Mrs McGinty's Dead

by Agatha Christie

  Spence nodded.

  ‘If—I say if—there is anything in this Sunday Comet business, then the Wetherbys are clearly the best bet,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly. The only other person in Broadhinny who would fit in age with Eva Kane is Mrs Upward. There are two arguments against Mrs Upward, as Eva Kane, having killed Mrs McGinty. First, she suffers from arthritis, and spends most of her time in a wheeled chair—’

  ‘In a book,’ said Spence enviously, ‘that wheeled chair business would be phoney, but in real life it’s probably all according to Cocker.’

  ‘Secondly,’ continued Poirot, ‘Mrs Upward seems of a dogmatic and forceful disposition, more inclined to bully than to coax, which does not agree with the accounts of our young Eva. On the other hand, people’s characters do develop and self-assertiveness is a quality that often comes with age.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ conceded Spence. ‘Mrs Upward—not impossible but unlikely. Now the other possibilities. Janice Courtland?’

  ‘Can, I think, be ruled out. There is no one in Broadhinny the right age.’

  ‘Unless one of the younger women is Janice Courtland with her face lifted. Don’t mind me—just my little joke.’

  ‘There are three women of thirty-odd. There is Deirdre Henderson. There is Dr Rendell’s wife, and there is Mrs Guy Carpenter. That is to say, any one of these could be Lily Gamboll or alternatively Eva Kane’s daughter as far as age goes.’

  ‘And as far as possibility goes?’

  Poirot sighed.

  ‘Eva Kane’s daughter may be tall or short, dark or fair—we have no guide to what she looks like. We have considered Deirdre Henderson in that role. Now for the other two. First of all I will tell you this: Mrs Rendell is afraid of something.’

  ‘Afraid of you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘That might be significant,’ said Spence slowly. ‘You’re suggesting that Mrs Rendell might be Eva Kane’s daughter or Lily Gamboll. Is she fair or dark?’

  ‘Fair.’

  ‘Lily Gamboll was a fair-haired child.’

  ‘Mrs Carpenter is also fair-haired. A most expensively made-up young woman. Whether she is actually good-looking or not, she has very remarkable eyes. Lovely wide-open dark-blue eyes.’

  ‘Now, Poirot—’ Spence shook his head at his friend.

  ‘Do you know what she looked like as she ran out of the room to call her husband? I was reminded of a lovely fluttering moth. She blundered into the furniture and stretched her hands out like a blind thing.’

  Spence looked at him indulgently.

  ‘Romantic, that’s what you are, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘You and your lovely fluttering moths and wide-open blue eyes.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Poirot. ‘My friend Hastings, he was romantic and sentimental, me never! Me, I am severely practical. What I am telling you is that if a girl’s claims to beauty depend principally on the loveliness of her eyes, then, no matter how short-sighted she is, she will take off her spectacles and learn to feel her way round even if outlines are blurred and distance hard to judge.’

  And gently, with his forefinger, he tapped the photograph of the child Lily Gamboll in the thick disfiguring spectacles.

  ‘So that’s what you think? Lily Gamboll?’

  ‘No, I speak only of what might be. At the time Mrs McGinty died Mrs Carpenter was not yet Mrs Carpenter. She was a young war widow, very badly off, living in a labourer’s cottage. She was engaged to be married to the rich man of the neighbourhood—a man with political ambitions and a great sense of his own importance. If Guy Carpenter had found out that he was about to marry, say, a child of low origin who had obtained notoriety by hitting her aunt on the head with a chopper, or alternatively the daughter of Craig, one of the most notorious criminals of the century—prominently placed in your Chamber of Horrors— well, one asks would he have gone through with it? You say perhaps, if he loved the girl, yes! But he is not quite that kind of man. I would put him down as selfish, ambitious, and a man very nice in the manner of his reputation. I think that if young Mrs Selkirk, as she was then, was anxious to achieve the match she would have been very very anxious that no hint of an unfortunate nature got to her fiancé’s ears.’

  ‘I see, you think it’s her, do you?’

