She raised herself on her elbow and took the glass.
"Thank you, Maude," she said
Maude turned and went out of the room.
Mrs Wetherby still felt vaguely upset.
Chapter 22
I
Hercule Poirot took a hired car back to Broadhinny.
He was tired because he had been thinking. Thinking was always exhausting. And his thinking had not been entirely satisfactory. It was as though a pattern, perfectly visible, was woven into a piece of material and yet, although he was holding the piece of material, he could not see what the pattern was.
But it was all there. That was the point. It was all there. Only it was one of those patterns, self-coloured and subtle, that are not easy to perceive.
A little way out of Kilchester his car encountered the Summerhayes' station wagon coming in the opposite direction. Johnnie was driving and he had a passenger. Poirot hardly noticed them. He was still absorbed in thought.
When he got back to Long Meadows, he went into the drawing-room. He removed a colander full of spinach from the most comfortable chair in the room and sat down. From overhead came the faint drumming of a typewriter. It was Robin Upward, struggling with a play. Three versions he had already torn up, so he told Poirot. Somehow, he couldn't concentrate.
Robin might feel his mother's death quite sincerely, but he remained Robin Upward, chiefly interested in himself.
"Madre," he said solemnly, "would have wished me to go on with my work."
Hercule Poirot had heard many people say much the same thing. It was one of the most convenient assumptions, this knowledge of what the dead would wish. The bereaved had never any doubt about their dear ones' wishes and those wishes usually squared with their own inclinations.
In this case it was probably true. Mrs Upward had had great faith in Robin's work and had been extremely proud of him.
Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes.
He thought of Mrs Upward. He considered what Mrs Upward had really been like. He remembered a phrase that he had once heard used by a police officer.
"We'll take him apart and see what makes him tick."
What had made Mrs Upward tick?
There was a crash, and Maureen Summerhayes came in. Her hair was flapping madly.
"I can't think what's happened to Johnnie," she said. "He just went down to the post office with those special orders. He ought to have been back hours ago. I want him to fix the henhouse door."
A true gentleman, Poirot feared, would have gallantly offered to fix the henhouse door himself. Poirot did not. He wanted to go on thinking about two murders and about the character of Mrs Upward.
"And I can't find that Ministry of Agriculture form," continued Maureen. "I've looked everywhere."
"The spinach is on the sofa," Poirot offered helpfully.
Maureen was not worried about spinach.
"The form came last week," she mused. "And I must have put it somewhere. Perhaps it was when I was darning that pullover of Johnnie's."
She swept over to the bureau and started pulling out the drawers. Most of the contents she swept on to the floor ruthlessly. It was agony to Hercule Poirot to watch her.
Suddenly she uttered a cry of triumph.
"Got it!"
Delightedly she rushed from the room.
Hercule Poirot sighed and resumed meditation.
To arrange, with order and precision -
He frowned. The untidy heap of objects on the floor by the bureau distracted his mind. What a way to look for things!
Order and method. That was the thing. Order and method…
Though he had turned sideways in his chair, he could still see the confusion on the floor. Sewing things, a pile of socks, letters, knitting wool, magazines, sealing wax, photographs, a pullover -
It was insupportable!
Poirot rose, went across to the bureau and with quick deft movements began to return the objects to the open drawers.
The pullover, the socks, the knitting wool. Then, in the next drawer, the sealing wax, the photographs, the letters -
The telephone rang.
The sharpness of the bell made him jump.
He went across to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
"'Allo, 'allo, 'allo," he said.
The voice that spoke to him was the voice of Superintendent Spence.
"Ah it's you, M. Poirot. Just the man I want."
Spence's voice was almost unrecognisable. A very worried man had given place to a confident one.
"Filling me up with a lot of fandangle about the wrong photograph," he said with reproachful indulgence. "We've got some new evidence. Girl at the post office in Broadhinny. Major Summerhayes just brought her in. It seems she was standing practically opposite the cottage that night and she saw a woman go in. Sometime after eight-thirty and before nine o'clock. And it wasn't Deirdre Henderson. It was a woman with fair hair. That puts us right back where we were – it's definitely between the two of them – Eve Carpenter and Shelagh Rendell. The only question is – which?"
Poirot opened his mouth but did not speak. Carefully, deliberately, he replaced the receiver on the stand.
He stood there staring unseeingly in front of him.
The telephone rang again.
"'Allo! 'Allo! 'Allo!"
"Can I speak to M. Poirot, please?"
"Hercule Poirot speaking."
"Thought so. Maude Williams here. Post office in a quarter of an hour?"
"I will be there."
He replaced the receiver.
He looked down at his feet. Should he change his shoes? His feet ached a little. Ah well – no matter.
Resolutely Poirot clapped on his hat and left the house.
On his way down the hill he was hailed by one of Superintendent Spence's men just emerging from Laburnums.
"Morning, M. Poirot."
Poirot responded politely. He noticed that Sergeant Fletcher was looking excited.
