“And you’ve no idea who it was stretched that thread across the head of the stairs?” he asked.
“I have no evidence as to who it was. I will not say I have no idea.” “It’s a nasty story,” said Grainger, his face grim.
“Yes. You can understand, can you not, that to begin with I was uncertain whether there had or had not been a sequel?” “Eh? What’s that?” “To all intents and purposes Miss Arundell died a natural death, but could one be sure of that? There had been one attempt on her life. How could I be sure that there had not been a second? And this time a successful one!” Grainger nodded thoughtfully.
“I suppose you are sure, Dr. Grainger– please do not get angry–that Miss ArundelFs death was a natural one? I have come across certain evidence today–” He detailed the conversation he had had with old Angus, Charles ArundelFs interest in the weed-killer, and finally the old man’s surprise at the emptiness of the tin.
Grainger listened with keen attention.
When Poirot had finished he said quietly: “I see your point. Many a case of arsenical >oisoning has been diagnosed as acute gastric enteritis and a certificate given–especially when there are no suspicious contributing circumstances. In any case, arsenical poisoning presents certain difficulties–it has so many different forms. It may be acute, subacute, nervous or chronic. There may be vomiting and abdominal pain–these symptoms may be entirely absent–the person may fall suddenly to the ground and expire shortly afterwards–there may be narcotism and paralysis. The symptoms vary widely.” Poirot said: ^Eh bien, taking the facts into account, what is your opinion?” Dr. Grainger was silent for a minute or two. Then he said slowly: “Taking everything into account, and without any bias whatever, I am of the opinion that no form of arsenical poisoning could account for the symptoms in Miss ArundelFs case. She died, I am quite convinced, of yellow atrophy of the liver. I have, as you know, attended her for many years, and she has suffered previously from attacks similar to that which caused her death. That is my considered opinion, M. Poirot.” And there, perforce, the matter had to rest.
It seemed rather an anti-climax when somewhat apologetically, Poirot produced the package of Liver Capsules he had bought at the druggist’s.
“Miss Arundell took these, I believe?” he said. “I suppose they could not be injurious in any way?” “That stuff? No harm in it. Aloes– podophyllin–all quite mild and harmless,” said Grainger. “She liked trying the stuff. I didn’t mind.” He got up.
“You dispensed certain medicines for her yourself?” asked Poirot.
“Yes–a mild liver pill to be taken after food.” His eyes twinkled. “She could have taken a boxful without hurting herself. I’m not given to poisoning my patients, M.
Poirot.” Then, with a smile, he shook hands with us both and departed.
Poirot undid the package he had purchased at the druggist’s. The medicament consisted of transparent capsules, three quarters full of a dark brown powder.
“They look like a seasick remedy I once took,” I remarked.
Poirot opened a capsule, examined its contents and tasted it gingerly with his tongue.
He made a grimace.
“Well,” I said, throwing myself back in my chair and yawning. “Everything seems harmless enough. Dr. Loughbarrow’s specialities, and Dr. Grainger’s pills! And Dr.
Grainger seems definitely to negative the arsenic theory. Are you convinced at last, my stubborn Poirot.” “It is true that I am pig-headed–that is your expression, I think? Yes, definitely I have the head of the pig,” said my friend meditatively.
“Then, in spite of having the druggist, the nurse and the doctor against you, you still think that Miss Arundell was murdered?” Poirot said quietly: “That is what I believe. No–more than believe. I am sure of it, Hastings.” “There’s one way of proving it, I suppose,” I said slowly. “Exhumation.” Poirot nodded.
“Is that the next step?” “My friend, I have to go carefully.” “Why?” “Because,” his voice dropped, “I am afraid of a second tragedy.” “You mean–?” “I am afraid, Hastings, I am afraid. Let us leave it at that.”
XXII The Woman on the Stairs