  ‘I tell you again, mon cher, I do not know. I examine only possibilities. Mrs Carpenter was on her guard against me, watchful, alarmed.’

  ‘That looks bad.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but it is all very difficult. Once I stayed with some friends in the country and they went out to do the shooting. You know the way it goes? One walks with the dogs and the guns, and the dogs, they put up the game—it flies out of the woods, up into the air and you go bang bang. That is like us. It is not only one bird we put up, perhaps, there are other birds in the covert. Birds, perhaps, with which we have nothing to do. But the birds themselves do not know that. We must make very sure, cher ami, which is our bird. During Mrs Carpenter’s widowhood, there may have been indiscretions—no worse than that, but still inconvenient. Certainly there must be some reason why she says to me quickly that Mrs McGinty was a liar!’

  Superintendent Spence rubbed his nose.

  ‘Let’s get this clear, Poirot. What do you really think?’

  ‘What I think does not matter. I must know. And as yet, the dogs have only just gone into the covert.’

  Spence murmured: ‘If we could get anything at all definite. One really suspicious circumstance. As it is, it’s all theory and rather far-fetched theory at that. The whole thing’s thin, you know, as I said. Does anyone really murder for the reasons we’ve been considering?’

  ‘That depends,’ said Poirot. ‘It depends on a lot of family circumstances we do not know. But the passion for respectability is very strong. These are not artists or Bohemians. Very nice people live in Broadhinny. My postmistress said so. And nice people like to preserve their niceness. Years of happy married life, maybe, no suspicion that you were once a notorious figure in one of the most sensational murder trials, no suspicion that your child is the child of a famous murderer. One might say “I would rather die than have my husband know!” Or “I would rather die than have my daughter discover who she is!” And then you would go on to reflect that it would be better, perhaps, if Mrs McGinty died…’

  Spence said quietly:

  ‘So you think it’s the Wetherbys.’

  ‘No. They fit the best, perhaps, but that is all. In actual character, Mrs Upward is a more likely killer than Mrs Wetherby. She has determination and willpower and she fairly dotes on her son. To prevent his learning of what happened before she married his father and settled down to respectable married bliss, I think she might go far.’

  ‘Would it upset him so much?’

  ‘Personally I do not think so. Young Robin has a modern sceptical point of view, is thoroughly selfish, and in any case is less devoted, I should say, to his mother than she to him. He is not another James Bentley.’

  ‘Granting Mrs Upward was Eva Kane, her son Robin wouldn’t kill Mrs McGinty to prevent the fact coming out?’

  ‘Not for a moment, I should say. He would probably capitalize on it. Use the fact for publicity for his plays! I can’t see Robin Upward committing a murder for respectability, or devotion, or in fact for anything but a good solid gain to Robin Upward.’

  Spence sighed. He said: ‘It’s a wide field. We may be able to get something on the past history of these people. But it will take time. The war has complicated things. Records destroyed—endless opportunities for people who want to cover their traces doing so by means of other people’s identity cards, etc., especially after “incidents” when nobody could know which corpse was which! If we could concentrate on just one lot, but you’ve got so many possibles, M. Poirot.’

  ‘We may be able to cut them down soon.’

  Poirot left the superintendent’s office with less cheerfulness in his heart than he had shown in his manner. He was obsessed as Spence was, by the u
rge of time. If only he could have time…

  And farther back still was the one teasing doubt—was the edifice he and Spence had built up really sound? Supposing, after all, that James Bentley was guilty…

  He did not give in to that doubt, but it worried him.

  Again and again he had gone over in his mind the interview he had had with James Bentley. He thought of it now whilst he waited on the platform at Kilchester for his train to come in. It had been market day and the platform was crowded. More crowds were coming in through the barriers.

  Poirot leaned forward to look. Yes, the train was coming at last. Before he could right himself he felt a sudden hard purposeful shove in the small of his back. It was so violent and so unexpected that he was taken completely unawares. In another second he would have fallen on the line under the incoming train, but a man beside him on the platform caught hold of him in the nick of time, pulling him back.

