One is in the dark.” “Any ideas as to who it might have been who gave he r the tip?” coneaationo-unless-but n” ‘All the same,” said Sharpe, pondering, “I don’t quite get it. If she’s been simply trying this kleptomania business on, and it’s succeeded, why the hell go and commit suicide?” “The answer is that she should not have committed suicide.” The two men looked at each other.
Poirot murmured: coneaally are quite sure that she did?” ‘It’s clear as day, Mr. Poirot There’s no reason to believe otherwise and-was The door opened and Mrs. Hubbard came in.
She looked flushed and triumphant. Her chin stuck out aggressively.
“I’ve got it,” she said triumphantly.
“Good morning, Mr. Poirot. I’ve got it, Inspector Sharpe. It came to me quite suddenly.
Whythat suicide note looked wrong, I mean.
Celia couldn’t possibly have written it.” “Why not, Mrs. Hubbard?” “Because it’s written in ordinary blue black ink. And Celia filled her pen with green ink-that ink over there,” Mrs. Hubbard nodded towards the shelf, “at breakfast’time yesterday morning.” Inspector Sharpe, a somewhat different Inspector Sharpe, came back into the room which he had left abruptly after Mrs. Hubbard’s statement.
“Quite right,” he said. “I’ve checked up. The only pen in the girl’s room, the one that was by her bed, has green ink in it. Now that green ink” Mrs. Hubbard held up the nearly empty bottle.
Then she explained, clearly and concisely, the scene at the breakfast table.
“I feel sure,” she ended, “that the scrap of paper was torn out of the letter she had written to me yesterday-and which I never opened.” “What did she do with it? Can you remember?” Mrs. Hubbard shook her head.
“I left her alone in here and went to do my housekeeping. She must, I think, have left it lying somewhere in here, and forgotten about it.” “And somebody found it … and opened it somebody-was He broke off.
“You realize,” he said, “what this means? I haven’t been very happy about this torn bit of paper all along. There was quite a pile of lecture notepaper in her room commuch more natural to write a suicide note on one of them. This means that somebody saw the possibility of using the opening phrase of her letter to you-to suggest something very different. To suggest suicide-was He paused and then said slowly, “This means-was “Murder,” said Hercule Poirot.
THOUGH PERSONALLY DEPRECATING le five o’clock as inhibiting the proper appreciation of the supreme meal of the day, dinner, Poirot was now getting quite accustomed to serving it.
The resourceful George had on this occasion produced large cups, a pot of really strong- Indian tea and, in addition to the hot and buttery square crumpets, bread and jam and a large square of rich plum cake.
All this for the delectation of Inspector Sharpe who was leaning back contentedly sipping his third cup of tea.
“You don’t mind my coming along like this, M.
Poirot? I’ve got an hour to spare until the time when the students will be getting back. I shall want to question them all and, frankly, it’s not a business I’m lookin, forward to. You met some of them the other night and I wondered If you could give me any useful dope comon the foreigners, anyway.” “You think I am a good judge of foreigners?
But, mon cher, there were no Belgians amongst them.” “No Belg- Oh, I see what you mean! You mean that as you’re a Belgian, all the other nationalities are as foreign to you as they are to me.
Butthat’s not quite true, is it? I mean you probably know more about the Continental types than I do-though not the Indians and the West Africans and that lot.” “Your best assistance will probably be from Mrs.
Hubbard. She has been there for some months in intimate association with these young people and she is quite a good judge of human nature.” “Yes, thoroughly competent woman. I’m relying on her. I shall have to see the proprietress of the place, too. She wasn’t there this morning.
Owns several of these places, I understand, as well as some of the student clubs. Doesn’t seem to be much liked.” Poirot said nothing for a moment or two, then he asked, “You have been to St. Catherine’s?” “Yes. The Chief Pharmacist was most helpful. He was much shocked and distressed by the news.” “What did he say of the girl?” “She’d worked there for just over a year and was well liked. He described her as rather slow, but very conscientious.” He paused and then added, “The morphia came from there all right.” “It did? That is interesting-and rather puzzling.” “It was morphine tartrate. Kept in the poison cupboard in the Dispensary. Uppei shelf-among drugs that were not often used. The hypodermic tablets, of course, are what are in general use, and it appears that morphine hydrochloride is more often used than the tartrate. There seems to be a kind of fashion in drugs like everything else. Doctors seem to follow one another in prescribing like a lot of sheep. He didn’t say that. It was my own thought. There are some drugs in the upper shelf of that cupboard that were once popular, but haven’t been prescribed for years.” “So the absence of one small dusty phial would not immediately be noticed?” “That’s right. Stock-taking is only done at regular intervals. Nobody remembers any prescription with morphine tartrate in it for a long time. The absence of the bottle wouldn’t be noticed until it was wanted-or until they went over stock. The three dispensers all had keys of the poison cupboard and the Dangerous Drug cupboard. The cupboards are opened as needed, and as on a busy day (which is practically every day) someone is going to the cupboard every few minutes, the cupboard is unlocked and remains unlocked till the end of work.” “Who had access to it, other than Celia herself?” “The two other women Dispensers, but they have no connection of any kind with Hickory Road. One has been there for four years, the other only came a few weeks ago, was formerly at a Hospital in Devon. Good record. Then there are the three senior pharmacists who have all been at St.