Mrs McGinty's Dead hp-28

by Agatha Christie

  Mrs Oliver said consolingly:

  "Perhaps Hercule Poirot will find out the truth."

  "Yes, perhaps -"

  She turned off abruptly into the gateway of Hunter's Close.

  Mrs Oliver looked after her for a moment or two, then drew a small notebook from her handbag. In it she wrote: "Not Deirdre Henderson," and underlined the not so firmly that the pencil broke.

  III

  Half-way up the hill she met Robin Upward coming down it with a handsome platinum-haired young woman.

  Robin introduced them.

  "This is the wonderful Ariadne Oliver, Eve," he said. "My dear, I don't know how she does it. Looks so benevolent, too, doesn't she? Not at all as though she wallowed in crime. This is Eve Carpenter. Her husband is going to be our next Member. The present one, Sir George Cartwright, is quite gaga, poor old man. He jumps out at young girls from behind doors."

  "Robin, you mustn't invent such terrible lies. You'll discredit the Party."

  "Well, why should I care? It isn't my Party. I'm a Liberal. That's the only Party it's possible to belong to nowadays, really small and select, and without a chance of getting in. I adore lost causes."

  He added to Mrs Oliver:

  "Eve wants us to come in for drinks this evening. A sort of Party for you, Ariadne. You know, meet the lion. We're all terribly thrilled to have you here. Can't you put the scene of your next murder in Broadhinny?"

  "Oh do, Mrs Oliver," said Eve Carpenter.

  "You can easily get Sven Hjerson down here," said Robin. "He can be like Hercule Poirot, staying at the Summerhayes' Guest House. We're just going there now because I told Eve Hercule Poirot is just as much a celebrity in his line as you are in yours, and she says she was rather rude to him yesterday, so she's going to ask him to the party too. But seriously, dear, do make your next murder happen in Broadhinny. We'd all be so thrilled."

  "Oh do, Mrs Oliver. It would be such fun," said Eve Carpenter.

  "Who shall we have as murderer and who as victim?" asked Robin.

  "Who's your present charwoman?" asked Mrs Oliver.

  "Oh my dear, not that kind of murder. So dull. No, I think Eve here would make rather a nice victim. Strangled, perhaps, with her own nylon stockings. No, that's been done."

  "I think you'd better be murdered, Robin," said Eve. "The coming playwright, stabbed in country cottage."

  "We haven't settled on a murderer yet," said Robin. "What about my Mamma? Using her wheeled chair so that there wouldn't be footprints. I think that would be lovely."

  "She wouldn't want to stab you, though, Robin."

  Robin considered.

  "No, perhaps not. As a matter of fact I was considering her strangling you. She wouldn't mind doing that half as much."

  "But I want you to be the victim. And the person who kills you can be Deirdre Henderson. The repressed plain girl whom nobody notices."

  "There you are, Ariadne," said Robin. "The whole plot of your next novel presented to you. All you'll have to do is work in a few fake clues, and – of course – do the actual writing. Oh, goodness, what terrible dogs Maureen does have."

  They had turned in at the gate of Long Meadows, and two Irish wolfhounds had rushed forward, barking.

  Maureen Summerhayes came out into the stableyard with a bucket in her hand.

  "Down, Flyn. Come here, Cormic. Hullo. I'm just cleaning out Piggy's stable."

  "We know that, darling," said Robin. "We can smell you, from here. How's Piggy getting along?"

  "We had a terrible fright about him yesterday. He was lying down and he didn't want his breakfast. Johnnie and I read up all the diseases in the Pig Book and couldn't sleep for worrying about him, but this morning he was frightfully well and gay and absolutely charged Johnnie when Johnnie came in with his food. Knocked him flat, as a matter of fact. Johnnie had to go and have a bath."

  "What exciting lives you and Johnnie lead," said Robin.

  Eve said:

  "Will you and Johnnie come in and have drinks with us this evening, Maureen?"

  "Love to."

  "To meet Mrs Oliver," said Robin, "but actually you can meet her now. This is she."

  "Are you really? " said Maureen. "How thrilling! You and Robin are doing a play together, aren't you?"

