Eight

I“A letter?” Bessie Burch shook her head. “No, I didn’t get any letter from auntie. What should shewrite to me about?”

Poirot suggested: “There might have been something she wanted to tell you.”

“Auntie wasn’t much of a one for writing. She was getting on for seventy, you know, andwhen she was young they didn’t get much schooling.”

“But she could read and write?”

“Oh, of course. Not much of a one for reading, though she liked her News of the World andher Sunday Comet. But writing came a bit difficult always. If she’d anything to let me know about,like putting us off from coming to see her, or saying she couldn’t come to us, she’d usually ring upMr. Benson, the chemist next door, and he’d send the message in. Very obliging that way, he is.

You see, we’re in the area, so it only costs twopence. There’s a call box at the post office inBroadhinny.”

Poirot nodded. He appreciated the fact that twopence was better than twopence ha’penny. Healready had a picture of Mrs. McGinty as the spare and saving kind. She had been, he thought,very fond of money.

He persisted gently:

“But your aunt did write to you sometimes, I suppose?”

“Well, there were cards at Christmas.”

“And perhaps she had friends in other parts of England to whom she wrote?”

“I don’t know about that. There was her sister-in-law, but she died two years ago and therewas a Mrs. Birdlip—but she’s dead too.”

“So, if she wrote to someone, it would be most likely in answer to a letter she had received?”

Again Bessie Burch looked doubtful.

“I don’t know who’d be writing to her, I’m sure .?.?. Of course,” her face brightened, “there’salways the Government.”

Poirot agreed that in these days, communications from what Bessie loosely referred to as “theGovernment” were the rule, rather than the exception.

“And a lot of fandangle it usually is,” said Mrs. Burch. “Forms to fill in, and a lot ofimpertinent questions as shouldn’t be asked of any decent body.”

“So Mrs. McGinty might have got some Government communication that she had toanswer?”

“If she had, she’d have brought it along to Joe, so as he could help her with it. Those sort ofthings fussed her and she always brought them to Joe.”

“Can you remember if there were any letters among her personal possessions?”

“I couldn’t say rightly. I don’t remember anything. But then the police took over at first. Itwasn’t for quite a while they let me pack her things and take them away.”

“What happened to those things?”

“That chest over there is hers—good solid mahogany, and there’s a wardrobe upstairs, andsome good kitchen stuff. The rest we sold because we’d no room for them.”

“I meant her own personal things.” He added: “Such things as brushes and combs,photographs, toilet things, clothes. .?.?.”

“Oh, them. Well, tell you the truth, I packed them in a suitcase and it’s still upstairs. Didn’trightly know what to do with them. Thought I’d take the clothes to the jumble sale at Christmas,but I forgot. Didn’t seem nice to take them to one of those nasty second-hand clothes people.”

“I wonder—might I see the contents of that suitcase?”

“Welcome, I’m sure. Though I don’t think you’ll find anything to help you. The police wentthrough it all, you know.”

“Oh I know. But, all the same—”

Mrs. Burch led him briskly into a minute back bedroom, used, Poirot judged, mainly forhome dressmaking. She pulled out a suitcase from under the bed and said:

“Well, here you are, and you’ll excuse me stopping, but I’ve got the stew to see to.”

Poirot gratefully excused her, and heard her thumping downstairs again. He drew the suitcasetowards him and opened it.

A waft of mothballs came out to greet him.

With a feeling of pity, he lifted out the contents, so eloquent in their revelation of a womanwho was dead. A rather worn long black coat. Two woollen jumpers. A coat and skirt. Stockings.

No underwear (presumably Bessie Burch had taken those for her own wear). Two pairs of shoeswrapped up in newspaper. A brush and comb, worn but clean. An old dented silver-backed mirror.

A photograph in a leather frame of a wedding pair dressed in the style of thirty years ago—apicture of Mrs. McGinty and her husband presumably. Two picture post-cards of Margate. A chinadog. A recipe torn out of a paper for making vegetable marrow jam. Another piece dealing with“Flying Saucers” on a sensational note. A third clipping dealt with Mother Shipton’s prophecies.

There was also a Bible and a Prayer Book.

There were no handbags, or gloves. Presumably Bessie Burch had taken these, or given themaway. The clothes here, Poirot judged, would have been too small for the buxom Bessie. Mrs.

McGinty had been a thin, spare woman.

He unwrapped one of the pairs of shoes. They were of quite good quality and not much worn.

Decidedly on the small side for Bessie Burch.

He was just about to wrap them up neatly again when his eye was caught by the heading onthe piece of newspaper.

It was the Sunday Comet and the date was November 19th.

Mrs. McGinty had been killed on November 22nd.

This then was the paper she had bought on the Sunday preceding her death. It had been lyingin her room and Bessie Burch had used it in due course to wrap up her aunt’s things.

