“You don’t think, M. Poirot, that my aunt could have taken that morphine herself?”
Poirot said slowly:
“It is an idea, yes.”
Roddy said:
“She hated her—her helplessness, you know. Often said she wished she could die.”
Poirot said:
“But, then, she could not have risen from her bed, gone downstairs and helped herself to the tube of morphine from the nurse’s case?”
Roddy said slowly:
“No, but somebody could have got it for her.”
“Who?”
“Well, one of the nurses.”
“No, neither of the nurses. They would understand the danger to themselves far too well! The nurses are the last people to suspect.”
“Then—somebody else….”
He started, opened his mouth, shut it again.
Poirot said quietly:
“You have remembered something, have you not?”
Roddy said doubtfully:
“Yes—but—”
“You wonder if you ought to tell me?”
“Well, yes….”
Poirot said, a curious smile tilting the corners of his mouth:
“When did Miss Carlisle say it?”
Roddy drew a deep breath.
“By Jove, you are a wizard! It was in the train coming down. We’d had the telegram, you know, saying Aunt Laura had had another stroke. Elinor said how terribly sorry she was for her, how the poor dear hated being ill, and that now she would be more helpless still and that it would be absolute hell for her. Elinor said, ‘One does feel that people ought to be set free if they themselves really want it.’”
“And you said—what?”
“I agreed.”
Poirot spoke very gravely:
“Just now, Mr. Welman, you scouted the possibility of Miss Carlisle having killed your aunt for monetary gain. Do you also scout the possibility that she may have killed Mrs. Welman out of compassion?”
Roddy said:
“I—I—no, I can’t….”