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“You realize the alternative, Mademoiselle?”
“You mean—murder.” She paused. Then she said slowly: “It is true—that alternative seems nearly as impossible as the other.”
“But not quite as impossible?”
“No—because—oh, in the first case, you see, I am speaking of something I know—that is: my brother’s state of mind. I know he had nothing on his mind—I know that there was no reason—no reason at all why he should take his own life!”
“You saw him this morning—before he started work?”
“At breakfast—yes.”
“And he was quite as usual—not upset in any way?”
“He was upset—but not in the way you mean. He was just annoyed!”
“Why was that?”
“He had a busy morning in front of him, and his secretary and assistant had been called away.”
“That is Miss Nevill?”
“Yes.”
“What used she to do for him?”
“She did all his correspondence, of course, and kept the appointment book, and filed all the charts. She also saw to the sterilizing of the instruments and ground up his fillings and handed them to him when he was working.”
“Had she been with him long?”
“Three years. She is a very reliable girl and we are—were both very fond of her.”
Poirot said:
“She was called away owing to the illness of a relative, so your brother told me.”
“Yes, she got a telegram to say her aunt had had a stroke. She went off to Somerset by an early train.”
“And that was what annoyed your brother so much?”
“Ye-es.” There was a faint hesitation in Miss Morley’s answer. She went on rather hurriedly. “You—you mustn’t think my brother unfeeling. It was only that he thought—just for a moment—”
“Yes, Miss Morley?”
“Well, that she might have played truant on purpose. Oh! Please don’t misunderstand me—I’m quite certain that Gladys would never do such a thing. I told Henry so. But the fact of the matter is, that she has got herself engaged to rather an unsuitable young man—Henry was very vexed about it—and it occurred to him that this young man might have persuaded her to take a day off.”
“Was that likely?”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t. Gladys is a very conscientious girl.”
“But it is the sort of thing the young man might have suggested?”
Miss Morley sniffed.
“Quite likely, I should say.”
“What does he do, this young fellow—what is his name, by the way?”
“Carter, Frank Carter. He is—or was—an insurance clerk, I believe. He lost his job some weeks ago and doesn’t seem able to get another. Henry said—and I daresay he was right—that he is a complete rotter. Gladys had actually lent him some of her savings and Henry was very annoyed about it.”
