“She was a one for this, that, and the other. Pills, lozenges, dyspepsia tablets, digestive mixtures, blood mixtures. Really enjoyed herself among the bottles.” He smiled ruefully. “I wish there were more like her. People nowadays don’t take to medicines as they used. Still, we sell a lot of toilet preparations to make up for it.”
“Did Miss Arundell take these Liver Capsules regularly?”
“Yes, she’d been taking them for three months, I think, before she died.”
“A relative of hers, a Dr. Tanios, came in to have a mixture made up one day, didn’t he?”
“Yes, of course, the Greek gentleman that married Miss Arundell’s niece. Yes, a very interesting mixture it was. One I’ve not previously become acquainted with.”
The man spoke as of a rare botanical trophy.
“It makes a change sir, when you get something new. Very interesting combination of drugs, I remember. Of course, the gentleman is a doctor. Very nice he was—a pleasant way with him.”
“Did his wife do any shopping here?”
“Did she now? I don’t recall. Oh, yes, came in for a sleeping draught—chloral it was, I remember. A double quantity the prescription was for. It’s always a little difficult for us with hypnotic drugs. You see, most doctors don’t prescribe much at a time.”
“Whose prescription was it?”
“Her husband’s I think. Oh, of course, it was quite all right—but, you know, we have to be careful nowadays. Perhaps you don’t know the fact, but if a doctor makes a mistake in a prescription and we make it up in all good faith and anything goes wrong it’s we who have to have the blame—not the doctor.”
“That seems very unfair!”
“It’s worrying, I’ll admit. Ah, well, I can’t complain. No trouble has come my way—touching wood.”
He rapped the counter sharply with his knuckles.
Poirot decided to buy a package of Dr. Loughbarrow’s Liver Capsules.
“Thank you, sir. Which size? 25, 50, 100?”
“I suppose the larger ones are better value—but still—”
“Have the 50, sir. That’s the size Miss Arundell had. Eight and six.”
Poirot agreed, paid over eight and six and received the parcel.
Then we left the shop.
“So Mrs. Tanios bought a sleeping draught,” I exclaimed as we got out into the street. “An overdose of that would kill anyone, wouldn’t it?”
“With the greatest of ease.”
“Do you think old Miss Arundell—”
I was remembering Miss Lawson’s words, “I daresay she’d murder someone if he told her to!”
Poirot shook his head.
“Chloral is a narcotic, and a hypnotic. Used to alleviate pain and as a sleeping draught. It can also become a habit.”
“Do you think Mrs. Tanios had acquired the habit?”
Poirot shook his head perplexedly.
“No, I hardly think so. But it is curious. I can think of one explanation. But that would mean—”
He broke off and looked at his watch.