“Yes, this is right. Everyone else was at the hospital. Terence and I were alone together in the drawing room.”
“Neither of you is able, therefore, to confirm the whereabouts of Madame Surtees during that hour.”
Enid laughed. “I have told you, Monsieur Poirot, that I was in the kitchen, here at Frelly. It is where I spend every day of my life. Where else would I have been?”
“What about Arnold Laurier?” I asked. “Where was he that day between two and three?”
“Sick in bed, as I recall,” said Terence Surtees.
“Did any of you see him, or did you merely assume he was in his bedroom?” asked Poirot.
After a short silence, Terence Surtees said, “We did not see him with our very own eyes, if that is what you mean.”
“I didn’t see him either,” said Enid. “No doubt he was up there, though. I heard him snoring now and then. Monsieur Poirot, Arnold would no sooner commit an act of terrible violence than he would... well, I don’t know what!”
“Monsieur Rawcliffe?” said Poirot. “Do you remember if you saw Arnold Laurier between two and three o’clock on the afternoon of 8 September?”
The curate, agitated, shook his head, then said, “But... I do not remember anything very much from that afternoon. Not really very much at all.”
Poirot thanked them all and dismissed them. They left the room, the Surteeses trotting ahead and Rawcliffe trailing behind them as if weighted down by a thousand invisible burdens. Though I could think of no motive whatsoever that this young curate might have had for killing anybody, his bizarre comportment caused me to wonder if one of the burdens on his conscience might be the murder of Stanley Niven, and if another might be the murder of Arnold Laurier.
Chapter 29
Motives and Alibis
“Do you plan to ask Mother where she was on 8 September?” I said to Poirot fifteen minutes later as he and I strolled along the cliff top. The wind had died down, and Poirot had raised only the mildest objection to my idea that we should venture outside.
“Non. She was not in Norfolk on 8 September.”
“How do you know?”
“Catchpool, your mother did not murder Stanley Niven. Or Arnold Laurier.”
I repeated my question.
“Because I now know who committed both crimes. At least... I am almost certain. The information from Sergeant Wight will confirm it.”
“Let us hope so,” I said. “It sounds as if you do not need any further contribution from me, but I have been thinking...”
“I am always interested in your opinions, Catchpool.”
“Very well then. I believe that the murderer of ArnoldLaurier must be someone who thinks he or she has provided an unshakeable alibi for Stanley Niven’s murder. Why go to the trouble of bringing the unnecessary paper flowers, water and vase to the study unless they want us to think it must be the same killer? And why should they need us to think that way, unless they have already been eliminated from suspicion of Niven’s murder on account of what seems to be a cast iron alibi? Oh.” I cursed under my breath. “How stupid of me. If the killer of Arnold Laurier is someone quite different—notNiven’s killer—then that would be another reason.”
Poirot smiled in the direction of the sea and said nothing.
“Shall I tell you what I would do if I did not have your expert guidance?” I said.
“Please.”
“I would calculate that I could probably solve Laurier’s murder far more easily if I separated it from Niven’s and considered it as a... well, as a quite distinct puzzle. No one, as far as we know, had a reason to want Niven dead, whereas almost everyone had a motive for murdering Arnold Laurier.”
“Do you think so? Tell me more,mon ami.”
“Well, his wife, for a start. She might want to spare him the horror of a painful and drawn-out death from his illness. Dr. Osgood is in love with Vivienne Laurier according to almost everybody, including his own fiancée. The sooner Arnold dies, the sooner his widow is free and available to marry someone else. Now, Nurse Olga Woodruff thinks Vivienne will send Osgood away with a flea in his ear. Shemight want that to happen sooner rather than later, so that he can attend properly to loving and marrying her.”
“Nurse Bee Haskins?” said Poirot. “Nurse Zillah Hunt?”
I frowned. “Neither of them had a reason to want Arnold Laurier dead, as far as I know.”
