Mrs McGinty's Dead hp-28

by Agatha Christie

  "I am Hercule Poirot," said Poirot with his usual embarrassed air of announcing a royal title.

  Mr Wetherby seemed unimpressed.

  He said "Ah," and turned to hang up his coat.

  Deirdre said:

  "He came to ask about Mrs McGinty."

  Mr Wetherby remained still for a second, then he finished his adjustment of the coat on the peg.

  "That seems to me rather remarkable," he said. "The woman met her death some months ago and, although she worked here, we have no information concerning her or her family. If we had done we should already have given it to the police."

  There was finality in his tone. He glanced at his watch.

  "Lunch, I presume, will be ready in a quarter of an hour."

  "I'm afraid it may be rather late today."

  Mr Wetherby's eyebrows rose again.

  "Indeed? Why, may I ask?"

  "Frieda has been rather busy."

  "My dear Deirdre, I hate to remind you, but the task of running the household devolves on you. I should appreciate a little more punctuality."

  Poirot opened the front door and let himself out. He glanced over his shoulder.

  There was cold dislike in the gaze that Mr Wetherby gave his stepdaughter. There was something very like hate in the eyes that looked back at him.

  Chapter 10

  Poirot left his third call until after luncheon. Luncheon was under-stewed oxtail, watery potatoes, and what Maureen hoped optimistically might turn out to be pancakes. They were very peculiar.

  Poirot walked slowly up the hill. Presently, on his right, he would come to Laburnums, two cottages knocked into one and remodelled to modern taste. Here lived Mrs Upward and that promising young playwright, Robin Upward.

  Poirot paused a moment at the gate to pass a hand over his moustaches. As he did so a car came twisting slowly down the hill and an apple core directed with force struck him on the cheek.

  Startled, Poirot let out a yelp of protest. The car halted and a head came through the window.

  "I'm so sorry. Did I hit you?"

  Poirot paused in the act of replying. He looked at the rather noble face, the massive brow, the untidy billows of grey hair and a chord of memory stirred. The apple core, too, assisted his memory.

  "But surely," he exclaimed, "it is Mrs Oliver."

  It was indeed, that celebrated detective-story writer.

  Exclaiming "Why, it's M. Poirot," the authoress attempted to extract herself from the car. It was a small car and Mrs Oliver was a large woman. Poirot hastened to assist.

  Murmuring in an explanatory voice, "Stiff after the long drive," Mrs Oliver suddenly arrived out on the road rather in the manner of a volcanic eruption.

  Large quantities of apples came, too, and rolled merrily down the hill.

  "Bag's burst," explained Mrs Oliver.

  She brushed a few stray pieces of half-consumed apple from the jutting shelf of her bust and then shook herself rather like a large Newfoundland dog. A last apple, concealed in the recesses of her person, joined its brothers and sisters.

  "Pity the bag burst," said Mrs Oliver. "They were Cox's. Still I suppose there will be lots of apples down here in the country. Or aren't there? Perhaps they all get sent away. Things are so odd nowadays, I find. Well, how are you, M. Poirot? You don't live here, do you? No, I'm sure you don't. Then I suppose it's murder? Not my hostess, I hope?"

  "Who is your hostess?"

  "In there," said Mrs Oliver, nodding her head. "That's to say if that's a house called Laburnums, half-way down the hill on the left after you pass the church. Yes, that must be it. What's she like?"

  "You do not know her?"

  "No, I've come down professionally, so to speak. A book of mine is being dramatised – by Robin Upward. We're supposed to sort of get together over it."

  "My felicitations, madame."

  "It's not like that at all," said Mrs Oliver. "So far it's pure agony. Why I ever let myself in for it I don't know. My books bring me in quite enough money – that is to say the blood-suckers take most of it, and if I made more, they'd take more, so I don't overstrain myself. But you've no idea of the agony of having your characters taken and made to say things that they never would have said, and do things that they never would have done. And if you protest, all they say is that it's 'good theatre.' That's all Robin Upward thinks of. Everyone says he's very clever. If he's so clever I don't see why he doesn't write a play of his own and leave my poor unfortunate Finn alone. He's not even a Finn any longer. He's become a member of the Norwegian Resistance movement." She ran her hands through her hair. "What have I done with my hat?"

