‘It is not a joke, madame,’ said Poirot.
He bowed and departed.
As he went down the path he heard Robin Upward’s clear tenor voice:
‘But Ariadne, darling,’ he said, ‘it’s all very well, but with that moustache and everything, how can one take him seriously? Do you really mean he’s good?’
Poirot smiled to himself. Good indeed!
About to cross the narrow lane, he jumped back just in time.
The Summerhayes’ station wagon, lurching and bumping, came racing past him. Summerhayes was driving.
‘Sorry,’ he called. ‘Got to catch train.’ And faintly from the distance: ‘Covent Garden…’
Poirot also intended to take a train—the local train to Kilchester, where he had arranged a conference with Superintendent Spence.
He had time, before catching it, for just one last call.
He went to the top of the hill and through gates and up a well-kept drive to a modern house of frosted concrete with a square roof and a good deal of window. This was the home of Mr and Mrs Carpenter. Guy Carpenter was a partner in the big Carpenter Engineering Works—a very rich man who had recently taken to politics. He and his wife had only been married a short time.
The Carpenters’ front door was not opened by foreign help, or an aged faithful. An imperturbable manservant opened the door and was loath to admit Hercule Poirot. In his view Hercule Poirot was the kind of caller who is left outside. He clearly suspected that Hercule Poirot had come to sell something.
‘Mr and Mrs Carpenter are not at home.’
‘Perhaps, then, I might wait?’
‘I couldn’t say when they will be in.’
He closed the door.
Poirot did not go down the drive. Instead he walked round the corner of the house and almost collided with a tall young woman in a mink coat.
‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘What the hell do you want?’
Poirot raised his hat with gallantry.
‘I was hoping,’ he said, ‘that I could see Mr or Mrs Carpenter. Have I the pleasure of seeing Mrs Carpenter?’
‘I’m Mrs Carpenter.’
She spoke ungraciously, but there was a faint suggestion of appeasement behind her manner.
‘My name is Hercule Poirot.’
Nothing registered. Not only was the great, the unique name unknown to her, but he thought that she did not even identify him as Maureen Summerhayes’ latest guest. Here, then, the local grape vine did not operate. A small but significant fact, perhaps.
‘Yes?’
‘I demand to see either Mr or Mrs Carpenter, but you, madame, will be the best for my purpose. For what I have to ask is of domestic matters.’
‘We’ve got a Hoover,’ said Mrs Carpenter suspiciously.
Poirot laughed.
‘No, no, you misunderstand. It is only a few questions that I ask about a domestic matter.’
‘Oh, you mean one of these domestic questionnaires. I do think it’s absolutely idiotic—’ She broke off. ‘Perhaps you’d better come inside.’
Poirot smiled faintly. She had just stopped herself from uttering a derogatory comment. With her husband’s political activities, caution in criticizing Government activities was indicated.
She led the way through the hall and into a good-sized room giving on to a carefully tended garden. It was a very new-looking room, a large brocaded suite of sofa and two wing-chairs, three or four reproductions of Chippendale chairs, a bureau, a writing desk. No expense had been spared, the best firms had been employed, and there was absolutely no sign of individual taste. The bride, Poirot thought, had been what? Indifferent? Careful?
He looked at her appraisingly as she turned. An expensive and good-looking young woman. Platinum blonde hair, carefully applied make-up, but something more—wide cornflower blue eyes—eyes with a wide frozen stare in them—beautiful drowned eyes.
She said—graciously now, but concealing boredom:
‘Do sit down.’
He sat. He said:
‘You are most amiable, madame. These questions now that I wish to ask you. They relate to a Mrs McGinty who died—was killed that is to say—last November.’
‘Mrs McGinty? I don’t know what you mean?’
She was glaring at him. Her eyes hard and suspicious.
‘You remember Mrs McGinty?’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about her.’
‘You remember her murder? Or is murder so common here that you do not even notice it?’
‘Oh, the murder? Yes, of course. I’d forgotten what the old woman’s name was.’
