"My dear sir, I never attended him."
"What?"
"I understand Mr. Maltravers was a Christian Scientist—or something of that kind."
"But you examined the body?"
"Certainly. I was fetched by one of the under-gardeners."
"And the cause of death was clear?"
"Absolutely. There was blood on the lips, but most of the bleeding must have been internal."
"Was he still lying where he had been found?"
"Yes, the body had not been touched. He was lying at the edge of a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, a small rook rifle lay beside him. The hæmorrhage must have occurred quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer, without a doubt."
"No question of his having been shot, eh?"
"My dear sir!"
"I demand pardon," said Poirot humbly. "But, if my memory is not at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor first gave a verdict of heart failure–altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head!"