"The Super sent me over to have a thorough check up," he explained. "You know – any little thing we might have missed. Never know, do you? We'd been over the desk, of course, but the Super got the idea there might be a secret drawer – must have been reading spy stuff. Well, there wasn't a secret drawer. But after that I got on to the books. Sometimes people slip a letter into a book they're reading. You know?"
Poirot said that he knew. "And you found something?" he asked politely.
"Not a letter or anything of that sort, no. But I found something interesting – at least I think it's interesting. Look here."
He upwrapped from a piece of newspaper an old and rather decrepit book.
"In one of the bookshelves it was. Old book, published years ago. But look here." He opened it and showed the flyleaf. Pencilled across it were the words: Evelyn Hope.
"Interesting, don't you think? That's the name, in ease you don't remember -"
"The name that Eva Kane took when she left England. I do remember," said Poirot.
"Looks as though when Mrs McGinty spotted one of those photos here in Broadhinny, it was our Mrs Upward. Makes it kind of complicated, doesn't it?"
"It does," said Poirot with feeling. "I can assure you that when you go back to Superintendent Spence with this piece of information he will pull out his hair by the roots – yes, assuredly by the roots."
"I hope it won't be as bad as that," said Sergeant Fletcher.
Poirot did not reply. He went on down the hill. He had ceased to think. Nothing anywhere made sense.
He went into the post office. Maude Williams was there looking at knitting patterns. Poirot did not speak to her. He went to the stamp counter. When Maude had made her purchase, Mrs Sweetiman came over to him and he bought some stamps. Maude went out of the shop.
Mrs Sweetiman seemed preoccupied and not talkative. Poirot was able to follow Maude out fairly quickly. He caught her up a short distance along the road and fell into step beside her.
Mrs Sweetiman, looki
ng out of the post office window, exclaimed to herself disapprovingly. "Those foreigners! All the same, every manjack of 'em. Old enough to be her grandfather, he is!"
II
"Eh bien," said Poirot, "you have something to tell me?"
"I don't know that it's important. There was somebody trying to get in at the window of Mrs Wetherby's room."
"When?"
"This morning. She'd gone out, and the girl was out with the dog. Old frozen fish was shut up in his study as usual. I'd have been in the kitchen normally – it faces the other way like the study – but actually it seemed a good opportunity to – you understand?"
Poirot nodded.
"So I nipped upstairs and into Her Acidity's bedroom. There was a ladder against the window and a man was fumbling with the window catch. She's had everything locked and barred since the murder. Never a bit of fresh air. When the man saw me he scuttled down and made off. The ladder was the gardener's – he'd been cutting back the ivy and had gone to have his elevenses."
"Who was the man? Can you describe him?"
"I only got the merest glimpse. By the time I got to the window he was down the ladder and gone, and when I first saw him he was against the sun, so I couldn't see his face."
"You are sure it was a man?"
Maude considered·
"Dressed as a man – an old felt hat on. It might have been a woman, of course…"
"It is interesting," said Poirot. "It is very interesting… Nothing else?"
"Not yet. The junk that old woman keeps! Must be dotty! She came in without me hearing this morning and bawled me out for snooping. I shall be murdering her next. If anyone asks to be murdered that woman does. A really nasty bit of goods."
Poirot murmured softly:
"Evelyn Hope…"
"What's that?" She spun round on him.
"So you know that name?"
"Why – yes… It's the name Eva Whatsername took when she went to Australia. It – it was in the paper – the Sunday Companion."
"The Sunday Companion said many things, but it did not say that. The police found the name written in a book in Mrs Upward's house."
Maude exclaimed:
"Then it was her – and she didn't die out there… Michael was right -"
"Michael?"
Maude said abruptly:
"I can't stop. I'll be late serving lunch. I've got it all in the oven, but it will be getting dried up."
She started off at a run. Poirot stood looking after her.
At the post office window, Mrs Sweetiman, her nose glued to the pane, wondered if that old foreigner had been making suggestions of a certain character…
III
Back at Long Meadows, Poirot removed his shoes, and put on a pair of bedroom slippers. They were not chic, not in his opinion comme il faut – but there must be relief.
He sat down on the easy-chair again and began once more to think. He had by now a lot to think about.
There were things he had missed – little things -
The pattern was all there. It only needed cohesion.
Maureen, glass in hand, talking in a dreamy voice – asking a question… Mrs Oliver's account of her evening at the Rep. Cecil? Michael? He was almost sure that she had mentioned a Michael – Eva Kane, nursery governess to the Craigs -
Evelyn Hope…
Of course! Evelyn Hope!
Chapter 23
I
Eve Carpenter came into the Summerhayes' house in the casual way that most people did, using any door or window that was convenient.
She was looking for Hercule Poirot and when she found him she did not beat about the bush.
"Look here," she said. "You're a detective and you're supposed to be good. All right, I'll hire you."
"Suppose I am not for hire. Mon Dieu, I am not a taxicab!"
"You're a private detective and private detective get paid, don't they?"
"It is the custom."