‘Although she worked for you in this house?’
‘She didn’t. I wasn’t living here then. Mr Carpenter and I were only married three months ago.’
‘But she did work for you. On Friday mornings, I think it was. You were then Mrs Selkirk and you lived in Rose Cottage.’
She said sulkily:
‘If you know the answers to everything I don’t see why you need to ask questions. Anyway, what’s it all about?’
‘I am making an investigation into the circumstances of the murder.’
‘Why? What on earth for? Anyway, why come to me?’
‘You might know something—that would help me.’
‘I don’t know anything at all. Why should I? She was only a stupid old charwoman. She kept her money under the floor and somebody robbed and murdered her for it. It was quite disgusting—beastly, the whole thing. Like things you read in the Sunday papers.’
Poirot took that up quickly.
‘Like the Sunday papers, yes. Like the Sunday Comet. You read, perhaps, the Sunday Comet?’
She jumped up, and made her way, blunderingly, towards the opened French windows. So uncertainly did she go that she actually collided with the window frame. Poirot was reminded of a beautiful big moth, fluttering blindly against a lamp shade.
She called: ‘Guy—Guy!’
A man’s voice a little way away answered:
‘Eve?’
‘Come here quickly.’
A tall man of about thirty-five came into sight. He quickened his pace and came across the terrace to the window. Eve Carpenter said vehemently:
‘There’s a man here—a foreigner. He’s asking me all sorts of questions about that horrid murder last year. Some old charwoman—you remember? I hate things like that. You know I do.’
Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing-room through the window. He had a long face like a horse, he was pale and looked rather supercilious. His manner was pompous.
Hercule Poirot found him unattractive.
‘May I ask what all this is about?’ he asked. ‘Have you been annoying my wife?’
Hercule Poirot spread out his hands.
‘The last thing I should wish is to annoy so charming a lady. I hoped only that, the deceased woman having worked for her, she might be able to aid me in the investigations I am making.’
‘But—what are these investigations?’
‘Yes, ask him that,’ urged his wife.
‘A fresh inquiry is being made into the circumstances of Mrs McGinty’s death.’
‘Nonsense—the case is over.’
‘No, no, there you are in error. It is not over.’
‘A fresh inquiry, you say?’ Guy Carpenter frowned. He said suspiciously: ‘By the police? Nonsense—you’re nothing to do with the police.’
‘That is correct. I am working independently of the police.’
‘It’s the Press,’ Eve Carpenter broke in. ‘Some horrid Sunday newspaper. He said so.’
A gleam of caution came into Guy Carpenter’s eye. In his position he was not anxious to antagonize the Press. He said, more amicably:
‘My wife is very sensitive. Murders and things like that upset her. I’m sure it can’t be necessary for you to bother her. She hardly knew this woman.’
Eve said vehemently:
‘She was only a stupid old charwoman. I told him so.�
�
She added:
‘And she was a frightful liar, too.’
‘Ah, that is interesting.’ Poirot turned a beaming face from one to the other of them. ‘So she told lies. That may give us a very valuable lead.’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Eve sulkily.
‘The establishment of motive,’ said Poirot. ‘That is the line I am following up.’
‘She was robbed of her savings,’ said Carpenter sharply. ‘That was the motive of the crime.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot softly. ‘But was it?’
He rose like an actor who had just spoken a telling line.
‘I regret if I have caused madame any pain,’ he said politely. ‘These affairs are always rather unpleasant.’
‘The whole business was distressing,’ said Carpenter quickly. ‘Naturally my wife didn’t like being reminded of it. I’m sorry we can’t help you with any information.’
‘Oh, but you have.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Poirot said softly:
‘Mrs McGinty told lies. A valuable fact. What lies, exactly, did she tell, madame?’
He waited politely for Eve Carpenter to speak. She said at last:
‘Oh, nothing particular. I mean—I can’t remember.’
Conscious perhaps, that both men were looking at her expectantly, she said:
‘Stupid things—about people. Things that couldn’t be true.’
