FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN, MAIDS IN THE KITCHEN

IThe interview with Agnes Fletcher took place in Hertford, in a somewhat derelict teashop, forAgnes had been anxious not to tell her story under Miss Morley’s critical eye.

The first quarter of an hour was taken up listening to exactly how particular Agnes’ mother hadalways been. Also how Agnes’ father, though a proprietor¹ of licensed² premises³, had never oncehad any friction⁴ with the police, closing time being strictly⁵ observed to the second, and indeedAgnes’ father and mother were universally respected and looked up to in Little Darlingham,Gloucestershire, and none of Mrs. Fletcher’s family of six (two having died in infancy) had everoccasioned their parents the least anxiety. And if Agnes, now, were to get mixed up with thepolice in any way, Mum and Dad would probably die of it, because as she’d been saying, they’dalways held their heads high, and never had no trouble of any kind with the police.

After this had been repeated, da capo, and with various embellishments, several times, Agnesdrew a little nearer to the subject of the interview.

“I wouldn’t like to say anything to Miss Morley, sir, because it might be, you see, that she’d sayas how I ought to have said something before, but me and cook, we talked it over and we didn’tsee as it was any business of ours, because we’d read quite clear and plain in the paper as how themaster had made a mistake in the drug he was giving and that he’d shot himself and the pistol wasin his hands and everything, so it did seem quite clear, didn’t it, sir?”

“When did you begin to feel differently?” Poirot hoped to get a little nearer the promisedrevelation by an encouraging but not too direct question.

Agnes replied promptly⁶.

“Seeing it in the paper about that Frank Carter—Miss Nevill’s young man as was. When I readas he’d shot at that gentleman where he was gardener, well, I thought, it looks as if he might bequeer in the head, because I do know there’s people it takes like that, think they’re beingpersecuted, or something, and that they’re ringed round by enemies, and in the end it’s dangerousto keep them at home and they have to be took away to the asylum⁸. And I thought that maybe thatFrank Carter was like that, because I did remember that he used to go on about Mr. Morley andsay as Mr. Morley was against him and trying to separate him from Miss Nevill, but of course shewouldn’t hear a word against him, and quite right too we thought—Emma and me, because youcouldn’t deny as Mr. Carter was very nice-looking and quite the gentleman. But, of course, neitherof us thought he’d really done anything to Mr. Morley. We just thought it was a bit queer if youknow what I mean.”

Poirot said patiently:

“What was queer?”

“It was that morning, sir, the morning Mr. Morley shot himself. I’d been wondering if I daredrun down and get the post. The postman had come but that Alfred hadn’t brought up the letters,which he wouldn’t do, not unless there was some for Miss Morley or Mr. Morley, but if it was justfor Emma and me he wouldn’t bother to bring them up till lunch time.

“So I went out on the landing and I looked down over the stairs. Miss Morley didn’t like usgoing down to the hall, not during the master’s business hours, but I thought maybe as I’d seeAlfred taking in a patient to the master and I’d call down to him as he came back.”

Agnes gasped⁹, took a deep breath and went on: “And it was then I saw him—that Frank Carter,I mean. Halfway¹⁰ up the stairs he was—our stairs, I mean, above the master’s floor. And he wasstanding there waiting and looking down—and I’ve come to feel more and more as though therewas something queer about it. He seemed to be listening very intent, if you know what I mean?”

“What time was this?”

“It must have been getting on for half past twelve, sir. And just as I was thinking: There now,it’s Frank Carter, and Miss Nevill’s away for the day and won’t he be disappointed, and I waswondering if I ought to run down and tell him because it looked as though that lump of an Alfredhad forgot, otherwise I thought he wouldn’t have been waiting for her. And just as I washesitating, Mr. Carter, he seemed to make up his mind, and he slipped down the stairs very quickand went along the passage towards the master’s surgery, and I thought to myself, the masterwon’t like that, and I wondered if there was going to be a row, but just then Emma called me, saidwhatever was I up to? and I went up again and then, afterwards, I heard the master had shothimself and, of course, it was so awful it just drove everything out of my head. But later, whenthat Police Inspector¹¹ had gone I said to Emma, I said, I didn’t say anything about Mr. Carterhaving been up with the master this morning, and she said was he? and I told her, and she saidwell, perhaps I ought to tell, but anyway I said I’d better wait a bit, and she agreed, becauseneither of us didn’t want to get Frank Carter into trouble if we could help. And then, when it cameto the inquest and it come out that the master had made that mistake in a drug and really had gotthe wind up and shot himself, quite natural-like—well, then, of course, there was no call to sayanything. But reading that piece in the paper two days ago—Oh! it did give me a turn! And I saidto myself, ‘If he’s one of those loonies that thinks they’re persecuted⁷ and goes round shootingpeople, well, then maybe he did shoot the master after all!’”

Her eyes, anxious and scared, looked hopefully at Hercule Poirot. He put as much reassuranceinto his voice as he could.

“You may be sure that you have done absolutely the right thing in telling me, Agnes,” he said.

“Well, I must say, sir, it does take a load off my mind. You see, I’ve kept saying to myself asperhaps I ought to tell. And then, you see, I thought of getting mixed up with the police and whatmother would say. She’s always been so particular about us all….”

“Yes, yes,” said Hercule Poirot hastily.

He had had, he felt, as much of Agnes’ mother as he could stand for one afternoon.

 

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