  Poirot looked into the car.

  "I think madame, that you must have been sitting on it."

  "It does look like it," agreed Mrs Oliver, surveying the wreckage. "Oh well," she continued cheerfully, "I never mind it much. But I thought I might have to go to church on Sunday, and although the Archbishop has said one needn't, I still think that the more old-fashioned clergy expect one to wear a hat. But tell me about your murder or whatever it is. Do you remember our murder?"

  "Very well indeed."

  "Rather fun, wasn't it? Not the actual murder – I didn't like that at all. But afterwards. Who is it this time?"

  "Not so picturesque a person as Mr Shaitana. An elderly charwoman who was robbed and murdered five months ago. You may have read about it. Mrs McGinty. A young man was convicted and sentenced to death -"

  "And he didn't do it, but you know who did, and you're going to prove it," said Mrs Oliver rapidly. "Splendid."

  "You go too fast," said Poirot with a sigh. "I do not yet know who did it – and from there it will be a long way to prove it."

  "Men are so slow," said Mrs Oliver disparagingly. "I'll soon tell you who did it. Someone down here, I suppose? Give me a day or two to look round, and I'll spot the murderer. A woman's intuition – that's what you need. I was quite right over the Shaitana case, wasn't I?"

  Poirot gallantly forebore to remind Mrs Oliver of her rapid changes of suspicion on that occasion.

  "You men," said Mrs Oliver indulgently. "Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard -"

  She left this well worn theme hanging in the air as a voice hailed them from the door of the cottage.

  "Hullo," said the voice, an agreeable light tenor. "Is that Mrs Oliver?"

  "Here I am," called Mrs Oliver. To Poirot she murmured: "Don't worry. I'll be very discreet."

  "No, no, madame. I do not want you to be discreet. On the contrary."

  Robin Upward came down the path and through the gate.

  He was bareheaded and wore very old grey flannel trousers and a disreputable sports coat. But for a tendency to embonpoint, he would have been good looking.

  "Ariadne, my precious!" he exclaimed and embraced her warmly.

  He stood away, his hands on her shoulders.

  "My dear, I've had the most marvelous idea for the second act."

  "Have you?" said Mm. Oliver without enthusiasm. "This is M. Hercule Poirot."

  "Splendid," said Robin. "Have you got any luggage?"

  "Yes, it's in the back."

  Robin hauled out a couple of suitcases.

  "Such a bore," he said. "We've no proper servants. Only old Janet. And we have to spare her all the time. That's such a nuisance don't you think? How heavy your cases are. Have you got bombs in them?"

  He staggered up the path, calling out over his shoulder:

  "Come in and have a drink."

  "He means you," said Mrs Oliver, removing her hand-bag, a book, and a pair of old shoes from the front seat. "Did you actually say just now that you wanted me to be indiscreet?"

  "The more indiscreet the better."

  "I shouldn't tackle it that way myself," said Mrs Oliver, "but it's your murder. I'll help all I can."

  Robin reappeared at the front door.

  "Come in, come in," he called. "We'll see about the car later. Madre is dying to meet you."

  Mrs
Oliver swept up the path and Hercule Poirot followed her.

  The interior of Laburnums was charming. Poirot guessed that a very large sum of money had been spent on it, but the result was an expensive and charming simplicity. Each small piece of cottage oak was a genuine piece.

  In a wheeled chair by the fireplace of the living-room Laura Upward smiled a welcome. She was a vigorous-looking woman of sixty-odd, with iron-grey hair and a determined chin.

  "I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs Oliver," she said. "I expect you hate people talking to you about your books, but they've been an enormous solace to me for years – and especially since I've been such a cripple."

  "That's very nice of you," said Mrs Oliver, looking uncomfortable and twisting her hands in a schoolgirlish way.

  "Oh, this is M. Poirot, a old friend of mine. We met by chance just outside here. Actually I hit him with an apple core. Like William Tell – only the other way about."

  "How d'you do, M. Poirot. Robin."

  "Yes, Madre?"

  "Get some drinks. Where are the cigarettes?"

  "On that table."

