Nine

I“All very nice people,” murmured Poirot as he turned in at the gate of Crossways, near the station.

A brass plate in the doorpost announced that Dr. Rendell, M.D., lived there.

Dr. Rendell was a large cheerful man of forty. He greeted his guest with definiteempressement.

“Our quiet little village is honoured,” he said, “by the presence of the great Hercule Poirot.”

“Ah,” said Poirot. He was gratified. “You have, then, heard of me?”

“Of course we have heard of you. Who hasn’t?”

The answer to that would have been damaging to Poirot’s self- esteem. He merely saidpolitely: “I am fortunate to find you at home.”

It was not particularly fortunate. It was, on the contrary, astute timing. But Dr. Rendellreplied heartily:

“Yes. Just caught me. Surgery in a quarter of an hour. Now what can I do for you? I’mdevoured with curiosity to know what you’re doing down here. A rest cure? Or have we crime inour midst?”

“In the past tense—not the present.”

“Past? I don’t remember—”

“Mrs. McGinty.”

“Of course. Of course. I was forgetting. But don’t say you’re concerned with that—at this latedate?”

“If I may mention this to you in confidence, I am employed by the defence. Fresh evidenceon which to lodge an appeal.”

Dr. Rendell said sharply: “But what fresh evidence can there be?”

“That, alas, I am not at liberty to state—”

“Oh, quite—please forgive me.”

“But I have come across certain things which are, I may say—very curious—very—howshall I put it?—suggestive? I came to you, Dr. Rendell, because I understand that Mrs. McGintyoccasionally was employed here.”

“Oh yes, yes—she was—What about a drink? Sherry? Whisky? You prefer sherry? So do I.”

He brought two glasses and, sitting down by Poirot, he went on: “She used to come once a week todo extra cleaning. I’ve got a very good housekeeper—excellent—but the brasses—and scrubbingthe kitchen floor—well, my Mrs. Scott can’t get down on her knees very well. Mrs. McGinty wasan excellent worker.”

“Do you think that she was a truthful person?”

“Truthful? Well, that’s an odd question. I don’t think I could say — no opportunity ofknowing. As far as I know she was quite truthful.”

“If then she made a statement to anyone, you think that statement would probably be true?”

Dr. Rendell looked faintly disturbed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to go as far as that. I really know so little about her. I could ask Mrs.

Scott. She’d know better.”

“No, no. It would be better not to do that.”

“You’re arousing my curiosity,” said Dr. Rendell genially. “What was it she was goingaround saying? Something a bit libellous, was it? Slanderous, I suppose I mean.”

Poirot merely shook his head. He said: “You understand, all this is extremely hush hush atpresent. I am only at the very commencement of my investigation.”

Dr. Rendell said rather drily:

“You’ll have to hurry a bit, won’t you?”

“You are right. The time at my disposal is short.”

“I must say you surprise me .?.?. We’ve all been quite sure down here that Bentley did it.

There didn’t seem any doubt possible.”

“It seemed an ordinary sordid crime—not very interesting. That is what you would say?”

“Yes—yes, that sums it up very fairly.”

“You knew James Bentley?”

“He came to see me professionally once or twice. He was nervous about his own health.

Coddled by his mother, I fancy. One sees that so often. We’ve another case in point here.”

“Ah, indeed?”

“Yes. Mrs. Upward. Laura Upward. Dotes upon that son of hers. She keeps him well-tied toher apronstrings. He’s a clever fellow—not quite as clever as he thinks himself, between you andme—but still definitely talented. By way of being a budding playwright is our Robin.”

“They have been here long?”

“Three or four years. Nobody has been in Broadhinny very long. The original village wasonly a handful of cottages, grouped round Long Meadows. You’re staying there, I understand?”

“I am,” said Poirot without undue elation.

Dr. Rendell appeared amused.

“Guest House indeed,” he said. “What that young woman knows about running a GuestHouse is just nothing at all. She’s lived in India all her married life with servants running round allover the place. I bet you’re uncomfortable. Nobody ever stays long. As for poor oldSummerhayes, he’ll never make anything of this market gardening stunt he’s trying to run. Nicefellow—but not an idea of the commercial life—and the commercial life it’s got to be nowadays ifyou want to keep your head above water. Don’t run away with the idea that I heal the sick. I’mjust a glorified form filler and signer of certificates. I like the Summerhayes, though. She’s acharming creature, and though Summerhayes has a devilish temper and is inclined to be moody,he’s one of the old gang. Out of the top drawer all right. You should have known old ColonelSummerhayes, a regular tartar, proud as the devil.”