Sunday, November 19th. And on Monday Mrs. McGinty had gone into the post office to buya bottle of ink. .?.?.

Could that be because of something she had seen in Sunday’s newspaper?

He unwrapped the other pair of shoes. They were wrapped in the News of the World of thesame date.

He smoothed out both papers and took them over to a chair where he sat down to read them.

And at once he made a discovery. On one page of the Sunday Comet, something had been cut out.

It was a rectangular piece out of the middle page. The space was too big for any of the clippingshe had found.

He looked through both newspapers, but could find nothing else of interest. He wrapped themround the shoes again and packed the suitcase tidily.

Then he went downstairs.

Mrs. Burch was busy in the kitchen.

“Don’t suppose you found anything?” she said.

“Alas, no.” He added in a casual voice: “You do not remember if there was a cutting from anewspaper in your aunt’s purse or in her handbag, was there?”

“Can’t remember any. Perhaps the police took it.”

But the police had not taken it. That Poirot knew from his study of Spence’s notes. Thecontents of the dead woman’s handbag had been listed, no newspaper cutting was among them.

“Eh bien,” said Hercule Poirot to himself. “The next step is easy. It will be either thewashout—or else, at last, I advance.”

II

Sitting very still, with the dusty files of newspaper in front of him, Poirot told himself that hisrecognition of the significance of the bottle of ink had not played him false.

The Sunday Comet was given to romantic dramatizations of past events.

The paper at which Poirot was looking was the Sunday Comet of Sunday, November 19th.

At the top of the middle page were these words in big type:

WOMEN VICTIMS OF

BYGONE TRAGEDIES

WHERE ARE THESE

WOMEN NOW?

Below the caption were four very blurred reproductions of photographs clearly taken many yearsago.

The subjects of them did not look tragic. They looked, actually, rather ridiculous, since nearlyall of them were dressed in the style of a bygone day, and nothing is more ridiculous than thefashions of yesterday—though in another thirty years or so their charm may have reappeared, or atany rate be once more apparent.

Under each photo was a name.

Eva Kane, the “other woman” in the famous Craig Case.

Janice Courtland, the “tragic wife” whose husband was a fiend in human form.

Little Lily Gamboll, tragic child product of our overcrowded age.

Vera Blake, unsuspecting wife of a killer.

And then came the question in bold type again:

WHERE ARE THESE

WOMEN NOW?

Poirot blinked and set himself to read meticulously the somewhat romantic prose which gave thelife stories of these dim and blurry heroines.

The name of Eva Kane he remembered, for the Craig Case had been a very celebrated one.

Alfred Craig had been Town Clerk of Parminster, a conscientious, rather nondescript little man,correct and pleasant in his behaviour. He had had the misfortune to marry a tiresome andtemperamental wife. Mrs. Craig ran him into debt, bullied him, nagged him, and suffered fromnervous maladies that unkind friends said were entirely imaginary. Eva Kane was the youngnursery governess in the house. She was nineteen, pretty, helpless and rather simple. She felldesperately in love with Craig and he with her. Then one day the neighbours heard that Mrs. Craighad been “ordered abroad” for her health. That had been Craig’s story. He took her up to London,the first stage of the journey, by car late one evening, and “saw her off” to the South of France.

Then he returned to Parminster and at intervals mentioned how his wife’s health was no better byher accounts of it in letters. Eva Kane remained behind to housekeep for him, and tongues soonstarted wagging. Finally, Craig received news of his wife’s death abroad. He went away andreturned a week later, with an account of the funeral.

In some ways, Craig was a simple man. He made the mistake of mentioning where his wifehad died, a moderately well-known resort on the French Riviera. It only remained for someonewho had a relative or friend living there to write to them, discover that there had been no death orfuneral of anyone of that name and, after a period of rank gossip, to communicate with the police.

Subsequent events can be briefly summarized.

Mrs. Craig had not left for the Riviera. She had been cut in neat pieces and buried in theCraig cellar. And the autopsy of the remains showed poisoning by a vegetable alkaloid.

Craig was arrested and sent for trial. Eva Kane was originally charged as an accessory, butthe charge was dropped, since it appeared clear that she had throughout been completely ignorantof what had occurred. Craig in the end made a full confession and was sentenced and executed.

Eva Kane, who was expecting a child, left Parminster and, in the words of the Sunday Comet:

Kindly relatives in the New World offered her a home. Changing her name, thepitiful young girl, seduced in her trusting youth by a cold-blooded murderer, leftthese shores for ever, to begin a new life and to keep for ever locked in her heartand concealed from her daughter the name of her father.

“My daughter shall grow up happy and innocent. Her life shall not be taintedby the cruel past. That I have sworn. My tragic memories shall remain minealone.”