Still there was a silence, then Poirot said:
‘I see—she had a dangerous tongue.’
Eve Carpenter made a quick movement.
‘Oh no—I didn’t mean as much as that. She was just a gossip, that was all.’
‘Just a gossip,’ said Poirot softly.
He made a gesture of farewell.
Guy Carpenter accompanied him out into the hall.
‘This paper of yours—this Sunday paper—which is it?’
‘The paper I mentioned to madame,’ replied Poirot carefully, ‘was the Sunday Comet.’
He paused. Guy Carpenter repeated thoughtfully:
‘The Sunday Comet. I don’t very often see that, I’m afraid.’
‘It has interesting articles sometimes. And interesting illustrations…’
Before the pause could be too long, he bowed, and said quickly:
‘Au revoir, Mr Carpenter. I am sorry if I have—disturbed you.’
Outside the gate, he looked back at the house.
‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘Yes, I wonder…’
Chapter 11
Superintendent Spence sat opposite Hercule Poirot and sighed.
‘I’m not saying you haven’t got anything, M. Poirot,’ he said slowly. ‘Personally, I think you have. But it’s thin. It’s terribly thin!’
Poirot nodded.
‘By itself it will not do. There must be more.’
‘My sergeant or I ought to have spotted that newspaper.’
‘No, no, you cannot blame yourself. The crime was so obvious. Robbery with violence. The room all pulled about, the money missing. Why should there be significance to you in a torn newspaper amongst the other confusion.’
Spence repeated obstinately:
‘I should have got that. And the bottle of ink—’
‘I heard of that by the merest chance.’
‘Yet it meant something to you—why?’
‘Only because of that chance phrase about writing a letter. You and I, Spence, we write so many letters—to us it is such a matter of course.’
Superintendent Spence sighed. Then he laid out on the table four photographs.
‘These are the photos you asked me to get—the original photos that the Sunday Comet used. At any rate they’re a little clearer than the reproductions. But upon my word, they’re not much to go upon. Old, faded—and with women the hair-do makes a difference. There’s nothing definite in any of them to go upon like ears or a profile. That cloche hat and that arty hair and the roses! Doesn’t give you a chance.’
‘You agree with me that we can discard Vera Blake?’
‘I should think so. If Vera Blake was in Broadhinny, everyone would know it—telling the sad story of her life seems to have been her speciality.’
‘What can you tell me about the others?’
‘I’ve got what I could for you in the time. Eva Kane left the country after Craig was sentenced. And I can tell you the name she took. It was Hope. Symbolic, perhaps?’
Poirot murmured:
‘Yes, yes—the romantic approach. “Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead.” A line from one of your poets. I dare say she thought of that. Was her name Evelyn, by the way?’
‘Yes, I believe it was. But Eva was what she was known as always. And by the way, M. Poirot, now that we’re on the subject, the police opinion of Eva Kane doesn’t quite square with this article here. Very far from it.’
Poirot smiled.
‘What the police think—it is not evidence. But it is usually a very sound guide. What did the police think of Eva Kane?’
‘That she was by no means the innocent victim that the public thought her. I was quite a young chap at the time and remember hearing it discussed by my old Chief and Inspector Traill who was in charge of the case. Traill believed (no evidence, mind you) that the pretty little idea of putting Mrs Craig out of the way was all Eva Kane’s idea—and that she not only thought of it, but she did it. Craig came home one day and found his little friend had taken a short cut. She thought it would all pass off as natural death, I dare say. But Craig knew better. He got the wind up and disposed of the body in the cellar and elaborated the plan of having Mrs Craig die abroad. Then, when the whole thing came out, he was frantic in his assertions that he’d done it alone, that Eva Kane had known nothing about it. Well,’ Superintendent Spence shrugged his shoulders, ‘nobody could prove anything else. The stuff was in the house. Either of them could have used it. Pretty Eva Kane was all innocence and horror. Very well she did it, too: a clever little actress. Inspector Traill had his doubts—but there was nothing to go upon. I’m giving you that for what it’s worth, M. Poirot. It’s not evidence.’
