"I don't suppose that I shall be in any more danger in China than you
are in London," he growled.
"That is possibly true enough," admitted Poirot. "I hope that they will
not succeed in massacring Hastings also, that is all. That would annoy
me greatly."
I interrupted this cheerful conversation to remark that I had no
intention of letting myself be massacred, and shortly afterwards Ingles
parted from us.
For some time we went along in silence, which Poirot at length broke by
uttering a totally unexpected remark.
"I think--I really think--that I shall have to bring my brother into
this."
"Your brother," I cried, astonished. "I never knew you had a brother?"
"You surprise me, Hastings. Do you not know that all celebrated
detectives have brothers who would be even more celebrated then they
are were it not for constitutional indolence?"
Poirot employs a peculiar manner sometimes which makes it wellnigh
impossible to know whether he is jesting or in earnest. That manner was
very evident at the moment.
"What is your brother's name?" I asked, trying to adjust myself to this
new idea.
"Achille Poirot," replied Poirot gravely. "He lives near Spa in
Belgium."
"What does he do?" I asked with some curiosity, putting aside a
half-formed wonder as to the character and disposition of the late
Madame Poirot, and her classical taste in Christian names.
"He does nothing. He is, as I tell, of a singularly indolent
disposition. But his abilities are hardly less than my own--which is
saying a great deal."
"Is he like you to look at?"
"Not unlike. But not nearly so handsome. And he wears no moustaches."
"Is he older than you, or younger?"
"He happens to have been born on the same day."
"A twin," I cried.
"Exactly, Hastings. You jump to the right conclusion with unfailing
accuracy. But here we are at home again. Let us at once get to work on
that little affair of the Duchess's necklace."
But the Duchess's necklace was doomed to wait awhile. A case of quite
another description was waiting for us.
Our landlady, Mrs. Pearson, at once informed us that a hospital nurse
had called and was waiting to see Poirot.
We found her sitting in the big arm-chair facing the window, a
pleasant-faced woman of middle age, in a dark blue uniform. She was a
little reluctant to come to the point, but Poirot soon put her at her
ease, and she embarked upon her story.
"You see, M. Poirot, I've never come across anything of the kind
before. I was sent for, from the Lark Sisterhood, to go down to a case
in Hertfordshire. An old gentleman, it is, Mr. Templeton. Quite a
pleasant house, and quite pleasant people. The wife, Mrs. Templeton, is
much younger than her husband, and he has a son by his first marriage
who lives there. I don't know that the young man and the step-mother
always get on together. He's not quite what you'd call normal--not
'wanting' exactly, but decidedly dull in the intellect. Well, this
illness of Mr. Templeton's seemed to me from the first to be very
mysterious. At times there seemed really nothing the matter with him,
and then he suddenly has one of these gastric attacks with pain and
vomiting. But the doctor seemed quite satisfied, and it wasn't for me
to say anything. But I couldn't help thinking about it. And then--"
She paused, and became rather red.
"Something happened which aroused your suspicions?" suggested Poirot.
"Yes."
But she still seemed to find it difficult to go on.
"I found the servants were passing remarks too."
"About Mr. Templeton's illness?"
"Oh, no! About--about this other thing--"
"Mrs. Templeton?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Templeton and the doctor, perhaps?"
Poirot had an uncanny flair in these things. The nurse threw him a
grateful glance and went on.
"They _were_ passing remarks. And then one day I happened to see
them together myself--in the garden--"
It was left at that. Our client was in such an agony of outraged
propriety that no one could feel it necessary to ask exactly what she
had seen in the garden. She had evidently seen quite enough to make up
her own mind on the situation.
"The attacks got worse and worse. Dr. Treves said it was all perfectly
natural and to be expected, and that Mr. Templeton could not possibly
live long, but I've never seen anything like it before myself--not in
all my long experience of nursing. It seemed to me much more like some
form of--"
She paused, hesitating.
"Arsenical poisoning?" said Poirot helpfully.
She nodded.
"And then, too, he, the patient, I mean, said something queer. 'They'll
do for me, the four of them. They'll do for me yet.'"
"Eh?" said Poirot quickly.
"Those were his very words, M. Poirot. He was in great pain at the
time, of course, and hardly knew what he was saying."
"'They'll do for me, the four of them,'" repeated Poirot thoughtfully.
"What did he mean by 'the four of them,' do you think?"
"That I can't say, M. Poirot. I thought perhaps he meant his wife
and son, and the doctor, and perhaps Miss Clark, Mrs. Templeton's
companion. That would make four, wouldn't it? He might think they were
all in league against him."
"Quite so, quite so," said Poirot, in a preoccupied voice. "What about
food? Could you take no precautions about that?"
"I'm always doing what I can. But, of course, sometimes Mrs. Templeton
insists on bringing him his food herself, and then there are the times
when I am off duty."
"Exactly. And you are not sure enough of your ground to go to the
police?"
The nurse's face showed her horror at the mere idea.
"What I have done, M. Poirot, is this. Mr. Templeton had a very bad
attack after partaking of a bowl of soup. I took a little from the
bottom of the bowl afterwards, and have brought it up with me. I have
been spared for the day to visit a sick mother, as Mr. Templeton was
well enough to be left."
She drew out a little bottle of dark fluid and handed it to Poirot.
"Excellent, mademoiselle. We will have this analysed immediately. If
you will return here in, say, an hour's time I think that we shall be
able to dispose of your suspicions one way or another."
