But other than that, no, I suppose not."
Poirot nodded. "Who has closed the window?"
James raised an eyebrow at him. "Window?"
"The window must have been open tonight."
Mary lowered her head. "I did, sir."
Poirot nodded again. James looked at him sceptically.
"Why are you asking all of this? Do you think Edna has been murdered?"
"I do not know that yet. But from what I have seen so far, it seems most probable that she either had a stroke—or has been poisoned."
Mary gasped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. James turned white.
"That is, of course, for the doctor to find out," Poirot added.
Although the little man had himself perfectly under control, I knew him well enough to realise that he struggled to keep his composure. In his career, he had seen countless crimes, criminals and motives, and he was all too familiar with the evil of mankind—but being confronted with the sudden death of someone close must have been hard even for him.
At a loss for what to do, I touched his elbow lightly to comfort him.
It did not take long until Doctor Lewiston arrived. He was not only a close friend of Mrs Stanwood, but also her family doctor. Gravely, he greeted James, Poirot and me before he settled down to examine the body.
"She must have been dead for a few hours. I don't see any outward signs as to explain the cause of death," he said after a while.
"That is my opinion also," said Poirot. "Do you think a stroke to be likely?"
"No. She was..." Lewiston stopped, then started again. "No, she had a very strong heart."
"She shall be examined for poison, then," Poirot announced.
Lewiston nodded his approval. Then he gently closed Mrs Stanwood’s eyes and tucked back a loose strand that had fallen across her forehead, before finally standing up. I believed I saw great grief in his eyes.
Poirot turned towards James. "Is it possible to lock this room? I shall like to examine it thoroughly, but I would prefer to get dressed first. The little grey cells cannot work in order if the body is in such great disorder."
"Of course, Mr Poirot. Mary, can you get the keys?"
"And the spare keys, if you please," Poirot added.
The maid nodded and disappeared.
When all arrangements were made to Poirot's satisfaction, we returned to our rooms to get dressed. James asked us to join him for breakfast before starting the investigation, and Poirot agreed, stating that 'the brain does not work well with an empty stomach'.
The meal was a very depressing affair. Of course, everyone had been informed, so we sat together silently, shocked that just a few hours ago we all had gathered together in this very same room in celebration, unable to fathom that Mrs Stanwood was not going to join us any longer. Emily's eyes were red, and every now and then her hand reached up to brush away a silent tear. James was still unnaturally pale, and everyone else stared bleakly at their plates. Only Mr Ashford looked the same as always, but then I could hardly imagine how he could be more gloomy than he usually was.
The first to speak at the table was Mr Rowley. "Is it true you suspect her to be poisoned? Do you think someone killed her?" he asked Poirot.
"At the moment, I do not believe anything. I would like to gather more information first," Poirot answered, and bestowed Mr Rowley with an intense stare.
"Ah, yes," Mr Rowley said, returning his attention to his meal.
"However," Poirot added, "I would like everyone to stay until we know more. If that is not a problem, Monsieur James?"
"I suppose not," James said helplessly, obviously unprepared for being addressed as the master of the house.
"Tell me, Hastings, what do you see?" Poirot asked when we stood once more at the door of Edna Stanwood's bedroom.
I let my gaze wander across the place.
"There is a lot of water on the floor next to the window. And the linen of the bed is wet, too. Maybe the window had been left open, and the rain came in?"
"Très bien!" said Poirot. "There was quite a storm last night. It woke me up. Of course," he added as he saw my look of surprise, "you would not hear it, famous sleeper that you are."
I shrugged, then a thought struck me. "That would explain the mess in the room!" I ejaculated. "The papers might have been blown about by the wind."
"And the decanter, she might also be blown down by the wind," Poirot said.
"Impossible. It’s far too heavy!"
"Ta, ta, ta," Poirot chided. "Think more carefully!"
I tried, but I really could not imagine how the wind, regardless of how strong a storm there was, could cause a heavy glass decanter to fall down.
"I don't know," I admitted.
"The window was open, yes?"
"Of course the window was... Oh!" I exclaimed. "The window swings over the nightstand!"
Poirot nodded encouragingly, and I bent down to examine the height of the nightstand and of the window.
"So when the window opened too far, it knocked the decanter down. The glass, which is smaller, remained on the table," I finished proudly.
"Voilà!" said Poirot and gingerly stepped into the room. He looked closely at the papers strewn across the floor, and I followed his example. Most of the sheets were blank. Some of them contained hastily scribbled notes which must have been related to Mrs Stanwood's work—I recognised chemical formulae and medical terms without understanding their meaning. On a yellowed sheet with worn edges stood in fading ink:
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I recognised it as the last verse of Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken'. Another piece of paper contained a list of errands scribbled down, and names of the servants assigned them. There was also a more expensive sheet of paper, which was inscribed in energetic handwriting:
My dearest,
receive an early birthday present.
Yours,
Ch.
