Mrs McGinty's Dead

by Agatha Christie

  ‘I hope it won’t be as bad as that,’ said Sergeant Fletcher.

  Poirot did not reply. He went on down the hill. He had ceased to think. Nothing anywhere made sense.

  He went into the post office. Maude Williams was there looking at knitting patterns. Poirot did not speak to her. He went to the stamp counter. When Maude had made her purchase, Mrs Sweetiman came over to him and he bought some stamps. Maude went out of the shop.

  Mrs Sweetiman seemed preoccupied and not talkative. Poirot was able to follow Maude out fairly quickly. He caught her up a short distance along the road and fell into step beside her.

  Mrs Sweetiman, looking out of the post office window, exclaimed to herself disapprovingly. ‘Those foreigners! All the same, every manjack of ’em. Old enough to be her grandfather, he is!’

  II

  ‘Eh bien,’ said Poirot, ‘you have something to tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know that it’s important. There was somebody trying to get in at the window of Mrs Wetherby’s room.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning. She’d gone out, and the girl was out with the dog. Old frozen fish was shut up in his study as usual. I’d have been in the kitchen normally—it faces the other way like the study—but actually it seemed a good opportunity to—you understand?’

  Poirot nodded.

  ‘So I nipped upstairs and into Her Acidity’s bedroom. There was a ladder against the window and a man was fumbling with the window catch. She’s had everything locked and barred since the murder. Never a bit of fresh air. When the man saw me he scuttled down and made off. The ladder was the gardener’s—he’d been cutting back the ivy and had gone to have his elevenses.’

  ‘Who was the man? Can you describe him?’

  ‘I only got the merest glimpse. By the time I got to the window he was down the ladder and gone, and when I first saw him he was against the sun, so I couldn’t see his face.’

  ‘You are sure it was a man?’

  Maude considered.

  ‘Dressed as a man—an old felt hat on. It might have been a woman, of course…’

  ‘It is interesting,’ said Poirot. ‘It is very interesting…Nothing else?’

  ‘Not yet. The junk that old woman keeps! Must be dotty! She came in without me hearing this morning and bawled me out for snooping. I shall be murdering her next. If anyone asks to be murdered that woman does. A really nasty bit of goods.’

  Poirot murmured softly:

  ‘Evelyn Hope…’

  ‘What’s that?’ She spun round on him.

  ‘So you know that name?’

  ‘Why—yes…It’s the name Eva Whatsername took when she went to Australia. It—it was in the paper—the Sunday Comet.’

  ‘The Sunday Comet said many things, but it did not say that. The police found the name written in a book in Mrs Upward’s house.’

  Maude exclaimed:

  ‘Then it was her—and she didn’t die out there…Michael was right.’

  ‘Michael?’

  Maude said abruptly:

  ‘I can’t stop. I’ll be late serving lunch. I’ve got it all in the oven, but it will be getting dried up.’

  She started off at a run. Poirot stood looking after her.

  At the post office window, Mrs Sweetiman, her nose glued to the pane, wondered if that old foreigner had been making suggestions of a certain character…

  III

  Back at Long Meadows, Poirot removed his shoes, and put on a pair of bedroom slippers. They were not chic, not in his opinion comme il faut—but there must be relief.

  He sat down on the easy-chair again and began once more to think. He had by now a lot to think about.

  There were things he had missed—little things.

  The pattern was all there. It only needed cohesion.

  Maureen, glass in hand, talking in a dreamy voice—asking a question…Mrs Oliver’s account of her evening at the Rep. Cecil? Michael? He was almost sure that she had mentioned a Michael—Eva Kane, nursery governess to the Craigs—

  Evelyn Hope…

  Of course! Evelyn Hope!

  Chapter 23

  I

  Eve Carpenter came into the Summerhayes’ house in the casual way that most people did, using any door or window that was convenient.

  She was looking for Hercule Poirot and when she found him she did not beat about the bush.