First extracting from our visitor her name and qualifications, he
ushered her out. Then he wrote a note and sent it off together with
the bottle of soup. Whilst we waited to hear the result, Poirot amused
himself by verifying the nurse's credentials, somewhat to my surprise.
"No, no, my friend," he declared. "I do well to be careful. Do not
forget the Big Four are on our track."
However, he soon elicited the information that a nurse of the name of
Mabel Palmer was a member of the Lark Institute and had been sent to
the case in question.
"So far, so good," he said, with a twinkle. "And now here comes Nurse
Palmer back again, and here also is our analyst's report."
Both the nurse and I waited anxiously whilst Poirot read the analyst's
report.
"Is there arsenic in it?" she asked breathlessly.
Poirot shook his head, refolding the paper.
"No."
We were both immeasurably surprised.
"There is no arsenic in it," continued Poirot. "But there is antimony.
And that being the case, we will start immediately for Hertfordshire.
Pray Heaven that we are not too late."
It was decided that the simplest plan was for Poirot to represent
himself truly as a detective, but that the ostensible reason of his
visit should be to question Mrs. Templeton about a servant formerly in
her employment whose name he obtained from Nurse Palmer, and who he
could represent as being concerned in a jewel robbery.
It was late when we arrived at Elmstead, as the house was called. We
had allowed Nurse Palmer to precede us by about twenty minutes, so that
there should be no question of our all arriving together.
Mrs. Templeton, a tall dark woman, with sinuous movements and uneasy
eyes, received us. I noticed that as Poirot announced his profession,
she drew in her breath with a sudden hiss, as though badly startled,
but she answered his question about the maid-servant readily enough.
And then, to test her, Poirot embarked upon a long history of a
poisoning case in which a guilty wife had figured. His eyes never left
her face as he talked, and try as she would, she could hardly conceal
her rising agitation. Suddenly, with an incoherent word of excuse, she
hurried from the room.
We were not long left alone. A squarely-built man with a small red
moustache and pince-nez came in.
"Dr. Treves," he introduced himself. "Mrs. Templeton asked me to make
her excuses to you. She's in a very bad state, you know. Nervous
strain. Worry over her husband and all that. I've prescribed bed and
bromide. But she hopes you'll stay and take pot luck, and I'm to do
host. We've heard of you down here, M. Poirot, and we mean to make the
most of you. Ah, here's Micky!"
A shambling young man entered the room. He had a very round face, and
foolish-looking eyebrows raised as though in perpetual surprise. He
grinned awkwardly as he shook hands. This was clearly the "wanting"
son.
Presently we all went in to dinner. Dr. Treves left the room--to open
some wine, I think---and suddenly the boy's physiognomy underwent a
startling change. He leant forward, staring at Poirot.
"You've come about father," he said, nodding his head. "_I_ know.
I know lots of things--but nobody thinks I do. Mother will be glad when
father's dead and she can marry Dr. Treves. She isn't my own mother,
you know. I don't like her. She wants father to die."
It was all rather horrible. Luckily, before Poirot had time to reply,
the doctor came back, and we had to carry on a forced conversation.
And then suddenly Poirot lay back in his chair with a hollow groan. His
face was contorted with pain.
"My dear sir, what's the matter?" cried the doctor.
"A sudden spasm. I am used to them. No, no, I require no assistance
from you, doctor. If I might lie down upstairs."
His request was instantly acceded to, and I accompanied him upstairs,
where he collapsed on the bed, groaning heavily.
For the first minute or two I had been taken in, but I had quickly
realised that Poirot was--as he would have put it--playing the comedy,
and that his object was to be left alone upstairs near the patient's
room.
Hence I was quite prepared when, the instant we were alone, he sprang
up.
"Quick, Hastings, the window. There is ivy outside. We can climb down
before they begin to suspect."
"Climb down?"
"Yes, we must get out of this house at once. You saw him at dinner?"
"The doctor?"
"No, young Templeton. His trick with his bread. Do you remember what
Flossie Monro told us before she died? That Claud Darrell had a
habit of dabbing his bread on the table to pick up crumbs. Hastings,
this is a vast plot, and that vacant-looking young man is our arch
enemy--Number Four! Hurry."
I did not wait to argue. Incredible as the whole thing seemed, it was
wiser not to delay. We scrambled down the ivy as quietly as we could
and made a bee-line for the small town and the railway station. We were
just able to catch the last train, the 8.34 which would land us in town
about eleven o'clock.
"A plot," said Poirot thoughtfully. "How many of them were in it, I
wonder? I suspect that the whole Templeton family are just so many
agents of the Big Four. Did they simply want to decoy us down there? Or
was it more subtle than that. Did they intend to play the comedy down
there and keep me interested until they had had time to do--what? I
wonder now."
He remained very thoughtful.
Arrived at our lodgings, he restrained me at the door of the
sitting-room.
"Attention, Hastings. I have my suspicions. Let me enter first."
He did so, and, to my slight amusement, took the precaution to press
on the electric switch with an old galosh. Then he went round the room
like a strange cat, cautiously, delicately, on the alert for danger. I
watched him for some time, remaining obediently where I had been put by
the wall.
"It's all right, Poirot," I said impatiently.
"It seems so, _mon ami_, it seems so. But let us make sure."
"Rot," I said. "I shall light the fire, anyway, and have a pipe. I've
caught you out for once. You had the matches last and you didn't put
them back in the holder as usual--the very thing you're always cursing
me for doing."
I stretched out my hand. I heard Poirot's warning cry--saw him leaping
towards me--my hand touched the match-box.