"A sugar hammer?"
Her face was blank, uncomprehending.
"An instrument of brass, with a bird on it, and inlaid with blue and red and green stone." Poirot enunciated the description carefully.
"Oh yes, I know."
Her voice showed no interest or animation.
"I understand it came from this house?"
"Yes. My mother bought it in the bazaar at Baghdad. It's one of those things we took to the Vicarage, sale."
"The Bring and Buy sale, that is right?"
"Yes. We have a lot of them here. It's difficult to get people to give money, but there's usually something you can rake up and send."
"So it was here, in this house, until Christmas, and then you sent it to the Bring and Buy sale? Is that right?"
Deirdre frowned.
"Not the Christmas Bring and Buy. It was the one before. The Harvest Festival one."
"The Harvest Festival – that would be – when? October? September?"
"The end of September."
It was very quiet in the little room. Poirot looked at the girl and she looked back at him. Her face was mild, expressionless, uninterested. Behind the blank wall of her apathy, he tried to guess what was going on. Nothing, perhaps. Perhaps she was, as she had said, just tired…
He said, quietly, urgently:
"You are quite sure it was the Harvest Festival Sale? Not the Christmas one?"
"Quite sure."
Her eyes were steady, unblinking.
Hercule Poirot waited. He continued to wait…
But what he was waiting for did not come.
He said formally:
"I must not keep you any longer, mademoiselle."
She went with him to the front door.
Presently he was walking down the drive again.
Two divergent statements – statements that could not possibly be reconciled.
Who was right? Maureen Summerhayes or Deirdre Henderson?
If the sugar cutter had been used as he believed it had been used, the point was vital. The Harvest Festival had been the end of September. Between then and Christmas, on November 22nd, Mrs McGinty had been killed. Whose property had the sugar cutter been at that time?
He went to the post office. Mrs Sweetiman was always helpful and she did her best. She'd been to both sales, she said. She always went. You picked up many a nice bit there. She helped, too, to arrange things beforehand. Though most people brought things with them and didn't send them beforehand.
A brass hammer, rather like an axe, with coloured stones and a little bird? No, she couldn't rightly remember. There was such a lot of things, and so much confusion and some things snatched up at once. Well, perhaps she did remember something like that – priced at five shillings it had been, and with a copper coffee pot, but the pot had got a hole in the bottom – you couldn't use it, only for ornament. But she couldn't remember when it was – some time ago. Might have been Christmas, might have been before. She hadn't been noticing…
She accepted Poirot's parcel. Registered? Yes.
She copied down the address; he noticed just a sharp flicker of interest in her keen black eyes as she handed him the receipt.
Hercule Poirot walked slowly up the hill, wondering to himself.
Of the two, Maureen Summerhayes, scatterbrained, cheerful, inaccurate, was the more likely to be wrong. Harvest or Christmas, it would be all one to her.
Deirdre Henderson, slow, awkward, was far more likely to be accurate in her identification of times and dates.
Yet there remained that irking question.
Why, after his questions, hadn't she asked him why he wanted to know? Surely a natural, an almost inevitable, question?
But Deirdre Henderson hadn't asked it.
Chapter 15
I
"Someone rang you up," called Maureen from the kitchen as Poirot entered the house.
"Rang me up? Who was that?"
He was slightly surprised.
"Don't know. But I jotted the number down on my ration book."
"Thank you, Madame"
He went into the dining-room and over to the desk. Amongst the litter of papers he found the ration book lying near the telephone and the words – Kilchester 350.
Raising the receiver of the telephone, he dialled the number.
Immediately a woman's voice said:
"Breather Scuttle."
Poirot made a quick guess.
"Can I speak to Miss Maude Williams?"
There was a moment's interval and then a contralto voice said:
"Miss Williams speaking."
"This is Hercule Poirot. I think you rang me."
"Yes – yes, I did. It's about the property you were asking me about the other day."
"The property?" For a moment Poirot was puzzled. Then he realised that Maude's conversation was being overheard. Probably she had telephoned him before when she alone in the office.
"I understand you, I think. It is the affair of James Bentley and Mrs McGinty's murder?"
"That's right. Can we do anything in the matter for you?"
"You want to help. You are not private where you are?"
"That's right."
"I understand. Listen carefully. You really want to help James Bentley?"
"Yes."
"Would you resign your present post?"
There was no hesitation.
"Yes."
"Would you be willing to take a domestic post? Possibly with not very congenial people."
"Yes."
"Could you get away at once? By tomorrow, for instance?"
"Oh yes, M. Poirot. I think that could be managed."
"You understand what I want you to do. You would be a domestic help – to live in. You can cook?"
A faint amusement tinged the voice.
"Very well."
"Bon Dieu, what a rarity! Now listen, I am coming into Kilchester at once. I will meet you in the same café where I met you before, at lunch time."
"An admirable young woman," he reflected. "Quick-witted, knows her own mind – perhaps, even, she can cook…"
With some difficulty he disinterred the local telephone directory from under a treatise on pigkeeping and looked up the Wetherbys' number.
