Mrs McGinty's Dead hp-28

by Agatha Christie

  Containing himself, Poirot aid:

  "Miss Williams interests herself in the affair. She is convinced you are innocent."

  "I don't see what she can know about it."

  "She knows you."

  James Bentley blinked. He said, grudgingly:

  "I suppose she does, in a way, but not well."

  "You worked together in the office, did you not? You had, sometimes, meals together?"

  "Well – yes – once or twice. The Blue Cat café, very convenient – just across the street."

  "Did you never go for walks with her?"

  "As a matter of fact we did, once. We walked up on the downs."

  Hercule Poirot exploded.

  "Ma foi, is it a crime that I seek to drag from you? To keep the company with a pretty girl, is it not natural? Is it not enjoyable? Can you not be pleased with yourself about it?"

  "I don't see why," said James Bentley.

  "At your age it is natural and right to enjoy the company of girls."

  "I don't know many girls."

  "Ça se voit! But you should be ashamed of that, not smug! You knew Miss Williams. You worked with her and talked with her and sometimes had meals with her, and once went for a walk on the downs. And when I mention her, you do not even remember her name!"

  James Bentley flushed.

  "Well, you see – I've never had much to do with girls. And she isn't quite what you'd call a lady, is she? Oh very nice – and all that – but I can't help feeling that Mother would have thought her common."

  "It is what you think that matters."

  Again James Bentley flushed.

  "Her hair," he said. "And the kind of clothes she wears – Mother, of course, was old-fashioned."

  He broke off.

  "But you found Miss Williams – what shall I say – sympathetic?"

  "She was always very kind," said James Bentley slowly. "But she didn't – really – understand. Her mother died when she was only a child, you see."

  "And then you lost your job," said Poirot. "You couldn't get another. Miss Williams met you once at Broadhinny, I understand?"

  James Bentley looked distressed.

  "Yes – yes. She was coming over there on business and she sent me a post-card. Asked me to meet her. I can't think why. It isn't as if I knew her at all well."

  "But you did meet her?"

  "Yes. I didn't want to be rude."

  "And you took her to the pictures or a meal?"

  James Bentley looked scandalised.

  "Oh no. Nothing of that kind. We – er – just talked whilst she was waiting for her bus."

  "Ah, how amusing that must have been for the poor girl!"

  James Bentley said sharply:

  "I hadn't got any money. You must remember that. I hadn't any money at all."

  "Of course. It was a few days before Mrs McGinty was killed, wasn't it?"

  James Bentley nodded. He said unexpectedly:

  "Yes, it was on the Monday. She was killed on Wednesday."

  "I'm going to ask you something else, Mr Bentley. Mrs McGinty took the Sunday Companion."

  "Yes, she did."

  "Did you ever see her Sunday Companion?"

  "She used to offer it sometimes, but I didn't often accept. Mother didn't care for that kind of paper."

  "So you didn't see that week s Sunday Companion?"

  "No."

  "And Mrs McGinty didn't speak about it, or about anything in it?"

  "Oh yes, she did," said James Bentley unexpectedly. "She was full of it!"

  "Ah la la. So she was full of it. And what did she say? Be careful. This is important."

  "I don't remember very well now. It was all about some old murder case. Craig, I think it was – no, perhaps it wasn't Craig. Anyway, she said somebody connected with the case was living in Broadhinny now. Full of it, she was. I couldn't see why it mattered to her."

  "Did she say who it was – in Broadhinny?"

  James Bentley said vaguely:

  "I think it was that woman whose son writes plays."

  "She mentioned her by name?"

  "No – I – really it's so long ago -"

  "I implore you – try to think. You want to be free again, do you not?"

  "Free?" Bentley sounded surprised.

  "Yes, free."

  "I – yes – I suppose I do -"

  "Then think! What did Mrs McGinty say?"

  "Well – something like – 'so pleased with herself as she is and so proud. Not so much to be proud of if all's known.' And then, 'You'd never think it was the same woman to look at the photograph.' But of course it had been taken years ago."

  "But what made you sure that it was Mrs Upward of whom she was speaking?"

  "I really don't know… I just formed the impression. She had been speaking of Mrs Upward – and then I lost interest and didn't listen, and afterwards – well, now I come to think of it, I don't really know who she was speaking about. She talked a lot, you know."

