“Think,” urged Poirot.
Annie racked her brains in vain.
“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s clean gone. I don’t think I can have noticed it.”
“It does not matter,” said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. “Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp’s room with some coco in it. Did she have that every night?”
“Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night—whenever she fancied it.”
“What was it? Plain coco?”
“Yes,
“Is that necessary?” asked John gravely. A spasm of pain crossed his face.
“Absolutely,” said Dr. Bauerstein.
“You mean by that–-?”
“That neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a death certificate under the circumstances.”
John bent his head.
“In that case, I have no alternative but to agree.”