  "It's coming along splendidly," said Robin. "By the way, Ariadne, I had a brainwave after you went out this morning. About casting."

  "Oh, casting," said Mrs Oliver in a relieved voice.

  "I know just the right person to play Eric. Cecil Leech – he's playing in the Little Rep at Cullenquay. We'll run over and see the show one evening."

  "We want your P.G.," said Eve to Maureen. "Is he about? I want to ask him tonight too."

  "We'll bring him along," said Maureen.

  "I think I'd better ask him myself. As a matter of fact I was a bit rude to him yesterday."

  "Oh! Well, he's somewhere about," said Maureen vaguely. "In the garden, I think – Cormic – Flyn – those damned dogs -"

  She dropped the bucket with a clatter and ran in the direction of the duck pond, whence a furious quacking had arisen.

  Chapter 13

  Mrs Oliver, glass in hand, approached Hercule Poirot towards the end of the Carpenters' party. Up till that moment they had each of them been the centre of an admiring circle. Now that a good deal of gin had been consumed, and the party was going well, there was a tendency for old friends to get together and retail local scandal, and the two outsiders were able to talk to each other.

  "Come out on the terrace," said Mrs Oliver, in a conspirator's whisper.

  At the same time she pressed into his hand a small piece of paper.

  Together they stepped out through the french windows and walked along the terrace. Poirot unfolded the piece of paper.

  "Dr Rendell," he read.

  He looked questioningly at Mrs Oliver. Mrs Oliver nodded vigorously, a large plume of grey hair falling across her face as she did so.

  "He's the murderer," said Mrs Oliver.

  "You think so? Why?"

  "I just know it," said Mrs Oliver. "He's the type. Hearty and genial, and all that."

  "Perhaps."

  Poirot sounded unconvinced.

  "But what would you say was his motive?"

  "Unprofessional conduct," said Mrs Oliver. "And Mrs McGinty knew about it. But whatever the reason was, you can be quite sure it was him. I've looked at all the others, and he's the one."

  In reply, Poirot remarked conversationally:

  "Last night somebody tried to push me on to the railway line at Kilchester station."

  "Good gracious. To kill you, do you mean?"

  "I have no doubt that was the idea."

  "And Dr Rendell was out on a case, I know he was."

  "I understand – yes – that Dr Rendell was out on a case."

  "Then that settles it," said Mrs Oliver with satisfaction.

  "Not quite," said Poirot. "Both Mr and Mrs Carpenter were in Kilchester last night and came home separately. Mrs Rendell may have sat at home all the evening listening to her wireless or she may not – no one can say. Miss Henderson often goes to the pictures in Kilchester."

  "She didn't last night. She was at home. She told me so."

  "You cannot believe all you are told," said Poirot reprovingly. "Families hang together. The foreign maid, Frieda, on the other hand, was at the pictures last night, so she cannot tell us who was or was not at home at Hunter's Close! You see, it is not so easy to narrow things down."

  "I can probably vouch for our lot," said Mrs Oliver. "What time did you say this happened?"

  "At nine thirty-five exactly."

  "Then at any rate Laburnums has got a clean bill of health. From eight o'clock to half-past ten, Robin, his mother, and I were playing poker patience."

  "I thought possibly that you and he were closeted together doing the collaboration?"

  "Leaving Mamma to leap on a motor bicycle concealed in the shrubbery?" Mrs Oliver laughed. "No, Mamma
was under our eye." She sighed as sadder thoughts came to her. "Collaboration," she said bitterly. "The whole thing's a nightmare! How would you like to see a big black moustache stuck on to Superintendent Battle and be told it was you."

  Poirot blinked a little.

  "But it is a nightmare, that suggestion!"

  "Now you know what I suffer."

  "I, too, I suffer," said Poirot. "The cooking of Madame Summerhayes, it is beyond description. It is not cooking at all. And the draughts, the cold winds, the upset stomachs of the cats, the long hairs of the dogs, the broken legs of the chairs, the terrible, terrible bed in which I sleep -" He shut his eyes in remembrance of agonies, "the tepid water in the bathroom, the holes in the stair carpet, and the coffee – words cannot describe to you the fluid which they serve to you as coffee. It is an affront to the stomach."

