Lady Clarke was going on, speaking now rather feverishly.
“I didn’t like her. I never liked her. Car thought all the world of her. Used to go on about her being an orphan and alone in the world. What’s wrong with being an orphan? Sometimes it’s a blessing in disguise. You might have a good-for-nothing father and a mother who drank—then you would have something to complain about. Said she was so brave and such a good worker. I dare say she did her work well! I don’t know where all this bravery came in!”
“Now don’t excite yourself, dear,” said Nurse Capstick, intervening. “We mustn’t have you getting tired.”
“I soon sent her packing! Franklin had the impertinence to suggest that she might be a comfort to me. Comfort to me indeed! The sooner I saw the last of her the better—that’s what I said! Franklin’s a fool! I didn’t want him getting mixed up with her. He’s a boy! No sense! ‘I’ll give her three months’ salary, if you like,’ I said. ‘But out she goes. I don’t want her in the house a day longer.’ There’s one thing about being ill—men can’t argue with you. He did what I said and she went. Went like a martyr, I expect—with more sweetness and bravery!”
“Now, dear, don’t get so excited. It’s bad for you.”
Lady Clarke waved Nurse Capstick away.
“You were as much of a fool about her as anyone else.”
“Oh! Lady Clarke, you mustn’t say that. I did think Miss Grey a very nice girl—so romantic-looking, like someone out of a novel.”
“I’ve no patience with the lot of you,” said Lady Clarke feebly.
“Well, she’s gone now, my dear. Gone right away.”
Lady Clarke shook her head with feeble impatience but she did not answer.
Poirot said:
“Why did you say that Miss Grey was a liar?”
“Because she is. She told you no strangers came to the house, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then. I saw her—with my own eyes—out of this window—talking to a perfectly strange man on the front doorstep.”
“When was this?”
“In the morning of the day Car died—about eleven o’clock.”
“What did this man look like?”
“An ordinary sort of man. Nothing special.”
“A gentleman—or a tradesman?”
“Not a tradesman. A shabby sort of person. I can’t remember.”
A sudden quiver of pain shot across her face.
“Please—you must go now—I’m a little tired—Nurse.”
We obeyed the cue and took our departure.
“That’s an extraordinary story,” I said to Poirot as we journeyed back to London. “About Miss Grey and a strange man.”
“You see, Hastings? It is, as I tell you: there is always something to be found out.”
“Why did the girl lie about it and say she had seen no one?”
“I can think of seven separate reasons—one of them an extremely simple one.”
“Is that a snub?” I asked.