‘I suppose so. Yes, I suppose so. I can’t really tell now. It’s so long ago.’
‘Yes. Several months. And she did not say anything that day—anything special?’
‘That class of person always talks a lot,’ said Mrs Wetherby with distaste. ‘One doesn’t really listen. And anyway, she couldn’t tell she was going to be robbed and killed that night, could she?’
‘There is cause and effect,’ said Poirot.
Mrs Wetherby wrinkled her forehead.
‘I don’t see what you mean.’
‘Perhaps I do not see myself—not yet. One works through darkness towards light…Do you take in the Sunday papers, Mrs Wetherby?’
Her blue eyes opened very wide.
‘Oh yes. Of course. We have the Observer and the Sunday Times. Why?’
‘I wondered. Mrs McGinty took the Sunday Comet and the News of the World.’
He paused but nobody said anything. Mrs Wetherby sighed and half closed her eyes. She said:
‘It was all very upsetting. That horrible lodger of hers. I don’t think really he can have been quite right in the head. Apparently he was quite an educated man, too. That makes it worse, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’
‘Oh yes—I do think so. Such a brutal crime. A meat chopper. Ugh!’
‘The police never found the weapon,’ said Poirot.
‘I expect he threw it in a pond or something.’
‘They dragged the ponds,’ said Deirdre. ‘I saw them.’
‘Darling,’ her mother sighed, ‘don’t be morbid. You know how I hate thinking of things like that. My head.’
Fiercely the girl turned on Poirot.
‘You mustn’t go on about it,’ she said. ‘It’s bad for her. She’s frightfully sensitive. She can’t even read detective stories.’
‘My apologies,’ said Poirot. He rose to his feet. ‘I have only one excuse. A man is to be hanged in three weeks’ time. If he did not do it—’
Mrs Wetherby raised herself on her elbow. Her voice was shrill.
‘But of course he did it,’ she cried. ‘Of course he did.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘I am not so sure.’
He left the room quickly. As he went down the stairs, the girl came after him. She caught up with him in the hall.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘What I said, mademoiselle.’
‘Yes, but—’ She stopped.
Poirot said nothing.
Deirdre Henderson said slowly:
‘You’ve upset my mother. She hates things like that—robberies and murders and—and violence.’
‘It must, then, have been a great shock to her when a woman who had actually worked here was killed.’
‘Oh yes—oh yes, it was.’
‘She was prostrated—yes?’
‘She wouldn’t hear anything about it…We—I—we try to—to spare her things. All the beastliness.’
‘What about the war?’
‘Luckily we never had any bombs near here.’
‘What was your part in the war, mademoiselle?’
‘Oh, I did VAD work in Kilchester. And some driving for the WVS I couldn’t have left home, of course. Mother needed me. As it was, she minded my being out so much. It was all very difficult. And then servants—naturally mother’s never done any housework—she’s not strong enough. And it was so difficult to get anyone at all. That’s why Mrs McGinty was such a blessing. That’s when she began coming to us. She was a splendid worker. But of course nothing—anywhere—is like it used to be.’
‘And do you mind that so much, mademoiselle?’
‘I? Oh no.’ She seemed surprised. ‘But it’s different for mother. She—she lives in the past a lot.’
‘Some people do,’ said Poirot. His visual memory conjured up the room he had been in a short time before. There had been a bureau drawer half pulled out. A drawer full of odds and ends—a silk pin-cushion, a broken fan, a silver coffee pot—some old magazines. The drawer had been too full to shut. He said softly: ‘And they keep things—memories of old days—the dance programme, the fan, the photographs of bygone friends, even the menu cards and the theatre programmes because, looking at these things, old memories revive.’
‘I suppose that’s it,’ said Deirdre. ‘I can’t understand it myself. I never keep anything.’
‘You look forwards, not back?’
Deirdre said slowly:
‘I don’t know that I look anywhere…I mean, today’s usually enough, isn’t it?’
The front door opened and a tall, spare, elderly man came into the hall. He stopped dead as he saw Poirot.
