“You’d caught her at it?” “Not exactly. The night before last a-er-a friend of mine came to dine. A M. Hercule Poirot-I don’t know if you know the name.” Inspector Sharpe had looked up from his notebook. His eyes had opened rather wide. It happened that he did know the name.
“M. Hercule Poirot?” he said. “Indeed?
Now that’s very interesting.” “He gave us a little talk after dinner and the subject of these thefts came up. He advised me, in front of them all, to go to the police.” “He did, did he?” “Afterwards, Celia came along to my room and owned up. She was very distressed.” “Any question of prosecution?” “No. She was going to make good the losses, and everyone was very nice to her about it.” “Had she been hardup?” “No. She had an adequately paid job as dispenser at St. Catherine’s Hospital and has a little money of her own, I believe. She was rather better off than most of our students.” “So she’d no need to steal-but did,” said the Inspector, writing it down.
“It’s kleptomania, I suppose,” said Mrs. Hubbard.
“That’s the label that’s used. I just mean one of the people that don’t need to take things, but nevertheless do take them.” “I wonder if you’re being a little unfair to her.
You see, there was a young man.” “And he ratted on her?” “Oh no. Quite the reverse. He spoke very strongly in her defence and as a matter of fact last night, after supper, he announced that they’d become engaged.” Inspector Sharpe’s eyebrows mounted his forehead in a surprised fashion.
“And then she goes up to bed and takes morphia?
That’s rather surprising, isn’t it?” G It is. I can’t understand it.” Mrs. Hubbard’s face was creased with perplexity and distress.
“And yet the facts are clear enough.” Sharpe nodded to the small torn piece of paper that lay on the table between them.
Dear Mrs. Hubbard, (it ran) I really am sorry- and this is the best thing I can do.
“It’s not signed, but you’ve no doubt it’s her handwriting?” ‘ationo.
Mrs. Hubbard spoke rather uncertainly and frowned as she looked at the torn scrap of paper. Why did she feel so strongly that there was something wrong about it-his “There’s one clear fingerprint on it which is definitely hers,” said the Inspector. “The morphia was in a small bottle with the label of St. Catherine’s Hospital on it and you tell me that she works as a dispenser in St. Catherine’s.
She’d have access to the poison cupboard and that’s where she probably got it. Presumably she brought it home with her yesterday with suicide in nful.” “I really can’t believe it. It doesn’t seem right some how. She was so happy last night.” “Then we must suppose that a reaction set in when she went up to bed. Perhaps there’s more in her past than you know about. Perhaps she was afraid of that coming out. You think she was very much in love with this young man-what’s his name, by the way?” “Colin Mcationabb. He’s doing a post graduate course at St. Catherine’s.” “A doctor? Hm. And at St.
Catherine’s?” “Celia was very much in love with him, more I should say, than he with her. He’s a rather self-centered young man.” “Then that’s probably the explanation. She didn’t feel worthy of him, or hadn’t told him all she ought to tell him. She was quite young, wasn’t she?” “Twenty-three.” “They’re idealistic at that age and they take love affairs hard. Yes, that’s it, I’m afraid. Pity.” He rose to his feet. “I’m afraid the actual facts will have to come out, but we’ll do all we can to gloss things over. Thank you, Mrs. Hubbard.
I’ve got all the information I need now. Her mother died two years ago and the only relative you know of is this elderly aunt in Yorkshire-we’ll communicate with her.” He picked up the small torn fragment with Celia’s agitated writing oDit .
“There’s something wrong about that,” said Mrs.
Hubbard suddenly.
“Wrong? In what way?” “I don’t know comb I feel I ought to know. Oh dear.” “You’re quite sure it’s her handwriting?” “Oh yes. It’s not that.” Mrs. Hubbard pressed her hands to her eyeballs.