‘But it suggests the possibility that one, at least, of these “tragic women” was something more than a tragic woman—that she was a murderess and that, if the incentive was strong enough, she might murder again…And now the next one, Janice Courtland, what can you tell me about her?’
‘I’ve looked up the files. A nasty bit of goods. If we hanged Edith Thompson we certainly ought to have hanged Janice Courtland. An unpleasant pair, she and her husband, nothing to choose between them, and she worked on that young man until she had him all up in arms. But all the time, mark you, there was a rich man in the background, and it was to marry him she wanted her husband out of the way.’
‘Did she marry him?’
Spence shook his head.
‘No idea.’
‘She went abroad—and then?’
Spence shook his head.
‘She was a free woman. She’d not been charged with anything. Whether she married, or what happened to her, we don’t know.’
‘One might meet her at a cocktail party any day,’ said Poirot, thinking of Dr Rendell’s remark.
‘Exactly.’
Poirot shifted his gaze to the last photograph.
‘And the child? Lily Gamboll?’
‘Too young to be charged with murder. She was sent to an approved school. Good record there. Was taught shorthand and typing and was found a job under probation. Did well. Last heard of in Ireland. I think we could wash her out, you know, M. Poirot, same as Vera Blake. After all, she’d made good, and people don’t hold it against a kid of twelve for doing something in a fit of temper. What about washing her out?’
‘I might,’ said Poirot, ‘if it were not for the chopper. It is undeniable that Lily Gamboll used a chopper on her aunt, and the unknown killer of Mrs McGinty used something that was said to be like a chopper.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. Now, M. Poi
rot, let’s have your side of things. Nobody’s tried to do you in, I’m glad to see.’
‘N-no,’ said Poirot, with a momentary hesitation.
‘I don’t mind telling you I’ve had the wind up about you once or twice since that evening in London. Now what are the possibilities amongst the residents of Broadhinny?’
Poirot opened his little notebook.
‘Eva Kane, if she is still alive, would be now approaching sixty. Her daughter, of whose adult life our Sunday Comet paints such a touching picture, would be now in the thirties. Lily Gamboll would also be about that age. Janice Courtland would now be not far short of fifty.’
Spence nodded agreement.
‘So we come to the residents of Broadhinny, with especial reference to those for whom Mrs McGinty worked.’
‘That last is a fair assumption, I think.’
‘Yes, it is complicated by the fact that Mrs McGinty did occasional odd work here and there, but we will assume for the time being that she saw whatever she did see, presumably a photograph, at one of her regular “houses”.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Then as far as age goes, that gives us as possibles—first the Wetherbys where Mrs McGinty worked on the day of her death. Mrs Wetherby is the right age for Eva Kane and she has a daughter of the right age to be Eva Kane’s daughter—a daughter said to be by a previous marriage.’
‘And as regards the photograph?’
‘Mon cher, no positive identification from that is possible. Too much time has passed, too much water, as you say, has flowed from the waterworks. One can but say this: Mrs Wetherby has been, decidedly, a pretty woman. She has all the mannerisms of one. She seems much too fragile and helpless to do murder, but then that was, I understand, the popular belief about Eva Kane. How much actual physical strength would have been needed to kill Mrs McGinty is difficult to say without knowing exactly what weapon was used, its handle, the ease with which it could be swung, the sharpness of its cutting edge, etcetera.’
‘Yes, yes. Why we never managed to find that—but go on.’
‘The only other remarks I have to make about the Wetherby household are that Mr Wetherby could make himself, and I fancy does make himself, very unpleasant if he likes. The daughter is fanatically devoted to her mother. She hates her stepfather. I do not remark on these facts. I present them, only for consideration. Daughter might kill to prevent mother’s past coming to stepfather’s ears. Mother might kill for same reason. Father might kill to prevent “scandal” coming out. More murders have been committed for respectability than one would believe possible! The Wetherbys are “nice people”.’
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