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Агата Кристи
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the wife, doctor.
Dr Armstrong was quick and efficient. He wrapped himself in his dressing-gown and followed Rogers.
He bent over the bed where the woman was lying peacefully on her side. He lifted the cold hand, raised the eyelid. It was some few minutes before he straightened himself and turned from the bed.
Rogers whispered:
‘Is—she—is she—?’
He passed a tongue over dry lips.
Armstrong nodded.
‘Yes, she’s gone.’
His eyes rested thoughtfully on the man before him. Then they went to the table by the bed, to the washstand, then back to the sleeping woman.
Rogers said:
‘Was it—was it—’er ’eart, doctor?’
Dr Armstrong was a minute or two before replying. Then he said:
‘What was her health like normally?’
Rogers said:
‘She was a bit rheumaticky.’
‘Any doctor been attending her recently?’
‘Doctor?’ Rogers stared. ‘Not been to a doctor for years— neither of us.’
‘You’d no reason to believe she suffered from heart trouble?’
‘No, doctor. I never knew of anything.’
Armstrong said:
‘Did she sleep well?’
Now Rogers’ eyes evaded his. The man’s hands came together and turned and twisted uneasily. He muttered:
‘She didn’t sleep extra well—no.’
The doctor said sharply:
‘Did she take things to make her sleep?’
Rogers stared at him, surprised.
‘Take things? To make her sleep? Not that I knew of. I’m sure she didn’t.’
Armstrong went over to the washstand.
There were a certain number of bottles on it. Hair lotion, lavender water, cascara, glycerine of cucumber for the hands, a mouthwash, toothpaste and some Elliman’s.
Rogers helped by pulling out the drawers of the dressing-table. From there they moved on to the chest of drawers. But there was no sign of sleeping draughts or tablets.
Rogers said:
‘She didn’t have nothing last night, sir, except what you gave her…’
II
When the gong sounded for breakfast at nine o’clock it found everyone up and awaiting the summons.
General Macarthur and the judge had been pacing the terrace outside, exchanging desultory comments on the political situation.
Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard had been up to the summit of the island behind the house. There they had discovered William Henry Blore, standing staring at the mainland.
He said:
‘No sign of that motor-boat yet. I’ve been watching for it.’
Vera said smiling:
‘Devon’s a sleepy county. Things are usually late.’
Philip Lombard was looking the other way, out to sea.
He said abruptly:
‘What d’you think of the weather?’
Glancing up at the sky, Blore remarked:
‘Looks all right to me.’
Lombard pursed up his mouth into a whistle.
He said:
‘It will come on to blow before the day’s out.’
Blore said:
‘Squally—eh?’
From below them came the boom of a gong.
Philip Lombard said:
‘Breakfast? Well, I could do with some.’
As they went down the steep slope Blore said to
Lombard in a ruminating voice:
‘You know, it beats me—why that young fellow wanted to do himself in! I’ve been worrying about it all night.’
Vera was a little ahead. Lombard hung back slightly.
