‘So you do remember?’
‘Well, I’m not sure…But the name…Comic name, isn’t it? McGinty! Yes—atrocious writing and quite illiterate. If I’d only realized…But I’m sure it came from Broadway.’
Poirot said: ‘You say yourself the writing was bad. Broadway and Broadhinny—they could look alike.’
‘Yes—might be so. After all, one wouldn’t be likely to know these queer rural names. McGinty—yes. I do remember definitely. Perhaps the murder fixed the name for me.’
‘Can you remember what she said in her letter?’
‘Something about a photograph. She knew where there was a photograph like in the paper—and would we pay her anything for it and how much?’
‘And you answered?’
‘My dear man, we don’t want anything of that kind. We sent back the standard reply. Polite thanks but nothing doing. But as we sent it to Broadway—I don’t suppose she’d ever get it.’
‘She knew where there was a photograph…’
Into Poirot’s mind there came back a remembrance. Maureen Summerhayes’ careless voice saying, ‘Of course she snooped round a bit.’
Mrs McGinty had snooped. She was honest, but she liked to know about things. And people kept things—foolish, meaningless things from the past. Kept them for sentimental reasons, or just overlooked them and didn’t remember they were there.
Mrs McGinty had seen an old photograph and later she had recognized it reproduced in the Sunday Comet. And she had wondered if there was any money in it…
He rose briskly. ‘Thank you, Miss Horsefall. You will pardon me, but those notes on the cases that you wrote, were they accurate? I notice, for instance, that the year of the Craig trial is given wrongly—it was actually a year later than you say. And in the Courtland case, the husband’s name was Herbert, I seem to remember, not Hubert. Lily Gamboll’s aunt lived in Buckinghamshire, not Berkshire.’
Miss Horsefall waved a cigarette.
‘My dear man. No point in accuracy. Whole thing was a romantic farrago from beginning to end. I just mugged up the facts a bit and then let fly with a lot of hou ha.’
‘What I am trying to say is that even the characters of your heroines are not, perhaps, quite as represented.’
Pamela let out a neighing sound like a horse.
‘’Course they weren’t. What do you think? I’ve no doubt that Eva Kane was a thorough little bitch, and not an injured innocent at all. And as for the Courtland woman, why did she suffer in silence for eight years with a sadistic pervert? Because he was rolling in money, and the romantic boy-friend hadn’t any.’
‘And the tragic child, Lily Gamboll?’
‘I wouldn’t care to have her gambolling about me with a meat chopper.’
Poirot ticked off on his fingers.
‘They left the country—they went to the New World—abroad—“to the Dominions”—“to start a New Life.” And there is nothing to show, is there, that they did not, subsequently, come back to this country?’
‘Not a thing,’ agreed Miss Horsefall. ‘And now—I really must fly—’
Later that night Poirot rang up Spence.
‘I’ve been wondering about you, Poirot. Have you got anything? Anything at all?’
‘I have made my inquiries,’ said Poirot grimly.
‘Yes?’
‘And the result of them is this: The people who live in Broadhinny are all very nice people.’
‘What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?’
‘Oh, my friend, consider. “Very nice people.” That has been, before now, a motive for murder.’
Chapter 9
I
‘All very nice people,’ murmured Poirot as he turned in at the gate of Crossways, near the station.
A brass plate in the doorpost announced that Dr Rendell, M.D., lived there.
Dr Rendell was a large cheerful man of forty. He greeted his guest with definite empressement.
‘Our quiet little village is honoured,’ he said, ‘by the presence of the great Hercule Poirot.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot. He was gratified. ‘You have, then, heard of me?’
‘Of course we have heard of you. Who hasn’t?’
The answer to that would have been damaging to Poirot’s self-esteem. He merely said politely: ‘I am fortunate to find you at home.’
It was not particularly fortunate. It was, on the contrary, astute timing. But Dr Rendell replied heartily:
‘Yes. Just caught me. Surgery in a quarter of an hour. Now what can I do for you? I’m devoured with curiosity to know what you’re doing down here. A rest cure? Or have we crime in our midst?’
