Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven Poirot Visits Caroline

Poirot Visits Caroline I arrived at Maby Grange the next afternoon and rang Mrs Foliot's doorbell, feeling a little nervous.I wondered what Poirot wanted me to know.Why did he delegate this task to me?Is it because he doesn't want to show up, he wants to hide behind the scenes, like when he asked me to question Major Brent last time?This approach to Brent was understandable, but to Mrs. Foliot this time was beyond my comprehension. My meditations were interrupted at this moment by the shrewd parlor-maid who opened the door for me. Yes, Mrs. Foliott is home.The parlor-maid led me into a spacious drawing-room, and I sat waiting for my mistress, while I looked around the room curiously.A large empty room, a few fine old china, some beautiful etchings, worn carpets and curtains, looked no different from a women's toilet.

When I was admiring the famous painting of Bartolozzi hanging on the wall, Mrs. Foliot walked in, and my eyes immediately turned to her.She was tall, with a little tousled brown hair and a charming smile. "Dr. Shepard," she said hesitantly. "That's me," I replied, "I'm so sorry for the intrusion. I'm here to inquire about your former parlor maid, Ursula Byrne." At the mention of the name, her face The smile on the face disappeared suddenly, and the enthusiasm turned into indifference.She felt uncomfortable all over, very uncomfortable. "Ursula Byrne?" She hesitated.

"Yes," I said, "maybe you can't remember the name." "Oh, of course, and—very well." "She's been away from you for just over a year, hasn't she?"" Yes, that's right! You're exactly right." "She works here, are you happy with her? By the way, how long has she been with you?" "Oh! A year or two— I can't remember the exact time. She--she was very capable, and I'm sure you'll be very pleased with her. I didn't know she was leaving Fernley Court, it never occurred to me." "You Can you tell me about her?" I asked.

"Anything you want to know about her?" "Yes, where she is from, what her parents do—tell me all that." Mrs. Foliot's face changed More gloomy. "I don't know anything." "Which house did she work at before she came to your house?" "I'm sorry, I can't remember." There was a hint of resentment in her nervous expression.She waved her hand in the air, a movement that seemed familiar to me. "Is it really necessary to ask these questions?" "No," I said in surprise, with a little apology in my tone, "I didn't know you cared so much about these questions. I'm very sorry." Puzzled.

"Oh! It always doesn't bother me that you ask. Honestly, I don't mind at all. Why should I? It just seems exaggerated. Nothing else, it just feels a little strange," she said incoherently. As a physician by profession, I have developed a trait of being able to tell when someone is lying.Just from Mrs. Foolit's conversation, I could tell at a glance that she really cared a lot about answering my questions - and cared terribly.She felt uncomfortable all over, very uncomfortable.Obviously, there must be hidden secrets in it.From what she said and did I judged that she was not a good deceitful woman, and that she was very embarrassed when she had to lie.Even a three-year-old could see through that look.

Evidently she did not wish to tell me more, and however mysterious Ursula Byrne may have been, I had no intention of asking Mrs Foliot for further information. The visit did not achieve its purpose, and I apologized again for disturbing her, took my hat and took my leave. I went to see some patients and got home around six o'clock.Caroline sat at the table with the tea things and leftovers.From the look on her face, I could see that she was trying to suppress the joy in her heart. I was familiar with her expression.It was always the look on her face whenever she wanted to ask for news or deliver a message.Today I don't know whether she wants to inquire about news or pass on news.

I dropped into my easy chair and stretched my feet by the roaring fireplace.At this point Caroline said, "It was such a fun afternoon." "Really?" I asked. "Miss Gannett is here for tea?" Miss Gannett was one of the main people who spread the news. . "Guess again," said Caroline smugly. I struggled to guess the members of Caroline's brain trust one by one.Every time I guessed, she shook her head triumphantly.Finally she spoke out herself. "It's M. Poirot!" she said. "What do you think of his visit?" I had a lot on my mind about her question, but I was too cautious to tell her.

"What is he doing here?" I asked. "To see me, of course. He said he knew my brother very well, and wished to meet his charming sister - your sister, oh, I'm confused - I mean you Understood." "What did he tell you?" I asked. "He told a lot about himself, and about the cases he had. Do you know Prince Paul from Mauritany—the one who just married a dancer?" "Go on." "I read a very interesting short article about that dancer the other day in the "Excerpts of the Society News." It said she was in fact a Russian Grand Duchess—a daughter of the Tsar. She managed to escape the Bolsheviks. They were both suspects in an intriguing murder. It was M. Poirot who solved the mystery. For that, Paul is indebted to him." "Paul did not send him An emerald tie pin the size of a pigeon egg?" I asked wryly.

"He didn't say. Why send him?" "Nothing," I said, "I think that's how it ends. That's how detective novels are written, anyway. The houses of the super-sleuths are littered with things like rubies." , Pearls, emeralds and other such things are all sent by the nobles who express their gratitude." "It's so interesting to tell these things from the people who solved the case." My sister said triumphantly. For Caroline, this kind of thing was really interesting.I cannot help admiring Hercule Poirot's ingenuity in choosing, from among his many cases, the one which most interested the old country lady.