“That was Major Summerhayes’ father?”

“Yes. There wasn’t much money when the old boy died and of course there have been deathduties to cripple these people, but they’re determined to stick to the old place. One doesn’t knowwhether to admire them, or whether to say ‘Silly fools.’”

He looked at his watch.

“I must not keep you,” said Poirot.

“I’ve got a few minutes still. Besides, I’d like you to meet my wife. I can’t think where she is.

She was immensely interested to hear you were down here. We’re both very crime-minded. Reada lot about it.”

“Criminology, fiction, or the Sunday papers?” asked Poirot smiling.

“All three.”

“Do you descend as low as the Sunday Comet?”

Rendell laughed.

“What would Sunday be without it?”

“They had some interesting articles about five months ago. One in particular about womenwho had been involved in murder cases and the tragedy of their lives.”

“Yes, I remember the one you mean. All a lot of hooey, though.”

“Ah, you think that?”

“Well of course the Craig case I only know from reading about it, but one of the others—Courtland case, I can tell you that woman was no tragic innocent. Regular vicious bit of goods. Iknow because an uncle of mine attended the husband. He was certainly no beauty, but his wifewasn’t much better. She got hold of that young greenhorn and egged him on to murder. Then hegoes to prison for manslaughter and she goes off, a rich widow, and marries someone else.”

“The Sunday Comet did not mention that. Do you remember whom she married?”

Rendell shook his head.

“Don’t think I ever heard the name, but someone told me that she’d done pretty well forherself.”

“One wondered in reading the article where those four women were now,” mused Poirot.

“I know. One may have met one of them at a party last week. I bet they all keep their pastpretty dark. You’d certainly never recognize any of ’em from those photographs. My word, theylooked a plain lot.”

The clock chimed and Poirot rose to his feet. “I must detain you no longer. You have beenmost kind.”

“Not much help, I’m afraid. The mere man barely knows what his charlady looks like. Buthalf a second, you must meet the wife. She’d never forgive me.”

He preceded Poirot out into the hall, calling loudly:

“Shelagh—Shelagh—”

A faint answer came from upstairs.

“Come down here. I’ve got something for you.”

A thin fair-haired pale woman ran lightly down the stairs.

“Here’s M. Hercule Poirot, Shelagh. What do you think of that?”

“Oh,” Mrs. Rendell appeared to be startled out of speaking. Her very pale blue eyes stared atPoirot apprehensively.

“Madame,” said Poirot, bowing over her head in his most foreign manner.

“We heard that you were here,” said Shelagh Rendell. “But we didn’t know—” She broke off.

Her light eyes went quickly to her husband’s face.

“It is from him she takes the Greenwich time,” said Poirot to himself.

He uttered a few florid phrases and took his leave.

An impression remained with him of a genial Dr. Rendell and a tongue-tied, apprehensiveMrs. Rendell.

So much for the Rendells, where Mrs. McGinty had gone to work on Tuesday mornings.

II

Hunter’s Close was a solidly built Victorian house approached by a long untidy drive overgrownwith weeds. It had not originally been considered a big house, but was now big enough to beinconvenient domestically.

Poirot inquired of the foreign young woman who opened the door for Mrs. Wetherby.

She stared at him and then said: “I do not know. Please to come. Miss Henderson perhaps?”

She left him standing in the hall. It was in an estate agent’s phrase “fully furnished”—with agood many curios from various parts of the world. Nothing looked very clean or well dusted.

Presently the foreign girl reappeared. She said: “Please to come,” and showed him into achilly little room with a large desk. On the mantelpiece was a big and rather evil-looking coppercoffee pot with an enormous hooked spout like a large hooked nose.

The door opened behind Poirot and a girl came into the room.

“My mother is lying down,” she said. “Can I do anything for you?”

“You are Miss Wetherby?”

“Henderson. Mr. Wetherby is my stepfather.”

She was a plain girl of about thirty, large and awkward. She had watchful eyes.

“I was anxious to hear what you could tell me about Mrs. McGinty who used to work here.”

She stared at him.

“Mrs. McGinty? But she’s dead.”

“I know that,” said Poirot gently. “Nevertheless, I would like to hear about her.”

“Oh. Is it for insurance or something?”

“Not for insurance. It is a question of fresh evidence.”

“Fresh evidence. You mean—her death?”

