‘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. “That 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 Comet 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 recognized 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 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 cl
umsy,’ 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 she 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.’
‘Odd.’
‘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 extraordinary words had come into her head.
She raised herself on her elbow and took the glass.
‘Thank you, Maude,’ she said.
Maude turned and went out of the room.
Mrs Wetherby still felt vaguely upset.
Chapter 22
I
Hercule Poirot took a hired car back to Broadhinny.
He was tired because he had been thinking. Thinking was always exhausting. And his thinking had not been entirely satisfactory. It was as though a pattern, perfectly visible, was woven into a piece of material and yet, although he was holding the piece of material, he could not see what the pattern was.
But it was all there. That was the point. It was all there. Only it was one of those patterns, self-coloured and subtle, that are not easy to perceive.
A little way out of Kilchester his car encountered the Summerhayes’ station wagon coming in the opposite direction. Johnnie was driving and he had a passenger. Poirot hardly noticed them. He was still absorbed in thought.
When he got back to Long Meadows, he went into the drawing-room. He removed a colander full of spinach from the most comfortable chair in the room and sat down. From overhead came the faint drumming of a typewriter. It was Robin Upward, struggling with a play. Three versions he had already torn up, so he told Poirot. Somehow, he couldn’t concentrate.
Robin might feel his mother’s death quite sincerely, but he remained Robin Upward, chiefly interested in himself.
‘Madre,’ he said solemnly, ‘would have wished me to go on with my work.’
Hercule Poirot had heard many people say much the same thing. It was one of the most convenient assumptions, this knowledge of what the dead would wish. The bereaved had never any doubt about their dear ones’ wishes and those wishes usually squared with their own inclinations.
In this case it was probably true. Mrs Upward had had great faith in Robin’s work and had been extremely proud of him.
Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes.
He thought of Mrs Upward. He considered what Mrs Upward had really been like. He remembered a phrase that he had once heard used by a police officer.
‘We’ll take him apart and see what makes him tick.’
What had made Mrs Upward tick?
There was a crash, and Maureen Summerhayes came in. Her hair was flapping madly.
‘I can’t think what’s happened to Johnnie,’ she said. ‘He just went down to the post office with those special orders. He ought to have been back hours ago. I want him to fix the henhouse door.’
A true gentleman, Poirot feared, would have gallantly offered to fix the henhouse door himself. Poirot did not. He wanted to go on thinking about two murders and about the character of Mrs Upward.
‘And I can’t find that Ministry of Agriculture form,’ continued Maureen. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘The spinach is on the sofa,’ Poirot offered helpfully.
Maureen was not worried about spinach.
‘The form came last week,’ she mused. ‘And I must have put it somewhere. Perhaps it was when I was darning that pullover of Johnnie’s.’
She swept over to the bureau and started pulling out the drawers. Most of the contents she swept on to the floor ruthlessly. It was agony to Hercule Poirot to watch her.
Suddenly she uttered a cry of triumph.
‘Got it!’
Delightedly she rushed from the room.
Hercule Poirot sighed and resumed meditation.
To arrange, with order and precision—
He frowned. The untidy heap of objects on the floor by the bureau distracted his mind. What a way to look for things!
Order and method. That was the thing. Order and method.
Though he had turned sideways in his chair, he could still see the confusion on the floor. Sewing things, a pile of socks, letters, knitting wool, magazines, sealing wax, photographs, a pullover—
It was insupportable!
Poirot rose, went across to the bureau and with quick deft movements began to return the objects to the open drawers.
The pullover, the socks, the knitting wool. Then, in the next drawer, the sealing wax, the photographs, the letters.
The telephone rang.
The sharpness of the bell made him jump.
He went across to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
‘’Allo, ’allo, ’allo,’ he said.
The voice that spoke to him was the voice of Superintendent Spence.
‘Ah! it’s you, M. Poirot. Just the man I want.’
Spence’s voice was almost unrecognizable. A very worried man had given place to a confident one.
‘Filling me up with a lot of fandangle about the wrong photograph,’ he said with reproachful indulgence. ‘We’ve got some new evidence. Girl at the post office in Broadhinny. Major Summerhayes just brought her in. It seems she was standing practically opposite the cottage that night and she saw a woman go in. Some time after eight-thirty and before nine o’clock. And it wasn’t Deirdre Henderson. It was a woman with fair hair. That puts us right back where we were—it’s definitely between the two of them—Eve Carpenter and Shelagh Rendell. The only question is—which?’
Poirot opened his mouth but did not speak. Carefully, deliberately, he replaced the receiver on the stand.
He stood there staring unseeingly in front of him.
The telephone
rang again.
‘’Allo! ’Allo! ’Allo!’
‘Can I speak to M. Poirot, please?’
‘Hercule Poirot speaking.’
‘Thought so. Maude Williams here. Post office in a quarter of an hour?’
‘I will be there.’
He replaced the receiver.
He looked down at his feet. Should he change his shoes? His feet ached a little. Ah well—no matter.
Resolutely Poirot clapped on his hat and left the house.
On his way down the hill he was hailed by one of Superintendent Spence’s men just emerging from Laburnums.
‘Morning, M. Poirot.’
Poirot responded politely. He noticed that Sergeant Fletcher was looking excited.
‘The Super sent me over to have a thorough check up,’ he explained. ‘You know—any little thing we might have missed. Never know, do you? We’d been over the desk, of course, but the Super got the idea there might be a secret drawer—must have been reading spy stuff. Well, there wasn’t a secret drawer. But after that I got on to the books. Sometimes people slip a letter into a book they’re reading. You know?’
Poirot said that he knew. ‘And you found something?’ he asked politely.
‘Not a letter or anything of that sort, no. But I found something interesting—at least I think it’s interesting. Look here.’
He unwrapped from a piece of newspaper an old and rather decrepit book.
‘In one of the bookshelves it was. Old book, published years ago. But look here.’ He opened it and showed the flyleaf. Pencilled across it were the words: Evelyn Hope.
‘Interesting, don’t you think? That’s the name, in case you don’t remember—’
‘The name that Eva Kane took when she left England. I do remember,’ said Poirot.
‘Looks as though when Mrs McGinty spotted one of those photos here in Broadhinny, it was our Mrs Upward. Makes it kind of complicated, doesn’t it?’
‘It does,’ said Poirot with feeling. ‘I can assure you that when you go back to Superintendent Spence with this piece of information he will pull out his hair by the roots—yes, assuredly by the roots.’
Mrs McGinty's Dead Page 20
