it alone, it is possible the crime might never have been brought home to them. But they were not satisfied. They tried to be too clever—and that was their undoing.”
Poirot puffed at his tiny cigarette, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“They arranged a plan to throw suspicion on John Cavendish, by buying strychnine at the village chemist’s, and signing the register in his handwriting.
“On Monday Mrs. Inglethorp will take the last dose of her medicine. On Monday, therefore, at six o’clock, Alfred
self again, and we all, with the exception of Lawrence, who seemed unalterably gloomy and nervous, were quietly cheerful, at the opening of a new and hopeful future.
The papers, of course, had been full of the tragedy. Glaring headlines, sandwiched biographies of every member of the household, subtle