  ‘Look here,’ she said. ‘You’re a detective, and you’re supposed to be good. All right, I’ll hire you.’

  ‘Suppose I am not for hire. Mon Dieu, I am not a taxicab!’

  ‘You’re a private detective and private detectives get paid, don’t they?’

  ‘It is the custom.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m saying. I’ll pay you. I’ll pay you well.’

  ‘For what? What do you want me to do?’

  Eve Carpenter said sharply:

  ‘Protect me against the police. They’re crazy. They seem to think I killed the Upward woman. And they’re nosing round, asking me all sorts of questions—ferreting out things. I don’t like it. It’s driving me mental.’

  Poirot looked at her. Something of what she said was true. She looked many years older than when he had first seen her a few weeks ago. Circles under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights. There were lines from her mouth to her chin, and her hand, when she lit a cigarette, shook badly.

  ‘You’ve got to stop it,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to.’

  ‘Madame, what can I do?’

  ‘Fend them off somehow or other. Damned cheek! If Guy was a man he’d stop all this. He wouldn’t let them persecute me.’

  ‘And—he does nothing?’

  She said sullenly:

  ‘I’ve not told him. He just talks pompously about giving the police all the assistance possible. It’s all right for him. He was at some ghastly political meeting that night.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was just sitting at home. Listening to the radio actually.’

  ‘But, if you can prove that—’

  ‘How can I prove it? I offered the Crofts a fabulous sum to say they’d been in and out and seen me there—the damned swine refused.’

  ‘That was a very unwise move on your part.’

  ‘I don’t see why. It would have settled the business.’

  ‘You have probably convinced your servants that you did commit the murder.’

  ‘Well—I’d paid Croft anyway for—’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Remember—you want my help.’

  ‘Oh! It was nothing that matters. But Croft took the message from her.’

  ‘From Mrs Upward?’

  ‘Yes. Asking me to go down and see her that night.’

  ‘And you say you didn’t go?’

  ‘Why should I go? Damned dreary old woman. Why should I go and hold her hand? I never dreamed of going for a moment.’

  ‘When did this message come?’

  ‘When I was out. I don’t know exactly when—between five and six, I think. Croft took it.’

  ‘And you gave him money to forget he had taken that message. Why?’

  ‘Don’t be idiotic. I didn’t want to get mixed up in it all.’

  ‘And then you offer him money to give you an alibi? What do you suppose he and his wife think?’

  ‘Who cares what they think?’

  ‘A jury may care,’ said Poirot gravely.

  She stared at him.

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘I am serious.’

  ‘They’d listen to servants—and not to me?’

  Poirot looked at her.

  Such crass rudeness and stupidity! Antagonizing the people who might have been helpful. A short-sighted stupid policy. Short-sighted—

  Such lovely wide blue eyes.

  He said quietly:

  ‘Why don’t you wear glasses, madame? You need them.’

  ‘What? Oh, I do sometimes. I did as a child.’
<
br />   ‘And you had then a plate for your teeth.’

  She stared.

  ‘I did, as a matter of fact. Why all this?’

  ‘The ugly duckling becomes a swan?’

  ‘I was certainly ugly enough.’

  ‘Did your mother think so?’

  She said sharply:

  ‘I don’t remember my mother. What the hell are we talking about anyway? Will you take on the job?’

  ‘I regret I cannot.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’

  ‘Because in this affair I act for James Bentley.’

  ‘James Bentley? Oh, you mean that half-wit who killed the charwoman. What’s he got to do with the Upwards?’

  ‘Perhaps—nothing.’

  ‘Well, then! Is it a question of money? How much?’

  ‘That is your great mistake, madame. You think always in terms of money. You have money and you think that only money counts.’

  ‘I haven’t always had money,’ said Eve Carpenter.

  ‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘I thought not.’ He nodded his head gently. ‘That explains a good deal. It excuses some things…’

  II

  Eve Carpenter went out the way she had come, blundering a little in the light as Poirot remembered her doing before.

