Ten

THE BARNARDS

Elizabeth Barnard’s parents lived in a minute bungalow¹, one of fifty or so recently run up by aspeculative builder on the confines of the town. The name of it was Llandudno. Mr. Barnard, astout, bewildered-looking man of fifty-five or so, had noticed our approach and was standingwaiting in the doorway².

“Come in, gentlemen,” he said.

Inspector³ Kelsey took the initiative.

“This is Inspector Crome of Scotland Yard, sir,” he said. “He’s come down to help us over thisbusiness.”

“Scotland Yard?” said Mr. Barnard hopefully. “That’s good. This murdering villain’s got to belaid by the heels. My poor little girl—” His face was distorted by a spasm⁴ of grief.

“And this is Mr. Hercule Poirot, also from London, and er—”

“Captain Hastings,” said Poirot.

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” said Mr. Barnard mechanically. “Come into the snuggery. Idon’t know that my poor wife’s up to seeing you. All broken up, she is.”

However, by the time that we were ensconced in the living room of the bungalow, Mrs. Barnardhad made her appearance. She had evidently been crying bitterly, her eyes were reddened and shewalked with the uncertain gait of a person who had had a great shock.

“Why, mother, that’s fine,” said Mr. Barnard. “You’re sure you’re all right—eh?”

He patted her shoulder and drew her down into a chair.

“The superintendent⁵ was very kind,” said Mr. Barnard. “After he’d broken the news to us, hesaid he’d leave any questions till later when we’d got over the first shock.”

“It is too cruel. Oh, it is too cruel,” cried Mrs. Barnard tearfully. “The cruellest thing that everwas, it is.”

Her voice had a faintly sing-song intonation⁶ that I thought for a moment was foreign till Iremembered the name on the gate and realized that the “effer wass” of her speech was in realityproof of her Welsh origin.

“It’s very painful, madam, I know,” said Inspector Crome. “And we’ve every sympathy for you,but we want to know all the facts we can so as to get to work as quick as possible.”

“That’s sense, that is,” said Mr. Barnard, nodding approval.

“Your daughter was twenty-three, I understand. She lived here with you and worked at theGinger Cat café, is that right?”

“That’s it.”

“This is a new place, isn’t it? Where did you live before?”

“I was in the ironmongery business in Kennington. Retired⁸ two years ago. Always meant to livenear the sea.”

“You have two daughters?”

“Yes. My elder daughter works in an office in London.”

“Weren’t you alarmed when your daughter didn’t come home last night?”

“We didn’t know she hadn’t,” said Mrs. Barnard tearfully. “Dad and I always go to bed early.

Nine o’clock’s our time. We never knew Betty hadn’t come home till the police officer came andsaid—and said—”

She broke down.

“Was your daughter in the habit of—er—returning home late?”

“You know what girls are nowadays, inspector,” said Barnard. “Independent, that’s what theyare. These summer evenings they’re not going to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in byeleven.”

“How did she get in? Was the door open?”

“Left the key under the mat—that’s what we always did.”

“There is some rumour⁹, I believe, that your daughter was engaged to be married?”

“They don’t put it as formally as that nowadays,” said Mr. Barnard.

“Donald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much,” said Mrs. Barnard. “Poorfellow, it’ll be trouble for him—this news. Does he know yet, I wonder?”

“He works in Court & Brunskill’s, I understand?”

“Yes, they’re the estate agents.”

“Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after her work?”

“Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer.”

“Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday?”

“She didn’t say. Betty never said much about what she was doing or where she was going. Butshe was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can’t believe—”

Mrs. Barnard started sobbing¹⁰ again.

“Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, mother,” urged her husband. “We’ve got to getto the bottom of this.”

“I’m sure Donald would never—would never—” sobbed¹¹ Mrs. Barnard.

“Now just you pull yourself together,” repeated Mr Barnard.

“I wish to God I could give you some help—but the plain fact is I know nothing—nothing at allthat can help you to find the dastardly scoundrel who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girl—with a decent young fellow that she was—well, we’d have called it walking out with in my youngdays. Why anyone should want to murder her simply beats me—it doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re very near the truth there, Mr. Barnard,” said Crome. “I tell you what I’d like to do—have a look over Miss Barnard’s room. There may be something—letters—or a diary.”

“Look over it and welcome,” said Mr. Barnard, rising.

He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I brought up the rear.

I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelaces, and as I did so a taxi drew up outside and a girljumped out of it. She paid the driver and hurried up the path to the house, carrying a smallsuitcase. As she entered the door she saw me and stopped dead.

There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued¹² me.

“Who are you?” she said.

I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply. Should I give my name?

Or mention that I had come here with the police? The girl, however, gave me no time to make adecision.

“Oh, well,” she said, “I can guess.”

She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing and threw it on the ground. I couldsee her better now as she turned a little so that the light fell on her.

My first impression was of the Dutch dolls that my sisters used to play with in my childhood.

Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheek-bones werehigh and her whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow, unattractive. Shewas not good-looking—plain rather—but there was an intensity¹³ about her, a forcefulness thatmade her a person quite impossible to overlook.

“You are Miss Barnard?” I asked.

“I am Megan Barnard. You belong to the police, I suppose?”

“Well,” I said. “Not exactly—”

She interrupted me.

“I don’t think I’ve got anything to say to you. My sister was a nice bright girl with no menfriends. Good morning.”

She gave me a short laugh as she spoke¹⁴ and regarded me challengingly.

“That’s the correct phrase, I believe?” she said.

“I’m not a reporter, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Well, what are you?” She looked around. “Where’s mum and dad?”

“Your father is showing the police your sister’s bedroom. Your mother’s in there. She’s veryupset.”

The girl seemed to make a decision.

“Come in here,” she said.

She pulled open a door and passed through. I followed her and found myself in a small, neatkitchen.

I was about to shut the door behind me—but found an unexpected resistance. The next momentPoirot had slipped quietly into the room and shut the door behind him.

“Mademoiselle Barnard?” he said with a quick bow.

“This is M. Hercule Poirot,” I said.

Megan Barnard gave him a quick, appraising¹⁵ glance.

“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “You’re the fashionable private sleuth, aren’t you?”

“Not a pretty description—but it suffices,” said Poirot.

The girl sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. She felt in her bag for a cigarette. She placedit between her lips, lighted it, and then said in between two puffs¹⁶ of smoke:

“Somehow, I don’t see what M. Hercule Poirot is doing in our humble¹⁷ little crime.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “What you do not see and what I do not see would probably fill avolume. But all that is of no practical importance. What is of practical importance is somethingthat will not be easy to find.”

“What’s that?”

“Death, mademoiselle, unfortunately creates a prejudice. A prejudice in favour of the deceased.

I heard what you said just now to my friend Hastings. ‘A nice bright girl with no men friends.’

You said that in mockery of the newspapers. And it is very true—when a young girl is dead, that isthe kind of thing that is said. She was bright. She was happy. She was sweet-tempered. She hadnot a care in the world. She had no undesirable¹⁸ acquaintances. There is a great charity always tothe dead. Do you know what I should like this minute? I should like to find someone who knewElizabeth Barnard and who does not know she is dead! Then, perhaps, I should hear what is usefulto me—the truth.”

Megan Barnard looked at him for a few minutes in silence whilst she smoked. Then, at last, shespoke. Her words made me jump.

“Betty,” she said, “was an unmitigated little ass⁷!”

 

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