  ‘Why, whatever came over you?’ he demanded. He was a big burly Army sergeant. ‘Taken queer? Man, you were nearly under the train.’

  ‘I thank you. I thank you a thousand times.’ Already the crowd was milling round them, boarding the train, others leaving it.

  ‘All right now? I’ll help you in.’

  Shaken, Poirot subsided on to a seat.

  Useless to say ‘I was pushed,’ but he had been pushed. Up till that very evening he had gone about consciously on his guard, on the alert for danger. But after talking with Spence, after Spence’s bantering inquiry as to whether any attempt on his life had been made, he had insensibly regarded the danger as over or unlikely to materialize.

  But how wrong he had been! Amongst those he had interviewed in Broadhinny one interview had achieved a result. Somebody had been afraid. Somebody had sought to put an end to his dangerous resuscitation of a closed case.

  From a call-box in the station at Broadhinny, Poirot rang up Superintendent Spence.

  ‘It is you, mon ami? Attend, I pray. I have news for you. Splendid news. Somebody has tried to kill me…’

  He listened with satisfaction to the flow of remarks from the other end.

  ‘No, I am not hurt. But it was a very near thing…Yes, under a train. No, I did not see who did it. But be assured, my friend, I shall find out. We know now—that we are on the right track.’

  Chapter 12

  I

  The man who was testing the electric meter passed the time of day with Guy Carpenter’s superior manservant, who was watching him.

  ‘Electricity’s going to operate on a new basis,’ he explained. ‘Graded flat rate according to occupancy.’

  The superior butler remarked sceptically:

  ‘What you mean is it’s going to cost more like everything else.’

  ‘That depends. Fair shares for all, that’s what I say. Did you go in to the meeting at Kilchester last night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your boss, Mr Carpenter, spoke very well, they say. Think he’ll get in?’

  ‘It was a near shave last time, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. A hundred and twenty-five majority, something like that. Do you drive him in to these meetings, or does he drive himself?’

  ‘Usually drives himself. Likes driving. He’s got a Rolls Bentley.’

  ‘Does himself well. Mrs Carpenter drive too?’

  ‘Yes. Drives a lot too fast, in my opinion.’

  ‘Women usually do. Was she at the meeting last night too? Or isn’t she interested in politics?’

  The superior butler grinned.

  ‘Pretends she is, anyway. However, she didn’t stick it out last night. Had a headache or something and left in the middle of the speeches.’

  ‘Ah!’ The electrician peered into the fuse boxes. ‘Nearly done now,’ he remarked. He put a few more desultory questions as he collected his tools and prepared to depart.

  He walked briskly down the drive, but round the corner from the gateway he stopped and made an entry in his pocket book.

  ‘C. Drove home alone last night. Reached home 10.30 (approx.). Could have been at Kilchester Central Station time indicated. Mrs C. left meeting early. Got home only ten minutes before C. Said to have come home by train.’

  It was the second entry in the electrician’s book. The first ran:

  ‘Dr R. Called out on case last night. Direction of Kilchester. Could have been at Kilchester Central Station at time indicated. Mrs R. alone all evening in house(?) After taking coffee in, Mrs Scott, housekeeper, did not see her again that night. Has small car of her own.’

  II

  At Laburnums, collaboration was in process.

  Robin Upward was saying earnestly:

  ‘You do see, don’t you, what a wonderful line that is? And if we really get a feeling of sex antagonism between the chap and the girl it’ll pep the whole thing up enormously!’

  Sadly, Mrs Oliver ran her hands through her windswept grey hair, causing it to look as though swept not by wind but by a tornado.

  ‘You do see what I mean, don’t you, Ariadne darling?’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ said Mrs Oliver gloomily.

  ‘But the main thing is for you to feel really happy about it.’

  Nobody but a really determined self-deceiver could have thought that Mrs Oliver looked happy.