‘In the past tense—not the present.’
‘Past? I don’t remember—’
‘Mrs McGinty.’
‘Of course. Of course. I was forgetting. But don’t say you’re concerned with that—at this late date?’
‘If I may mention this to you in confidence, I am employed by the defence. Fresh evidence on which to lodge an appeal.’
Dr Rendell said sharply: ‘But what fresh evidence can there be?’
‘That, alas, I am not at liberty to state—’
‘Oh, quite—please forgive me.’
‘But I have come across certain things which are, I may say—very curious—very—how shall I put it?—suggestive? I came to you, Dr Rendell, because I understand that Mrs McGinty occasionally was employed here.’
‘Oh yes, yes—she was—What about a drink? Sherry? Whisky? You prefer sherry? So do I.’ He brought two glasses and, sitting down by Poirot, he went on: ‘She used to come once a week to do extra cleaning. I’ve got a very good housekeeper—excellent—but the brasses—and scrubbing the kitchen floor—well, my Mrs Scott can’t get down on her knees very well. Mrs McGinty was an excellent worker.’
‘Do you think that she was a truthful person?’
‘Truthful? Well, that’s an odd question. I don’t think I could say—no opportunity of knowing. As far as I know she was quite truthful.’
‘If then she made a statement to anyone, you think that statement would probably be true?’
Dr Rendell looked faintly disturbed.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t like to go as far as that. I really know so little about her. I could ask Mrs Scott. She’d know better.’
‘No, no. It would be better not to do that.’
‘You’re arousing my curiosity,’ said Dr Rendell genially. ‘What was it she was going around saying? Something a bit libellous, was it? Slanderous, I suppose I mean.’
Poirot merely shook his head. He said: ‘You understand, all this is extremely hush hush at present. I am only at the very commencement of my investigation.’
Dr Rendell said rather drily:
‘You’ll have to hurry a bit, won’t you?’
‘You are right. The time at my disposal is short.’
‘I must say you surprise me…We’ve all been quite sure down here that Bentley did it. There didn’t seem any doubt possible.’
‘It seemed an ordinary sordid crime—not very interesting. That is what you would say?’
‘Yes—yes, that sums it up very fairly.’
‘You knew James Bentley?’
‘He came to see me professionally once or twice. He was nervous about his own health. Coddled by his mother, I fancy. One sees that so often. We’ve another case in point here.’
‘Ah, indeed?’
‘Yes. Mrs Upward. Laura Upward. Dotes upon that son of hers. She keeps him well tied to her apron-strings. He’s a clever fellow—not quite as clever as he thinks himself, between you and me—but still definitely talented. By way of being a budding playwright is our Robin.’
‘They have been here long?’
‘Three or four years. Nobody has been in Broadhinny very long. The original village was only a handful of cottages, grouped round Long Meadows. You’re staying there, I understand?’
‘I am,’ said Poirot without undue elation.
Dr Rendell app
eared amused.
‘Guest House indeed,’ he said. ‘What that young woman knows about running a Guest House is just nothing at all. She’s lived in India all her married life with servants running round all over the place. I bet you’re uncomfortable. Nobody ever stays long. As for poor old Summerhayes, he’ll never make anything of this market gardening stunt he’s trying to run. Nice fellow—but not an idea of the commercial life—and the commercial life it’s got to be nowadays if you want to keep your head above water. Don’t run away with the idea that I heal the sick. I’m just a glorified form-filler and signer of certificates. I like the Summerhayes, though. She’s a charming creature, and though Summerhayes has a devilish temper and is inclined to be moody, he’s one of the old gang. Out of the top drawer all right. You should have known old Colonel Summerhayes, a regular tartar, proud as the devil.’
‘That was Major Summerhayes’ father?’
‘Yes. There wasn’t much money when the old boy died and of course there have been death duties to cripple these people, but they’re determined to stick to the old place. One doesn’t know whether to admire them, or whether to say “Silly fools.”’
