‘Madame is very intelligent,’ he said.
Nadine said quietly: ‘What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?’
‘I mean, madame, that all along I have realized that you have what I believe is called an “excellent headpiece”.’
‘You flatter me.’
‘I think not. All along you have envisaged the situation calmly and collectively. You have remained on outwardly good terms with your husband’s mother, deeming that the best thing to be done, but inwardly you have judged and condemned her. I think that some time ago you realized that the only chance for your husband’s happiness was for him to make an effort to leave home—strike out on his own no matter how difficult and penurious such a life might be. You were willing to take all risks and you endeavoured to influence him to exactly that course of action. But you failed, madame. Lennox Boynton had no longer the will to freedom. He was content to sink into a condition of apathy and melancholy.
‘Now I have no doubt at all, madame, but that you love your husband. Your decision to leave him was not actuated by a greater love for another man. It was, I think, a desperate venture undertaken as a last hope. A woman in your position could only try three things. She could try appeal. That, as I have said, failed. She could threaten to leave herself. But it is possible that even that threat would not have moved Lennox Boynton. It would plunge him deeper in misery, but it would not cause him to rebel. There was one last desperate throw. You could go away with another man. Jealousy and the instinct of possession is one of the most deeply rooted fundamental instincts in man. You showed your wisdom in trying to reach that deep underground savage instinct. If Lennox Boynton would let you go without an effort to another man—then he must indeed be beyond human aid, and you might as well then try to make a new life for yourself elsewhere.
‘But let us suppose that even that last desperate remedy failed. Your husband was terribly upset at your decision, but in spite of that he did not, as you had hoped, react as a primitive man might have done with an uprush of the possessive instinct. Was there anything at all that could save your husband from his own rapidly failing mental condition? Only one thing. If his stepmother were to die, it might not be too late. He might be able to start life anew as a free man, building up in himself independence and manliness once more.’
Poirot paused, then repeated gently: ‘If your mother-in-law were to die…’
Nadine’s eyes were still fixed on him. In an unmoved gentle voice she said: ‘You are suggesting that I helped to bring that event about, are you not? But you cannot do so, M. Poirot. After I had broken the news of my impending departure to Mrs Boynton, I went straight to the marquee and joined Lennox. I did not leave it again until my mother-in-law was found dead. Guilty of her death I may be, in the sense that I gave her a shock—that, of course, presupposes a natural death. But if, as you say (though so far you have no direct evidence of it and cannot have until an autopsy has taken place) she was deliberately killed, then I had no opportunity of doing so.’
Poirot said: ‘You did not leave the marquee again until your mother-in-law was found dead. That is what you have just said. That, Mrs Boynton, was one of the points I found curious about this case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It is here on my list. Point nine. At half-past six, when dinner was ready, a servant was dispatched to announce the fact to Mrs Boynton.’
Raymond said: ‘I don’t understand.’
Carol said: ‘No more do I.’
Poirot looked from one to the other of them.
‘You do not, eh? “A servant was sent”—why a servant? Were you not, all of you, most assiduous in your attendance on the old lady as a general rule? Did not one or other of you always escort her to meals? She was infirm. It was difficult for her to rise from a chair without assistance. Always one or other of you was at her elbow. I suggest then, that on dinner being announced the natural thing would have been for one or other of her family to go out and help her. But not one of you offered to do so. You all sat there, paralyzed, watching each other, wondering, perhaps, why no one went.’
Nadine said sharply: ‘All this is absurd, M. Poirot! We were all tired that evening. We ought to have gone, I admit, but—on that evening—we just didn’t!’