He glanced at Deirdre and his eyebrows rose in interrogation.
‘This is my stepfather,’ said Deirdre. ‘I—I don’t know your name?’
‘I am Hercule Poirot,’ said Poirot with his usual embarrassed air of announcing a royal title.
Mr Wetherby seemed unimpressed.
He said, ‘Ah,’ and turned to hang up his coat.
Deirdre said:
‘He came to ask about Mrs McGinty.’
Mr Wetherby remained still for a second, then he finished his adjustment of the coat on the peg.
‘That seems to me rather remarkable,’ he said. ‘The woman met her death some months ago and, although she worked here, we have no information concerning her or her family. If we had done we should already have given it to the police.’
There was finality in his tone. He glanced at his watch.
‘Lunch, I presume, will be ready in a quarter of an hour.’
‘I’m afraid it may be rather late today.’
Mr Wetherby’s eyebrows rose again.
‘Indeed? Why, may I ask?’
‘Frieda has been rather busy.’
‘My dear Deirdre, I hate to remind you, but the task of running the household devolves on you. I should appreciate a little more punctuality.’
Poirot opened the front door and let himself out. He glanced over his shoulder.
There was cold dislike in the gaze that Mr Wetherby gave his stepdaughter. There was something very like hate in the eyes that looked back at him.
Chapter 10
Poirot left his third call until after luncheon. Luncheon was under-stewed oxtail, watery potatoes, and what Maureen hoped optimistically might turn out to be pancakes. They were very peculiar.
Poirot walked slowly up the hill. Presently, on his right, he would come to Laburnums, two cottages knocked into one and remodelled to modern taste. Here lived Mrs Upward and that promising young playwright, Robin Upward.
Poirot paused a moment at the gate to pass a hand over his moustaches. As he did so a car came twisting slowly down the hill and an apple core directed with force struck him on the cheek.
Startled, Poirot let out a yelp of protest. The car halted and a head came through the window.
‘I’m so sorry. Did I hit you?’
Poirot paused in the act of replying. He looked at the rather noble face, the massive brow, the untidy billows of grey hair and a chord of memory stirred. The apple core, too, assisted his memory.
‘But surely,’ he exclaimed, ‘it is Mrs Oliver.’
It was indeed that celebrated detective-story writer.
Exclaiming, ‘Why, it’s M. Poirot,’ the authoress attempted to extract herself from the car. It was a small car and Mrs Oliver was a large woman. Poirot hastened to assist.
Murmuring in an explanatory voice, ‘Stiff after the long drive,’ Mrs Oliver suddenly arrived out on the road, rather in the manner of a volcanic eruption.
Large quantities of apples came, too, and rolled merrily down the hill.
‘Bag’s burst,’ explained Mrs Oliver.
She brushed a few stray pieces of half-consumed apple from the jutting shelf of her bust and then shook herself rather like a large Newfoundland dog. The last apple, concealed in the recesses of her person, joined its brothers and sisters.
‘Pity the bag
burst,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘They were Cox’s. Still I suppose there will be lots of apples down here in the country. Or aren’t there? Perhaps they all get sent away. Things are so odd nowadays, I find. Well, how are you, M. Poirot? You don’t live here, do you? No, I’m sure you don’t. Then I suppose it’s murder? Not my hostess, I hope?’
‘Who is your hostess?’
‘In there,’ said Mrs Oliver, nodding her head. ‘That’s to say if that’s a house called Laburnums, half-way down the hill on the left side after you pass the church. Yes, that must be it. What’s she like?’
‘You do not know her?’
‘No, I’ve come down professionally, so to speak. A book of mine is being dramatized—by Robin Upward. We’re supposed to sort of get together over it.’
‘My felicitations, madame.’