On the nightstand, next to the glass, lay a book, its cover stained and the pages wavy from being exposed to the incoming rain. The fringe of a leathery bookmark jutted out from it, marking a page in the middle of the book. I looked at the title: it was The Body in the Sewer by Carso, a crime novel of which I knew only that it had caused quite a scandal on its publication a year ago, due to its very detailed description of an exceptionally gruesome murder.
While I was still examining the book, Poirot had lowered himself on his hands and knees and was now looking closely at the broken fragments of the decanter. He sniffed at them and at the wet floor surrounding the debris, and shook his head. Then he got up again and sniffed also at the glass on the nightstand, which was empty.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Nothing," Poirot said, disappointed.
He went over to Mrs Stanwood's washstand and looked at the toiletries.
"One burnt-down candle," he remarked, "and two tubes of toothpaste. Curious..."
"One is empty, and the other one full," I said. "Surely she had just switched to a new tube."
"Yes," Poirot said thoughtfully.
Armed with a handkerchief, he went carefully through the drawers of the washstand. Then he planted himself on the rug, in exactly the same spot where Mrs Stanwood's body had been discovered, and looked about. Finally, he went to the window and glanced outside.
He announced, "Come, mon ami, I have seen enough. I want to go outside!"
Reluctantly, I followed the little man. I was concerned for him; I did not like the fact that he felt obliged to investigate the death of a close friend. Since the early morning he had shown no sign of shock or grief, but I knew that he could mask his feelings very well if he chose to do so. Or perhaps the investigation was his way to keep his mind occupied, to block out what had happened—was he not a little too eager to believe in a crime when it was probably just a natural death, or suicide? Should he not, this once, at least wait for the police?
Outside it was still wet, but the rain we had had the previous night had stopped. We went around the house towards the east wing, carefully sidestepping several puddles. While I was idly wondering what we were searching for, Poirot stopped so suddenly in his tracks that I nearly bumped into him.
"This must be her window," he said and pointed up. "Do you see the thick ivy branches? Very convenient."
"There's ivy all over the house," I remarked.
My friend nodded reflectively. "Alas, after the rain tonight, we will not find any footprints."
"Poirot..." I said, "We don't know the cause of death yet. It might have been natural."
"It might have been," Poirot answered.
"And if it was poison, she might have taken it willingly..."
Poirot looked at me, his green eyes inscrutable. "She might have. But if she did, where is the container she kept the poison in?"
I sighed. I feared that he was trying desperately to construct a case and that, if it turned out not to be a case at all, he would be hurt all the more. "Poirot..." I said softly.
He stopped me with an impatient wave of his hand. "I know what you are thinking. But I assure you that I merely want to collect the facts before it is too late."
I simply shrugged, knowing full well how stubborn my friend could be.
"Now, Hastings, can we go back inside?" Poirot continued, and his voice held that familiar hint of irony that he seemed to reserve especially for those times when I was being extraordinarily dense. "My feet are getting wet! I shall catch the cold!"
I decided that, when Poirot had set his mind on something, there was not much I could do about it, so I followed him wordlessly back inside. Like a faithful dog to its master, I would keep quiet and be ready to support him when he needed me.
Two days passed in which we could do nothing more than to wait for the post-mortem. We spent the meals together with the family, the atmosphere equally awkward as it had been on the first breakfast without Mrs Stanwood, but in between, most of the guests kept to themselves. Finally, Doctor Lewiston visited, accompanied by two policemen. We were all summoned to the sitting-room, and when we had settled down Lewiston spoke.
"Mrs Stanwood did not die of natural causes. In her blood we found a remarkable level of opium..."
Several people gasped, and Mrs Rowley next to me clasped a trembling hand to her chest.
"... which, however, was not lethal. Mr Stanwood's death was undoubtedly caused by another poison: cyanide."
There was an uncomfortable silence until one of the policemen, who introduced himself as Inspector Dickinson, took over.
"We have here a likely case of suicide. Before we know for sure, however, we will be investigating in all directions. I request you all to stay until the case is settled; we will be talking to all of you and taking fingerprints. If there is anyone who needs to leave urgently, tell me."
He looked about and waited for questions. When there were none, he said, "Mr Poirot, may I have a word with you?"
Poirot and I got up and followed the policemen outside.
"I understand you have already taken a look at the situation?" Inspector Dickinson asked.
Poirot nodded.
"What do you think?"
"I do not believe it was suicide," Poirot said. "I did not find a container for the poison. In any case, can you check the shattered decanter and the water glass for cyanide?"
"Certainly. I hope you were careful enough not to destroy any clues or fingerprints at the scene of the crime." It was obvious that Dickinson was not too pleased about Poirot's interference.
Poirot straightened, managing to look down his nose at Dickinson despite being considerably smaller than the Inspector. "Believe me, Inspector, Hercule Poirot knows his profession," he said stiffly.
"Good, good," Dickinson grumbled, before stalking off to examine Mrs Stanwood's room.
The first person to be interviewed was Doctor Lewiston; he had asked to be allowed to leave as soon as possible to be able to return to his patients.
"You were at the birthday party on Saturday?" Inspector Dickinson asked.