‘Precisely—precisely—on that particular evening! You, madame, did perhaps more waiting on her than anyone else. It was one of the duties that you accepted mechanically. But that evening you did not offer to go out to help her in. Why? That is what I asked myself—why? And I tell you my answer. Because you knew quite well that she was dead…
‘No, no, do not interrupt me, madame.’ He raised an impassioned hand. ‘You will now listen to me—Hercule Poirot! There were witnesses to your conversation with your mother-in-law. Witnesses who could see but could not hear! Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce were a long way away. They saw you apparently having a conversation with your mother-in-law, but what actual evidence is there of what occurred? I will propound to you instead a little theory. You have brains, madame. If in your quiet unhurried fashion you have decided on—shall we say the elimination of your husband’s mother—you will carry it out with intelligence and with due preparation. You have access to Dr Gerard’s tent during his absence on the morning excursion. You are fairly sure that you will find a suitable drug. Your nursing training helps you there. You choose digitoxin—the same kind of drug that the old lady is taking—you also take his hypodermic syringe since, to your annoyance, your own has disappeared. You hope to replace the syringe before the doctor notices its absence.’
‘Before proceeding to carry out your plan, you make one last attempt to stir your husband into action. You tell him of your intention to marry Jefferson Cope. Though your husband is terribly upset he does not react as you had hoped—so you are forced to put your plan of murder into action. You return to the camp exchanging a pleasant natural word with Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce as you pass. You go up to where your mother-in-law is sitting. You have the syringe with the drug in it ready. It is easy to seize her wrist and—proficient as you are with your nurse’s training—force home the plunger. It is done before your mother-in-law realizes what you are doing. From far down the valley the others only see you talking to her, bending over her. Then deliberately you go and fetch a chair and sit there apparently engaged in an amicable conversation for some minutes. Death must have been almost instantaneous. It is a dead woman to whom you sit talking, but who shall guess that? Then you put away the chair and go down to the marquee, where you find your husband reading a book. And you are careful not to leave that marquee! Mrs Boynton’s death, you are sure, will be put down to heart trouble. (It will, indeed, be due to heart trouble.) In only one thing have your plans gone astray. You cannot return the syringe to Dr Gerard’s tent because the doctor is in there shivering with malaria—and although you do not know it, he has already missed the syringe. That, madame, was the flaw in an otherwise perfect crime.’
There was silence—a moment’s dead silence—then Lennox Boynton sprang to his feet.
‘No,’ he shouted. ‘That’s a damned lie. Nadine did nothing. She couldn’t have done anything. My mother—my mother was already dead.’
‘Ah?’ Poirot’s eyes came gently round to him. ‘So, after all, it was you who killed her, Mr Boynton.’
Again a moment’s pause—then Lennox dropped back into his chair and raised trembling hands to his face.
‘Yes—that’s right—I killed her.’
‘You took the digitoxin from Dr Gerard’s tent?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘As—as—you said—in the morning.’
‘And the syringe?’
‘The syringe? Yes.’
‘Why did you kill her?’
‘Can you ask?’
‘I am asking, Mr Boynton!’
‘But you know—my wife was leaving me—with Cope—’
‘Yes, but you only learnt that in the afternoon.’
Lenn
ox stared at him. ‘Of course. When we were out—’
‘But you took the poison and the syringe in the morning—before you knew?’
‘Why the hell do you badger me with questions?’ He paused and passed a shaking hand across his forehead. ‘What does it matter, anyway?’
‘It matters a great deal. I advise you, Mr Lennox Boynton, to tell me the truth.’
‘The truth?’ Lennox stared at him.
‘That is what I said—the truth.’
‘By God, I will,’ said Lennox suddenly. ‘But I don’t know whether you will believe me.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘That afternoon, when I left Nadine, I was absolutely all to pieces. I’d never dreamed she’d go from me to someone else. I was—I was nearly mad! I felt as though I was drunk or recovering from a bad illness.’
Poirot nodded. He said: ‘I noted Lady Westholme’s description of your gait when you passed her. That is why I knew your wife was not speaking the truth when she said she told you after you were both back at the camp. Continue, Mr Boynton.’
