this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?”
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply. “You needn’t think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I’ll admit that it wasn’t he who bought strychnine at the chemist’s shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning.”
“That is arsenic—not strychnine,” said Poirot mildly.
“What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If
been made just at the time they were engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells—and to John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the servants—not Dorcas.”
“Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?”
“He says not.”
“One might take that with a grain of