  Robin continued blithely:

  ‘What I feel is, here’s that wonderful young man, parachuted down—’

  Mrs Oliver interrupted:

  ‘He’s sixty.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘I don’t see him like that. Thirty-five—not a day older.’

  ‘But I’ve been writing books about him for thirty years, and he was at least thirty-five in the first one.’

  ‘But, darling, if he’s sixty, you can’t have the tension between him and the girl—what’s her name? Ingrid. I mean, it would make him just a nasty old man!’

  ‘It certainly would.’

  ‘So you see, he must be thirty-five,’ said Robin triumphantly.

  ‘Then he can’t be Sven Hjerson. Just make him a Norwegian young man who’s in the Resistance Movement.’

  ‘But darling Ariadne, the whole point of the play is Sven Hjerson. You’ve got an enormous public who simply adore Sven Hjerson, and who’ll flock to see Sven Hjerson. He’s box office, darling!’

  ‘But people who read my books know what he’s like! You can’t invent an entirely new young man in the Norwegian Resistance Movement and just call him Sven Hjerson.’

  ‘Ariadne darling, I did explain all that. It’s not a book, darling, it’s a play. And we’ve just got to have glamour! And if we get this tension, this antagonism between Sven Hjerson and this—what’s-her-name?—Karen—you know, all against each other and yet really frightfully attracted—’

  ‘Sven Hjerson never cared for women,’ said Mrs Oliver coldly.

  ‘But you can’t have him a pansy, darling. Not for this sort of play. I mean it’s not green bay trees or anything like that. It’s thrills and murders and clean open-air fun.’

  The mention of open air had its effect.

  ‘I think I’m going out,’ said Mrs Oliver abruptly. ‘I need air. I need air badly.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ asked Robin tenderly.

  ‘No, I’d rather go alone.’

  ‘Just as you like, darling. Perhaps you’re right. I’d better go and whip up an egg nog for Madre. The poor sweet is feeling just a teeny weeny bit left out of things. She does like attention, you know. And you’ll think about that scene in the cellar, won’t you? The whole thing is coming really wonderfully well. It’s going to be the most tremendous success. I know it is!’

  Mrs Oliver sighed.

  ‘But the main thing,’ continued Robin, ‘is for you to feel happy about it!’

  Casting a cold look at him, Mrs Oliver threw a showy military cape which she had once bought in Italy about her ample shoulders and went out into Broadhinny.

  She would forget her troubles, she decid
ed, by turning her mind to the elucidation of real crime. Hercule Poirot needed help. She would take a look at the inhabitants of Broadhinny, exercise her woman’s intuition which had never failed, and tell Poirot who the murderer was. Then he would only have to get the necessary evidence.

  Mrs Oliver started her quest by going down the hill to the post office and buying two pounds of apples. During the purchase, she entered into amicable conversation with Mrs Sweetiman.

  Having agreed that the weather was very warm for the time of year, Mrs Oliver remarked that she was staying with Mrs Upward at Laburnums.

  ‘Yes, I know. You’ll be the lady from London that writes the murder books? Three of them I’ve got here now in Penguins.’

  Mrs Oliver cast a glance over the Penguin display. It was slightly overlaid by children’s waders.

  ‘The Affair of the Second Goldfish,’ she mused, ‘that’s quite a good one. The Cat it was Who Died—that’s where I made a blowpipe a foot long and it’s really six feet. Ridiculous that a blowpipe should be that size, but someone wrote from a museum to tell me so. Sometimes I think there are people who only read books in the hope of finding mistakes in them. What’s the other one of them? Oh! Death of a Débutante—that’s frightful tripe! I made sulphonal soluble in water and it isn’t, and the whole thing is wildly impossible from start to finish. At least eight people die before Sven Hjerson gets his brainwave.’

  ‘Very popular they are,’ said Mrs Sweetiman, unmoved by this interesting self-criticism. ‘You wouldn’t believe! I’ve never read any myself, because I don’t really get time for reading.’

  ‘You had a murder of your own down here, didn’t you?’ said Mrs Oliver.

  ‘Yes, last November that was. Almost next door here, as you might say.’