‘I hardly knew what I was doing…But as I got near, my brain seemed to clear. It flashed over me that I had only myself to blame! I’d been a miserable worm! I ought to have defied my stepmother and cleared out years ago. And it came to me that it mightn’t be too late even now. There she was, the old devil, sitting up like an obscene idol against the red cliffs. I went right up to have it out with her. I meant to tell her just what I thought and to announce that I was clearing out. I had a wild idea I might get away at once that evening—clear out with Nadine and get as far as Ma’an, anyway, that night.’
‘Oh, Lennox—my dear—’
It was a long, soft sigh.
He went on: ‘And then, my God—you could have struck me down with a touch! She was dead. Sitting there—dead…I—I didn’t know what to do—I was dumb—dazed—everything I was going to shout out at her bottled up inside me—turning to lead—I can’t explain…Stone—that’s what it felt like—being turned to stone. I did something mechanically—I picked up her wrist-watch—it was lying in her lap—and put it round her wrist—her horrid limp dead wrist…’
He shuddered. ‘God—it was awful…Then I stumbled down, went into the marquee. I ought to have called someone, I suppose—but I couldn’t. I just sat there, turning the pages—waiting…’
He stopped.
‘You won’t believe that—you can’t. Why didn’t I call someone? Tell Nadine? I don’t know.’
Dr Gerard cleared his throat.
‘Your statement is perfectly plausible, Mr Boynton,’ he said. ‘You were in a bad nervous condition. Two severe shocks administered in rapid succession would be quite enough to put you in the condition you have described. It is the Weissenhalter reaction—best exemplified in the case of a bird that has dashed its head against a window. Even after its recovery it refrains instinctively from all action—giving itself time to readjust the nerve centres—I do not express myself well in English, but what I mean is this: You could not have acted any other way. Any decisive action of any kind would have been quite impossible for you! You passed through a period of mental paralysis.’
He turned to Poirot.
‘I assure you, my friend, that is so!’
‘Oh, I do not doubt it,’ said Poirot. ‘There was a little fact I had already noted—the fact that Mr Boynton had replaced his mother’s wrist-watch—that was capable of two explanations—it might have been a cover for the actual deed, or it might have been observed and misinterpreted by Mrs Boynton. She returned only five minutes after her husband. She must therefore have seen that action. When she got up to her mother-in-law and found her dead with a mark of a hypodermic syringe on her wrist she would naturally jump to the conclusion that her husband had committed the deed—that her announcement of her decision to leave him had produced a reaction in him different from that for which she had hoped. Briefly, Nadine Boynton believed that she had inspired her husband to commit murder.’
He looked at Nadine. ‘That is so, madame?’
She bowed her head. Then she asked:
‘Did you really suspect me, M. Poirot?’
‘I thought you were a possibility, madame.’
She leaned forward.
‘And now? What really happened, M. Poirot?’
Chapter 17
‘What really happened?’ Poirot repeated.
He reached behind him, drew forward a chair and sat down. His manner was now friendly—informal.
‘It is a question, is it not? For the digitoxin was taken—the syringe was missing—there was the mark of a hypodermic on Mrs Boynton’s wrist.
‘It is true that in a few days’ time we shall know definitely—the autopsy will tell us—whether Mrs Boynton died of an overdose of digitalis or not. But then it may be too late! It would be better to reach the truth tonight—while the murderer is here under our hand.’
Nadine raised her head sharply.
‘You mean that you still believe—that one of us—here in this room…’ Her voice died away.
Poirot was slowly nodding to himself.
‘The truth, that is what I promised Colonel Carbury. And so, having cleared our path we are back again where I was earlier in the day, writing down a list of printed facts and being faced straightway with two glaring inconsistencies.’
Colonel Carbury spoke for the first time. ‘Suppose, now, we hear what they are?’ he suggested.