  Poirot sighed.

  He said: "I do not think myself that it was Mrs Upward of whom she spoke. I think it was somebody else. It is preposterous to reflect that if you are hanged it will be because you do not pay proper attention to the people with whom you converse… Did Mrs McGinty speak much to you of the houses where she worked, or the ladies of those houses?"

  "Yes, in a way – but it's no good asking me. You don't seem to realise, M. Poirot, that I had my own life to think of at that time. I was in very serious anxiety."

  "Not in so much serious anxiety as you are now! Did Mrs McGinty speak of Mrs Carpenter – Mrs Selkirk she was then – or of Mrs Rendell?"

  "Carpenter has that new house at the top of the hill and a big car, hasn't he? He was engaged to Mrs Selkirk – Mrs McGinty was always very down on Mrs Selkirk. I don't know why. 'Jumped up,' that's what she used to call her. I don't know what she meant by it."

  "And the Rendells?"

  "He's the doctor, isn't he? I don't remember her saying anything particular about them."

  "And the Wetherbys?"

  "I do remember what she said about them." James Bentley looked pleased with himself. "'No patience with her fusses and her fancies,' that's what she said. And about him, 'Never a word, good or bad, out of him.'" He paused. "She said – it was an unhappy house."

  Hercule Poirot looked up. For a second James Bentley's voice had held something that Poirot had not heard in it before. He was not repeating obediently what he could recall. His mind, for a very brief space, had moved out of its apathy. James Bentley was thinking of Hunter's Close, of the life that went on there, of whether or not it was an unhappy house. James Bentley was thinking objectively.

  Poirot said softly:

  "You knew them? The mother? The father? The daughter?"

  "Not really. It was the dog. A Sealyham. It got caught in a trap. She couldn't get it undone. I helped her."

  There was again something new in Bentley's tone. "I helped her," he had said, and in those words was a faint echo of pride.

  Poirot remembered what Mrs Oliver had told him of her conversation with Deirdre Henderson.

  He said gently:

  "You talked together?"

  "Yes. She – her mother suffered a lot, she told me. She was very fond of her mother."

  "And you told her about yours?"

  "Yes," said James Bentley simply.

  Poirot said nothing. He waited.

  "Life is very cruel," said James Bentley. "Very unfair. Some people never seem to get any happiness."

  "It is possible," said Hercule Poirot.

  "I don't think she had had much. Miss Wetherby."

  " Henderson."

  "Oh yes. She told me she had a stepfather."

  "Deirdre Henderson," said Poirot. "Deirdre of the Sorrows. A pretty name – but not a pretty girl, I understand?"

  James Bentley flushed.

  "I thought," he said, "she was rather good-looking…"

  Chapter 19

  "Now ju
st you listen to me," said Mrs Sweetiman.

  Edna sniffed. She had been listening to Mrs Sweetiman for some time. It had been a hopeless conversation, going round in circles. Mrs Sweetiman had said the same things several times, varying the phraseology a little, but even that not much. Edna had sniffed and occasionally blubbered and had reiterated her own two contributions to the discussion: first, that she couldn't ever! Second, that Dad would skin her alive, he would.

  "That's as may be," said Mrs Sweetiman, "but murder's murder, and what you saw you saw, and you can't get away from it."

  Edna sniffed.

  "And what you did ought to do -"

  Mrs Sweetiman broke off and attended to Mrs Wetherby, who had come in for some knitting pins and another ounce of wool.

  "Haven't seen you about for some time, m'am," said Mrs Sweetiman brightly.

  "No, I've been very far from well lately," said Mrs Wetherby. "My heart, you know." She sighed deeply. "I have to lie up a great deal."

  "I heard as you've got some help at last," said Mrs Sweetiman. "You'll want dark needles for this light wool."

  "Yes. Quite capable as far as she goes, and cooks not at all badly. But her manners! And her appearance! Dyed hair and the most unsuitable tight jumpers."

  "Ah," said Mrs Sweetiman. "Girls aren't trained proper to service nowadays. My mother, she started at thirteen and she got up at a quarter to five every morning. Head housemaid she was when she finished, and three maids under her. And she trained them proper, too. But there's none of that nowadays – girls aren't trained nowadays, they're just educated, like Edna."

