“These evenings must have been great fun,” said Poirot genially. “I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the chest upstairs, when he was Shah of Persia?”
“He did have a beard, sir,” replied Dorcas, smiling. “And well I know it, for he borrowed two skeins of my black wool to make it with! And I’m sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance. I didn’t know as there was a beard up there at all. It must have been got quite lately, I think. There was a red wig, I know, but nothing else in the way of hair. Burnt corks they use mostly–though ’tis messy getting it off again. Miss Cynthia was a nigger once, and, oh, the trouble she had.”
“So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard,” said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked out into the hall again.
“Do you think it is “the” one?” I whispered eagerly.
Poirot nodded.
“I do. You notice it had been trimmed?”
“No.”
“Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp’s, and I found one or two snipped hairs. Hastings, this affair is very deep.”
“Who put it in the chest, I wonder?”
“Some one with a good deal of intelligence,” remarked Poirot dryly. “You realize that he chose the one place in the house to hide it where its presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all.”
I acquiesced.
“There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance to me.”
I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth.
“Yes,” he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, “you will be invaluable.”
This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot’s next words were not so welcome.
“I must have an ally in the house,” he observed reflectively.
“You have me,” I protested.
“True, but you are not sufficient.”
I was hurt, and showed it. Poirot hurried to explain himself.
“You do not quite take my meaning. You are known to be working with me. I want somebody who is not associated with us in any way.”
“Oh, I see. How about John?”
“No, I think not.”
“The dear fellow isn’t perhaps very bright,” I said thoughtfully.
“Here comes Miss Howard,” said Poirot suddenly. “She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try.”
With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot’s request for a few minutes’ conversation.
We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Miss Howard impatiently, “what is it? Out with it. I’m busy.”
“Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?”
“Yes, I do.” The lady nodded. “And I told you I’d help you with pleasure–to hang Alfred Inglethorp.”
“Ah!” Poirot studied her seriously. “Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully.”
“Never tell lies,” replied Miss Howard.
“It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?”
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply. “You needn’t think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I’ll admit that it wasn’t he who bought strychnine at the chemist’s shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning.”
“That is arsenic–not strychnine,” said Poirot mildly.
“What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I’m convinced he did it, it doesn’t matter a jot to me “how” he did it.”
“Exactly. “If” you are convinced he did it,” said Poirot quietly. “I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?”
“Good heavens!” cried Miss Howard. “Haven’t I always told you the man is a villain? Haven’t I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven’t I always hated him like poison?”
“Exactly,” said Poirot. “That bears out my little idea entirely.”