"Well, that's what I'm saying. I'll pay you. I'll pay you well."
"For what? What do you want me to do."
Eve Carpenter said sharply:
"Protect me against the police. They're crazy. They seem to think I killed the Upward woman. And they're nosing round, asking me all sorts of questions – ferreting out things. I don't like it. It's driving me mental."
Poirot looked at her. Something of what she said was true. She looked many years older than when he had first seen her a few weeks ago. Circles under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights. There were lines from her mouth to her chin, and her hand, when she lit a cigarette, shook badly.
"You've got to stop it," she said. "You've got to."
"Madame, what can I do?"
"Fend them off somehow or other. Damned cheek! If Guy was a man he'd stop all this. He wouldn't let them persecute me."
"And – he does nothing?"
She said sullenly:
"I've not told him. He just talks pompously about giving the police all the assistance possible. It's all right for him. He was at some ghastly political meeting that night."
"And you?"
"I was just sitting at home. Listening to the radio actually."
"But, if you can prove that -"
"How can I prove it? I offered the Crofts a fabulous sum to say they'd been in and out and seen me there – the damned swine refused."
"That was a very unwise move on your part."
"I don't see why. It would have settled the business."
"You have probably convinced your servants that you did commit the murder."
"Well – I'd paid Croft anyway for -"
"For what?"
"Nothing."
"Remember – you want my help."
"Oh! it was nothing that matters. But Croft took the message from her."
"From Mrs Upward?"
"Yes. Asking me to go down and see her that night."
"And you say you didn't go?"
"Why should I go? Damned dreary old woman. Why should I go and hold her hand? I never dreamed of going for a moment."
"When did this message come?"
"When I was out. I don't know exactly when – between five and six, I think. Croft took it."
"And you gave him money to forget he had taken that message. Why?"
"Don't be idiotic. I didn't want to get mixed up in it all."
"And then you offer him money to give you an alibi? What do you suppose he and his wife think?"
"Who cares what they think!"
"A jury may care," said Poirot gravely.
She stared at him.
"You're not serious?"
"I am serious."
"They'd listen to servants – and not to me?"
Poirot looked at her.
Such crass rudeness and stupidity! Antagonising the people who might have been helpful. A short-sighted stupid policy. Short-sighted -
Such lovely wide blue eyes.
He said quietly:
"Why don't you wear glasses, madame? You need them."
"What? Oh, I do sometimes. I did as a child."
"And you had then a plate for your teeth."
She stared.
"I did, as a matter of fact. Why all this?"
"The ugly duckling becomes the swan?"
"I was certainly ugly enough."
"Did your mother think so?"
She said sharply:
"I don't remember my mother. What the hell are we talking about anyway? Will you take on the job?"
"I regret I cannot."
"Why can't you?"
"Because in this affair I act for James Bentley."
"James Bentley? Oh, you mean that half-wit who killed the charwoman. What's he got to do with the Upwards?"
"Perhaps – nothing."
"Well, then! Is it a question of money? How much?"
"That is your great mistake, madame. You think always in terms of money. You have money and you think that only money counts."
"I haven't always had money,"
said Eve Carpenter.
"No," said Poirot. "I thought not." He nodded his head gently. "That explains a good deal. It excuses some things…"
II
Eve Carpenter went out the way she had come, blundering a little in the light as Poirot remembered her doing before.
Poirot said softly to himself:
"Evelyn Hope…"
So Mrs Upward had rung up both Deirdre Henderson and Evelyn Carpenter. Perhaps she had rung up someone else. Perhaps -
With a crash Maureen came in.
"It's my scissors now. Sorry lunch is late. I've got three pairs and I can't find one of them."
She rushed over to the bureau and the process with which Poirot was well acquainted was repeated. This time, the objective was attained rather sooner. With a cry of joy, Maureen departed.
Almost automatically, Poirot stepped over and began to replace the things in the drawer. Sealing wax, notepaper, a work basket, photographs -
Photographs…
He stood staring at the photograph he held in his hand.
Footsteps rushed back along the passage.
Poirot could move quickly in spite of his age. He had dropped the photograph on the sofa, put a cushion on it, and had himself sat on the cushion, by the time that Maureen re-entered.
"Where the hell I've put a colander full of spinach -"
"But it is there, madame."
He indicated the colander as it reposed beside him on the sofa.
"So that's where I left it." She snatched it up. "Everything is behind hand today…" Her glance took in Hercule Poirot sitting bolt upright.
"What on earth do you want to sit there for? Even on a cushion, it's the most uncomfortable seat in the room. All the springs are broken."
"I know, madame. But I am – I am admiring that picture on the wall."
Maureen glanced up at the oil painting of a naval officer complete with telescope.
"Yes – it's good. About the only good thing in the house. We're not sure that it isn't a Gainsborough." She sighed. "Johnnie won't sell it, though. It's his great-great and I think a few more greats, grandfather and he went down with his ship or did something frightfully gallant. Johnnie's terribly proud of it."
Mrs McGinty's Dead hp-28 Page 17
