Johnnie Summerhayes nodded. Suppressing an irrelevant feeling of wonder that the unprepossessing Edna could have sufficient sex appeal to attract the attention of two men, he dealt with the practical aspect of the situation.
"She doesn't want to go to Bert Hayling about it," he said with quick comprehension.
"That's right, sir."
Summerhayes reflected rapidly.
"I'm afraid the police have got to know," he said gently.
"That's what I told her, sir," said Mrs Sweetiman.
"But they will probably be quite tactful about – er – the circumstances. Possibly she mayn't have to give evidence. And what she tells them, they'll keep to themselves. I could ring up Spence and ask him to come over here – no, better still, I'll take young Edna into Kilchester with me in my car. If she goes to the police station there, nobody here need know anything about it. I'll just ring them up first and warn them we're coming."
And so, after a brief telephone call, the sniffing Edna, buttoned firmly into her coat and encouraged by a pat on the back from Mrs Sweetiman, stepped into the station wagon and was driven rapidly away in the direction of Kilchester.
Chapter 20
Hercule Poirot was in Superintendent Spence's office in Kilchester. He was leaning back in a chair, his eyes closed and the tips of his fingers just touching each other in front of him.
The Superintendent received some reports, gave instructions to a sergeant, and finally looked across at the other man.
"Getting a brainwave, M. Poirot?" he demanded.
"I reflect," said Poirot. "I review."
"I forgot to ask you. Did you get anything useful from James Bentley when you saw him?"
Poirot shook his head. He frowned.
It was indeed of James Bentley he had been thinking.
It was annoying, thought Poirot with exasperation, that on a case such as this where he had offered his services without reward, solely out of friendship and respect for an upright police officer, that the victim of circumstances should so lack any romantic appeal. A lovely young girl, now, bewildered and innocent, or a fine upstanding young man, also bewildered, but whose "head is bloody but unbowed" thought Poirot, who had been reading a good deal of English poetry in an anthology lately. Instead, he had James Bentley, a pathological case if there ever was one, a self-centred creature who had never thought much of anyone but himself. A man ungrateful for the efforts that were being made to save him – almost, one might say, uninterested in them.
Really, thought Poirot, one might as well let him be hanged since he does not seem to care…
No, he would not go quite as far as that.
Superintendent Spence's voice broke into these reflections.
"Our interview," said Poirot, "was, if I might say so, singularly unproductive. Anything useful that Bentley might have remembered he did not remember – what he did remember is so vague and uncertain that one cannot build upon it. But at any rate it seems fairly certain that Mrs McGinty was excited by the article in the Sunday Companion and spoke about it to Bentley with special reference to 'someone connected with the case,' living in Broadhinny."
"With which case?" asked Superintendent Spence sharply.
"Our friend could not be sure," said Poirot. "He said, rather doubtfully, the Craig case – but the Craig case being the only one he had ever heard of, it would, presumably, be the only one he could remember. But the 'someone' was a woman. He even quoted Mrs McGinty's words. Somebody who had 'not so much to be proud of if all's known.'"
"Proud?"
"Mais oui," Poirot nodded his appreciation. "A suggestive word, is it not?"
"No clue as to who the proud lady was?"
"Bentley suggested Mrs Upward – but as far as I can see for no real reason!"
Spence shook his head.
"Probably because she was a proud masterful sort of woman – outstandingly so, I should say. But it couldn't have been Mrs Upward, because Mrs Upward's dead, and dead for the same reason as Mrs McGinty died – because she recognised a photograph."
Poirot said sadly: "I warned her."
Spence murmured irritably:
"Lily Gamboll! So far as age goes, there are only two possibilities, Mrs Rendell and Mrs Carpenter. I don't count the Henderson girl – she's got a background."
"And the others have not?"
Spence sighed.
"You know what things are nowadays. The war stirred up everyone and everything. The approved school where Lily Gamboll was, and all its records, were destroyed by a direct hit. Then take people. It's the hardest thing in the world to check on people. Take Broadhinny – the only people in Broadhinny we know anything about are the Summerhayes family, who have been there for three hundred years, and Guy Carpenter, who's one of the engineering Carpenters. All the others are – what shall I say – fluid? Dr Rendell's on the Medical Register and we know where he trained and where he's practised, but we don't know his home background. His wife came from near Dublin. Eve Selkirk, as she was before she married Guy Carpenter, was a pretty young war widow. Anyone can be a pretty young war widow. Take the Wetherbys – they seem to have floated round the world, here, there and everywhere. Why? Is there a reason? Did he embezzle from a bank? Or did they occasion a scandal? I don't say we can't dig up about people. We can – but it takes time. The people themselves won't help you."
"Because they have something to conceal – but it need not be murder," said Poirot.
"Exactly. It may be trouble with the law, or it may be a humble origin, or it may be common or garden scandal. But whatever it is, they've taken a lot of pains to cover up – and that makes it difficult to uncover."
"But not impossible."
