Poirot mused:
“The circumstances of her death seem quite inexplicable.”
“These police and their newfangled ideas,” said Mrs. Bishop. “Is it likely that a well-bred, nicely brought up young lady like Miss Elinor would go about poisoning anyone? Trying to drag me into it, too, saying I said her manner was peculiar!”
“But was it not peculiar?”
“And why shouldn’t it be?” Mrs. Bishop’s bust heaved with a flash of jet. “Miss Elinor’s a young lady of feelings. She was going to turn out her aunt’s things—and that’s always a painful business.”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
He said:
“It would have made it much easier for her if you had accompanied her.”
“I wanted to, Mr. Poirot, but she took me up quite sharp. Oh, well, Miss Elinor was always a very proud and reserved young lady. I wish, though, that I had gone with her.”
Poirot murmured:
“You did not think of following her up to the house?”
Mrs. Bishop reared her head majestically.
“I don’t go where I’m not wanted, Mr. Poirot.”
Poirot looked abashed. He murmured:
“Besides, you had doubtless matters of importance to attend to that morning?”
“It was a very warm day, I remember. Very sultry.” She sighed. “I walked to the cemetery to place a few flowers on Mrs. Welman’s grave, a token of respect, and I had to rest there quite a long time. Quite overcome by the heat, I was. I got home late for lunch, and my sister was quite upset when she saw the State of Heat I was in! Said I never should have done it on a day like that.”
Poirot looked at her with admiration.
He said:
“I envy you, Mrs. Bishop. It is pleasant indeed to have nothing with which to reproach oneself after a death. Mr. Roderick Welman, I fancy, must blame himself for not going in to see his aunt that night, though naturally he could not know she was going to pass away so soon.”
“Oh, but you’re quite wrong, Mr. Poirot. I can tell you that for a fact. Mr. Roddy did go into his aunt’s room. I was just outside on the landing myself. I’d heard that nurse go off downstairs, and I thought maybe I’d better make sure the mistress wasn’t needing anything, for you know what nurses are: always staying downstairs to gossip with the maids, or else worrying them to death by asking them for things. Not that Nurse Hopkins was as bad as that red-haired Irish nurse. Always chattering and making trouble, she was! But, as I say, I thought I’d just see everything was all right, and it was then that I saw Mr. Roddy slip into his aunt’s room. I don’t know whether she knew him or not; but anyway he hasn’t got anything to reproach himself with!”
Poirot said:
“I am glad. He is of a somewhat nervous disposition.”
“Just a trifle cranky. He always has been.”
Poirot said:
“Mrs. Bishop, you are evidently a woman of great understanding. I have formed a high regard for your judgement. What do you think is the truth about the death of Mary Gerrard?”
Mrs. Bishop snorted.
“Clear enough, I should think! One of those nasty pots of paste of Abbott’s. Keeps them on those shelves for months! My second cousin was took ill and nearly died once, with tinned crab!”
Poirot objected:
“But what about the morphine found in the body?”
Mrs. Bishop said grandly: