Lord Edgeware Dies by Agatha Christie

Street.”
    “And your own name?”
    “Bennett - Alice Bennett.”
    “You were attached to Miss Adams, I can see, Miss Bennett.”
    “Oh! yes, sir. She were a nice young lady. I worked for her last year when she were over here. It wasn't as though she were one of those actresses. She were a real young lady. Dainty ways she had and liked everything just so.” Poirot listened with attention and sympathy. He had now no signs of impatience. I realised that to proceed gently was the best way of extracting the information he wanted.
    “It must have been a great shock to you,” he observed gently.
    “Oh! it was, sir. I took her in her tea - at half-past nine as usual and there she was lying - asleep I thought. And I put the tray down. And I pulled the curtains - one of the rings caught, sir, and I had to jerk it hard. Such a noise it made. I was surprised when I looked round to see she hadn't woken. And then all of a sudden something seemed to take hold of me. Something not quite natural about the way she lay. And I went to the side of the bed, and I touched her hand. Icy cold it was, sir, and I cried out.”
    She stopped, tears coming into her eyes.
    “Yes, yes,” said Poirot sympathetically. “It must have been terrible for you. Did Miss Adams often take stuff to make her sleep?”
    “She'd taken something for a headache now and again, sir. Some little tablets in a bottle, but it was some other stuff she took last night, or so the doctor said.”
    “Did anyone come to see her last night? A visitor?”
    “No, sir. She was out yesterday evening, sir.”
    “Did she tell you where she was going?”
    “No, sir. She went out about seven o'clock.”
    “Ah! How was she dressed?”
    “She had on a black dress, sir. A black dress and a black hat.”
    Poirot looked at me.
    “Did she wear any jewellery?”
    “Just the string of pearls she always wore, sir.”
    “And gloves - grey gloves?”
    “Yes, sir. Her gloves were grey.”
    “Ah! Now describe to me, if you will, what her manner was. Was she gay? Excited? Sad? Nervous?”
    “It seemed to me she was pleased about something, sir. She kept smiling to herself. As though there were some kind of joke on.”
    “What time did she return?”
    “A little after twelve o'clock, sir.”
    “And what was her manner then? The same?”
    “She was terribly tired, sir.”
    “But not upset? Or distressed?”
    “Oh! no, sir. I think she was pleased about something, but just done up, if you know what I mean. She started to ring someone up on the telephone, and then she said she couldn't bother. She'd do it tomorrow morning.”
    “Ah!” Poirot's eyes gleamed with excitement. He leaned forward and spoke in a would-be indifferent voice.
    “Did you hear the name of the person she rang up?”
    “No, sir. She just asked for the number and waited and then the Exchange must have said: 'I'm trying to get them' as they do, sir, and she said 'All right,' and then suddenly she yawned and said 'Oh! I can't bother. I'm too tired.' and she put the receiver back and started undressing.”
    “And the number she called? Do you recollect that? Think. It may be important.”
    “I'm sorry I can't say, sir. It was a Victoria number and that's all I can remember. I wasn't paying special heed, you see.”
    “Did she have anything to eat or drink before she went to bed?”
    “A glass of hot milk, sir, like she always did.”
    “Who prepared it?”
    “I did, sir.”
    “And nobody came to the flat that evening?”
    “Nobody, sir.”
    “And earlier in the day?”
    “Nobody came that I can remember, sir. Miss Adams was out to lunch and tea. She came in at six o'clock.”
    “When did the milk come? The milk she drank last night?”
    “It was the new milk she had, sir. The afternoon delivery. The boy leaves it outside the door at four o'clock. But, oh! sir, I'm sure there wasn't nothing wrong with the milk. I had it myself for tea this morning. And the doctor he said positive as she'd taken the