Poirot said with dignity: ‘I am about to tell you. We will take once more those first two facts on my list. Mrs Boynton was taking a mixture of digitalis and Dr Gerard missed a hypodermic syringe. Take those facts and set them against the undeniable fact (with which I was immediately confronted) that the Boynton family showed unmistakably guilty reactions. It would seem, therefore, certain that one of the Boynton family must have committed the crime! And yet, those two facts I mentioned were all against the theory. For, you see, to take a concentrated solution of digitalis—that, yes, it is a clever idea, because Mrs Boynton was already taking the drug. But what would a member of her family do then? Ah, ma foi! there was only one sensible thing to do. Put the poison into her bottle of medicine! That is what anyone, anyone with a grain of sense and who had access to the medicine would certainly do!
‘Sooner or later Mrs Boynton takes a dose and dies—and even if the digitalis is discovered in the bottle it may be set down as a mistake of the chemist who made it up. Certainly nothing can be proved!
‘Why, then, the theft of the hypodermic needle?
‘There can be only two explanations of that—either Dr Gerard overlooked the syringe and it was never stolen, or else the syringe was taken because the murderer had not got access to the medicine—that is to say the murderer was not a member of the Boynton family. Those two first facts point overwhelmingly to an outsider as having committed the crime!
‘I saw that—but I was puzzled, as I say, by the strong evidences of guilt displayed by the Boynton family. Was it possible that, in spite of that consciousness of guilt, the Boynton family were innocent? I set out to prove—not the guilt—but the innocence of those people!
‘That is where we stand now. The murder was committed by an outsider—that is, by someone who was not sufficiently intimate with Mrs Boynton to enter her tent or to handle her medicine bottle.’
He paused.
‘There are three people in this room who are, technically, outsiders, but who have a definite connection with the case.
‘Mr Cope, whom we will consider first, has been closely associated with the Boynton family for some time. Can we discover motive and opportunity on his part? It seems not. Mrs Boynton’s death has affected him adversely—since it has brought about the frustration of certain hopes. Unless Mr Cope’s motive was an almost fanatical desire to benefit others, we can find no reason for his desiring Mrs Boynton’s death. (Unless, of course, there is a motive about which we are entirely in the dark. We do not know what Mr Cope’s dealings with the Boynton family have been.)’
> Mr Cope said with dignity: ‘This seems to me a little farfetched, M. Poirot. You must remember I had absolutely no opportunity for committing this deed and, in any case I hold very strong views as to the sanctity of human life.’
‘Your position certainly seems impeccable,’ said Poirot with gravity. ‘In a work of fiction you would be strongly suspected on that account.’
He turned a little in his chair. ‘We now come to Miss King. Miss King had a certain amount of motive and she had the necessary medical knowledge and is a person of character and determination, but since she left the camp before three-thirty with the others and did not return to it until six o’clock, it seems difficult to see where she could have got her opportunity.
‘Next we must consider Dr Gerard. Now here we must take into account the actual time that the murder was committed. According to Mr Lennox Boynton’s last statement, his mother was dead at four thirty-five. According to Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce, she was alive at four-sixteen when they started on their walk. That leaves exactly twenty minutes unaccounted for. Now, as these two ladies walked away from the camp, Dr Gerard passed them going to it. There is no one to say what Dr Gerard’s movements were when he reached the camp because the two ladies’ backs were towards it. They were walking away from it. Therefore it is perfectly possible for Dr Gerard to have committed the crime. Being a doctor, he could easily counterfeit the appearance of malaria. There is, I should say, a possible motive. Dr Gerard might have wished to save a certain person whose reason (perhaps more vital a loss than loss of life) was in danger, and he may have considered the sacrifice of an old and worn-out life worth it!’
‘Your ideas,’ said Dr Gerard, ‘are fantastic!’
Without taking any notice, Poirot went on:
‘But if so, why did Gerard call attention to the possibility of foul play? It is quite certain that, but for his statement to Colonel Carbury, Mrs Boynton’s death would have been put down to natural causes. It was Dr Gerard who first pointed out the possibility of murder. That, my friends,’ said Poirot, ‘does not make common sense!’