  "Dear me," said Mrs Oliver. "And yet, you know, she's awfully nice."

  "Mrs Summerhayes? She is charming. She is quite charming. That makes it much more difficult."

  "Here she comes now," said Mrs Oliver.

  Maureen Summerhayes was approaching them.

  There was an ecstatic look on her freckled face. She carried a glass in her hand. She smiled at them both with affection.

  "I think I'm a bit tiddly," she announced. "Such lots of lovely gin. I do like parties! We don't often have one in Broadhinny. It's because of you both being so celebrated. I wish I could write books. The trouble with me is, I can't do anything properly."

  "You are a good wife and mother, madame," said Poirot primly.

  Maureen's eyes opened wide. Attractive hazel eyes in a small freckled face. Mrs Oliver wondered how old she was. Not much more than thirty, she guessed.

  "Am I?" said Maureen. "I wonder. I love them all terribly, but is that enough?"

  Poirot coughed.

  "If you will not think me presumptuous, madame. A wife who truly loves her husband should take great care of his stomach. It is important, the stomach."

  Maureen looked slightly affronted.

  "Johnnie's got a wonderful stomach," she said indignantly. "Absolutely flat. Practically not a stomach at all."

  "I was referring to what is put inside it."

  "You mean my cooking," said Maureen. "I never think it matters much what one eats."

  Poirot groaned.

  "Or what one wears," said Maureen dreamily. "Or what one does. I don't think things matter – not really."

  She was silent for a moment or two, her eyes alcoholically hazy, as though she was looking into the far distance.

  "There was a woman writing in the paper the other day," she said suddenly. "A really stupid letter. Asking what was best to do – to let your child be adopted by someone who could give it every advantage – every advantage, that's what she said – and she meant a good education, and clothes and comfortable surroundings – or whether to keep it when you couldn't give it advantages of any kind. I think that's stupid – really stupid. If you can just give child enough to eat – that's all that matters."

  She stared down into her empty glass as though it were a crystal.

  "I ought to know," she said. "I was an adopted child. My mother parted with me and I had every advantage, as they call it. And it's always hurt – always – always – to know that you weren't really wanted, that your mother could let you go."

  "It was a sacrifice for your good, perhaps," said Poirot.

  Her clear eyes met his.

  "I don't think that's ever true. It's the way they put it to themselves. But what it boils down to is that they can, really, get on without you. And it hurts. I wouldn't give up my children – not for all the advantages in the world!"

  "I think you're quite right," said Mrs Oliver.

  "And I, too, agree," said Poirot.

  "Then that's all right," said Maureen cheerfully. "What are we arguing about?"

  Robin, who had come along the terrace to join them, said:

  "Yes, what are you arguing about?"

  "Adoption," said Maureen. "I don't like being adopted, do you?"

  "Well, it's much better than being an orphan, don't you think so, darling? I think we ought to go now, don't you? Ariadne?"

  The guests left in a body. Dr Rendell had already had to hurry away. They walked down the hill together talking gaily with that extra hilarity that a series of cocktails induces.

  When they reached the gate of Laburnums, Robin insisted that they should all come in.

  "Just to tell Madre all about the party. So boring for her, poor sweet, not to have been able to go because her leg was playing her up. But she so hates being left out of things."

  They surged in cheerfully and Mrs Upward seemed pleased to see them.

  "Who else was there?" she asked. "The Wetherbys?"

  " No, Mrs Wetherby didn't feel well enough, and that Henderson girl wouldn't come without her."

  "She's really rather pathetic, isn't she?" said Shelagh Rendell.

  "I think almost pathological, don't you?" said Robin.

  "It's that mother of hers, said Maureen. "Some mothers really do almost eat their young, don't they?"

  She flushed suddenly as she met Mrs Upward's quizzical eye.

  "Do I devour you, Robin?" Mrs Upward asked.

  "Madre! Of course not!"

  To cover her confusion Maureen hastily plunged into an account of her breeding experiences with Irish wolfhounds. The conversation became technical.

  Mrs Upward said decisively:

  "You can't get away from heredity – in people as well as dogs."

  Shelagh Rendell murmured:

  "Don't you think it's environment?"

