“Not at all. Why should I?”
“I can’t help feeling,” I continued blunderingly; “that we’ve rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?”
“Yes, my friend,” said Poirot unexpectedly, “we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working.”
“Well?”
“Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that—a convoy coming in unexpectedly—she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that.”
“Oh!” I said, rather nonplussed. “Really,” I continued, “it’s her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can’t help feeling she’d do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him.”
“You consider her vehemence unnatural?”
“Y—es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point.”
Poirot shook his head energetically.
“No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself.”