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The two men arrived at the Sanatorium about twelve o’clock. The maid who opened the door looked excited and flushed. Mr. Satterthwaite asked first for the Matron.
“I don’t know whether she can see you this morning,” said the girl doubtfully.
Mr. Satterthwaite extracted a card and wrote a few words on it.
“Please take her this.”
They were shown into a small waiting room. In about five minutes the door opened and the Matron came in. She was looking quite unlike her usual brisk efficient self.
Mr. Satterthwaite rose.
“I hope you remember me” he said. “I came here with Sir Charles Cartwright just after the death of Sir Bartholomew Strange.”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Satterthwaite, of course I remember; and Sir Charles asked after poor Mrs. de Rushbridger then, and it seems such a coincidence.”
“Let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot.”
Poirot bowed and the Matron responded absently. She went on:
“I can’t understand how you can have had a telegram as you say. The whole thing seems most mysterious. Surely it can’t be connected with the poor doctor’s death in any way? There must be some madman about—that’s the only way I can account for it. Having the police here and everything. It’s really been terrible.”
“The police?” said Mr. Satterthwaite, surprised.
“Yes, since ten o’clock they’ve been here.”
“The police?” said Hercule Poirot.
“Perhaps we could see Mrs. de Rushbridger now,” suggested Mr. Satterthwaite. “Since she asked us to come—”
The Matron interrupted him.
“Oh, Mr. Satterthwaite, then you don’t know!”
“Know what?” demanded Poirot sharply.
“Poor Mrs. de Rushbridger. She’s dead.”
“Dead?” cried Poirot. “Mille Tonnerres! That explains it. Yes, that explains it. I should have seen—” He broke off. “How did she die?”
“It’s most mysterious. A box of chocolates came for her—liqueur chocolates—by post. She ate one—it must have tasted horrible, but she was taken by surprise, I suppose, and she swallowed it. One doesn’t like spitting a thing out.”
“Oui, oui, and if a liquid runs suddenly down your throat, it is difficult.”
“So she swallowed it and called out and Nurse came rushing, but we couldn’t do anything. She died in about two minutes. Then doctor sent for the police, and they came and examined the chocolates. All the top layer had been tampered with, the underneath ones were all right.”
“And the poison employed?”
“They think it’s nicotine.”
“Yes,” said Poirot. “Again nicotine. What a stroke! What an audacious stroke!”
“We are too late,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “We shall never know now what she had to tell us. Unless—unless—she confided in someone?” He glanced interrogatively at the Matron.
Poirot shook his head.
“There will have been no confidences, you will find.”
“We can ask,” said Mr. Satterthwaite. “One of the nurses, perhaps?”