"Oh no. Not impossible. It just takes time. As I say, if Lily Gamboll is in Broadhinny, she's either Eve Carpenter or Shelagh Rendell. I've questioned them – just routine – that's the way I put it. They say they were both at home – alone. Mrs Carpenter was the wide-eyed innocent, Mrs Rendell was nervous – but then she's a nervous type, you can't go by that."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "She is a nervous type."
He was thinking of Mrs Rendell in the garden at Long Meadows. Mrs Rendell had received an anonymous letter, or so she said. He wondered, as he had wondered before, about that statement.
Spence went on:
"And we have to be careful – because even if one of them's guilty, the other is innocent."
"And Guy Carpenter is a prospective Member of Parliament and an important local figure."
"That wouldn't help him if he was guilty of murder or accessory to it," said Spence grimly.
"I know that. But you have, have you not, to be sure?"
"That's right· Anyway you'll agree, won't you, that it lies between the two of them?"
Poirot sighed.
"No – no – I would not say that. There are other possibilities."
"Such as?"
Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said in a different, almost casual tone of voice:
"Why do people keep photographs?"
"Why? Goodness knows why do people keep all sorts of things – junk – trash, bits and pieces. They do – that's all there is to it!"
"Up to a point I agree with you. Some people keep things. Some people throw everything away as soon as they have done with it. That, yes, it is a matter of temperament. But I speak now especially of photographs. Why do people keep, in particular, photographs?"
"As I say, because they just don't throw things away. Or else because it reminds them -"
Poirot pounced on the words.
"Exactly. It reminds them. Now again we ask – why? Why does a woman keep a photograph of herself when young? And I say that the first reason is, essentially, vanity. She has been a pretty girl and she keeps a photograph of herself to remind her of what a pretty girl she was. It encourages her when her mirror tells her unpalatable things. She says, perhaps, to a friend, 'That was me when I was eighteen…' and she sighs. You agree?"
> "Yes – yes, I should say that's true enough."
"Then that is reason No. 1. Vanity. Now reason No. 2. Sentiment."
"That's the same thing?"
"No, no, not quite. Because this leads you to preserve not only your own photograph but that of someone else. A picture of your married daughter – when she was a child sitting on a hearthrug with tulle round her."
"I've seen some of those," Spence grinned.
"Yes. Very embarrassing to the subject sometimes, but mothers like to do it. And sons and daughters often keep pictures of their mothers, especially, say, if their mother died young. 'This was my mother as a girl.'"
"I'm beginning to see what you're driving at, Poirot."
"And there is, possibly, a third category. Not vanity, not sentiment, not love – perhaps hate – what do you say?"
"Hate?"
"Yes. To keep a desire for revenge alive. Someone who has injured you – you might keep a photograph to remind you, might you not?"
"But surely that doesn't apply in this case?"
"Does it not?"
"What are you thinking of?"
Poirot murmured:
"Newspaper reports are often inaccurate. The Sunday Companion stated that Eva Kane was employed by the Craigs as a nursery governess. Was that actually the case?"
"Yes, it was. But we're working on the assumption that it's Lily Gamboll we're looking for."
Poirot sat up suddenly very straight in his chair. He wagged an imperative forefinger at Spence.
"Look. Look at the photograph of Lily Gamboll. She is not pretty – no! Frankly, with those teeth and those spectacles she is hideously ugly. Then nobody has kept that photograph for the first of our reasons. No woman would keep that photo out of vanity. If Eve Carpenter or Shelagh Rendell, who are both good-looking women, especially Eve Carpenter, had this photograph of themselves, they would tear it in pieces quickly in case somebody should see it!"
"Well, there is something in that."
"So reason No. 1 is out. Now take sentiment. Did anybody love Lily Gamboll at that age? The whole point of Lily Gamboll is that they did not. She was an unwanted and unloved child. The person who liked her best was her aunt, and her aunt died under the chopper. So it was not sentiment that kept this picture. And revenge? Nobody hated her either. Her murdered aunt was a lonely woman without a husband and with no close friends. Nobody had hate for the little slum child – only pity."
"Look here, M. Poirot, what you're saying is that nobody would have kept that photo."
"Exactly – that is the result of my reflections."
"But somebody did. Because Mrs Upward had seen it."
"Had she?"
"Dash it all. It was you who told me. She said so herself."
"Yes, she said so," said Poirot. "But the late Mrs Upward was, in some ways, a secretive woman. She liked to manage things her own way. I showed the photographs, and she recognised one of them. But then, for some reason, she wanted to keep the identification to herself. She wanted, let us say, to deal with a certain situation in the way she fancied. And so, being very quick-witted, she deliberately pointed to the wrong picture. Thereby keeping her knowledge to herself."
"But why?"
"Because, as I say, she wanted to play a lone hand."
"It wouldn't be blackmail? She was an extremely wealthy woman, you know, widow of a North Country manufacturer."
"Oh no, not blackmail. More likely beneficence. We'll say that she quite liked the person in question, and that she didn't want to give their secret away. But nevertheless she was curious. She intended to have a private talk with that person. And whilst doing so, to make up her mind whether or not that person had had anything to do with the death of Mrs McGinty. Something like that."
