“Ah,” said Poirot. “Yes, I see… And what was the nature of her illness?
Digestive, possibly? A form of enteritis?” “You’re quick, M. Poirot. You’re very quick. Yes, it was digestive. This complaint of my wife’s was puzzling, because she had always had excellent health. Finally they sent her to hospital for ‘observation’, as they call it. A check up.” “And the result?” “I don’t think they were completely satisfied… She appeared to regain her health completely and was sent home in due course. But the trouble recurred. We went carefully over the meals she had, the cooking. She seemed to be suffering from a form of intestinal poisoning for which there appeared to be no cause. A further step was taken, tests were made of the dishes she ate. By taking samples of everything, it was definitely proved that a certain substance had been administered in various dishes. In each case it was a dish of which only my wife had partaken.” “In plain language somebody was giving her arsenic. Is that right?” “Quite right. In small doses which would in the end have a cumulative effect.” “You suspected your daughter?” “No.59 “I think you did. Who else could have done it? You suspected your daughter.” Restarick gave a deep sigh.
“Frankly, yes.” II When Poirot arrived home, George was awaiting him “A woman named Edith rang up, sir — ” “Edith?” Poirot frowned.
“She is, I gather, in the service of Mrs.
Oliver. She asked me to inform you that Mrs. Oliver is in St. Giles5 Hospital.” “What has happened to her?” “I understand she has been — er — coshed.” George did not add the latter part of the message, and you tell him it’s been all his fault.” Poirot clicked his tongue. “I warned her — I was uneasy last night when I rang her up, and there was no answer. Les Femmes.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“LET’S buy a peacock,” said Mrs. Oliver suddenly and unexpectedly. She did not open her eyes as she made this remark, and her voice was weak though full of indignation.
Three people brought startled eyes to bear upon her. She made a further statement.
“Hit on the head.” She opened badly focused eyes and endeavoured to make out where she was.
The first thing she saw was a face entirely strange to her. A young man who was writing in a notebook. He held the pencil poised in his hand.
“Policeman,” said Mrs. Oliver decisively.
“I beg your pardon. Madam?” “I said you were a policeman,” said Mrs.
Oliver. “Am I right?” “Yes, Madam.” “Criminal assault,” said Mrs. Oliver and closed her eyes in a satisfied manner. When she opened them again, she took in her surroundings more fully. She was in a bed, one of those rather high hygienic looking beds, she decided. The kind that you shoot up and down and round and about. She was not in her own home. She looked round and decided on her environment.
“Hospital, or could be nursing home,” she said.
A sister was standing with an air of authority at the door, and a nurse was standing by her bed. She identified a fourth figure. “Nobody,” said Mrs. Oliver, “could mistake those moustaches. What are you doing here, M. Poirot?” Hercule Poirot advanced towards the bed. “I told you to be careful, Madame,” he said.
“Anyone might lose their way,” said Mrs. Oliver, somewhat obscurely, and added, “my head aches.” “With good cause. As you surmise, you were hit on the head.” “Yes. By the Peacock.” The policeman stirred uneasily then said, “Excuse me. Madam, you say you were assaulted by a peacock?” “Of course. I’d had an uneasy feeling for some time — you know, atmosphere.” Mrs.
Oliver tried to wave her hand in an appropriate gesture to describe atmosphere, and winced. “Ouch,” she said, “I’d better not try that again.” “My patient must not get overexcited,” said the sister with disapproval.
“Can you tell me where this assault occurred?” “I haven’t the faintest idea. I’d lost my way. I was coming from a kind of studio.
Very badly kept. Dirty. The other young man hadn’t shaved for days. A greasy leather jacket.” “Is this the man who assaulted you?” “No, it’s another one.” “If you could just tell me — ” “I am telling you, aren’t I? I’d followed him, you see, all the way from the cafe — only I’m not very good at following people.