Hickory Dickory Dock by Agatha Christie

you - to suggest something very different. To suggest suicide -”
    He paused and then said slowly, “This means-”
    “Murder,” said Hercule Poirot.

Hickory Dickory Dock

Chapter 8
    Though personally deprecating the five o'clock as inhibiting the proper appreciation of the supreme meal of the day, dinner, Poirot was now getting quite accustomed to serving it.
    The resourceful George had on this occasion produced large cups, a pot of really strong Indian tea and, in addition to the hot and buttery square crumpets, bread and jam and a large square of rich plum cake.
    All this for the delectation of Inspector Sharpe who was leaning back contentedly sipping his third cup of tea.
    “You don't mind my coming along like this, M. Poirot? I've got an hour to spare until the time when the students will be getting back. I shall want to question them all and, frankly, it's not a business I'm looking forward to. You met some of them the other night and I wondered if you could give me any useful dope, on the foreigners, anyway.”
    “You think I am a good judge of foreigners? But, mon cher, there were no Belgians amongst them.”
    “No Belg- Oh, I see what you mean! You mean that as you're a Belgian, all the other nationalities are as foreign to you as they are to me. But that's not quite true, is it? I mean you probably know more about the Continental types than I do - though not the Indians and the West Africans and that lot.”
    “Your best assistance will probably be from Mrs. Hubbard. She has been there for some months in intimate association with these young people and she is quite a good judge of human nature.”
    “Yes, thoroughly competent woman. I'm relying on her. I shall have to see the proprietress of the place, too. She wasn't there this morning. Owns several of these places, I understand, as well as some of the student clubs. Doesn't seem to be much liked.”
    Poirot said nothing for a moment or two, then he asked,
    “You have been to St. Catherine's?”
    “Yes. The Chief Pharmacist was most helpful. He was much shocked and distressed by the news.”
    “What did he say of the girl?”
    “She'd worked there for just over a year and was well liked. He described her as rather slow, but very conscientious.” He paused and then added, “The morphia came from there all right.”
    “It did? That is interesting - and rather puzzling.”
    “It was morphine tartrate. Kept in the poison cupboard in the Dispensary. Upper shelf - among drugs that were not often used. The hypodermic tablets, of course, are what are in general use, and it appears that morphine hydrochloride is more often used than the tartrate. There seems to be a kind of fashion in drugs like everything else. Doctors seem to follow one another in prescribing like a lot of sheep. He didn't say that. It was my own thought. There are some drugs in the upper shelf of that cupboard that were once popular, but haven't been prescribed for years.”
    “So the absence of one small dusty phial would not immediately be noticed?”
    “That's right. Stock-taking is only done at regular intervals. Nobody remembers any prescription with morphine tartrate in it for a long time. The absence of the bottle wouldn't be noticed until it was wanted - or until they went over stock. The three dispensers all had keys of the poison cupboard and the Dangerous Drug cupboard. The cupboards are opened as needed, and as on a busy day (which is practically every day) someone is going to the cupboard every few minutes, the cupboard is unlocked and remains unlocked till the end of work.”
    “Who had access to it, other than Celia herself?”
    “The two other women Dispensers, but they have no connection of any kind with Hickory Road. One has been there for four years, the other only came a few weeks ago, was formerly at a Hospital in Devon. Good record. Then there are the three senior pharmacists who have all been at St. Catherine's for years. Those are the people who have what you