The voice that answered him was that of Mrs Wetherby.
"'Allo'? 'Allo? It is M. Poirot – you remember, Madame -"
"I don't think I -"
"Mr Hercule Poirot."
"Oh yes – of course – do forgive me. Rather a domestic upset today -"
"It is for that reason exactly I rang you up. I am desolated to learn of your difficulties."
"So ungrateful – these foreign girls. Her fare paid over here, and everything. I do so hate ingratitude."
"Yes, yes. I do indeed sympathise. It is monstrous – that is why I hasten to tell you that I have, perhaps, a solution. By the merest chance I know of a young woman wanting a domestic post. Not, I fear, fully trained."
"Oh, there's no such thing training nowadays. Will she cook – so many of them won't cook."
"Yes – yes – she cooks. Shall I then send her to you – at least on trial? Her name is Maude Williams."
"Oh, please do, M. Poirot. It's most kind of you. Anything would be better than nothing. My husband is so particular and gets so annoyed with dear Deirdre when the household doesn't go smoothly. One can't expect men to understand how difficult everything is nowadays – I -"
There was an interruption. Mrs Wetherby spoke to someone entering the room, and though she had placed her hand over the receiver Poirot could hear her slightly muffled words.
"It's that little detective man – knows of someone to come in to replace Frieda. No, not foreign – English, thank goodness. Very kind of him, really, he seems quite concerned about me. Oh, darling, don't make objections. What does it matter? You know the absurd way Roger goes on. Well, I think it's very kind – and I don't suppose she's too awful."
The asides over, Mrs Wetherby sp
oke with the utmost graciousness.
"Thank you very much, M. Poirot. We are most grateful."
Poirot replaced the receiver and glanced at his watch
He went to the kitchen.
"Madame, I shall not be in to lunch. I have to go to Kilchester."
"Thank goodness," said Maureen. "I didn't get to that pudding in time. It had boiled dry. I think it's really all right – just a little scorched perhaps. In case it tasted rather nasty I thought I would open a bottle of those raspberries I put up last summer. They seem to have a bit of mould on top but they say nowadays that that doesn't matter. It's really rather good for you – practically penicillin."
Poirot left the house, glad that scorched pudding and near-penicillin were not to be his portion today. Better – far better – eat macaroni and custard and plums at the Blue Cat than the improvisations of Maureen Summerhayes.
II
At Laburnums a little friction had arisen.
"Of course, Robin, you never seem to remember anything when you are working on a play."
Robin was contrite.
"Madre, I am most terribly sorry. I'd forgotten all about its being Janet's night out."
"It doesn't matter at all," said Mrs Upward coldly.
"Of course it matters. I'll ring up the Rep and tell them we'll go tomorrow night instead."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You've arranged to go tonight and you'll go."
"But really -"
"That's settled."
"Shall I ask Janet to go out another night?"
"Certainly not. She hates to have her plans disarranged."
"I'm sure she wouldn't really mind. Not if I put it to her -"
"You'll do nothing of the sort, Robin. Please don't go upsetting Janet. And don't go on about it. I don't care to feel I'm a tiresome old woman spoiling other people's pleasure."
"Madre – sweetest -"
"That's enough – you go and enjoy yourselves. I know who I'll ask to keep me company."
"Who?"
"That's my secret," said Mrs Upward, her good humour restored. "Now stop fussing, Robin."
"I'll ring up Shelagh Rendell -"
"I'll do my own ringing up, thank you. It's all settled. Make the coffee before you go, and leave it by me in the percolator ready to switch on. Oh, and you might as well put out an extra cup – in case I have a visitor."
Chapter 16
Sitting at lunch in the Blue Cat, Poirot finished outlining his instructions to Maude Williams.
"So you understand what it is you have to look for?"
Maude Williams nodded.
"You have arranged matters with your office?"
She laughed.
"My Auntie's dangerously ill! I sent myself a telegram."
"Good. I have one more thing to say. Somewhere, in that village, we have a murderer at large. That is not a very safe thing to have."
"Warning me?"
"Yes."
"I can take care of myself," said Maude Williams.
"That," said Hercule Poirot, "might be classed under the heading of Famous Last Words."
She laughed again, a frank amused laugh. One or two heads at near tables turned round to look at her.
Poirot found himself appraising her carefully. A strong, confident young woman, full of vitality, keyed up and eager to attempt a dangerous task. Why? He thought again of James Bentley, his gentle defeated voice, his lifeless apathy.
Nature was indeed curious and interesting.
Maude said:
"You're asking me to do it, aren't you? Why suddenly try to put me off?"
"Because if one offers a mission, one must be exact about what it involves."
"I don't think I'm in any danger," said Maude confidently.
"I do not think so at the moment. You are unknown in Broadhinny?"
Maude considered.
"Ye-es. Yes, I should say so."
"You have been there?"
"Once or twice – for the firm, of course – only once recently – that was about five months ago."
"Who did you see? Where did you go?"
"I went to see an old lady – Mrs Carstairs – or Carlile – I can't remember her name for sure. She was buying a small property near here, and I went over to see her with some papers and some queries and a surveyor's report which we'd got for her. She was staying at that Guest House sort of place where you are."
