“It is thanks to my actions that you are sick, Monsieur Poirot.” Mother smiled at him sweetly. “I put a little something in yoursirop. Do you remember—the one I left for you in the library? I knew perfectly well that it would do you no harm whatever in the long term, so it was perfectly safe. I was trying to help you to solve Stanley Niven’s murder as efficiently as possible. I asked myself: would Hercule Poirot be in favor of taking unusual and inspired action in order to gain an advantage in a case he was trying to solve? When I put it to myself like that, the answer seemed obvious: of course you would.”
Poirot stared at her in silence.
“I am sorry that my plan resulted in you feeling unwell for a day or two, but I had worked it all out, you see. I knew you would soon visit this hospital in your capacity as detective, and that would have been far from ideal. Everyone you spoke to would have known this was HerculePoirotthe renowned murder detectivewho was interviewing them.They would have been on their guard and ready to dissemble. I am surprised the same did not occur to you, Monsieur Poirot.”
He said slowly, “The cup of tea you gave to Maddie Laurier to bring to me when Catchpool and I first arrived at Frellingsloe House—did you also put something into that to make me ill?”
I felt a fresh explosion of rage in my chest. Mother had told me about only one poisoning incident. Surely there could not have been two?
“I took only two sips,” said Poirot. “It was too cold by the time it reached me—but it tasted peculiar, and soon afterwards, while talking to Arnold Laurier in his study, I felt dizzy and had to go to my room and lie down.”
“Yes, that was my first attempt,” said Mother. “Unfortunately, you did not imbibe nearly enough of the substance on that occasion to necessitate a stay at St. Walstan’s.”
I fought the urge to interrupt and tell her that our relationship, such as it was, was finished and done with forever. No more holidays in Great Yarmouth, no more anything from me. I forced myself to remain silent. Poirot was calm and I was not; the sensible thing to do was leave it to him to decide how this abomination should be handled.
“Please do not look at me in that blank and superior way, Monsieur Poirot,” said Mother. “Or at least, do not look at me like thatyet. First answer this: are you already, as a result of having spent a mere two nights in this hospital,significantly further on in your investigation into the murder of Stanley Niven? If the answer is yes, and I have no doubt that it is, then you must consider seriously whether you wish to admonish me or thank me.”
“I should like to know more about this... substance that you have twice given me,” said Poirot. His voice contained no expression at all. “What is it?”
“I got it from my friend Daphne,” said Mother. “She calls it ‘Freedom Oil.’ She gives it to her husband when she needs him to be... out of circulation for a few days. I have no idea what is in it, but Daphne assured me it would have no lasting adverse effects; it is unpleasant but not dangerous.
“Freedom Oil,” Poirot repeated.
“In your case, a better name for it would be ‘Murder-Solving Oil,’” said Mother. “I knew that if you were admitted to St. Walstan’s as a patient, no one would be in the least bit wary of you, which would enable you to find out much more. Tell me: did my plan work?”
“Madame,” said Poirot. “Listen carefully. I am going to give you an order, and you are going to obey it without a word of complaint. If your response is anything but utmost obedience, I will see to it that you are arrested for the crimes of poisoning and attempted murder. Soon afterwards, your friend who distributes this Freedom Oil will also be arrested for the poisoning and attempted murder of her husband.”
“That seems a little unfair to poor Daphne,” Mother protested. “She has never used the oil on anybody but her husband. If you had met him, Monsieur Poirot—oh,goodness gracious! He is one of those unbearable know-it-alls who believes he should be in charge of the whole world.”
She might have been describing herself, I thought.
“He is forever writing to his member of parliament and proposing the most lunatic schemes you can imagine. I doubt that even a member of parliament for the Liberal party would be in favor of the enfranchisement of dogs, and I am quite certain that the fifth Baron Brabourne, Michael Knatchbull, would agree with me that it is a preposterous notion. He is the member of parliament for Daphne’s constituency.”
“Dogs?” Poirot murmured. His face had lost a little of its color.
“Dogs,” Mother confirmed. “Daphne’s husband believes they ought to be given the vote. According to him, it is all very clever indeed and the fastest way to solve all the problems of our great nation. There is a long and complicated justification attached to his witless theory—one that Daphne does not entirely understand and neither do I. But her husband seems intent on—”
“Madame!” Poirot bellowed. “Silence!”
Mother looked offended.
The door opened and Nurse Olga Woodruff’s carrot-colored head appeared. “Is everything all right in here? I heard shouting.”
“All is in order,” Poirot told her. “Thank you, nurse.”
Once she had gone, he said to Mother, “Here are your instructions, madame. Follow them scrupulously if you wishto avoid arrest and punishment. You will leave this room and wait outside in the corridor while I speak to Catchpool in private. Afterwards he will take you back to Frellingsloe House, where you will give him your poisonous oil to dispose of. All of it—every last drop.”
Mother sighed.
“You will also communicate with your friend Daphne and see to it that she never again feeds this poison to her husband. Is that clear?”
“If you insist, Monsieur Poirot. Though I must say—”
“Who else knows that you put poison into two of my drinks?” Poirot asked her. “Did you tell anybody?”
“Of course not,” she said. “Not until I told Edward this morning. What sort of brilliant secret plan would that have been, if I had told people?”
“Get out my sight,” Poirot said. “And close the door behind you.”
