m an oostmate man - a man vth a little idea - and nothing to
support it! By the way, did Henry Gascoigne have false teeth?'
'No, his own teeth were in excellent preservation. Very
creditable indeed at his age.'
'He looked after them well - they were white and welt
brushed?'
'Yes, I noticed them particularly. Teeth tend to grow a little
yellow as one grows older, but they were in good condition.'
'Not discoloured in any way?'
'No I don't think he was a smoker if that Is what you mean.
'I did not mean that precisely-it was just a long shot- whit:
probably will not come offi Goodbye, Dr MacAndrew, and
thank you for your kindness.'
He shook the doctor's hand and departed.
'And now,' he said, or the long shot.
At the Gallant Endeavour, he sat down at the same table wificb
he had shared with Bonnington. The girl who served him
not Molly. Molly, the girl told him, was away on a holiday.
178
It was only just seven and Hercule Poirot found no difficulty
in entering into conversation with the girl on the subject of old
Mr Gascoigue.
'Yes,' she said. 'He'd been here for years and years. But none
of us girls ever knew his name. We saw about the inquest in the
paper, and there was a picture of him. "There," I said to Molly.
"If that isn't our 'Old Father Time'" as we used to call him.'
'He dined here on the evening of his death, did he not?'
'That's right, Thursday, the third. He was always here on a
Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays punctual as a dock.'
'You don't remember, I suppose, what he had for dinner?'
'Now let me see, it was mulligatawny soup, that's right, and
beefsteak pudding or was it the mutton? - no pudding, that's
right, and blackberry and'apple pie and cheese. And then to
think of him going home and falling down those stairs that very
same evening. A frayed dressing-gown cord they said it was as
caused it. Of course, his clothes were always something awful -old-fashioned
and put on anyhow, and all tattered, and yet he
had a kind of air, all the same, as though he was somebody! Oh,
we get all sorts of interesting customers here.'
She moved off.
Hercule Poirot ate his filleted sole. His eyes showed a green
light.
'It is odd,' he said to himself, 'how the cleverest people slip
over details. Bonnington will be interested.'
But the time had not yet come for leisurely discussion with
Bonnington.
Armed with introductions from a certain influential .quarter,
Hercule Poirot found no difficulty at all in dealing with the
coroner for the district. ·
'A curious figure, the deceased man Gascoigne,' he ob-served.
'A lonely, eccentric old fellow. But his decease seems to
arouse an unusual amount of attention?'
He looked with some curiosity at his visitor as he spoke.
179
Hercule Poirot chose his words carefully.
'There are circumstances connected with it, Monsieur,
which make investigation desirable.'
'Well, how can I help you?'
'It is, I believe, within your province to order documents
produced in your court to be destroyed, or to be impounded-as
you think fit. A certain letter was found in the pocket of
Henry Gascoigne's dressing-gown, was it not?'
'That is so.'
'A letter from his nephew, Dr George Lorrimer?'
'Quite correct. The letter was produced at the inquest as
helping to fix the time of death.'
'Which was corroborated by the medical evidence?'
'Exactly.'
'Is that letter still available?'
Hercule Poirot waited rather anxiously for the reply.
When he heard that the letter was still available for ex-amination
he drew a sigh of relief.
When it was family produced he studied it with some care. It
was written in a slightly cramped handwriting with a
stylographic pen.
It ran as follows:
Dear Uncle Henry,
I am sorry to tell you that I have had no success as regards
Uncle Amhony. He showed no enthusiasm for a visit from you
and would give me no reply to your request that he would le
bygones be bygones. He is, of course, extremely ill, and his mind
is inclined to wander. I should fancy that the end is zry near. He
seemed hardly to remember who you were.
I am sorry to have failedyou, but I can assure you that I did
my best.
180
Your affectionate nephew,
George Lorrimer
The letter itself was dated 3rd November. Poimt glanced at the
envelope's postmark- 4.30 p.m. 3 Nov.
He murmured:
'It is beautifully in order, is it not?'
Kingston Hill was his next objective. After a little trouble, with
the exercise of good-humoured pertinacity, he obtained an
'interview with Amelia Hill, cook-housekeeper to the late
Anthony Gascoigne.
Mrs Hill was inclined to be stiff and suspicious at fu'st, but the
charming geniality of this strange-looking foreigner would have
had its effect on a stone. Mrs Amelia Hill began to unbend.
She found herself, as had so many other women before her,
pouring out her troubles to a really sympathetic listener.
For fourteen years she had had charge of Mr Gascoigne's
household- not an easy job! No, indeed! Many a woman would
have quailed under the burdens she had had to bear! Eccentric
the poor gentleman was and no denying it. Remarkably close
with his money - a kind of mania with him it was - and he as