"That's right. Very nasty bit of work. Point is,
who gave it to her? It must have been administered
very shortly before death. First idea was it was
given to her in her food at dinner--but, frankly,
that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke
soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple
tart."
"'They' being?"
"Miss Barrowby, Mr. Delafontaine and Mrs.
Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant--a
half Russian girl--but she didn't eat
with the family. She had the remains as they came
out from the dining room. There's a maid, but it
was her night out. She left the soup on the stove
and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was
cold. All hree of them ate the same thing--and,
apart from that, I don't think you could get
strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's
64
Agatha Christie
merit," he said. "There is a mouse in this hole!
What move must the cat make now?"
His decision took him to the nearest post office.
Here he put through a couple of telephone calls.
The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his
steps to Charman's Green police station, where he
inquired for Inspector Sims.
Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a
hearty manner. "M. Poirot?" he inquired. "I
thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone
call through from the chief constable about you.
He said you'd be dropping in. Come into my of-rice."
The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to
one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a
gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.
"You're very quick onto the mark, M. Poirot.
Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost
before we know it is a case. What put you onto
it?"
Poirot drew out the letter he had received and
handed it to the inspector. The latter read it with
some interest.
"Interesting," he said. "The trouble is, it might
mean so many things. Pity she couldn't have been
a little more explicit. It would have helped Us
now."
"Or there might have been no need for help."
"You mean?"
"She might have been alive."
"You go as far as that, do you? H'm--I'm not
sure you're wrong."
"I pray of you, inspector, recount to me the
facts. I know nothing at all."
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
65
"That's easily done. Old lady was taken bad
after dinner on Tuesday night. Very alarming.
Convulsions--spasms--what not. They sent for
the doctor. By the time he arrived she was dead.
Idea was she'd died of a fit. Well, he didn't much
like the look of things. He hemmed and hawed
and put it with a bit of soft sawder, but he made it
clear that he couldn't give a death certificate. And
as far as the family go, that's where the matter
stands. They're awaiting the result of the postmortem.
We've got a bit farther. The doctor gave
us the tip right away--he and the police surgeon
did the autopsy together--and the result is in no
doubt whatever. The old lady died of a large dose
of strychnine."
"Aha!"
"That's right. Very nasty bit of work. Point is,
who gave it to her? It must have been administered
very shortly before death. First idea was it was
given to her in her food at dinner--but, frankly,
that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke
soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple
tart."
"'They' being?"
"Miss Barrowby, Mr. Delafontaine and Mrs.
Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant--a
half Russian girl--but she didn't eat
with the family. She had the remains as they came out from the dining room. There's a maid, but it
was her night out. She left the soup on the stove
and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was
cold. All three of them ate the same thing--and,
apart from that, I don't think you could get
strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's
66
Agatha Christie
as bitter as gall. The doctor told me you could
taste it in a solution of one in a thousand, or something
like that."
"Coffee?"
"Coffee's more like it, but the old lady never
took coffee."
"I see your point. Yes, it seems an insuperable
difficulty. What did she drink at the meal?"
"Water."
"Worse and worse."
'!Bit of a teaser, isn't it?"
"She had money, the old lady?"
"Very well to do, I imagine. Of course, we
haven't got exact details yet. The Delafontaines
are pretty badly off, from what I can make out.
The old lady helped with the upkeep of the
house."
Poirot smiled a little. He said, "So you suspect
the Delafontaines. Which of them?"
"I don't exactly say I suspect either of them in
particular. But there it is; they're her only near
relations, and her death brings them a tidy sum of
money, I've no doubt. We all know what human
nature is I"
"Sometimes inhuman--yes, that is very true.
And there was nothing else the old lady ate or
drank?"
"Well, as a matter of fact--"'
"Ah, voild! I felt that you had something, as
you say, up your sleeve--the soup, the fish pie, the
apple tart--a btise! Now we come to the hub of
the affair."
