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“Do not make me the British clichés,” Poirot begged. “Do not say it is not the cricket or the football, that to speak anything but well of the dead is not done—that—enfin—there is loyalty! Loyalty it is a pestilential thing in crime. Again and again it obscures the truth.”
“I’ve no particular loyalty to Mrs. Leidner,” said Miss Johnson dryly. There was indeed a sharp and acid tone in her voice. “Dr. Leidner’s a different matter. And, after all, she was his wife.”
“Precisely—precisely. I understand that you would not wish to speak against your chief’s wife. But this is not a question of a testimonial. It is a question of sudden and mysterious death. If I am to believe that it is a martyred angel who has been killed it does not add to the easiness of my task.”
“I certainly shouldn’t call her an angel,” said Miss Johnson and the acid tone was even more in evidence.
“Tell me your opinion, frankly, of Mrs. Leidner—as a woman.”
“H’m! To begin with, M. Poirot, I’ll give you this warning. I’m prejudiced. I am—we all were—devoted to Dr. Leidner. And, I suppose, when Mrs. Leidner came along, we were jealous. We resented the demands she made on his time and attention. The devotion he showed her irritated us. I’m being truthful, M. Poirot, and it isn’t very pleasant for me. I resented her presence here—yes, I did, though, of course, I tried never to show it. It made a difference to us, you see.”
“Us? You say us?”
“I mean Mr. Carey and myself. We’re the two old-timers, you see. And we didn’t much care for the new order of things. I suppose that’s natural, though perhaps it was rather petty of us. But it did make a difference.”
“What kind of a difference?”
“Oh! to everything. We used to have such a happy time. A good deal of fun, you know, and rather silly jokes, like people do who work together. Dr. Leidner was quite lighthearted—just like a boy.”
“And when Mrs. Leidner came she changed all that?”
“Well, I suppose it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t so bad last year. And please believe, M. Poirot, that it wasn’t anything she did. She’s always been charming to me—quite charming. That’s why I’ve felt ashamed sometimes. It wasn’t her fault that little things she said and did seemed to rub me up the wrong way. Really, nobody could be nicer than she was.”
“But nevertheless things were changed this season? There was a different atmosphere.”
“Oh, entirely. Really. I don’t know what it was. Everything seemed to go wrong—not with the work—I mean with us—our tempers and our nerves. All on edge. Almost the sort of feeling you get when there is a thunderstorm coming.”
“And you put that down to Mrs. Leidner’s influence?”
“
Well, it was never like that before she came,” said Miss Johnson dryly. “Oh! I’m a cross-grained, complaining old dog. Conservative—liking things always the same. You really mustn’t take any notice of me, M. Poirot.”
“How would you describe to me Mrs. Leidner’s character and temperament?”
Miss Johnson hesitated for a moment. Then she said slowly: “Well, of course, she was temperamental. A lot of ups and downs. Nice to people one day and perhaps wouldn’t speak to them the next. She was very kind, I think. And very thoughtful for others. All the same you could see she had been thoroughly spoilt all her life. She took Dr. Leidner’s waiting on her hand and foot as perfectly natural. And I don’t think she ever really appreciated what a very remarkable—what a really great—man she had married. That used to annoy me sometimes. And of course she was terribly highly strung and nervous. The things she used to imagine and the states she used to get into! I was thankful when Dr. Leidner brought Nurse Leatheran here. It was too much for him having to cope both with his work and with his wife’s fears.”
“What is your own opinion of these anonymous letters she received?”
I had to do it. I leaned forward in my chair till I could just catch sight of Miss Johnson’s profile turned to Poirot in answer to his question.
She was looking perfectly cool and collected.
“I think someone in America had a spite against her and was trying to frighten or annoy her.”
“Pas plus sérieux que ça?”
“That’s my opinion. She was a very handsome woman, you know, and might easily have had enemies. I think, those letters were written by some spiteful woman. Mrs. Leidner being of a nervous temperament took them seriously.”
“She certainly did that,” said Poirot. “But remember—the last of them arrived by hand.”
“Well, I suppose that could have been managed if anyone had given their minds to it. Women will take a lot of trouble to gratify their spite, M. Poirot.”
They will indeed, I thought to myself!
“Perhaps you are right, mademoiselle. As you say, Mrs. Leidner was handsome. By the way, you know Miss Reilly, the doctor’s daughter?”
“Sheila Reilly? Yes, of course.”