“I am engaged,” said Poirot, “by the solicitors for the defence to make an inquiry on JamesBentley’s behalf.”

Staring at him, she asked: “But didn’t he do it?”

“The jury thought he did. But juries have been known to make a mistake.”

“Then it was really someone else who killed her?”

“It may have been.”

She asked abruptly: “Who?”

“That,” said Poirot softly, “is the question.”

“I don’t understand at all.”

“No? But you can tell me something about Mrs. McGinty, can’t you?”

She said rather reluctantly:

“I suppose so .?.?. What do you want to know?”

“Well—to begin with—what did you think of her?”

“Why—nothing in particular. She was just like anybody else.”

“Talkative or silent? Curious or reserved? Pleasant or morose? A nice woman, or—not a verynice woman?”

Miss Henderson reflected.

“She worked well—but she talked a lot. Sometimes she said rather funny things .?.?. I didn’t—really—like her very much.”

The door opened and the foreign help said:

“Miss Deirdre, your mother say: please to bring.”

“My mother wants me to take this gentleman upstairs to her?”

“Yes please, thank you.”

Deirdre Henderson looked at Poirot doubtfully.

“Will you come up to my mother?”

“But certainly.”

Deirdre led the way across the hall and up the stairs. She said inconsequently: “One does getso very tired of foreigners.”

Since her mind was clearly running on her domestic help and not on the visitor, Poirot did nottake offence. He reflected that Deirdre Henderson seemed a rather simple young woman—simpleto the point of gaucheness.

The room upstairs was crowded with knickknacks. It was the room of a woman who hadtravelled a good deal and who had been determined wherever she went to have a souvenir of theplace. Most of the souvenirs were clearly made for the delight and exploitation of tourists. Therewere too many sofas and tables and chairs in the room, too little air and too many draperies—andin the midst of it all was Mrs. Wetherby.

Mrs. Wetherby seemed a small woman—a pathetic small woman in a large room. That wasthe effect. But she was not really quite so small as she had decided to appear. The “poor little me”

type can achieve its result quite well, even if really of medium height.

She was reclining very comfortably on a sofa and near her were books and some knitting anda glass of orange juice and a box of chocolates. She said brightly:

“You must forgive me not getting up, but the doctor does so insist on my resting every day,and everyone scolds me if I don’t do what I’m told.”

Poirot took her extended hand and bowed over it with the proper murmur of homage.

Behind him, uncompromising, Deirdre said: “He wants to know about Mrs. McGinty.”

The delicate hand that had lain passively in his tightened and he was reminded for a momentof the talon of a bird. Not really a piece of delicate Dresden china—a scratchy predatory claw .?.?.

Laughing slightly, Mrs. Wetherby said:

“How ridiculous you are, Deirdre darling. Who is Mrs. McGinty?”

“Oh, Mummy—you do remember really. She worked for us. You know, the one who wasmurdered.”

Mrs. Wetherby closed her eyes, and shivered.

“Don’t, darling. It was all so horrid. I felt nervous for weeks afterwards. Poor old woman, butso stupid to keep money under the floor. She ought to have put it in the bank. Of course Iremember all that—I’d just forgotten her name.”

Deirdre said stolidly:

“He wants to know about her.”

“Now do sit down, M. Poirot. I’m quite devoured by curiosity. Mrs. Rendell just rang up andshe said we had a very famous criminologist down here, and she described you. And then, whenthat idiot Frieda described a visitor, I felt sure it must be you, and I sent down word for you tocome up. Now tell me, what is all this?”

“It is as your daughter says, I want to know about Mrs. McGinty. She worked here. She cameto you, I understand, on Wednesdays. And it was on a Wednesday she died. So she had been herethat day, had she not?”

“I suppose so. Yes, I suppose so. I can’t really tell now. It’s so long ago.”

“Yes. Several months. And she did not say anything that day—anything special?”

“That class of person always talks a lot,” said Mrs. Wetherby with distaste. “One doesn’treally listen. And anyway, she couldn’t tell she was going to be robbed and killed that night, couldshe?”

“There is cause and effect,” said Poirot.

Mrs. Wetherby wrinkled her forehead.

“I don’t see what you mean.”

“Perhaps I do not see myself—not yet. One works through darkness towards light .?.?. Do youtake in the Sunday papers, Mrs. Wetherby?”

Her blue eyes opened very wide.

“Oh yes. Of course. We have the Observer and the Sunday Times. Why?”

“I wondered. Mrs. McGinty took the Sunday Comet and the News of the World.”

