“And what’s the meaning of that, I should like to know? A truthful woman I’ve always been. Not one to shield myself in any way. I spoke up about that missing tube of morphine at the inquest when many a one in my place would have sat tight and said nothing. For well enough did I know that I should get censured for carelessness in leaving my case about; and, after all, it’s a thing might happen to anybody! I was blamed for that—and it won’t do me any good in my profession, I can tell you. But that didn’t make any difference to me! I knew something that had a bearing on the case, and so I spoke out. And I’ll thank you, Mr. Poirot, to keep any nasty insinuations to yourself! There’s not a thing about Mary Gerrard’s death that I haven’t been open and aboveboard as daylight about, and if you think differently, I’d be obliged if you’d give chapter and verse for it! I’ve concealed nothing—nothing at all! And I’m prepared to take the oath and stand up in court and say so.”
Poirot did not attempt to interrupt. He knew only too well the technique of dealing with an angry woman. He allowed Nurse Hopkins to flare up and simmer down. Then he spoke—quietly and mildly.
He said:
“I did not suggest that there is anything about the crime which you have not told.”
“Then what did you suggest, I’d like to know?”
“I asked you to tell the truth—not about the death, but about the life of Mary Gerrard.”
“Oh!” Nurse Hopkins seemed momentarily taken aback. She said, “So that’s what you’re getting at? But it’s got nothing to do with the murder.”
“I did not say that it had, I said that you were withholding knowledge concerning her.”
“Why shouldn’t I—if it’s nothing to do with the crime?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Why should you?”
Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said:
“Because it’s common decency! They’re all dead now—everyone concerned. And it’s no business of anyone else’s!”
“If it is only surmise—perhaps not. But if you have actual knowledge, that is different.”
Nurse Hopkins said slowly:
“I don’t know exactly what you mean….”
Poirot said:
“I will help you. I have had hints from Nurse O’Brien and I have had a long conversation with Mrs. Slattery, who has a very good memory for events that happened over twenty years ago. I will tell you exactly what I have learned. Well, over twenty years ago there was a love affair between two people. One of them was Mrs. Welman, who had been a widow for some years and who was a woman capable of a deep and passionate love. The other party was Sir Lewis Rycroft, who had the great misfortune to have a wife who was hopelessly insane. The law in those days gave no promise of relief by divorce, and Lady Rycroft, whose physical health was excellent, might live to be ninety. The liaison between those two people was, I think, guessed at, but they were both discreet and careful to keep up appearances. Then Sir Lewis Rycroft was killed in action.”
“Well?” said Nurse Hopkins.
“I suggest,” said Poirot, “that there was a child born after his death, and that that child was Mary Gerrard.”
Nurse Hopkins said:
“You seem to know all about it!”
Poirot said:
“That is what I think. But it is possible that you have got definite proof that that is so.”
Nurse Hopkins sat silent a minute or two, frowning, then abruptly she rose, went across the room, opened a drawer and took out an envelope. She brought it across to Poirot.
She said:
“I’ll tell you how this came into my hands. Mind, I’d had my suspicions. The way Mrs. Welman looked at the girl, for one thing, and then hearing the gossip on top of it. And old Gerrard told me when he was ill that Mary wasn’t his daughter.
“Well, after Mary died I finished clearing up the Lodge, and in a drawer amongst some of the old man’s things I came across this letter. You see what’s written on it.”
Poirot read the superscription written in faded ink:
“For Mary—to be sent to her after my death.”