  Both women looked at Edna, who leant against the post office counter, sniffing and sucking a peppermint, and looking particularly vacant. As an example of education, she hardly did the educational system credit.

  "Terrible about Mrs Upward, wasn't it?" continued Mrs Sweetiman conversationally, as Mrs Wetherby sorted through various coloured needles.

  "Dreadful," said Mrs Wetherby. "They hardly dared tell me. And when they did, I had the most frightful palpitations. I'm so sensitive."

  "Shock to all of us, it was," said Mrs Sweetiman. "As for young Mr Upward, he took on something terrible. Had her hands full with him, the authoress lady did, until the doctor came and give him a seddytiff or something. He's gone up to Long Meadows now as a paying guest, felt he couldn't stay in the cottage – and I don't know as I blame him. Janet Groom, she's gone home to her niece and the police have got the key. The lady what writes the murder books has gone back to London, but she'll come down for the inquest."

  Mrs Sweetiman imparted all this information with relish. She prided herself on being well informed. Mrs Wetherby, whose desire for knitting needles had perhaps been prompted by a desire to know what was going on, paid for her purchase.

  "It's most upsetting," she said. "It makes the whole village so dangerous. There must be a maniac about. When I think that my own dear daughter was out that night, that she herself might have been attacked, perhaps killed." Mrs Wetherby closed both eyes and swayed on her feet. Mrs Sweetiman watched her with interest, but without alarm. Mrs Wetherby opened her eyes again, and said with dignity:

  "This place should be patrolled. No young people should go about after dark. And all doors should be locked and bolted. You know that up at Long Meadows, Mrs Summerhayes never locks any of her doors. Not even at night. She leaves the back door and the drawing-room window open so that the dogs and cats can get in and out. I myself consider that is absolute madness, but she says they've always done it and that if burglars want to get in, they always can."

  "Reckon there wouldn't be much for a burglar to take up at Long Meadows," said Mrs Sweetiman.

  Mrs Wetherby shook her head sadly and departed with her purchase.

  Mrs Sweetiman and Edna resumed their argument.

  "It's no good your setting yourself up to know best," said Mrs Sweetiman. "Right's right and murder's murder. Tell the truth and shame the devil. That's what I say."

  "Dad would skin me alive, he would, for sure," said Edna.

  "I'd talk to your Dad," said Mrs Sweetiman.

  "I couldn't ever," said Edna.

  "Mrs Upward's dead," said Mrs Sweetiman. "And you saw something the police don't know about. You're employed in the post office, aren't you? You're a Government servant. You've got to do your duty. You've got to go along to Bert Hayling -"

  Edna's sobs burst out anew.

  "Not to Bert, I couldn't. However could I go to Bert? It'd be all over the place."

  Mrs Sweetiman said rather hesitantly:

  "There's that foreign gentleman."

  "Not a foreigner, I couldn't. Not a foreigner."

  "No, maybe you're right there."

  A car drew up outside the post office with a squealing of brakes.

  Mrs Sweetiman's face lit up.

  "That's Major Summerhayes, that is. You tell it all to him and he'll advise you what to do."

  "I couldn't ever," said Edna, but with less conviction.

  Johnnie Summerhayes came into the post office, staggering under the burden of three cardboard boxes.

  "Good morning, Mrs Sweetiman," he said cheerfully. "Hope these aren't overweight?"

  Mrs Sweetiman attended to the parcels in her official capacity. As Summerhayes was licking the stamps, she spoke.

  "Excuse me, sir, I'd like your advice about something."

  "Yes, Mrs Sweetiman?"

  "Seeing as you belong here, sir, and will know best what to do."

  Summerhayes nodded. He was always curiously touched by the lingering feudal spirit of English villages. The villagers knew little of him personally, but because his father and his grandfather and many great-great-grandfathers had lived at Long Meadows, they regarded it as natural that he should advise and direct when asked so to do.

  "It's about Edna here," said Mrs Sweetiman.

  Edna sniffed.

  Johnnie Summerhayes looked at Edna doubtfully. Never, he thought, had he seen a more unprepossessing girl. Exactly like a skinned rabbit. Seemed half-witted too. Surely she couldn't be in what was known officially as "trouble." But no, Mrs Sweetiman would not have come to him for advice in that case.