"Then that leaves the other three photos in?"
"Precisely. Mrs Upward meant to get in touch with the person in question at the first opportunity. That came when her son and Mrs Oliver went over to the Repertory Theatre at Cullenquay."
"And she telephoned to Deirdre Henderson. That puts Deirdre Henderson right back in the picture. And her mother!"
Superintendent Spence shook his head sadly at Poirot.
"You do like to make it difficult, don't you, M. Poirot?" he said.
Chapter 21
Mrs Wetherby walked back home from the post office with a gait surprisingly spry in one habitually reported to be an invalid.
Only when she had entered the front door did she once more shuffle feebly into the drawing-room and collapse on the sofa.
The bell was within reach of her hand and she rang it.
Since nothing happened she rang it again, this time keeping her finger on it for some time.
In due course Maude Williams appeared. She was wearing a flowered overall and had a duster in her hand.
"Did you ring, madam?"
"I rang twice. When I ring I expect someone to come at once. I might be dangerously ill."
"I'm sorry, madam. I was upstairs."
"I know you were. You were in my room. I heard you overhead. And you were pulling the drawers in and out. I can't think why. It's no part of your job to go prying into my things."
"I wasn't prying. I was putting some of the things you left lying about away tidily."
"Nonsense. All you people snoop. And I won't have it. I'm feeling very faint. Is Miss Deirdre in?"
"She took the dog for a walk."
"How stupid. She might know I would need her. Bring me an egg beaten up in milk and add a little brandy. The brandy is on the sideboard in the dining-room."
"There are only just the three eggs for breakfast tomorrow."
"Then someone will have to go without. Hurry, will you? Don't stand there looking at me. And you're wearing far too much make-up. It isn't suitable."
There was a bark in the hall and Deirdre and her Sealyham came in as Maude went out.
"I heard your voice," said Deirdre breathlessly. "What have you been saying to her?"
"Nothing."
"She looked like thunder."
"I put her in her place. Impertinent girl."
"Oh, Mummy darling, must you? It's so difficult to get anyone. And she does cook well."
"I suppose it's of no importance that she's insolent to me! Oh well, I shan't be with you much longer." Mrs Wetherby rolled up her eyes and took some fluttering breaths. "I walked too far," she murmured.
"You oughtn't to have gone out, darling. Why didn't you tell me you were going?"
"I thought some air would do me good. It's so stuffy. It doesn't matter. One doesn't really want to live – not if one's only a trouble to people."
"You're not a trouble, darling. I'd die without you."
"You're a good girl – but I can see how I weary you and get on your nerves."
"You don't – you don't," said Deirdre passionately.
Mrs Wetherby sighed and let her eyelids fall.
"I – can't talk much," she murmured. "I must just lie still."
"I'll hurry up Maude with the egg nog."
Deirdre ran out of the room. In her hurry she caught her elbow on a table and a bronze god bumped to the ground.
"So clumsy," murmured Mrs Wetherby to herself, wincing.
The door opened and Mr Wetherby came in. He stood there for a moment. Mrs Wetherby opened her eyes.
"Oh, it's you, Roger?"
"I wondered what all the noise was in here. It's impossible to read quietly in this house."
"It was just Deirdre, dear. She came in with the dog."
Mr Wetherby stooped and picked up the bronze monstrosity from the floor.
"Surely Deirdre's old enough not to knock things down the whole time."
"She's just rather awkward."
"Well, it's absurd to be awkward at her age. And can't she keep that dog from barking?"
"I'll speak to her, Roger."
"If she makes her home here, she must consider our wishes and not behave as though the house belonged to her."
"Perhaps you'd rather we went away," murmured Mrs Wetherby. Through half closed eyes she watched her husband.
"No, of course not. Of course not. Naturally her home is with us. I only ask for a little more good sense and good manners." He added: "You've been out, Edith?"
"Yes. I just went down to the post office."
"No fresh news about poor Mrs Upward?"
"The police still don't know who it was."
"They seem to be quite hopeless. Any motive? Who gets her money?"
"The son, I suppose."
"Yes – yes, then it really seems as though it must have been one of these tramps. You should tell this girl she's got to be careful about keeping the front door locked. And only to open it on the chain when it gets near dusk. These men are very daring and brutal nowadays."
"Nothing seems to have been taken from Mrs Upward's."
"Not like Mrs McGinty," said Mrs Wetherby.
"Mrs McGinty? Oh! the charwoman. What's Mrs McGinty got to do with Mrs Upward?"
"She did work for her, Roger."
"Don't be silly, Edith."
Mrs Wetherby closed her eyes again. As Mr Wetherby went out of the room she smiled to herself.
She opened her eyes with a start to find Maude standing over her, holding a glass.
"Your egg nog, madam," said Maude.
Her voice was loud and clear. It echoed too resonantly in the deadened house.
Mrs Wetherby looked up with a vague feeling of alarm.
How tall and unbending the girl was. She stood over Mrs Wetherby like – "like a figure of doom," Mrs Wetherby thought to herself – and then wondered why such ordinary words had come into her head.
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