Gradually Hercule Poirot detached her from her main theme of unsatisfied cupidity. It was indeed a heartless injustice! Mrs. Hill could not be blamed for feeling hurt and surprised. It was well known that Mr. Gascoigne was tight-fisted about money. It had even been said that the dead man had refused his only brother assistance. Mrs. Hill probably knew all about that.
“Was it that that Dr. Ramsey came to see him about?” asked Mrs. Hill. “I knew it was something about his brother, but I thought it was just that his brother wanted to be reconciled. They’d quarreled years ago.”
“I understand,” said Poirot, “that Mr. Gascoigne refused absolutely?”
“That’s right enough,” said Mrs. Hill with a nod. “ ‘Henry?’ he says, rather weaklike. ‘What’s this about Henry? Haven’t seen him for years and don’t want to. Quarrelsome fellow, Henry.’ Just that.”
The conversation then reverted to Mrs. Hill’s own special grievances.
With some difficulty Hercule Poirot took his leave without breaking off the conversation too abruptly.
And so, just after the dinner hour, he came to Elmcrest, Dorset Road, Wimbledon, the residence of Dr. George Ramsey.
The doctor was in. Hercule Poirot was shown into the surgery and there presently Dr. George Ramsey came to him, obviously just risen from the dinner table.
“I’m not a patient, doctor,” said Hercule Poirot. “And my coming here is, perhaps, somewhat of an impertinence — but I believe in plain and direct dealing. I do not care for lawyers and their long-winded, roundabout methods.”
He had certainly aroused Ramsey’s interest. The doctor was a clean-shaven man of middle height. His hair was brown but his eyelashes were almost white, which gave his eyes a pale, boiled appearance. His manner was brisk and not without humor.
“Lawyers?” he said raising his eyebrows. “Hate the fellows! You rouse my curiosity, my dear sir. Pray sit down.”
Poirot did so and then produced one of his professional cards.
George Ramsey’s white eyelashes blinked.
Poirot leaned forward confidentially. “A good many of my clients are women,” he said.
“Naturally,” said Dr. George Ramsey, with a slight twinkle.
“As you say, naturally,” agreed Poirot. “Women distrust the official police. They prefer private investigations. They do not want to have their troubles made public. An elderly woman came to consult me a few days ago. She was unhappy about a husband she’d quarreled with many years before. This husband of hers was your uncle, the late Mr. Gascoigne.”
George Ramsey’s face went purple.
“My uncle? Nonsense! His wife died many years ago.”
“Not your uncle, Mr. Anthony Gascoigne. Your uncle, Mr. Henry Gascoigne.”
“Uncle Henry? But he wasn’t married!”
“Oh, yes, he was,” said Hercule Poirot, lying unblushingly. “Not a doubt of it. The lady even brought along her marriage certificate.”
“It’s a lie!” cried George Ramsey. His face was now as purple as a plum. “I don’t believe it. You’re an impudent liar.”
“It is too bad, is it not?” said Poirot. “You have committed murder for nothing.”
“Murder?” Ramsey’s voice quavered. His pale eyes bulged with terror.
“By the way,” said Poirot, “I see you have been eating blackberry tart again. An unwise habit. Blackberries are said to be full of vitamins, but they may be deadly in other ways. On this occasion I rather fancy they have helped to put a rope around a man’s neck — your neck, Dr. Ramsey.”
“You see, mon ami, where you went wrong was over your fundamental assumption.” Hercule Poirot, beaming placidly across the table at his friend, waved an expository hand. “A man under severe mental stress doesn’t choose that time to do something that he’s never done before. His reflexes just follow the track of least resistance. A man who is upset about something might conceivably come down to dinner dressed in his pajamas — but they will be his own pajamas — not somebody else’s.
“A man who dislikes thick soup, suet pudding and blackberries suddenly orders all three one evening. You say, because he is thinking of something else. But I say that a man who has got something on his mind will order automatically the dish he has ordered most often before.
“Eh bien, then, what other explanation could there be? I simply could not think of a reasonable explanation. And I was worried! The incident was all wrong.
“Then you told me that the man had disappeared. He had missed a Tuesday and a Thursday the first time for years. I liked that even less. A queer hypothesis sprang up in my mind. If I were right about it the man was dead. I made inquiries. The man was dead. And he was very neatly and tidily dead. In other words the bad fish was covered up with the sauce!
“He had been seen in the King’s Road at seven o’clock. He had had dinner here at 7:30 — two hours before he died. It all fitted in — the evidence of the stomach contents, the evidence of the letter. Much too much sauce! You couldn’t see the fish at all!
“Devoted nephew wrote the letter, devoted nephew had beautiful alibi for time of death. Death very simple — a fall down the stairs. Simple accident? Or murder? Everyone says the former.
“Devoted nephew only surviving relative. Devoted nephew will inherit — but is there anything to inherit? Uncle notoriously poor.
“But there is a brother. And brother in his time had married a rich wife. And brother lives in a big rich house on Kingston Hill, so it would seem that rich wife must have left him all her money. You see the sequence — rich wife leaves money to Anthony, Anthony leaves money to Henry, Henry’s money goes to George.”
“A pretty theory,” said Mr. Bonnington. “But what did you do?”
“Once you know — you can usually get hold of what you want. Henry had died two hours after a meal — that is all the inquest really bothered about. But supposing that meal was not dinner, but lunch? Put yourself in George’s place. George wants money — badly. Anthony Gascoigne is dying — but his death is no good to George. His money goes to Henry, and Henry Gascoigne may live for years. So Henry must die too — and the sooner the better — but his death must take place after Anthony’s, and at the same time George must have an alibi. Henry’s habit of dining regularly at a restaurant on two evenings of the week suggests an alibi to George. Being cautious, he tries his plan out first. He impersonates his uncle one Monday evening at the restaurant in question.
“It goes without a hitch. Everyone there accepts him as his uncle. He is satisfied. He has only to wait till Uncle Anthony shows definite signs of pegging out. The time comes. He mails a letter to his uncle on the afternoon of the 2nd November but dates it the 3rd. He comes up to town on the afternoon of the 3rd, calls on his uncle, and carries his scheme into action. A sharp shove and down the stairs goes Uncle Henry.
“George hunts about for the letter he has written, and shoves it in the pocket of his uncle’s dressing gown. At 7:30 he is at the Gallant Endeavour, beard, bushy eyebrows, all complete. Undoubtedly Mr. Henry Gascoigne is alive at 7:30. Then a rapid metamorphosis in a lavatory and back full speed to Wimbledon and an evening of bridge. The perfect alibi.”