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Everybody murmured something. There was an air of forced gaiety about the proceedings. Everyone was determined to appear gay and unconcerned. Only Poirot himself seemed naturally so. He rambled on happily….
“The sherry, I prefer it to the cocktail—and a thousand times to the whisky. Ah, quel horreur, the whisky. By drinking the whisky, you ruin, absolutely ruin, the palate. The delicate wines of France, to appreciate them, you must never never—ah qu’est-ce qu’il y a—?”
A strange sound had interrupted him—a kind of choking cry. Every eye went to Sir Charles as he stood swaying, his face convulsed. The glass dropped from his hand onto the carpet, he took a few steps blindly, then collapsed.
There was a moment’s stupefied silence, then Angela Sutcliffe screamed and Egg started forward.
“Charles,” cried Egg. “Charles.”
She fought her way blindly forward. Mr. Satterthwaite gently held her back.
“Oh, dear God,” cried Lady Mary. “Not another!”
Angela Sutcliffe cried out:
“He’s been poisoned, too…This is awful. Oh, my God, this is too awful….”
And suddenly collapsing onto a sofa, she began to sob and laugh—a horrible sound.
Poirot had taken charge of the situation. He was kneeling by the prostrate man. The others drew back while he made his examination. He rose to his feet, mechanically dusting the knees of his trousers. He looked round at the assembly. There was complete silence, except for the smothered sobs of Angela Sutcliffe.
“My friends,” began Poirot.
He got no further, for Egg spat out at him:
“You fool. You absurd playacting little fool! Pretending to be so great and so wonderful, and to know all about everything. And now you let this happen. Another murder. Under your very nose…If you’d let the whole thing alone this wouldn’t have happened…It’s you who have murdered Charles—you—you—you….”
She stopped, unable to get out the words.
Poirot nodded his head gravely and sadly.
“It is true, mademoiselle. I confess it. It is I who have murdered Sir Charles. But I, mademoiselle, am a very special kind of murderer. I can kill—and I can restore to life.” He turned and in a different tone of voice, an apologetic everyday voice, he said:
“A magnificent performance, Sir Charles, I congratulate you. Perhaps you would now like to take your curtain.”
With a laugh the actor sprang to his feet and bowed mockingly.
Egg gave a great gasp.
“M. Poirot, you—you beast.”
“Charles,” cried Angela Sutcliffe. “You complete devil….”
“But why—?”
“How—?”
“What on earth—?”
By means of his upraised hand, Poirot obtained silence.
“Messieurs, mesdames. I demand pardon of you all. This little farce was necessary to prove to you all, and incidentally, to prove to myself a fact which my reason already told me is true.
“Listen. On this tray of glasses I placed
in one glass a teaspoonful of plain water. That water represented pure nicotine. These glasses are of the same kind as those possessed by Sir Charles Cartwright and by Sir Bartholomew Strange. Owing to the heavy cut glass, a small quantity of a colourless liquid is quite undetectable. Imagine, then, the port glass of Sir Bartholomew Strange. After it was put on the table somebody introduced into it a sufficient quantity of pure nicotine. That might have been done by anybody. The butler, the parlourmaid, or one of the guests who slipped into the dining room on his or her way downstairs. Dessert arrived, the port is taken round, the glass is filled. Sir Bartholomew drinks—and dies.
“Tonight we have played a third tragedy—a sham tragedy—I asked Sir Charles to play the part of the victim. This he did magnificently. Now suppose for a minute that this was not a farce, but truth. Sir Charles is dead. What will be the steps taken by the police?”