He looked at his watch.
‘I must not keep you,’ said Poirot.
‘I’ve got a few minutes still. Besides, I’d like you to meet my wife. I can’t think where she is. She was immensely interested to hear you were down here. We’re both very crime-minded. Read a lot about it.’
‘Criminology, fiction, or the Sunday papers?’ asked Poirot smiling.
‘All three.’
‘Do you descend as low as the Sunday Comet?’
Rendell laughed.
‘What would Sunday be without it?’
‘They had some interesting articles about five months ago. One in particular about women who had been involved in murder cases and the tragedy of their lives.’
‘Yes, I remember the one you mean. All a lot of hooey, though.’
‘Ah, you think that?’
‘Well of course the Craig case I only know from reading about it, but one of the others—Courtland case, I can tell you that woman was no tragic innocent. Regular vicious bit of goods. I know because an uncle of mine attended the husband. He was certainly no beauty, but his wife wasn’t much better. She got hold of that young greenhorn and egged him on to murder. Then he goes to prison for manslaughter and she goes off, a rich widow, and marries someone else.’
‘The Sunday Comet did not mention that. Do you remember whom she married?’
Rendell shook his head.
‘Don’t think I ever heard the name, but someone told me that she’d done pretty well for herself.’
‘One wondered in reading the article where those four women were now,’ mused Poirot.
‘I know. One may have met one of them at a party last week. I bet they all keep their past pretty dark. You’d certainly never recognize any of ’em from those photographs. My word, they looked a plain lot.’
The clock chimed and Poirot rose to his feet. ‘I must detain you no longer. You have been most kind.’
‘Not much help, I’m afraid. The mere man barely knows what his charlady looks like. But half a second, you must meet the wife. She’d never forgive me.’
He preceded Poirot out into the hall, calling loudly:
‘Shelagh—Shelagh—’
A faint answer came from upstairs.
‘Come down here. I’ve got something for you.’
A thin fair-haired pale woman ran lightly down the stairs.
‘Here’s M. Hercule Poirot, Shelagh. What do you think of that?’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Rendell appeared to be startled out of speaking. Her very pale blue eyes stared at Poirot apprehensively.
‘Madame,’ said Poirot, bowing over her head in his most foreign manner.
‘We heard that you were here,’ said Shelagh Rendell. ‘But we didn’t know—’ She broke off. Her light eyes went quickly to her husband’s face.
‘It is from him she takes the Greenwich time,’ said Poirot to himself.
He uttered a few florid phrases and took his leave.
An impression remained with him of a genial Dr Rendell and a tongue-tied, apprehensive Mrs Rendell.
So much for the Rendells, where Mrs McGinty had gone to work on Tuesday mornings.
II
Hunter’s Close was a solidly built Victorian house approached by a long untidy drive overgrown with weeds. It had not originally been considered a big house, but was now big enough to be inconvenient domestically.
Poirot inquired of the foreign young woman who opened the door for Mrs Wetherby.
She stared at him and then said: ‘I do not know. Please to come. Miss Henderson perhaps?’
She left him standing in the hall. It was in an estate agent’s phrase ‘fully furnished’—with a good many curios from various parts of the world. Nothing looked very clean or well dusted.
Presently the foreign girl reappeared. She said: ‘Please to come,’ and showed him into a chilly little room with a large desk. On the mantelpiece was a big and rather evil-looking copper coffee pot with an enormous hooked spout like a large hooked nose.
The door opened behind Poirot and a girl came into the room.
‘My mother is lying down,’ she said. ‘Can I do anything for you?’
‘You are Miss Wetherby?’
‘Henderson. Mr Wetherby is my stepfather.’
She was a plain girl of about thirty, large and awkward. She had watchful eyes.
‘I was anxious to hear what you could tell me about Mrs McGinty who used to work here.’
She stared at him.
‘Mrs McGinty? But she’s dead.’