Poor frail trusting Eva Kane. To learn, so young, the villainy and infamy ofman. Where is she now? Is there, in some Mid-western town, an elderly woman,quiet and respected by her neighbours, who has, perhaps, sad eyes .?.?. And doesa young woman, happy and cheerful, with children, perhaps, of her own, comeand see “Momma,” telling her of all the little rubs and grievances of daily life—with no idea of what past sufferings her mother has endured?

“Oh la la!” said Hercule Poirot. And passed on to the next Tragic Victim.

Janice Courtland, the “tragic wife,” had certainly been unfortunate in her husband. Hispeculiar practices referred to in such a guarded way as to rouse instant curiosity, had been sufferedby her for eight years. Eight years of martyrdom, the Sunday Comet said firmly. Then Janice madea friend. An idealistic and unworldly young man who, horrified by a scene between husband andwife that he had witnessed by accident, had thereupon assaulted the husband with such vigour thatthe latter had crashed in his skull on a sharply-edged marble fire surround. The jury had found thatprovocation had been intense, that the young idealist had had no intention of killing, and asentence of five years for manslaughter was given.

The suffering Janice, horrified by all the publicity the case had brought her, had gone abroad“to forget.”

Has she forgotten? asked the Sunday Comet. We hope so. Somewhere, perhaps, isa happy wife and mother to whom those years of nightmare suffering silentlyendured, seem now only like a dream. .?.?.

“Well, well,” said Hercule Poirot and passed on to Lily Gamboll, the tragic child product of ourovercrowded age.

Lily Gamboll had, it seemed, been removed from her overcrowded home. An aunt hadassumed responsibility for Lily’s life. Lily had wanted to go to the pictures, aunt had said “No.”

Lily Gamboll had picked up the meat chopper which was lying conveniently on the table and hadaimed a blow at her aunt with it. The aunt, though autocratic, was small and frail. The blow killedher. Lily was a well-developed and muscular child for her twelve years. An approved school hadopened its doors and Lily had disappeared from the everyday scene.

By now she is a woman, free again to take her place in our civilization. Herconduct, during her years of confinement and probation, is said to have beenexemplary. Does not this show that it is not the child, but the system, that we mustblame? Brought up in ignorance, little Lily was the victim of her environment.

Now, having atoned for her tragic lapse, she lives somewhere, happily, we hope,a good citizen and a good wife and mother. Poor little Lily Gamboll.

Poirot shook his head. A child of twelve who took a swing at her aunt with a meat chopper and hither hard enough to kill her was not, in his opinion, a nice child. His sympathies were, in this case,with the aunt.

He passed on to Vera Blake.

Vera Blake was clearly one of those women with whom everything goes wrong. She had firsttaken up with a boyfriend who turned out to be a gangster wanted by the police for killing a bankwatchman. She had then married a respectable tradesman who turned out to be a receiver of stolengoods. Her two children had likewise, in due course, attracted the attention of the police. Theywent with Mamma to department stores and did a pretty line in shoplifting. Finally, however, a“good man” had appeared on the scene. He had offered tragic Vera a home in the Dominions. Sheand her children should leave this effete country.

From henceforward a New Life awaited them. At last, after long years of repeatedblows from Fate, Vera’s troubles are over.

“I wonder,” said Poirot sceptically. “Very possibly she will find she has married a confidencetrickster who works the liners!”

He leant back and studied the four photographs. Eva Kane with tousled curly hair over herears and an enormous hat, held a bunch of roses up to her ear like a telephone receiver. JaniceCourtland had a cloche hat pushed down over her ears and a waist round her hips. Lily Gambollwas a plain child with an adenoidal appearance of open mouth, hard breathing and thickspectacles. Vera Blake was so tragically black and white that no features showed.

For some reason Mrs. McGinty had torn out this feature, photographs and all. Why? Just tokeep because the stories interested her? He thought not. Mrs. McGinty had kept very few thingsduring her sixty-odd years of life. Poirot knew that from the police reports of her belongings.

She had torn this out on the Sunday and on the Monday she had bought a bottle of ink and theinference was that she, who never wrote letters, was about to write a letter. If it had been abusiness letter, she would probably have asked Joe Burch to help her. So it had not been business.

It had been—what?

Poirot’s eyes looked over the four photographs once again.

Where, the Sunday Comet asked, are these women now?

One of them, Poirot thought, might have been in Broadhinny last November.

III

It was not until the following day that Poirot found himself tête-à-tête with Miss Pamela Horsefall.

Miss Horsefall couldn’t give him long, because she had to rush away to Sheffield, sheexplained.

Miss Horsefall was tall, manly- looking, a hard drinker and smoker, and it would seem,looking at her, highly improbable that it was her pen which had dropped such treacly sentiment inthe Sunday Comet. Nevertheless it was so.