  "Well," he said kindly, "what's the difficulty?"

  "It's about the murder, sir. The night of the murder. Edna saw something."

  Johnnie Summerhayes transferred his quick dark gaze from Edna to Mrs Sweetiman and back again to Edna.

  "What did you see, Edna?" he said.

  Edna began to sob. Mrs Sweetiman took over.

  "Of course we've been hearing this and that. Some's rumour and some's true. But it's said definite as that there were a lady there that night who drank coffee with Mrs Upward. That's so, isn't it, sir?"

  "Yes, I believe so."

  "I know as that's true, because we had it from Bert Hayling."

  Albert Hayling was the local constable whom Summerhayes knew well. A slow-speaking man with a sense of his own importance.

  "I see," said Summerhayes.

  "But they don't know, do they, who the lady is? Well, Edna here saw her."

  Johnnie Summerhayes looked at Edna. He pursed his lips as though to whistle.

  "You saw her, did you, Edna? Going in – or coming out?"

  "Going in," said Edna. A faint sense of importance loosened her tongue. "Across the road I was, under the trees. Just by the turn of the lane where it's dark. I saw her. She went in at the gate and up to the door and stood there a bit, and then – then she went in."

  Johnnie Summerhayes' brow cleared.

  "That's all right," he said. "It was Miss Henderson. The police know all about that. She went and told them."

  Edna shook her head.

  "It wasn't Miss Henderson," she said.

  "It wasn't – then who was it?"

  "I dunno. I didn't see her face. Had her back to me, she had, going up the path and standing there. But it wasn't Miss Henderson."

  "But how do you know it wasn't Miss Henderson if you didn't see
her face?"

  "Because she had fair hair. Miss Henderson's is dark."

  Johnnie Summerhayes looked disbelieving.

  "It was a very dark night. You'd hardly be able to see the colour of anyone's hair."

  "But I did, though. That light was on over the porch. Left like that, it was, because Mr Robin and the detective lady had gone out together to the theatre. And she was standing right under it. A dark coat she had on, and no hat, and her hair was shining fair as could be. I saw it."

  Johnnie gave a slow whistle. His eyes were serious now.

  "What time was it?" he asked.

  Edna sniffed.

  "I don't rightly know."

  "You know about what time," said Mrs Sweetiman.

  "It wasn't nine o'clock. I'd have heard the church. And it was after half-past eight."

  "Between half-past eight and nine. How long did she stop?"

  "I dunno, sir. But I didn't wait no longer. And I didn't hear nothing. No groans or cries or nothing like that."

  Edna sounded slightly aggrieved.

  But there would have been no groans and no cries. Johnnie Summerhayes knew that. He said gravely:

  "Well, there's only one thing to be done. The police have got to hear about this."

  Edna burst into long sniffling sobs.

  "Dad'll skin me alive," she whimpered. "He will, for sure."

  She cast an imploring look at Mrs Sweetiman and bolted into the back room. Mrs Sweetiman took over with competence.

  "It's like this, sir," she said in answer to Summerhayes' inquiring glance. "Edna's been behaving very foolish like. Very strict her Dad is, maybe a bit over strict, but it's hard to say what's best nowadays. There's a nice young fellow over to Cullavon and he and Edna have been going together nice and steady, and her Dad was quite pleased about it, but Reg he's on the slow side, and you know what girls are. Edna's taken up lately with Charlie Masters."

  "Masters? One of Farmer Cole's men, isn't he?"

  "That's right, sir. Farm labourer. And a married man with two children. Always after the girls, he is, and a bad fellow in every way. Edna hasn't got any sense, and her Dad, he put a stop to it. Quite right. So, you see, Edna was going into Cullavon that night to go to the pictures with Reg – at least that's what she told her Dad. But really she went out to meet this Masters. Waited for him, she did, at the turn of the lane where it seems they used to meet. Well, he didn't come. Maybe his wife kept him at home, or maybe he's after another girl, but there it is. Edna waited but at last she gave up. But it's awkward for her, as you can see, explaining what she was doing there, when she ought to have taken the bus into Cullavon."