‘It’s not like that at all,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘So far it’s pure agony. Why I ever let myself in for it I don’t know. My books bring me in quite enough money—that is to say the bloodsuckers take most of it, and if I made more, they’d take more, so I don’t overstrain myself. But you’ve no idea of the agony of having your characters taken and made to say things that they never would have said, and do things that they never would have done. And if you protest, all they say is that it’s “good theatre”. That’s all Robin Upward thinks of. Everyone says he’s very clever. If he’s so clever I don’t see why he doesn’t write a play of his own and leave my poor unfortunate Finn alone. He’s not even a Finn any longer. He’s become a member of the Norwegian Resistance Movement.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘What have I done with my hat?’
Poirot looked into the car.
‘I think, madame, that you must have been sitting on it.’
‘It does look like it,’ agreed Mrs Oliver, surveying the wreckage. ‘Oh well,’ she continued cheerfully, ‘I never liked it much. But I thought I might have to go to church on Sunday, and although the Archbishop has said one needn’t, I still think that the more old-fashioned clergy expect one to wear a hat. But tell me about your murder or whatever it is. Do you remember our murder?’
‘Very well indeed.’
‘Rather fun, wasn’t it? Not the actual murder—I didn’t like that at all. But afterwards. Who is it this time?’
‘Not so picturesque a person as Mr Shaitana. An elderly charwoman who was robbed and murdered five months ago. You may have read about it. Mrs McGinty. A young man was convicted and sentenced to death—’
‘And he didn’t do it, but you know who did, and you’re going to prove it,’ said Mrs Oliver rapidly. ‘Splendid.’
‘You go too fast,’ said Poirot with a sigh. ‘I do not yet know who did it—and from there it will be a long way to prove it.’
‘Men are so slow,’ said Mrs Oliver disparagingly. ‘I’ll soon tell you who did it. Someone down here, I suppose? Give me a day or two to look round, and I’ll spot the murderer. A woman’s intuition—that’s what you need. I was quite right over the Shaitana case, wasn’t I?’
Poirot gallantly forbode to remind Mrs Oliver of her rapid changes of suspicion on that occasion.
‘You men,’ said Mrs Oliver indulgently. ‘Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard—’
She left this well-worn theme hanging in the air as a voice hailed them from the door of the cottage.
‘Hallo,’ said the voice, an agreeable light tenor. ‘Is that Mrs Oliver?’
‘Here I am,’ called Mrs Oliver. To Poirot she murmured: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be very discreet.’
‘No, no, madame. I do not want you to be discreet. On the contrary.’
Robin Upward came down the path and through the gate. He was bareheaded and wore very old grey flannel trousers and a disreputable sports coat. But for a tendency to embonpoint, he would have been good looking.
‘Ariadne, my precious!’ he exclaimed and embraced her warmly.
He stood away, his hands on her shoulders.
‘My dear, I’ve had the most marvellous idea for the second act.’
‘Have you?’ said Mrs Oliver without enthusiasm. ‘This is M. Hercule Poirot.’
‘Splendid,’ said Robin. ‘Have you got any luggage?’
‘Yes, it’s in the back.’
Robin hauled out a couple of suitcases.
‘Such a bore,’ he said. ‘We’ve no proper servants. Only old Janet. And we have to spare her all the time. That’s such a nuisance don’t you think? How heavy your cases are. Have you got bombs in them?’
He staggered up the path, calling out over his shoulder:
‘Come in and have a drink.’
‘He means you,’ said Mrs Oliver, removing her handbag, a book, and a pair of old shoes from the front seat. ‘Did you actually say just now that you wanted me to be indiscreet?’
‘The more indiscreet the better.’
‘I shouldn’t tackle it that way myself,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘but it’s your murder. I’ll help all I can.’
Robin reappeared at the front door.
‘Come in, come in,’ he called. ‘We’ll see about the car later. Madre is dying to meet you.’
Mrs Oliver swept up the path and Hercule Poirot followed her.
The interior of Laburnums was charming. Poirot guessed that a very large sum of money had been spent on it, but the result was an expensive and charming simplicity. Each small piece of cottage oak was a genuine piece.
