She jumped up, and made her way, blunderingly, towards the opened french windows. So uncertainly did she go that she actually collided with the window frame. Poirot was reminded of a beautiful big moth, fluttering blindly against a lamp shade.
She called: "Guy – Guy!"
A man's voice a little way away answered:
"Eve?"
"Come here quickly."
A tall man of about thirty-five came into sight. He quickened his pace and came across the terrace to the window. Eve Carpenter said vehemently:
"There's a man here – a foreigner. He's asking me all sorts of questions about that horrid murder last year. Some old charwoman – you remember? I hate things like that. You know I do."
Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing-room through the window. He had a long face like a horse, he was pale and looked rather supercilious. His manner was pompous.
Hercule Poirot found him unattractive.
"May I ask what all this is about?" he asked. "Have you been annoying my wife?"
Hercule Poirot spread out his hands.
"The last thing I should wish is to annoy so charming a lady. I hoped only that, the deceased woman having worked for her, she might be able to aid me in the investigations I am making."
"But – what are these investigations?"
"Yes, ask him that," urged has wife.
"A fresh inquiry is being made into the circumstances of Mrs McGinty's death."
"Nonsense – the case is over."
"No, no, there you are in error. It is not over."
"A fresh inquiry, you say?" Guy Carpenter frowned. He said suspiciously: "By the police? Nonsense – you're nothing to do with the police."
"That is correct. I am working independently of the police."
"It's the Press," Eve Carpenter broke in. "Some horrid Sunday newspaper. He said so."
A gleam of caution came into Guy Carpenter's eye. In his position he was not anxious to antagonise the Press. He said, more amicably:
"My wife is very sensitive. Murders and things like that upset her. I'm sure it can't be necessary for you to bother her. She hardly knew this woman."
Eve said vehemently:
"She was only a stupid old charwoman. I told him so."
She added:
"And she was a frightful liar, too."
"Ah, that is interesting." Poirot turned a beaming face from one to the other of them. "So she told lies. That may give us a very valuable lead."
"I don't see how," said Eve sulkily.
"The establishment of motive," said Poirot. "That is the line I am following up."
"She was robbed of her savings," said Carpenter sharply. "That was the motive of the crime."
"Ah," said Poirot softly. "But was it?"
He rose like an actor who had just spoken a telling line.
"I regret if I have caused madame any pain," he said politely. "These affairs are always rather unpleasant."
"The whole business was distressing," said Carpenter quickly. "Naturally my wife didn't like being reminded of it. I'm sorry we can't help you with any information."
"Oh, but you have."
"I beg your pardon?"
Poirot said softly:
"Mrs McGinty told lies. A valuable fact. What lies, exactly, did she tell, madame?"
He waited politely for Eve Carpenter to speak. She said at last:
"Oh, nothing particular. I mean – I can't remember."
Conscious perhaps, that both men were looking at her expectantly, she said:
"Stupid things – about people. Things that couldn't be true."
Still there was a silence, then Poirot said:
"I see – she had a dangerous tongue."
Eve Carpenter made a quick movement.
"Oh no – I didn't mean as much as that. She was just a gossip, that was all."
"Just a gossip," said Poirot softly.
He made a gesture of farewell.
Guy Carpenter accompanied him out into the hall.
"This paper of yours – this Sunday paper – which is it?"
"The paper I mentioned to madame," replied Poirot carefully, "was the Sunday Companion."
He paused. Guy Carpenter repeated thoughtfully:
"The Sunday Companion. I don't very often see that, I'm afraid."
"It has interesting articles sometimes. And interesting illustrations…"
Before the pause could be too long, he bowed, and said quickly:
"Au revoir, Mr Carpenter. I am sorry if I have – disturbed you."
Outside the gate, he looked back at the house.
"I wonder," he said. "Yes, I wonder…"
Chapter 11
Superintendent Spence sat opposite Hercule Poirot and sighed.
"I'm not saying you haven't got anything, M. Poirot," he said slowly. "Personally, I think you have. But it's thin. It's terribly thin!"
Poirot nodded.
"By itself it will not do. There must be more."
"My sergeant or I ought to have spotted that newspaper."
"No, no, you cannot blame yourself. The crime was so obvious. Robbery with violence. The room all pulled about, the money missing. Why should there be significance to you in a torn newspaper amongst the other confusion."
Spence repeated obstinately:
"I should have got that. And the bottle of ink -"
"I heard of that by the merest chance."
"Yet it meant something to you – why?"
"Only because of that chance phrase about writing a letter. You and I, Spence, we write so many letters – to us it is such a matter of course."
Superintendent Spence sighed. Then he laid out on the table four photographs.
"These are the photos you asked me to get – the original photos that the Sunday Companion used. At any rate they're a little clearer than the reproductions. But upon my word, they're not much to go upon. Old, faded – and with women the hair-do makes a difference. There's nothing definite in any of them to go upon like ears or a profile. That cloche hat and that arty hair and the roses! Doesn't give you a chance."
"You agree with me that we can discard Vera Blake?"
"I should think so. If Vera Blake was in Broadhinny, everyone would know it – telling the sad story of her life seems to have been her specialty."
"What can you tell me about the others?"
"I've got what I could for you in the time. Eva Kane left the country after Craig was sentenced. And I can tell you the name she took. It was Hope. Symbolic, perhaps?"
Poirot murmured:
"Yes, yes – the romantic approach. 'Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead.' A line from one of your poets. I dare say she thought of that. Was her name Evelyn, by the way?"
"Yes, I believe it was. But Eva was what she was known as always. And by the way, M. Poirot, now that we're on the subject, the police opinion of Eva Kane doesn't quite square with this article here. Very far from it."