"I don't know about that. But as a matter of
fact, the old girl took a cachet before meals. You
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
67
know, not a pill or a tablet; one of those rice-paper
things with a powder inside. Some perfectly
harmless thing for the digestion."
"Admirable. Nothing is easier than to fill a
cachet with strychnine and substitute it for one of
the others. It slips down the throat with a drink of
water and is not tasted."
"That's all right. The trouble is, the girl gave it
to her."
"The Russian girl?"
"Yes. Katrina Rieger. She was a kind of lady-help,
nurse-companion to Miss Barrowby. Fairly
ordered about by her, too, I gather. Fetch this,
fetch that, fetch the other, rub my back, pour out
my medicine, run round to the chemist--all that
sort of business. You know how it is with these old
women--they mean to be kind, but what they
need is a sort of black slave!"
Poirot smiled.
"And there you are, you see," continued In-spector
Sims. "It doesn't fit in what you might
call nicely. Why should the girl poison her? Miss
Barrowby dies and now the girl will be out of a
job, and jobs aren't so easy to findshe's not
trained or anything."
"Still," suggested Poirot, "if the box of cachets
was left about, anyone in the house might
have the
opportunity."
"Naturally we're onto that, M. Poirot. I don't
mind telling you we're making our inquiries--quiet
like, if you understand me. When the pre-scription
was last made up, where it was usually
kept; patience and a lot of spade work--that's
what will do the trick in the end. And then there's
Il
tq',
P
PC
bps
Christie
Sims, surprised.
Hercule ?oirot. "She has
could ask a further que?
off.
he wander,d into the room
sat at her typewriter. She
.,m the keys at her employer's
at him inquiringly.
Poirot, "to figure to your-
ped her hands into her lap in a
enjoyed typing, paying bills,
tering up engagements. To be
rself in hypothetical situations
Lch, but she accepted it as a
duty.
began Poirot.
i:ss Lemon, looking intensely
and friendless in this country,
for not wisBing to return tO
fioyed as a kind of drudge,
d companior to an old lady,
mcomplaining."
ss Lemon olediently, but en/
herself beint meek to any of
,,kes a fancy to you. She decide
kY to you. she tells you so.'
l "Yes" a lr.
old
out something'
that
of money
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
71
you have not been honest with her. Or it might be
more grave still--a medicine that tasted different,
some food that disagreed. Anyway, she begins to
suspect you of something and she writes to a very
famous detective--enfin, to the most famous.
detective--me! I am to call upon her shortly. And
then, as you say, the dripping will be in the fire.
The great thing is to act quickly. And so--before
the great detective arrives--the old lady is dead.
And the money comes to you Tell
me, does
that
seemto you reasonable?"
"Quite
reasonable," aid Miss Lemon. "Quite
reasonable for a Russian, that is. Personally, I
should never take a post as a companion. I like my
duties clearly defined. And of course I should not
dream of murdering anyone."
Poirot sighed. "How I miss my friend Hastings.
He had such an imagination. Such a romantic
mind! It is true that he always imagined wrong--but
that in itself was a guide."
Miss Lemon was silent. She had heard about
Captain Hastings before, and Was not interested.
She looked longingly at the typewritten sheet in
front of her.
"So it seems to you reasonable," mused Poirot.
"Doesn't it to you?"
"I am almost afraid it does," sighed Poirot.
The telephone rang and Miss Lemon went out
of the room to answer it. She came back to say,
"It's Inspector Sims again."
Poirot hurried to the instrument." 'Allo, 'allo.
What is that you say?"
Sims repeated his statement. "We've fotmd
a packet of strychnine in the girl's bedroom--
,/
72
Agatha ©6rill
s. The sergeant's
tucked underneath the rattr about clinches it,
just come in with the news, TiP
I think."
that clinches it."
