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Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense
excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy.
Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.
"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me
something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many
were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?"
Annie considered.
"There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr.
Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir--oh, yes,
one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't
remember."
"
Think," urged Poirot.
Annie racked her brains in vain.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."
"
"
It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment.
Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs.
Inglethorp's room with some coco in it. Did she have that every night?"
"Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the
night--whenever she fancied it."
"
"
What was it? Plain coco?"
Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls
of rum in it."
"
"
"
"
Who took it to her room?"
I did, sir."
Always?"
Yes, sir."
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