  Poirot said softly to himself: ‘Evelyn Hope…’

  So Mrs Upward had rung up both Deirdre Henderson and Evelyn Carpenter. Perhaps she had rung up someone else. Perhaps—

  With a crash Maureen came in.

  ‘It’s my scissors now. Sorry lunch is late. I’ve got three pairs and I can’t find one of them.’

  She rushed over to the bureau and the process with which Poirot was well acquainted was repeated. This time, the objective was attained rather sooner. With a cry of joy, Maureen departed.

  Almost automatically, Poirot stepped over and began to replace the things in the drawer. Sealing wax, notepaper, a work basket, photographs—

  Photographs…

  He stood staring at the photograph he held in his hand.

  Footsteps rushed back along the passage.

  Poirot could move quickly in spite of his age. He had dropped the photograph on the sofa, put a cushion on it, and had himself sat on the cushion, by the time that Maureen re-entered.

  ‘Where the hell’ve I put a colander full of spinach—’

  ‘But it is there, madame.’

  He indicated the colander as it reposed beside him on the sofa.

  ‘So that’s where I left it.’ She snatched it up. ‘Everything’s behind today…’ Her glance took in Hercule Poirot sitting bolt upright.

  ‘What on earth do you want to sit there for? Even on a cushion, it’s the most uncomfortable seat in the room. All the springs are broken.’

  ‘I know, madame. But I am—I am admiring that picture on the wall.’

  Maureen glanced up at the oil painting of a naval officer complete with telescope.

  ‘Yes—it’s good. About the only good thing in the house. We’re not sure that it isn’t a Gainsborough.’ She sighed. ‘Johnnie won’t sell it, though. It’s his great-great and I think a few more greats, grandfather and he went down with his ship or did something frightfully gallant. Johnnie’s terribly proud of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Poirot gently. ‘Yes, he has something to be proud about, your husband!’

  III

  It was three o’clock when Poirot arrived at Dr Rendell’s house.

  He had eaten rabbit stew and spinach and hard potatoes and a rather peculiar pudding, not scorched this time. Instead, ‘The water got in,’ Maureen had explained. He had drunk half a cup of muddy coffee. He did not feel well.

  The door was opened by the elderly housekeeper Mrs Scott, and he asked for Mrs Rendell.

  She was in the drawing-room with the radio on and started up when he was announced.

  He had the same impression of her that he had had the first time he saw her. Wary, on her guard, frightened of him, or frightened of what he represented.

  III

  She seemed paler and more shadowy than she had done. He was almost certain that she was thinner.

  ‘I want to ask you a question, madame.’

  ‘A question? Oh? Oh yes?’

  ‘Did Mrs Upward telephone to you on the day of her death?’

  She stared at him. She nodded.

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Mrs Scott took the message. It was about six o’clock, I think.’

  ‘What was the message? To ask you to go there that evening?’

  ‘Yes. She said that Mrs Oliver and Robin were going into Kilchester and she would be all alone as it was Janet’s night out. Could I come down and keep her company.’

  ‘Was any time suggested?’

  ‘Nine o’clock or after.’

  ‘And you went?’

  ‘I meant to. I really meant to. But I don’t know how it was, I fell fast asleep after dinner that night. It was after ten when I woke up. I thought it was too late.’

  ‘You did not tell the police about Mrs Upward’s call?’

  Her eyes widened. They had a rather innocent child-like stare.

  ‘Ought I to have done? Since I didn’t go, I thought it didn’t matter. Perhaps, even, I felt rather guilty. If I’d gone, she might have been alive now.’ She caught her breath suddenly. ‘Oh, I hope it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Not quite like that,’ said Poirot.

  He paused and then said:

  ‘What are you afraid of, madame?’

  She caught her breath sharply.

  ‘Afraid? I’m not afraid.’

  ‘But you are.’

  ‘What nonsense. What—what should I be afraid of?’