"Yes," said Poirot, "I thiOtwith sudden con-His
voice had changed. It rar
fidence.
down at his writ-
When he had rung off, he s/t tjects on it in a
ing table and arranged the ured to himself,
mechanical manner. He mufti felt it--no, not
"There was something W.on$,.g I saw. En avant,
felt. It must have been SOethi/flect. Was every
the
little gray cells. Poncler-!i girl--her anxiety
thing logical and in order? TP[ontaine; her hus
about
the money; Mme. Delns--imbecile, but
band--his suggestion of usS{ garden--ah! Yes,
he is an imbecile; the rooh; tp
the garden."
/ light shone in his
He sat up very stiff. Th gr¢finto the adjoining
eyes. He sprang up and ven
room.
de the kindness to
"Miss Lemon, will yo h/ake an investiga-leave
what you are doing and
tion for me?"
t? I'm afraid I'm
"An investigation, M. Poif
said one day that
Poirot interrupted her. "yo
you know all about tradesner, Lemon with con-
"Certainly I do," said MiS
fidence. You are to go to
"Then the matter is Sitnpl,fo discover a fish-Charman's
Green and yau a
monger."
iss Lemon, sur
"A fishmonger?" ased
prised.
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
73
"Precisely. The fishmonger who supplied Rose-bank
with fish. When you have found him you
will ask him a certain question."
He handed her a slip of paper. Miss Lemon
took it, noted its contents without interest, then
nodded and slipped the lid on her typewriter.
"We will go to Charman's Green together,"
said Poirot. "You to the fishmonger and I to the
police station. It will take us but half an hour from
Baker Street."
On arrival at his destination, he was greeted by
the surprised Inspector Sims. "Well, this is quick
work, M. Poirot. I was talking to you on the
phone only an hour ago."
"I have a request to make to you; that you
allow me to see this girl Katrina--what is her
"Katrina Rieger. Well, I don't suppose there's
any objection to that."
The girl Katrina looked even more sallow and
sullen than ever.
Poirot spoke to her very gently. "Mademoi-selle,
I want you to believe that I am not your
enemy. I want you to tell me the truth."
Her eyes snapped defiantly. "I have told the
truth.' To everyone I have told the truth! If the old
lady was poisoned, it was not I who poisoned her.
It is all a mistake. You wish to prevent me having
the money." Her voice was rasping. She looked,
he thought, like a miserable little cornered rat.
"Tell me about this cachet, mademoiselle," M.
Poirot went on. "Did no one handle it but you?"
"I have said so, have I not? They were made up
at the chemist's that afternoon. I brought them
74
Agatha Christie
back with me in my bag--that was just before
supper. I opened the box and gave Miss Barrowby
one with a glass of water."
"No one touched them but you?"
"No." A cornered rat--with courage!
"And Miss Barrowby had for supper only what
we have been told. The soup, the fish pie, the
tart?"
"Yes." A hopeless "yes"--dark, smoldering
eyes that saw no light anywhere.
Poirot patted her shoulder. "Be of good cour-age,
mademoiselle. There may yet be freedom--yes,
and moneyma life of ease."
She looked at him suspiciously.
As he went out Sims said to him, "I didn't quite
get what you said through the telephone--some-thing
about the girl having a friend."
"She has one. Me!" said Hercule Poirot, and
had left the police station before the inspector
could pull his wits together.
At the Green Cat tearooms, Miss Lemon did
not keep her employer waiting. She went straight
to the point.
"The man's name is Rudge, in the High Street,
and you were quite right. A dozen and a half ex-actly.
I've made a note of what he said." She
handed it to him.
"Arrr." It was a deep, rich sound like the purr
of a cat.
Hercule Poirot betook himself to Rosebank. As
he stood in the front garden, the sun setting be-hind
him, Mary Delafontaine came out to him.
HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?
75
"M. Poirot?" Her voice sounded surprised.
"You have come back?"
"Yes, I have come back." He paused and then
said, "When I first came here, madame, the
children's nursery rhyme came into my head: