“I am so terribly sorry, Poirot,” I said once Mother was gone. “You cannot imagine how ghastly I feel—”
“Non, non, mon ami.You are not responsible for the actions of your mother.”
“But if it were not for your friendship with me—”
“Had I known that our friendship would result in a non-fatal poisoning for me, I would still have chosen to embark upon it,” Poirot said solemnly. “Do you remember I told you that she is an excellent mother for you to have?”
“How wrong you were.”
“Pas du tout.I stand by my words. The experience of being her son has not been pleasant for you, I can see, butit has made you uniquely perceptive and instilled in you many fine qualities: sensitivity, resilience.”
I would have much preferred to have a mother who was not a monster.
“You are unique, Catchpool. So am I. It is why we get along so well.” Poirot chuckled. “How many people, when dealing with something as trivial as Christmas tree decorations, would have come up with your ‘Now that it’s there’ theory and given it that name?”
“Lots of people make up all kinds of silly things,” I told him, embarrassed. “Look, Poirot, you must not be lenient with Mother as any sort of favor to me. She deserves to be—”
“I shall be lenient because her actions, while abhorrent, enabled me to gather much useful information. Last night was noisy and sleepless, but productive. I had a series of fascinating encounters, and there is now a new mystery that we must add to our list of puzzles in need of solutions!”
Chapter 25
Poirot’s Disturbed Night
The first nocturnal nuisance to disturb Poirot as he had attempted to fall asleep that previous night was Mr. Hurt-His-Head, Professor Burnett. A little after midnight, Poirot had heard his heavy, uneven footsteps and then his original refrain line, the one that predated the murder of Stanley Niven: “Son of man has no place to lay his head.” The professor repeated the line several times in an ordinary speaking voice, then sang it to a tune that at first Poirot did not recognize. (“MonsieurMal-de-la-Têteis not a talented singer,mon ami.”)
After listening for a while, Poirot worked out that the tune being butchered was that of the Christmas carol “Silent Night,” which struck him as ironic, given how far from silent his nights on Ward 4 were proving to be. That the words did not fit very well with the tune did not seem to bother the professor in the slightest.
As the voice came closer, Poirot—though he still felt extremely unwell—recognized the opportunity and decidedto take it. As quickly as he could, and wincing at the spasms in his stomach, he took off his hospital gown and dressed in his own clothes, which Nurse Olga had hung up for him in the small cupboard by the window. When he was fully dressed, he went out on to the ward and began to follow Mr. Hurt-His-Head as he did his strange soporific dance back and forth along the corridor. If Poirot’s or the professor’s activity was noticed by any of the nurses on duty, they showed no sign of it. None of them looked up in response to the tuneless singing or the trailing up and down.
Eventually the professor made his way out of Ward 4 and hared off, quite unaware of Poirot in pursuit, to another part of the hospital. Soon Poirot found himself in a narrow walkway with only windows and concrete on both sides. In this corridor, there was a blessed and most welcome lowering of the volume: the professor reduced his singing almost to a whisper and also did a much better job of adapting the rhythm of the words so that it better fitted the melody: “So–on of man, ha–as no place, to–o lay, hi–is head. Son of man has no pla–ace to lay, hi–i–is hea–ea–ead...”
The professor loped and staggered, with Poirot behind him, along the connecting corridor until he arrived at Ward 6. He pushed open the door, walked in, and continued at the same pace until he came to a door about halfway along the corridor, the only one with a white sign attached to it. Poirot was too far behind the professor to read what the sign said. Covering it with a hand that made Poirot think of a grey bear’s paw, Mr. Hurt-His-Head said quietly, “Son of man has no place to hurt his head.”
“Interesting,” Poirot thought. It had been “lay his head” every time until this one.
“To hurt his head, to hurt his head.” Professor Burnett was growing more agitated. Two nurses had stood up and were moving toward him. One of them called out in a firm, cheery voice, “Let’s get you back to the right ward, professor.”
Poirot, by now, had almost reached the door with the white sign, and he saw when Mr. Hurt-His-Head took his hand away that it was no more than a small square of paper with four words written on it in neat handwriting:Reserved for Arnold Laurier.
“Monsieur Poirot.” Bee Haskins had appeared behind him. “Are you not on Ward 4?”
“Not at present, no. I am here on Ward 6.”
“Well, you are supposed to be on Ward 4,” she said briskly. “Come on, let’s get you back there.”
“To hurt his head! To hurt his head!” Professor Burnett wailed.
“I will return to Ward 4 when I am ready,” said Poirot.
“Oh, no. Oh, dear.” Bee Haskins backed away as the two other nurses grabbed one each of Mr. Hurt-His-Head’s arms and did their best to move him away from the door to Arnold Laurier’s room.
“To hurt his head! To hurt his head!” The wailing got louder. Nurse Bee, who looked more shaken than Poirot would have expected, said, “I should probably go and help them but I daren’t.”
“Are you afraid of the professor?” Poirot asked her.
“Not at all. It is the opposite! He seems afraid of me, and he has no reason to be. I have never done him or anyone else any harm. So why does he...?” She had started to cry and was unable to finish her sentence.
“Please tell me what it is that has so upset you, mademoiselle.”