‘I know that,’ said Poirot gently. ‘Nevertheless, I would like to hear about her.’
‘Oh. Is it for insurance or something?’
‘Not for insurance. It is a question of fresh evidence.’
‘Fresh evidence. You mean—her death?’
‘I am engaged,’ said Poirot, ‘by the solicitors for the defence to make an inquiry on James Bentley’s behalf.’
Staring at him, she asked: ‘But didn’t he do it?’
‘The jury thought he did. But juries have been known to make a mistake.’
‘Then it was really someone else who killed her?’
‘It may have been.’
She asked abruptly: ‘Who?’
‘That,’ said Poirot softly, ‘is the question.’
‘I don’t understand at all.’
‘No? But you can tell me something about Mrs McGinty, can’t you?’
She said rather reluctantly:
‘I suppose so…What do you want to know?’
‘Well—to begin with—what did you think of her?’
‘Why—nothing in particular. She was just like anybody else.’
‘Talkative or silent? Curious or reserved? Pleasant or morose? A nice woman, or—not a very nice woman?’
Miss Henderson reflected.
‘She worked well—but she talked a lot. Sometimes she said rather funny things…I didn’t—really—like her very much.’
The door opened and the foreign help said:
‘Miss Deirdre, your mother say: please to bring.’
‘My mother wants me to take this gentleman upstairs to her?’
‘Yes please, thank you.’
Deirdre Henderson looked at Poirot doubtfully.
‘Will you come up to my mother?’
‘But certainly.’
Deirdre led the way across the hall and up the stairs. She said inconsequently: ‘One does get so very tired of foreigners.’
Since her mind was clearly running on her domestic help and not on the visitor, Poirot did not take offence. He reflected that Deirdre Henderson seemed a rather simple young woman—simple to the point of gaucheness.
The room upstairs was crowded with knick-knacks. It was the room of a woman who had travelled a good deal and who had been determined wherever she went to have a s
ouvenir of the place. Most of the souvenirs were clearly made for the delight and exploitation of tourists. There were too many sofas and tables and chairs in the room, too little air and too many draperies—and in the midst of it all was Mrs Wetherby.
Mrs Wetherby seemed a small woman—a pathetic small woman in a large room. That was the effect. But she was not really quite so small as she had decided to appear. The ‘poor little me’ type can achieve its result quite well, even if really of medium height.
She was reclining very comfortably on a sofa and near her were books and some knitting and a glass of orange juice and a box of chocolates. She said brightly:
‘You must forgive me not getting up, but the doctor does so insist on my resting every day, and everyone scolds me if I don’t do what I’m told.’
Poirot took her extended hand and bowed over it with the proper murmur of homage.
Behind him, uncompromising, Deirdre said: ‘He wants to know about Mrs McGinty.’
The delicate hand that had lain passively in his tightened and he was reminded for a moment of the talon of a bird. Not really a piece of delicate Dresden china—a scratchy predatory claw…
Laughing slightly, Mrs Wetherby said:
‘How ridiculous you are, Deirdre darling. Who is Mrs McGinty?’
‘Oh, Mummy—you do remember really. She worked for us. You know, the one who was murdered.’
Mrs Wetherby closed her eyes, and shivered.
‘Don’t, darling. It was all so horrid. I felt nervous for weeks afterwards. Poor old woman, but so stupid to keep money under the floor. She ought to have put it in the bank. Of course I remember all that—I’d just forgotten her name.’
Deirdre said stolidly:
‘He wants to know about her.’
‘Now do sit down, M. Poirot. I’m quite devoured by curiosity. Mrs Rendell just rang up and she said we had a very famous criminologist down here, and she described you. And then, when that idiot Frieda described a visitor, I felt sure it must be you, and I sent down word for you to come up. Now tell me, what is all this?’
‘It is as your daughter says, I want to know about Mrs McGinty. She worked here. She came to you, I understand, on Wednesdays. And it was on a Wednesday she died. So she had been here that day, had she not?’
Mrs McGinty's Dead Page 10
