Peter Lord said harshly:
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me of her childhood, of playing here in this garden, and of how she and Roderick Welman were on different sides. They were enemies, for he preferred the white rose of York—cold and austere—and she, so she told me, loved red roses, the red rose of Lancaster. Red roses that have scent and colour and passion and warmth. And that, my friend, is the difference between Elinor Carlisle and Roderick Welman.”
Peter Lord said:
“Does that explain—anything?”
Poirot said:
“It explains Elinor Carlisle—who is passionate and proud and who loved desperately a man who was incapable of loving her….”
Peter Lord said:
“I don’t understand you….”
Poirot said:
“But I understand her… I understand both of them. Now my friend, we will go back once more to that little clearing in the shrubbery.”
They went there in silence. Peter Lord’s freckled face was troubled and angry.
When they came to the spot, Poirot stood motionless for some time, and Peter Lord watched him.
Then suddenly the little detective gave a vexed sigh.
He said:
“It is so simple, really. Do you not see, my friend, the fatal fallacy in your reasoning? According to your theory someone, a man, presumably, who had known Mary Gerrard in Germany came here intent on killing her. But look, my friend, look! Use the two eyes of your body, since the eyes of the mind do not seem to serve you. What do you see from here: a window, is it not? And at that window—a girl. A girl cutting sandwiches. That is to say, Elinor Carlisle. But think for a minute of this: What on earth was to tell the watching man that those sandwiches were going to be offered to Mary Gerrard? No one knew that but Elinor Carlisle—herself—nobody! Not even Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse Hopkins.
“So what follows—if a man stood here watching, and if he afterwards went to that window and climbed in and tampered with the sandwiches? What did he think and believe? He thought, he must have thought, that the sandwiches were to be eaten by Elinor Carlisle herself….”
Thirteen
Poirot knocked at the door of Nurse Hopkins’ cottage. She opened it to him with her mouth full of Bath bun.
She said sharply:
“Well, Mr. Poirot, what do you want now?”
“I may enter?”
Somewhat grudgingly Nurse Hopkins drew back and Poirot was permitted to cross the threshold. Nurse Hopkins was hospitable with the teapot, and a minute later Poirot was regarding with some dismay a cup of inky beverage.
“Just made—nice and strong!” said Nurse Hopkins.
Poirot stirred his tea cautiously and took one heroic sip.
He said:
“Have you any idea why I have come here?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure, until you tell me. I don’t profess to be a mind reader.”
“I have come to ask you for the truth.”
Nurse Hopkins uprose in wrath.