He paused but nobody said anything. Mrs. Wetherby sighed and half closed her eyes. Shesaid:

“It was all very upsetting. That horrible lodger of hers. I don’t think really he can have beenquite right in the head. Apparently he was quite an educated man, too. That makes it worse,doesn’t it?”

“Does it?”

“Oh yes—I do think so. Such a brutal crime. A meat chopper. Ugh!”

“The police never found the weapon,” said Poirot.

“I expect he threw it in a pond or something.”

“They dragged the ponds,” said Deirdre. “I saw them.”

“Darling,” her mother sighed, “don’t be morbid. You know how I hate thinking of things likethat. My head.”

Fiercely the girl turned on Poirot.

“You mustn’t go on about it,” she said. “It’s bad for her. She’s frightfully sensitive. She can’teven read detective stories.”

“My apologies,” said Poirot. He rose to his feet. “I have only one excuse. A man is to behanged in three weeks’ time. If he did not do it—”

Mrs. Wetherby raised herself on her elbow. Her voice was shrill.

“But of course he did it,” she cried. “Of course he did.”

Poirot shook his head.

“I am not so sure.”

He left the room quickly. As he went down the stairs, the girl came after him. She caught upwith him in the hall.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“What I said, mademoiselle.”

“Yes, but—” She stopped.

Poirot said nothing.

Deirdre Henderson said slowly:

“You’ve upset my mother. She hates things like that—robberies and murders and—andviolence.”

“It must, then, have been a great shock to her when a woman who had actually worked herewas killed.”

“Oh yes—oh yes, it was.”

“She was prostrated—yes?”

“She wouldn’t hear anything about it .?.?. We—I—we try to—to spare her things. All thebeastliness.”

“What about the war?”

“Luckily we never had any bombs near here.”

“What was your part in the war, mademoiselle?”

“Oh, I did VAD work in Kilchester. And some driving for the WVS I couldn’t have lefthome, of course. Mother needed me. As it was, she minded my being out so much. It was all verydifficult. And then servants—naturally mother’s never done any housework—she’s not strongenough. And it was so difficult to get anyone at all. That’s why Mrs. McGinty was such a blessing.

That’s when she began coming to us. She was a splendid worker. But of course nothing —anywhere—is like it used to be.”

“And do you mind that so much, mademoiselle?”

“I? Oh no.” She seemed surprised. “But it’s different for mother. She—she lives in the past alot.”

“Some people do,” said Poirot. His visual memory conjured up the room he had been in ashort time before. There had been a bureau drawer half pulled out. A drawer full of odds and ends—a silk pincushion, a broken fan, a silver coffee pot—some old magazines. The drawer had beentoo full to shut. He said softly: “And they keep things — memories of old days — the danceprogramme, the fan, the photographs of bygone friends, even the menu cards and the theatreprogrammes because, looking at these things, old memories revive.”

“I suppose that’s it,” said Deirdre. “I can’t understand it myself. I never keep anything.”

“You look forwards, not back?”

Deirdre said slowly:

“I don’t know that I look anywhere .?.?. I mean, today’s usually enough, isn’t it?”

The front door opened and a tall, spare, elderly man came into the hall. He stopped dead as hesaw Poirot.

He glanced at Deirdre and his eyebrows rose in interrogation.

“This is my stepfather,” said Deirdre. “I—I don’t know your name?”

“I am Hercule Poirot,” said Poirot with his usual embarrassed air of announcing a royal title.

Mr. Wetherby seemed unimpressed.

He said, “Ah,” and turned to hang up his coat.

Deirdre said:

“He came to ask about Mrs. McGinty.”

Mr. Wetherby remained still for a second, then he finished his adjustment of the coat on thepeg.

“That seems to me rather remarkable,” he said. “The woman met her death some months agoand, although she worked here, we have no information concerning her or her family. If we haddone we should already have given it to the police.”

There was finality in his tone. He glanced at his watch.

“Lunch, I presume, will be ready in a quarter of an hour.”

“I’m afraid it may be rather late today.”

Mr. Wetherby’s eyebrows rose again.

“Indeed? Why, may I ask?”

“Frieda has been rather busy.”

“My dear Deirdre, I hate to remind you, but the task of running the household devolves onyou. I should appreciate a little more punctuality.”

Poirot opened the front door and let himself out. He glanced over his shoulder.

There was cold dislike in the gaze that Mr. Wetherby gave his stepdaughter. There wassomething very like hate in the eyes that looked back at him.