  Mrs Upward cut her short.

  "No, my dear, I don't. Environment can give a veneer – no more. It's what's bred in people that counts."

  Hercule Poirot's eyes rested curiously on Shelagh Rendell's flushed face. She said with what seemed unnecessary passion:

  "But that's cruel – unfair."

  Mrs Upward said: "Life is unfair."

  The slow lazy voice of Johnnie Summerhayes joined in.

  "I agree with Mrs Upward. Breeding tells. That's been my creed always."

  Mrs Oliver said questioningly: "You mean things are handed down. Unto the third or fourth generation -"

  Maureen Summerhayes said suddenly in her sweet high voice:

  "But that quotation goes on: 'And show mercy unto thousands.'"

  Once again everybody seemed a little embarrassed, perhaps at the serious note that had crept into the conversation.

  They made a diversion by attacking Poirot.

  "Tell us all about Mrs. McGinty, M. Poirot Why didn't the dreary lodger kill her?"

  "He used to mutter, you know," said Robin. "Walking about in the lanes. I've often met him. And really, definitely, he looked frightfully queer."

  "You must have some reason for thinking he didn't kill her, M. Poirot. Do tell us."

  Poirot smiled at them. He twirled his moustache.

  "If he didn't kill her, who did?"

  "Yes, who did?"

  Mrs Upward said dryly: "Don't embarrass the man. He probably suspects one of us."

  "One of us? Oo!"

  In the clamour Poirot's eyes met those of Mrs Upward. They were amused and – something else – challenging?

  "He suspects one of us," said Robin delightedly. "Now then, Maureen," he assumed the manner of a bullying K.C., "Where were you on the night of the – what night was it?"

  "November 22nd," said Poirot.

  "On the night of the 22nd?"

  "Gracious, I don't know," said Maureen.

  "Nobody could know after all this time," said Mr Rendell.

  "Well, I can," said Robin. "Because I was broadcasting that night. I drove to Coalport to give a talk on Some Aspects of the Theatre. I remember because I discussed Galsworthy's charwoman in the Silver Box at great length and the next day Mrs McGinty was killed and I wondered if the charwoman in the play had been like her."

  "That's right
," said Shelagh Rendell suddenly. "And I remember now because you said your mother would be all alone because it was Janet's night off, and I came down here after dinner to keep her company. Only unfortunately I couldn't make her hear."

  "Let me think," said Mrs Upward. "Oh! yes, of course. I'd gone to bed with a headache and my bedroom faces the back garden."

  "And next day," said Shelagh, "when I heard Mrs McGinty had been killed, I thought 'Oo! I might have passed the murderer in the dark' – because at first we all thought it must have been some tramp who broke in."

  "Well, I still don't remember what I was doing," said Maureen. "But I do remember the next morning. It was the baker told us. 'Old Mrs McGinty's been done in,' he said. And there I was, wondering why she hadn't turned up as usual."

  She gave a shiver.

  "It's horrible really, isn't it?" she said.

  Mrs Upward was still watching Poirot.

  He thought to himself: "She s a very intelligent woman – and a ruthless one. Also selfish. In whatever she did, she would have no qualms and no remorse…"

  A thin voice was speaking – urging, querulous.

  "Haven't you got any clues, M. Poirot?"

  It was Shelagh Rendell.

  Johnnie Summerhayes' long dark face lit up enthusiastically.

  "That's it, clues," he said. "That's what I like in detective stories. Clues that mean everything to the detective – and nothing to you – until the end when you fairly kick yourself. Can't you give us one little clue, M. Poirot?"

  Laughing, pleading faces turned to him. A game to them all (or perhaps not to one of them?). But murder wasn't a game – murder was dangerous. You never knew.

  With a sudden brusque movement, Poirot pulled out four photographs from his pocket.

  "You want a clue?" he said. "Voilà!"

  And with a dramatic gesture he tossed them down on the table.

  They clustered round, bending over, and uttering ejaculations.

  "Look!"

  "What frightful frumps!"

  "Just look at the roses. 'Rowses, rowses, all the way!'"

  "My dear, that hat!"

  "What a frightful child!"

  "But who are they?"

  "Aren't fashions ridiculous?"