Lord Edgeware Dies by Agatha Christie Page B

Hastings,” he said as we went down the stairs.
    I did not ask him what his vow was. I could guess.
    A minute or two later he said:
    “There is one thing off my mind at least. I could not have saved her. By the time I heard of Lord Edgware's death she was already dead. That comforts me. Yes, that comforts me very much.”

Lord Edgeware Dies

Chapter 10
    JENNY DRIVER
    Our next proceeding was to call upon the doctor whose address the maid had given us.
    He turned out to be a fussy elderly man somewhat vague in manner. He knew Poirot by repute and expressed a lively pleasure at meeting him in the flesh.
    “And what can I do for you, M. Poirot?” he asked after this opening preamble.
    “You were called this morning, M. le docteur, to the bedside of a Miss Carlotta Adams.”
    “Ah! yes, poor girl. Clever actress too. I've been twice to her show. A thousand pities it's ended this way. Why these girls must have drugs I can't think.”
    “You think she was addicted to drugs, then?”
    “Well, professionally, I should hardly have said so. At all events she didn't take them hypodermically. No marks of the needle. Evidently always took it by the mouth. Maid said she slept well naturally, but then maids never know. I don't suppose she took veronal every night, but she'd evidently taken it for some time.”
    “What makes you think so?”
    “This. Dash it - where did I put the thing?” He was peering into a small case. “Ah! here it is.”
    He drew out a small black morocco handbag.
    “There's got to be an inquest, of course. I brought this away so that the maid shouldn't meddle with it.”
    Opening the pochette he took out a small gold box. On it were the initials C.A. in rubies. It was a valuable and expensive trinket. The doctor opened it. It was nearly full of a white powder.
    “Veronal,” he explained briefly. “Now look what's written inside.”
    On the inside of the lid of the box was engraved:
    C.A. from D. Paris, Nov. 10th.
    Sweet Dreams
    “November 10th,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
    “Exactly, and we're now in June. That seems to show that she's been in the habit of taking the stuff for at least six months, and as the year isn't given, it might be eighteen months or two years and a half - or any time.”
    “Paris. D.,” said Poirot, frowning.
    "Yes. Convey anything to you? By the way, I haven't asked you what your interest is in the case. I'm assuming you've got good grounds. I suppose you want to know if it's suicide? Well, I can't tell you. Nobody can. According to the maid's account she was perfectly cheerful yesterday. That looks like accident, and in my opinion accident it is. Veronal's very uncertain stuff. You can take a devil of a lot and it won't kill you, and you can take very little and off you go. It's a dangerous drug for that reason.
    “I've no doubt they'll bring it in Accidental Death at the inquest. I'm afraid I can't be of any more help to you.”
    “May I examine the little bag of Mademoiselle?”
    “Certainly. Certainly.”
    Poirot turned out the contents of the pochette. There was a fine handkerchief with C.M.A. in the corner, a powder puff, a lipstick, a pound note and a little change, and a pair of pince-nez.
    These last Poirot examined with interest. They were gold-rimmed and rather severe and academic in type.
    “Curious,” said Poirot. “I did not know that Miss Adams wore glasses. But perhaps they are for reading?”
    The doctor picked them up.
    “No, these are outdoor glasses,” he affirmed. “Pretty powerful too. The person who wore these must have been very shortsighted.”
    “You do not know if Miss Adams -”
    “I never attended her before. I was called in once to see a poisoned finger of the maid's. Otherwise I have never been in the flat Miss Adams, whom I saw for a moment on that occasion, was certainly not wearing glasses then.”
    Poirot thanked the doctor and we took our leave.
    Poirot wore a puzzled expression.
    “It can be that I am mistaken,” he