v
miss morley had moved to the country. she was living in a small country cottage near hertford.
the grenadier greeted poirot amicably. since her brother’s death her face had perhaps grown
slightly grimmer, her carriage more upright, her general attitude towards life more unyielding. she
resented bitterly the slur cast upon her brother’s professional name by the findings of the inquest.
poirot, she had reason to believe, shared the view that the verdict of the coroner’s inquest was
untrue. hence the grenadier unbent a little.
she answered his questions readily enough and with competence. all mr. morley’s professional
papers had been carefully filed by miss nevill and had been handed over by her to mr. morley’s
successor. some of the patients had transferred themselves to mr. reilly, others had accepted the
new partner, others again had gone to other dentists elsewhere.
miss morley, after she had given what information she could, said:
“so you have found that woman who was henry’s patient—miss sainsbury seale—and she was
murdered too.”
the “too” was a little defiant. she stressed the word.
poirot said:
“your brother never mentioned miss sainsbury seale particularly to you?”
“no, i don’t remember his doing so. he would tell me if he had had a particularly trying patient,
or if one of his patients had said something amusing he would pass it on to me, but we didn’t
usually talk about his work much. he was glad to forget it when the day was over. he was very
tired sometimes.”
“do you remember hearing of a mrs. chapman amongst your brother’s patients?”
“chapman? no, i don’t think so. miss nevill is really the person to help you over all this.”
“i am anxious to get in touch with her. where is she now?”
“she has taken a post with a dentist in ramsgate, i believe.”
“she has not married that young man frank carter yet?”
“no. i rather hope that will never come off. i don’t like that young man, m. poirot. i really
don’t. there is something wrong about him. i still feel that he hasn’t really any proper moral
sense.”
poirot said:
“do you think it is possible that he could have shot your brother?”
miss morley said slowly:
“i do feel perhaps that he would be capable of it—he has a very uncontrollable temper. but i
don’t really see that he had any motive—nor opportunity for that matter. you see, it wasn’t as
though henry had succeeded in persuading gladys to give him up. she was sticking to him in the
most faithful way.”
“could he have been bribed, do you think?”
“bribed? to kill my brother? what an extraordinary idea!”
a nice-looking dark-haired girl brought in the tea at this moment. as she closed the door behind
her again, poirot said:
“that girl was with you in london, was she not?”
“agnes? yes, she was house-parlourmaid. i let the cook go—she didn’t want to come to the
country anyway—and agnes does everything for me. she is turning into quite a nice little cook.”
poirot nodded.
he knew very accurately the domestic arrangements of 58, queen charlotte street. they had
been thoroughly gone into at the time of the tragedy. mr. morley and his sister had occupied the
two top floors of the house as a maisonette. the basement had been shut up altogether except for a
narrow passage leading from the area to the back yard where a wire cage ran up to the top floor
with the tradesmen’s deliveries and where a speaking tube was installed. therefore the only
entrance to the house was by the front door which it was alfred’s business to answer. this had
enabled the police to be sure that no outsider could have entered the house on that particular
morning.
both cook and house-parlourmaid had been with the morleys for some years and bore good
characters. so, although it was theoretically possible that one or the other of them might have crept
down to the second floor and shot her master, the possibility had never been taken seriously into
account. neither of the two had appeared unduly flustered or upset at being questioned, and there
certainly seemed no possible reason for connecting either of them with his death.
nevertheless, as agnes handed poirot his hat and stick on leaving, she asked him with an
unusually nervous abruptness:
“does—does anyone know anything more about the master’s death, sir?”
poirot turned to look at her. he said:
“nothing fresh has come to light.”
“they’re still quite sure as he did shoot himself because he’d made a mistake with that drug?”
“yes. why do you ask?”
agnes pleated her apron. her face was averted. she said rather indistinctly:
“the—the mistress doesn’t think so.”
“and you agree with her, perhaps?”
“me? oh, i don’t know nothing, sir. i only—i only wanted to be sure.”
hercule poirot said in his most gentle voice:
“it would be a relief to you to feel beyond any possible doubt that it was suicide?”
“oh, yes, sir,” agnes agreed quickly, “it would indeed.”
“for a special reason, perhaps?”
her startled eyes met his. she shrank back a little.
“i—i don’t know anything about it, sir. i only just asked.”
“but why did she ask?” hercule poirot demanded of himself, as he walked down the path to the
gate.
he felt sure that there was an answer to that question. but as yet he could not guess what it was.
all the same, he felt a step nearer.
