Eleven

MEGAN BARNARD

As I said, Megan Barnard’s words, and still more the crisp businesslike tone in which they wereuttered, made me jump.

Poirot, however, merely bowed his head gravely.

“A la bonne heure,” he said. “You are intelligent, mademoiselle.”

Megan Barnard said, still in the same detached tone:

“I was extremely fond of Betty. But my fondness didn’t blind me from seeing exactly the kindof silly little fool she was—and even telling her so upon occasions! Sisters are like that.”

“And did she pay any attention to your advice?”

“Probably not,” said Megan cynically¹.

“Will you, mademoiselle, be precise.”

The girl hesitated for a minute or two.

Poirot said with a slight smile:

“I will help you. I heard what you said to Hastings. That your sister was a bright, happy girlwith no men friends. It was—un peu—the opposite that was true, was it not?”

Megan said slowly:

“There wasn’t any harm in Betty. I want you to understand that. She’d always go straight. She’snot the weekending kind. Nothing of that sort. But she liked being taken out and dancing and—oh,cheap flattery and compliments and all that sort of thing.”

“And she was pretty—yes?”

This question, the third time I had heard it, met this time with a practical response.

Megan slipped off the table, went to her suitcase, snapped it open and extracted somethingwhich she handed to Poirot.

In a leather frame was a head and shoulders of a fair-haired, smiling girl. Her hair had evidentlyrecently been permed, it stood out from her head in a mass of rather frizzy curls. The smile wasarch and artificial. It was certainly not a face that you could call beautiful, but it had an obviousand cheap prettiness.

Poirot handed it back, saying:

“You and she do not resemble each other, mademoiselle.”

“Oh! I’m the plain one of the family. I’ve always known that.” She seemed to brush aside thefact as unimportant.

“In what way exactly do you consider your sister was behaving foolishly? Do you mean,perhaps, in relation to Mr. Donald Fraser?”

“That’s it, exactly. Don’s a very quiet sort of person—but he—well, naturally he’d resentcertain things—and then—”

“And then what, mademoiselle?”

His eyes were on her very steadily².

It may have been my fancy but it seemed to me that she hesitated a second before answering.

“I was afraid that he might—chuck her altogether. And that would have been a pity. He’s a verysteady and hard-working man and would have made her a good husband.”

Poirot continued to gaze at her. She did not flush under his glance but returned it with one of herown equally steady and with something else in it—something that reminded me of her first defiant,disdainful manner.

“So it is like that,” he said at last. “We do not speak the truth any longer.”

She shrugged³ her shoulders and turned towards the door.

“Well,” she said. “I’ve done what I could to help you.”

Poirot’s voice arrested her.

“Wait, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back.”

Rather unwillingly⁴, I thought, she obeyed.

Somewhat to my surprise, Poirot plunged⁵ into the whole story of the A B C letters, the murderof Andover, and the railway guide found by the bodies.

He had no reason to complain of any lack of interest on her part. Her lips parted, her eyesgleaming, she hung on his words.

“Is this all true, M. Poirot?”

“Yes, it is true.”

“You really mean that my sister was killed by some horrible homicidal maniac⁶?”

“Precisely.”

She drew a deep breath.

“Oh! Betty—Betty—how—how ghastly!”

“You see, mademoiselle, that the information for which I ask you can give freely withoutwondering whether or not it will hurt anyone.”

“Yes, I see that now.”

“Then let us continue our conversation. I have formed the idea that this Donald Fraser has,perhaps, a violent and jealous temper, is that right?”

Megan Barnard said quietly:

“I’m trusting you now, M. Poirot. I’m going to give you the absolute truth. Don is, as I say, avery quiet person—a bottled-up person, if you know what I mean. He can’t always express whathe feels in words. But underneath⁷ it all he minds things terribly. And he’s got a jealous nature. Hewas always jealous of Betty. He was devoted⁸ to her—and of course she was very fond of him, butit wasn’t in Betty to be fond of one person and not notice anybody else. She wasn’t made that way.

She’d got a—well, an eye for any nice-looking man who’d pass the time of day with her. And ofcourse, working in the Ginger⁹ Cat, she was always running up against men—especially in thesummer holidays. She was always very pat with her tongue and if they chaffed her she’d chaffback again. And then perhaps she’d meet them and go to the pictures or something like that.

Nothing serious—never anything of that kind—but she just liked her fun. She used to say that asshe’d got to settle down with Don one day she might as well have her fun now while she could.”

Megan paused and Poirot said:

“I understand. Continue.”

“It was just that attitude of mind of hers that Don couldn’t understand. If she was really keen onhim he couldn’t see why she wanted to go out with other people. And once or twice they hadflaming big rows about it.”

“M. Don, he was no longer quiet?”

“It’s like all those quiet people, when they do lose their tempers they lose them with avengeance. Don was so violent that Betty was frightened.”

“When was this?”

“There was one row nearly a year ago and another—a worse one—just over a month ago. I washome for the weekend—and I got them to patch it up again, and it was then I tried to knock a littlesense into Betty—told her she was a little fool. All she would say was that there hadn’t been anyharm in it. Well, that was true enough, but all the same she was riding for a fall. You see, after therow a year ago, she’d got into the habit of telling a few useful lies on the principle that what themind doesn’t know the heart doesn’t grieve over. This last flare-up came because she’d told Donshe was going to Hastings to see a girl pal—and he found out that she’d really been over toEastbourne with some man. He was a married man, as it happened, and he’d been a bit secretiveabout the business anyway—and so that made it worse. They had an awful scene—Betty sayingthat she wasn’t married to him yet and she had a right to go about with whom she pleased and Donall white and shaking and saying that one day—one day—”

“Yes?”

“He’d commit murder—” said Megan in a lowered voice.

She stopped and stared at Poirot.

He nodded his head gravely several times.

“And so, naturally, you were afraid….”

“I didn’t think he’d actually done it—not for a minute! But I was afraid it might be brought up—the quarrel and all that he’d said—several people knew about it.”

Again Poirot nodded his head gravely.

“Just so. And I may say, mademoiselle, that but for the egoistical vanity of a killer¹⁰, that is justwhat would have happened. If Donald Fraser escapes suspicion, it will be thanks to A B C’smaniacal boasting.”

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

“Do you know if your sister met this married man, or any other man, lately?”

Megan shook her head.

“I don’t know. I’ve been away, you see.”

“But what do you think?”

“She mayn’t have met that particular man again. He’d probably sheer off if he thought there wasa chance of a row, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Betty had—well, been telling Don a few liesagain. You see, she did so enjoy dancing and the pictures, and of course, Don couldn’t afford totake her all the time.”

“If so, is she likely to have confided¹¹ in anyone? The girl at the café, for instance?”

“I don’t think that’s likely. Betty couldn’t bear the Higley girl. She thought her common. Andthe others would be new. Betty wasn’t the confiding¹² sort anyway.”

An electric bell trilled sharply above the girl’s head.

She went to the window and leaned out. She drew back her head sharply.

“It’s Don….”

“Bring him in here,” said Poirot quickly. “I would like a word with him before our goodinspector takes him in hand.”

Like a flash Megan Barnard was out of the kitchen, and a couple of seconds later she was backagain leading Donald Fraser by the hand.

 

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