"Long Meadows?"
"That was it. Uncomfortable-looking house with a lot of dogs."
Poirot nodded.
"Did you see Mrs Summerhayes, or Major Summerhayes?"
"I saw Mrs Summerhayes, I suppose it was. She took me up to the bedroom. The old pussy was in bed."
"Would Mrs Summerhayes remember you?"
"Don't suppose so. Even if she did, it wouldn't matter, would it? After all, one changes one's job quite often these days. But I don't suppose she even looked at me. Her sort don't."
There was a faint bitterness in Maude Williams' voice.
"Did you see anyone else in Broadhinny?"
Maude said rather awkwardly:
"Well, I saw Mr Bentley."
"Ah, you saw Mr Bentley. By accident."
Maude wriggled a little in her chair.
"No, as a matter of fact, I'd sent him a post card. Telling him I was coming that day. Asked him if he'd meet me as a matter of fact. Not that there was anywhere to go. Dead little hole. No café or cinema or anything. As a matter of fact we just talked in the bus stop. While I was waiting for my bus back."
"That was before the death of Mrs McGinty?"
"Oh yes. But not much before, though. Because it was only a few days later that it was all in the newspapers."
"Did Mr Bentley speak to you at all of his landlady?"
"I don't think so."
"And you spoke to no one else in Broadhinny?"
"Well – only Mr Robin Upward. I've heard him talk on the wireless. I saw him coming out of his cottage and I recognised him from his pictures and I did ask him for his autograph."
"And he gave it you?"
"Oh yes, he was ever so nice about it. I hadn't my book with me, but I'd got an odd sheet of notepaper, and he whipped out his fountain pen and wrote it at once."
"Do you know any of the other people in Broadhinny by sight?"
"Well, I know the Carpenters, of course. They're in Kilchester a lot. Lovely car they've got, and she wears lovely clothes. She opened a Bazaar about a month ago. They say he's going to be our next M.P."
Poirot nodded. Then he took from his pocket the envelope that he always carried about with him. He spread the four photographs on the table.
"Do you recognise any of – what's the matter?"
"It was Mr Scuttle. Just going out of the door. I hope he didn't see you with me. It might seem a bit odd. People are talking about you, you know. Saying you've been sent over from Paris – from the Sooretay or some name like that."
"I am Belgian, not French, but no matter."
"What's this about these photographs?" She bent over, studying them closely. "Rather on the old-fashioned side, aren't they?"
"The oldest is thirty years ago."
"Awfully silly, old fashioned clothes look. Makes the women look such fools."
"Have you seen any of them before?"
"D'you mean do I recognise any of the women, or do you mean have I seen the pictures?"
"Either."
"I've an idea I've seen that one." Her finger rested against Janice Courtland in her cloche hat. "In some paper or other, but I can't remember when. That kid looks a bit familiar, too. But I can't remember when I saw them; some time ago."
"All those photographs appeared in the Sunday Companion on the Sunday before Mrs McGinty died."
Maude looked at him sharply.
"And they've got, something to do with it? That's why you want me to -"
She did not finish the sentence.
"Yes," said Hercule Poirot. "That is why."
He
took something else from his pocket and showed it to her. It was the cutting from the Sunday Companion.
"You had better read that," he said.
She read it carefully. Her bright golden head bent over the flimsy bit of newsprint.
Then she looked up.
"So that's who they are? And reading this has given you ideas?"
"You could not express it more justly."
"But all the same I don't see -" She was silent a moment, thinking. Poirot did not speak. However pleased he might be with his own ideas, he was always ready to hear other people's ideas too.
"You think one or other of these people is in Broadhinny?"
"It might be, might it not?"
"Of course. Anyone may be anywhere…" She went on, placing her finger on Eva Kane's pretty simpering face: "She'd be quite old now – about Mrs Upward's age."
"About that."
"What I was thinking was – the sort of woman she was – there must be several people who'd have it in for her."
"That is a point of view," said Poirot slowly. "Yes, it is a point of view." He added: "You remember the Craig case?"
"Who doesn't?" said Maude Williams. "Why, he's in Madame Tussaud's! I was only a kid at the time, but the newspapers are always bringing him up and comparing the case with other cases. I don't suppose it will ever be forgotten, do you?"
Poirot raised his head sharply.
He wondered what brought that sudden note of bitterness into her voice.
Chapter 17
Feeling completely bewildered, Mrs Oliver was endeavouring to cower in the corner of a very minute theatrical dressing-room. Not being the figure to cower, she only succeeded in bulging. Bright young men, removing grease paint with towels, surrounded her and at intervals pressed warm beer upon her.
Mrs Upward, her good humour completely restored, had speeded their departure with good wishes. Robin had been assiduous in making all arrangements for her comfort before departure, running back a couple of times after they were in the car to see that all was as it should be.
On the last occasion he came back grinning.
"Madre was just ringing off on the telephone, and the wicked old thing still won't tell me who she was ringing up. But I bet I know."
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