“What time did you bring it up last night?”
“About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir.”
“And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp’s room?”
“When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o’clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I’d finished.”
“Then, between seven-fifteen and eight o’clock, the cocoa was standing on the table in the left wing?”
“Yes, sir.” Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly:
“And if there was salt in it, sir, it wasn’t me. I never took the salt near it.”
“What makes you think there was salt in it?” asked Poirot.
“Seeing it on the tray, sir.”
“You saw some salt on the tray?”
“Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress’s room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked cook to make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the cocoa itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in.”
I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. How she would have gaped if she had realized that her “coarse kitchen salt” was strychnine, one of the most deadly poisons known to mankind. I marvelled at Poirot’s calm. His self-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question with impatience, but it disappointed me.
“When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, was the door leading into Miss Cynthia’s room bolted?”
“Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened.”
“And the door into Mr. Inglethorp’s room? Did you notice if that was bolted too?”
Annie hesitated.
“I couldn’t rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn’t say whether it was bolted or not.”
“When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the door after you?”
“No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually did lock it at night. The door into the passage, that is.”
“Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the room yesterday?”
“Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn’t have a candle, only a reading-lamp.”
“Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the floor, you think you would have been sure to have seen it?”
“Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of blotting-paper and a hot iron.”
Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:
“Did your mistress ever have a green dress?”
“No, sir.”
“Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a—how do you call it?—a sports coat?”
“Not green, sir.”
“Nor anyone else in the house?”
Annie reflected.
“No, sir.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
“Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very much.”
With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the room. My pent-up excitement burst forth.
“Poirot,” I cried, “I congratulate you! This is a great discovery.”
“What is a great discovery?”
“Why, that it was the cocoa and not the coffee that was poisoned. That explains everything! Of course it did not take effect until the early morning, since the cocoa was only drunk in the middle of the night.”
“So you think that the cocoa—mark well what I say, Hastings, the cocoa—contained strychnine?”
“Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?”