In a wheeled chair by the fireplace of the living-room Laura Upward smiled a welcome. She was a vigorous looking woman of sixty-odd, with iron-grey hair and a determined chin.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs Oliver,’ she said. ‘I expect you hate people talking to you about your books, but they’ve been an enormous solace to me for years—and especially since I’ve been such a cripple.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ said Mrs Oliver, looking uncomfortable and twisting her hands in a schoolgirlish way. ‘Oh, this is M. Poirot, an old friend of mine. We met by chance just outside here. Actually I hit him with an apple core. Like William Tell—only the other way about.’
‘How d’you do, M. Poirot. Robin.’
‘Yes, Madre?’
‘Get some drinks. Where are the cigarettes?’
‘On that table.’
Mrs Upward asked: ‘Are you a writer, too, M. Poirot?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘He’s a detective. You know. The Sherlock Holmes kind—deerstalkers and violins and all that. And he’s come here to solve a murder.’
There was a faint tinkle of broken glass. Mrs Upward said sharply: ‘Robin, do be careful.’ To Poirot she said: ‘That’s very interesting, M. Poirot.’
‘So Maureen Summerhayes was right,’ exclaimed Robin. ‘She told me some long rigmarole about having a detective on the premises. She seemed to think it was frightfully funny. But it’s really quite serious, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it’s serious,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘You’ve got a criminal in your midst.’
‘Yes, but look here, who’s been murdered? Or is it someone that’s been dug up and it’s all frightfully hush hush?’
‘It is not hush hush,’ said Poirot. ‘The murder, you know about it already.’
‘Mrs Mc—something—a charwoman—last autumn,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Oh!’ Robin Upward sounded disappointed. ‘But that’s all over.’
‘It’s not over at all,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘They arrested the wrong man, and he’ll be hanged if M. Poirot doesn’t find the real murderer in time. It’s all frightfully exciting.’
Robin apportioned the drinks.
‘White Lady for you, Madre.’
‘Thank you, my dear boy.’
Poirot frowned slightly. Robin handed drinks to Mrs Oliver and to him.
‘Well,’ said Robin, ‘here’s to crime.’
He drank.
‘She used to work here,’ he said.
‘Mrs McGinty?’ asked Mrs Oliver.
‘Yes. Didn’t she, Madre?’
‘When
you say work here, she came one day a week.’
‘And odd afternoons sometimes.’
‘What was she like?’ asked Mrs Oliver.
‘Terribly respectable,’ said Robin. ‘And maddeningly tidy. She had a ghastly way of tidying up everything and putting things into drawers so that you simply couldn’t guess where they were.’
Mrs Upward said with a certain grim humour:
‘If somebody didn’t tidy things away at least one day a week, you soon wouldn’t be able to move in this small house.’
‘I know, Madre, I know. But unless things are left where I put them, I simply can’t work at all. My notes get all disarranged.’
‘It’s annoying to be as helpless as I am,’ said Mrs Upward. ‘We have a faithful old maid, but it’s all she can manage just to do a little simple cooking.’
‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Oliver. ‘Arthritis?’
‘Some form of it. I shall have to have a permanent nurse-companion soon, I’m afraid. Such a bore. I like being independent.’
‘Now, darling,’ said Robin. ‘Don’t work yourself up.’
He patted her arm.
She smiled at him with sudden tenderness.
‘Robin’s as good as a daughter to me,’ she said. ‘He does everything—and thinks of everything. No one could be more considerate.’
They smiled at each other.
Hercule Poirot rose.
‘Alas,’ he said. ‘I must go. I have another call to make and then a train to catch. Madame, I thank you for your hospitality. Mr Upward, I wish all success to the play.’
‘And all success to you with your murder,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Is this really serious, M. Poirot?’ asked Robin Upward. ‘Or is it a terrific hoax?’
‘Of course it isn’t a hoax,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s deadly serious. He won’t tell me who the murderer is, but he knows, don’t you?’
‘No, no, madame,’ Poirot’s protest was just sufficiently unconvincing. ‘I told you that as yet, no, I do not know.’
‘That’s what you said, but I think you do know really…But you’re so frightly secretive, aren’t you?’
Mrs Upward said sharply:
‘Is this really true? It’s not a joke?’
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