  Poirot paused for a moment before speaking.

  ‘I thought perhaps you might be afraid of me…’

  She didn’t answer. But her eyes widened. Slowly, defiantly, she shook her head.

  Chapter 24

  I

  ‘This way to Bedlam,’ said Spence.

  ‘It is not as bad as that,’ said Poirot soothingly.

  ‘That’s what you say. Every single bit of information that comes in makes things more difficult. Now you tell me that Mrs Upward rang up three women. Asked them to come that evening. Why three? Didn’t she know herself which of them was Lily Gamboll? Or isn’t it a case of Lily Gamboll at all? Take that book with the name of Evelyn Hope in it. It suggests, doesn’t it, that Mrs Upward and Eva Kane are one and the same.’

  ‘Which agrees exactly with James Bentley’s impression of what Mrs McGinty said to him.’

  ‘I thought he wasn’t sure.’

  ‘He was not sure. It would be impossible for James Bentley to be sure of anything. He did not listen properly to what Mrs McGinty was saying. Nevertheless, if James Bentley had an impression that Mrs McGinty was talking about Mrs Upward, it may very well be true. Impressions often are.’

  ‘Our latest information from Australia (it was Australia she went to, by the way, not America) seems to be to the effect that the “Mrs Hope” in question died out there twenty years ago.’

  ‘I have already been told that,’ said Poirot.

  ‘You always know everything, don’t you, Poirot?’

  Poirot took no notice of this gibe. He said:

  ‘At the one end we have “Mrs Hope” deceased in Australia—and at the other?’

  ‘At the other end we have Mrs Upward, the widow of a rich North Country manufacturer. She lived with him near Leeds, and had a son. Soon after the son’s birth, her husband died. The boy was inclined to be tubercular and since her husband’s death she lived mostly abroad.’

  ‘And when does this saga begin?’

  ‘The saga begins four years after Eva Kane left England. Upward met his wife somewhere abroad and brought her home after the marriage.’

  ‘So actually Mrs Upward could be Eva Kane. What was her maiden name?’

  ‘Hargraves, I understand. But what’s in a name?’

  ‘What indeed. Eva Kane, o
r Evelyn Hope, may have died in Australia—but she may have arranged a convenient decease and resuscitated herself as Hargraves and made a wealthy match.’

  ‘It’s all a long time ago,’ said Spence. ‘But supposing that it’s true. Supposing she kept a picture of herself and supposing that Mrs McGinty saw it—then one can only assume that she killed Mrs McGinty.’

  ‘That could be, could it not? Robin Upward was broadcasting that night. Mrs Rendell mentions going to the cottage that evening, remember, and not being able to make herself heard. According to Mrs Sweetiman, Janet Groom told her that Mrs Upward was not really as crippled as she made out.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Poirot, but the fact remains that she herself was killed—after recognizing a photograph. Now you want to make out that the two deaths are not connected.’

  ‘No, no. I do not say that. They are connected all right.’

  ‘I give it up.’

  ‘Evelyn Hope. There is the key to the problem.’

  ‘Evelyn Carpenter? Is that your idea? Not Lily Gamboll—but Eva Kane’s daughter! But surely she wouldn’t kill her own mother.’

  ‘No, no. This is not matricide.’

  ‘What an irritating devil you are, Poirot. You’ll be saying next that Eva Kane and Lily Gamboll, and Janice Courtland and Vera Blake are all living in Broadhinny. All four suspects.’

  ‘We have more than four. Eva Kane was the Craigs’ nursery governess, remember.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Where there is a nursery governess, there must be children—or at least a child. What happened to the Craig children?’

  ‘There was a girl and a boy, I believe. Some relative took them.’

  ‘So there are two more people to take into account. Two people who might have kept a photograph for the third reason I mentioned—revenge.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Spence.

  Poirot sighed.

  ‘It has to be considered, all the same. I think I know the truth—though there is one fact that baffles me utterly.’