Having the police here and everything.
It’s really been terrible.”
“The police?” said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised.
“Yes, since ten o’clock they’ve been here.”
“The police?” said Hercule Poirot.
“Perhaps we could see Mrs. de Rushbridger now,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. “Since she asked us to come - ”
The Matron interrupted him.
“Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, then you don’t know!”
“Know what?” demanded Poirot sharply.
“Poor Mrs. de Rushbridger. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” cried Poirot. “Mille tonnerres! That explains it. Yes, that explains it.
I should have seen - ” He broke off. “How did she die?”
“It’s most mysterious.
A box of chocolates came for her - liqueur chocolates - by post.
She ate one - it must have tasted horrible, but she was taken by surprise, I suppose, and she swallowed it. One doesn’t like spitting a thing out.”
“Oui, oui, and if a liquid runs suddenly down your throat, it is difficult.”
“So she swallowed it and called out and Nurse came rushing, but we couldn’t do anything.
She died in about two minutes.
Then doctor sent for the police, and they came and examined the chocolates.
And the top layer had been tampered with, the underneath ones were all right.”
“And the poison employed?”
“They think it’s nicotine.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “Again nicotine.
What a stroke! What an audacious stroke!”
“We are too late,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We shall never know now what she had to tell us.
Unless - unless - she confided in someone?” He glanced interrogatively at the Matron.
Poirot shook his head.
“There will have been no confidences, you will find.” “We can ask,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “One of the nurses, perhaps?”
“By all means ask,” said Poirot; but he did not sound hopeful.
Mr. Satterthwaite turned to the Matron who immediately sent for the two nurses, on day and night duty respectively, who had been in attendance on Mrs. de Rushbridger, but neither of them could add any information to that already given.
Mrs. de Rushbridger had never mentioned Sir Bartholomew’s death, and they did not even know of the despatching of the telegram.
On a request from Poirot, the two men were taken to the dead woman’s room.
They found Superintendent Crossfield in charge, and Mr. Satterthwaite introduced him to Poirot.
Then the two men moved over to the bed and stood looking down on the dead woman.
She was about forty, dark-haired and pale. Her face was not peaceful - it still showed the agony of her death.
Mr. Satterthwaite said slowly: “Poor soul ... ” He looked across at Hercule Poirot.
There was a strange expression on the little Belgian’s face. Something about it made Mr. Satterthwaite shiver ... Mr. Satterthwaite said: “Someone knew she was going to speak, and killed her ... She was killed in order to prevent her speaking ... ”
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, that is so.” “She was murdered to prevent her telling us what she knew.”
“Or what she did not know ... But let us not waste time ...
There is much to be done.
There must be no more deaths.
We must see to that.”
Mr. Satterthwaite asked curiously: “Does this fit in with your idea of the murderer’s identity?”
“Yes, it fits ...
But I realise one thing: The murderer is more dangerous than I thought ...
We must be careful.”
Superintendent Crossfield followed them out of the room and learnt from them of the telegram which had been received by them.
The telegram had been handed it at Melfort Post Office, and on inquiry there it was elicited that it had been handed in by a small boy.
The young lady in charge remembered it, because the message had excited her very much, mentioning, as it did, Sir Bartholomew Strange’s death.