Poirot smiled.
"What the police think – it is not evidence. But it is usually a very sound guide. What did the police think of Eva Kane?"
"That she was by no means the innocent victim that the public thought her. I was quite a young chap at the time and remember hearing it discussed by my old Chief and Inspector Traill who was in charge of the case. Traill believed (no evidence, mind you) that the pretty little idea of putting Mrs Craig out of the way was all Eva Kane's idea – and that she not only thought of it, but she did it. Craig came home one day and found his little friend had taken a short cut. She thought it would all pass off as natural death, I dare say. But Craig knew better. He got the wind up and disposed of the body in the cellar and elaborated the plan of having Mrs Craig die abroad. Then, when the whole thing came out, he was frantic in his asseverations that he'd done it alone, that Eva Kane had known nothing about it. Well," Superintendent Spence shrugged his shoulders, "nobody could prove anything else. The stuff was in the house. Either of them could have used it. Pretty Eva Kane was all inno
cence and horror. Very well she did it, too: a clever little actress. Inspector Traill had his doubts – but there was nothing to go upon. I'm giving you that for what it's worth, M. Poirot. It's not evidence."
"But it suggests the possibility that one, at least, of these 'tragic women' was something more than a tragic woman – that she was a murderess and that, if the incentive was strong enough, she might murder again… And now the next one, Janice Courtland, what can you tell me about her?"
"I've looked up the files. A nasty bit of goods. If we hanged Edith Thompson we certainly ought to have hanged Janice Courtland. An unpleasant pair, she and her husband, nothing to choose between them, and she worked on that young man until she had him all up in arms. But all the time, mark you, there was a rich man in the background, and it was to marry him she wanted her husband out of the way."
"Did she marry him?"
Spence shook his head.
"No idea."
"She went abroad – and then?"
Spence shook his head.
"She was a free woman. She'd not been charged with anything. Whether she married, or what happened to her, we don't know."
"One might meet her at a cocktail party any day," said Poirot, thinking of Dr Rendell's remark.
"Exactly."
Poirot shifted his gaze to the last photograph.
"And the child? Lily Gamboll?"
"Too young to be charged with murder. She was sent to an approved school. Good record there. Was taught shorthand and typing and was found a job under probation. Did well. Last heard of in Ireland. I think we could wash her out, you know, M. Poirot, same as Vera Blake. After all, she'd made good, and people don't hold it against a kid of twelve for doing something in a fit of temper. What about washing her out?"
"I might," said Poirot, "if it were not for the chopper. It is undeniable that Lily Gamboll used a chopper on her aunt, and the unknown killer of Mrs McGinty used something that was said to be like a chopper."
"Perhaps you're right. Now, M. Poirot, let's have your side of things. Nobody's tried to do you in, I'm glad to see."
"N-no," said Poirot, with a momentary hesitation.
"I don't mind telling you I've had the wind up about you once or twice since that evening in London. Now what are the possibilities amongst the residents of Broadhinny?"
Poirot opened his little notebook.
"Eva Kane, if she is still alive, would be now approaching sixty. Her daughter, of whose adult life our Sunday Companion paints such a touching picture, would be now in the thirties. Lily Gamboll would also be about that age. Janice Courtland would now be not far short of fifty."
Spence nodded agreement.
"So we come to the residents of Broadhinny, with especial reference to those for whom Mrs McGinty worked."
"That last is a fair assumption, I think."
"Yes, it is complicated by the fact that Mrs McGinty did occasional odd work here and there, but we will assume for the time being that she saw whatever she did see, presumably a photograph, at one of her regular 'houses.'"
"Agreed."
"Them as far as age goes, that gives us as possibles – first the Wetherbys where Mrs McGinty worked on the day of her death. Mrs Wetherby is the right age for Eva Kane and she has a daughter of the right age to be Eva Kane's daughter – a daughter said to be by previous marriage."
"And as regards the photograph?"
"Mon cher, no positive identification from that is possible. Too much time has passed, too much water, as you say, has flowed from the waterworks. One can but say this: Mrs Wetherby has been, decidedly, a pretty woman. She has all the mannerisms of one. She seems much too fragile and helpless to do murder, but then that was, I understand, the popular belief about Eva Kane. How much actual physical strength would have been needed to kill Mrs McGinty is difficult to say without knowing exactly what weapon was used, its handle, the ease with which it could be swung, the sharpness of its cutting edge, etcetera."
"Yes, yes. Why we never managed to find that – but go on."
"The only other remarks I have to make about the Wetherby household are that Mr Wetherby could make himself, and I fancy does make himself, very unpleasant if he likes. The daughter is fanatically devoted to her mother. She hates her stepfather. I do not remark on these facts. I present them, only, for consideration. Daughter might kill to prevent mother's past coming to stepfather's ears. Mother might kill for same reason. Father might kill to prevent 'scandal' coming out. More murders have been committed for respectability than one would believe possible! The Wetherbys are 'nice people.'"
Spence nodded.
"If – I say if – there is anything in this Sunday Companion 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 arhritis, and spends most of her time in a wheeled chair -"
"In a book," said Spence enviously, "that wheeled chair business would be phony, 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, was romantic and sentimental, me never! Me, I am severely practical. What I am telling you is that if a girl's claim 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 distances hard to judge."
And gently, with his forefinger, he tapped the photograph of the child, Lily Gamboll in her thick disfiguring spectacles.
"So thats 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 politi
cal 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 attained 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 achieve the match she would have been very very anxious that no hint of an unfortunate nature got her fiance'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, careful, 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 cover. 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 my daughter discover who she is!' And then you would go on to reflect that it would be better, perhaps, if Mrs McGinty died…"
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