  Mrs Upward asked: "Are you a writer, too, M. Poirot?"

  "Oh, no," said Mrs Oliver. "He's a detective. You know. The Sherlock Holmes kind – deerstalkers and violins and all that. And he's come here to solve a murder."

  There was a faint tinkle of broken glass. Mrs Upward said sharply: "Robin, do be careful." To Poirot she said: "That's very interesting, M. Poirot."

  "So Maureen Summerhayes was right," exclaimed Robin. "She told me some long rigmarole about having a detective on the premises. She seemed to think it frightfully funny. But it's really quite serious, isn't it?"

  "Of course it's serious," said Mrs Oliver. "You've got a criminal in your midst."

  "Yes, but look here, who's been murdered? Or is it someone that's been dug up and it's all frightfully hush hush?"

  "It is not hush hush," said Poirot. "The murder, you know about it already."

  "Mrs Mc – something – a charwoman – last autumn," said Mrs Oliver.

  "Oh!" Robin Upward sounded disappointed. "But that's all over."

  "It's not over at all," said Mrs Oliver. "They arrested the wrong man, and he'll be hanged if M. Poirot doesn't find the real murderer in time. It's all frightfully exciting."

  Robin apportioned the drinks.

  "White Lady for you, Madre."

  "Thank you, my dear boy."

  Poirot frowned slightly. Robin handed drinks to Mrs Oliver and to him.

  "Well," said Robin, "here's to crime."

  He drank.

  "She used to work here," he said.

  "Mrs McGinty?" asked Mrs Oliver.

  "Yes. Didn't she, Madre?"

  "When you say work here, she came one day a week."

  "And odd afternoons sometimes."

  "What was she like?" asked Mrs Oliver.

  "Terribly respectable," said Robin. "And maddeningly tidy. She had a ghastly way of tidying up everything and putting things into drawers so that you simply couldn't guess where they were."

  Mrs Upward said with a certain grim humour:

  "If somebody didn't tidy things away at least one day a week, you soon wouldn't be able to move in this small house."

  "I know, Madre, I know. But unless things are left where I put them, I simply can't work at all. My notes get all disarranged."

  "It's annoying to be as helpless as I am," said Mrs Upward. "We have a faithful old maid, but it's all she can manage just to do a little simple cooking."

  "What is it?" asked Mrs Oliver. "Arthritis?"

  "Some form of it. I shall have to have a permanent nurse-companion soon, I'm afraid. Such a bore. I like being independent."

  "Now, darling," said Robin. "Don't work yourself up."

  He patted her arm.

  She smiled at him with sudden tenderness.

  "Robin's as good as a daughter to me," she said. "He does everything – and thinks of everything. No one could be more considerate."

  They smiled at each other.

  Hercule Poirot rose.

  "Alas," he said. "I must go. I have another call to make and then a train to catch. Madame, I thank you for your hospitality. Mr Upward, I wish all success to the play."

  "And all success to you with your murder," said Mrs Oliver.

  "Is this really serious, M. Poirot?" asked Robin Upward. "Or is it a terrific hoax?"

  "Of course it isn't a hoax," said Mrs Oliver. "It's deadly serious. He won't tell me who the murderer is, but he knows, don't you?"

  "No, no, madame," Poirot's protest was just sufficiently unconvincing. "I told you that as yet, no, I do not know."

  "That's what you said, but I think you do know really. But you're so frightfully secretive, aren't you?"

  Mrs Upward said sharply:

  "Is this really true? It's not a joke?"

  "It is not a joke, madame," said Poirot.

  He bowed and departed.

  As he went down the path he heard Robin Upward's clear tenor voice:

  "But Ariadne, darling," he said, "it's all very well, but with that moustache and everything, how can one take him seriously? Do you really mean he's good?"

  Poirot smiled to himself. Good indeed!

  About to cross the narrow lane, he jumped back just in time.

  The Summerhayes' station wagon, lurching and bumping, came racing past him. Summerhayes was driving.

  "Sorry," he called. "Got to catch train." And faintly from the distance: " Covent Garden…"

  Poirot also intended to take a train – the local train to Kilchester, where he had arranged a conference with Superintendent Spence.