"Did he tell you that the dancer was really the Grand Duchess?" I asked. "He doesn't dare to speak casually," said Caroline solemnly. I don't know how much truth Poirot told Caroline in his conversation - probably not a word of truth.He often expresses his innuendo with a wink and a shrug. "Are you foolish enough to believe all that he's babbling about?" I demanded. "Don't speak so harshly, James. I don't know where you got your rude swear words." "Probably because I'm in contact with the outside world—my patients. Unfortunately, among my patients None of them are royal relatives, and there are no interesting Russian expatriates." Caroline pushed up her glasses and glanced at me.

"Looks like you're having a bad temper tonight, James. You must be very angry. Take a pill tonight." See me at my house, you'd never guess I'm a doctor.Caroline is our family doctor and she prescribes medicine not only for herself but also for me. "What the hell to talk about," I said grumpily. "Did you talk about the murder?" "Yes, it's only natural, James. What's there to talk about in our little place?" I corrected a few of his opinions, and he thanked me very much, and said that I was born to be a detective—an excellent psychologist who can see through human nature.” Caroline is like a well-fed cat Creamy cat, meowing proudly. "He talked a lot about gray cells and what they do. He said his brain cells were of the highest quality, top-notch." "He could have said that," I said sarcastically, "of course modesty wasn't his Christian name. "I hope you don't imitate the arrogant American, James. He believes that the most important thing at present is to find Ralph as soon as possible, and persuade him to come back and clarify some facts. He said that his disappearance will create a negative effect on him in the investigation." impression." "What did you say?" "I agree with him," said Caroline solemnly, "and I told him everything people talked about." "Caroline," I said sternly. "Have you told M. Poirot what you heard in the woods that day?" "Yes," said Caroline very proudly. I stood up and walked back and forth. "You should know what you've done," I said angrily, "you've put the noose around Ralph Paton's neck, it's as obvious as you are sitting in the chair " "It's not at all what you think it is," said Caroline very quietly, "and it really surprises me that you didn't tell him about it." Come on," I said, "I like this kid very much." "I like him too. So I think you're talking nonsense. I don't believe Ralph would do such a thing, so honestly I don't would do him harm, and we should try to help M. Poirot. Come to think of it, it's likely that Ralph went out with the same girl on the night of the murder, and if that was the case, someone would testify in his place that he wasn't there. The scene of the crime." "If he has a solid witness," I retorted, "why doesn't he come out and make it clear?" "It's probable he got the girl's belly big," said Caroline smartly, " But if M. Poirot can find her and tell her that it is her duty, she will certainly come and set the record straight for Ralph." "You seem to be making up a romantic fairy tale," I said, "those You've read too many pointless novels, Caroline, I've said that so many times." I sat back in my chair. "What other questions did Poirot ask?" I asked. "He just asked about the patient you saw that morning." "The patient?" I pressed, unable to believe my ears. "Yes, you surgical patients. He asked about the number of patients and who they were." "You sound like you can answer those questions?" I pressed. Caroline is truly amazing. "Why not?" asked my sister triumphantly. "From this window you can see the path leading to the surgery clinic very clearly. My memory is excellent, James, and I don't know how much better than yours. I can So." "I'm sure you have a better memory than I do," I whispered expressionlessly. The sister went on, pointing at the patients with her fingers and calling out their names. "There's old Mrs. Bennett, the boy from the farm with the broken finger, Dolly Grice to pull the thorn out of his finger, the American waiter from the liner. Let me think about it—that's the fourth .Oh, and old George Evan came to see Canker. Finally—” She paused meaningfully. "What else?" Caroline was so carried away that she couldn't get any more.Then she said the last person's name: "Miss Russell." Her pronunciation had a strong "hiss" because Miss Russell's name had several "S"s in it. She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningfully, which couldn't have been more obvious. "I don't know what you mean," I pretended not to understand, "Miss Russell has a problem with her knee, can't she come and see me?" "A problem with her knee?" said Caroline, "Nonsense! Her knee is just like yours and mine, perfectly normal. She came to see you with a ulterior motive." "What's her purpose?" I asked. Caroline had to admit she didn't know Russell's purpose. "But I'm sure that's what he's trying to find out—Mr. Poirot, I mean. The woman is acting suspiciously, he's well aware of that." "It's exactly the same," I said, "and she said Miss Russell was acting suspiciously." "Ah!" exclaimed Caroline inexplicably, "Mrs Ackroyd! Another one!" "Another what? ’ Caroline refused to explain.She just nodded and rolled up her knitting and went upstairs to put on that fuchsia high-necked satin blouse and gold jewellery, which was what she called dressing and eating. I was still sitting there dumbfounded, staring at the fire, thinking about what Caroline had just said.Did Poirot really come here to find out what happened to Miss Russell, or was Caroline just guessing in her own way?Of course there was nothing in Miss Russell's conduct that morning to arouse suspicion.At least—I remember her going on and on about drug use—from drug use to various poisons and then to drug use.But this case has nothing to do with poisoning, and Aykroyd was not poisoned to death.Anyway, this incident is indeed a bit strange... Caroline screamed from upstairs: "James, come and eat." I threw a few coals into the stove and went upstairs obediently. As long as there is peace at home, I can listen to her anything.