“Cough it up, cough it up,” said Miss Horsefall impatiently to Poirot. “I’ve got to be going.”

“It is about your article in the Sunday Comet. Last November. The series about TragicWomen.”

“Oh, that series. Pretty lousy, weren’t they?”

Poirot did not express an opinion on that point. He said:

“I refer in particular to the article on Women Associated with Crime that appeared onNovember 19th. It concerned Eva Kane, Vera Blake, Janice Courtland and Lily Gamboll.”

Miss Horsefall grinned.

“Where are these tragic women now? I remember.”

“I suppose you sometimes get letters after the appearance of these articles?”

“You bet I do! Some people seem to have nothing better to do than write letters. Somebody‘once saw the murderer Craig walking down the street.’ Somebody would like to tell me ‘the storyof her life, far more tragic than anything I could ever imagine.’”

“Did you get a letter after the appearance of that article from a Mrs. McGinty ofBroadhinny?”

“My dear man, how on earth should I know? I get buckets of letters. How should I rememberone particular name?”

“I thought you might remember,” said Poirot, “because a few days later Mrs. McGinty wasmurdered.”

“Now you’re talking.” Miss Horsefall forgot to be impatient to get to Sheffield, and sat downastride a chair. “McGinty— McGinty .?.?. I do remember the name. Conked on the head by herlodger. Not a very exciting crime from the point of view of the public. No sex appeal about it. Yousay the woman wrote to me?”

“She wrote to the Sunday Comet, I think.”

“Same thing. It would come on to me. And with the murder—and her name being in the news—surely I should remember—” she stopped. “Look here—it wasn’t from Broadhinny. It was fromBroadway.”

“So you do remember?”

“Well, I’m not sure .?.?. But the name .?.?. Comic name, isn’t it? McGinty! Yes—atrociouswriting and quite illiterate. If I’d only realized .?.?. But I’m sure it came from Broadway.”

Poirot said: “You say yourself the writing was bad. Broadway and Broadhinny—they couldlook alike.”

“Yes—might be so. After all, one wouldn’t be likely to know these queer rural names.

McGinty—yes. I do remember definitely. Perhaps the murder fixed the name for me.”

“Can you remember what she said in her letter?”

“Something about a photograph. She knew where there was a photograph like in the paper—and would we pay her anything for it and how much?”

“And you answered?”

“My dear man, we don’t want anything of that kind. We sent back the standard reply. Politethanks but nothing doing. But as we sent it to Broadway—I don’t suppose she’d ever get it.”

“She knew where there was a photograph. .?.?.”

Into Poirot’s mind there came back a remembrance. Maureen Summerhayes’ careless voicesaying, “Of course she snooped round a bit.”

Mrs. McGinty had snooped. She was honest, but she liked to know about things. And peoplekept things—foolish, meaningless things from the past. Kept them for sentimental reasons, or justoverlooked them and didn’t remember they were there.

Mrs. McGinty had seen an old photograph and later she had recognized it reproduced in theSunday Comet. And she had wondered if there was any money in it. .?.?.

He rose briskly. “Thank you, Miss Horsefall. You will pardon me, but those notes on thecases that you wrote, were they accurate? I notice, for instance, that the year of the Craig trial isgiven wrongly—it was actually a year later than you say. And in the Courtland case, the husband’sname was Herbert, I seem to remember, not Hubert. Lily Gamboll’s aunt lived inBuckinghamshire, not Berkshire.”

Miss Horsefall waved a cigarette.

“My dear man. No point in accuracy. Whole thing was a romantic farrago from beginning toend. I just mugged up the facts a bit and then let fly with a lot of hou ha.”

“What I am trying to say is that even the characters of your heroines are not, perhaps, quite asrepresented.”

Pamela let out a neighing sound like a horse.

“’Course they weren’t. What do you think? I’ve no doubt that Eva Kane was a thorough littlebitch, and not an injured innocent at all. And as for the Courtland woman, why did she suffer insilence for eight years with a sadistic pervert? Because he was rolling in money, and the romanticboyfriend hadn’t any.”

“And the tragic child, Lily Gamboll?”

“I wouldn’t care to have her gambolling about me with a meat chopper.”

Poirot ticked off on his fingers.

“They left the country—they went to the New World—abroad—‘to the Dominions’—‘tostart a New Life.’ And there is nothing to show, is there, that they did not, subsequently, comeback to this country?”

“Not a thing,” agreed Miss Horsefall. “And now—I really must fly—”

Later that night Poirot rang up Spence.

“I’ve been wondering about you, Poirot. Have you got anything? Anything at all?”

“I have made my inquiries,” said Poirot grimly.

“Yes?”

“And the result of them is this: The people who live in Broadhinny are all very nice people.”

“What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?”

“Oh, my friend, consider. ‘Very nice people.’ That has been, before now, a motive formurder.”