"Yes," Lewiston answered.
"You were a close friend of Mrs Stanwood?"
"Yes, I suppose you can say that."
There was an undertone in Lewiston's voice I could not quite place.
"What do you think happened?" Dickinson continued.
"I believe it was suicide."
Poirot interrupted. "Was Mrs Stanwood likely to commit suicide under normal circumstances?"
Lewiston hesitated. Then he admitted, "No."
"So, were there any problems? Was she in trouble?" Poirot continued.
"Not that I know of."
"Was she in good health?"
Lewiston held Poirot's gaze for a few seconds before he answered, "Yes, her health left nothing to be desired."
"I see," said Poirot, satisfied.
"Is there anything else you remember that might be of importance?" Dickinson asked. "Did anything peculiar happen at the party?"
Lewiston shook his head. "No, I don't think so."
"If it wasn't suicide, could you imagine who might have wanted to kill her?"
"I don't know her family very well. She didn't see them very often. Except James, who lives here, but he would never murder her."
"Thank you, Doctor Lewiston. We might contact you again, but for now you may leave."
When Lewiston said his farewells and left the room, Dickinson turned towards his sergeant.
"Is Mrs Stanwood's solicitor here yet?"
"Mr Brown, yes, sir, he’s here."
"Good, let him in."
Mr Brown had also been a guest at the birthday party. However, I had not spoken much with him, so I had not known that he was Mrs Stanwood's solicitor. He was an inconspicuous man of average height, in his late forties, wearing spectacles.
"Do you think Mrs Stanwood could have committed suicide? Do you know if she has had any trouble lately?" Dickinson asked.
Mr Brown contemplated the question for a moment. "She was a strong woman. Suicide doesn't seem to be her style," he said finally. "But although we were friends, we were never very close. I suppose there was a lot that she didn't tell me, so in the end maybe there was something that troubled her so much that she did indeed commit suicide."
"Can you imagine who might have wanted to kill her, if it wasn't suicide? Did you observe anything out of the ordinary lately, say, at the party?"
"I hardly know the family, and no, nothing sprang to my attention."
"What about James Dillingham?"
"Oh, yes, James! He is a good boy. He’s training to be a solicitor, so we often meet to discuss cases or details of law. He wouldn't harm anyone."
Inspector Dickinson grumbled, dissatisfied, then he continued: "I understand you are also Mrs Stanwood's solicitor."
"Quite so."
"So you have her will?"
Mr Brown dropped his gaze. "No," he said in a low voice.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I've had her will in the past, but she withdrew it about six weeks ago."
"And she didn't dictate you a new will?"
"No."
Poirot, who had listened silently so far, leaned forward. "And that did not strike you as odd, Monsieur Brown?"
Brown turned his head towards my friend. "It did. I reminded her of the will, but she didn't want to talk about it."
"Might she have written a will without your presence, one which she kept elsewhere?" Poirot asked.
Brown looked away. "She might. As I said, there were many things she didn't tell me."
"Who benefited from the old will?" Dickinson interjected.
"As far as I remember, she wanted to donate a great deal of her money to the Medical Research Council. The house and another considerable part of the money would fall to James. Some smaller amounts were to go to other members of the family, but I don't remember the details."
"Thank you, Mr Brown, that will be all for now," Inspector Dickinson said. He nodded towards his sergeant who ushered Mr Brown out of the room. "Curious thing about the will," Dickinson mumbled, then he looked at us. "Maybe she has a will here in the house? There was nothing in the bedroom, but maybe in the boudoir or the library?"
We got up and went to the boudoir where a large writing desk stood between a chest of drawers and a rocking chair.
"Parbleu!" cried Poirot all of a sudden. I went over to him and he pointed to the lock of one of the writing desk's drawers which had been forced open. Inside the drawer, only a few sheets of blotting paper and several stacks of empty envelopes were to be found. The servants, when asked, were sure the lock had been in perfect working order on the day of the birthday party. One of the maids, Lucy, even remembered having seen Mrs Stanwood locking that particular drawer in the evening.
The keys for the writing desk were found in Mrs Stanwood’s bedroom, but the remaining drawers held nothing of interest, especially no will. The library proved to be of equal disappointment.
"Well," Inspector Dickinson said, "if she made a will, someone must have signed it. We will ask around and hope someone knows something." He glanced at his watch. "It’s already late. I fancy I will call it a day. Within a few days, we shall have the results for the decanter and the water glass, and also the fingerprints. Hopefully, that will cast some light upon the case. As far as I can see, it still could be suicide, but, I admit, there’s something peculiar about the whole affair."
"Yes," Poirot nodded, "some things, as you English say, do not add up."
After Inspector Dickinson and his sergeant had left, Poirot summoned Mary, asking her to keep an open eye on everyone and everything. He made her promise to inform him about everything out of the ordinary, however minor or unrelated it might seem, or however private it was. Poirot had a way with women that made them trust him implicitly, and it worked perfectly on Mary, for she nodded eagerly.
Sometimes, I envied Poirot for his droll charms.