  He had time, before catching it, for just one last call.

  He went to the top of the hill and through gates and up a well-kept drive to a modern house of frosted concrete with a square roof and a good deal of window. This was the home of Mr and Mrs Carpenter. Guy Carpenter was a partner in the big Carpenter Engineering Works – a very rich man who had recently taken to politics. He and his wife had only been married a short time.

  The Carpenters' front door was not opened by foreign help, or an aged faithful. An imperturbable manservant opened the door and was loath to admit Hercule Poirot. In his view Hercule Poirot was the kind of caller who is left outside. He clearly suspected that Hercule Poirot had come to sell something.

  "Mr and Mrs Carpenter are not at home."

  "Perhaps, then, I might wait?"

  "I couldn't say when they will be in."

  He closed the door.

  Poirot did not go down the drive. Instead he walked round the corner of the house and almost collided with a tall young woman in a mink coat.

  "Hullo," she said. "What the hell do you want?"

  Poirot raised his hat with gallantry.

  "I was hoping," he said," that I could see Mr or Mrs Carpenter. Have I the pleasure of seeing Mrs Carpenter?"

  "I'm Mrs Carpenter."

  She spoke ungraciously, but there was a faint suggestion of appeasement behind her manner.

  "My name is Hercule Poirot."

  Nothing registered. Not only was the great, the unique name unknown to her, but he thought that she did not even identify him as Maureen Summerhayes' latest guest. Here, then, the local grape vine did not operate. A small but significant fact, perhaps.

  "Yes?"

  "I demand to see either Mr or Mrs Carpenter, but you, madame, will be the best for my purpose. For what I have to ask is of domestic matters."

  "We've got a Hoover," said Mrs Carpenter suspiciously.

  Poirot laughed.

  "No, no, you misunderstand. It is only a few questions that I ask about a domestic matter."

  "Oh, you mean one of these domestic questionnaires. I do think it's absolutely idiotic -" She broke off. "Perhaps you'd better come inside."

  Poirot smiled faintly. She had just stopped herself from uttering a derogatory comment. With her husband's political activities, caution in criticising Government activities
was indicated.

  She led the way through the hall and into a good-sized room giving on to a carefully tended garden. It was a very new-looking room, a large brocaded suite of sofa and two wing-chairs, three or four reproductions of Chippendale chairs, a bureau, a writing desk. No expense had been spared, the best firms had been employed, and there was absolutely no sign of individual taste. The bride, Poirot thought, had been what? Indifferent? Careful?

  He looked at her appraisingly as she turned. An expensive and good-looking young woman. Platinum blonde hair, carefully applied make-up, but something more – wide corn-flower blue eyes – eyes with a wide frozen stare in them – beautiful drowned eyes.

  She said – graciously now, but concealing boredom:

  "Do sit down."

  He sat. He said:

  "You are most amiable, madame. These questions now, that I wish to ask you. They relate to a Mrs McGinty who died – was killed that is to say – last November."

  "Mrs McGinty? I don't know what you mean?"

  She was glaring at him. Her eyes hard and suspicions.

  "You remember Mrs McGinty?"

  "No, I don't. I don't know anything about her."

  "You remember her murder? Or is murder so common here that you do not even notice it?"

  "Oh, the murder? Yes, of course. I'd forgotten what the old woman's name was."

  "Although she worked for you in this house?"

  "She didn't. I wasn't living here then. Mr Carpenter and I were only married three months ago."

  "But she did work for you. On Friday mornings, I think it was. You were then Mrs Selkirk and you lived in Rose Cottage."

  She said sulkily:

  "If you know the answers to everything I don't see why you need to ask questions. Anyway, what's it all about?"

  "I am making an investigation into the circumstance of the murder."

  "Why? What on earth for? Anyway, why come to me?"

  "You might know something – that would help me."

  "I don't know anything at all. Why should I? She was only a stupid old charwoman. She kept her money under the floor and somebody robbed and murdered her for it. It was quite disgusting – beastly, the whole thing. Like things you read in the Sunday papers."

  Poirot took that up quickly.

  "Like the Sunday papers, yes. Like the Sunday Companion. You read, perhaps, the Sunday Companion?