Twelve

IThe man who was testing the electric meter passed the time of day with Guy Carpenter’s superiormanservant, who was watching him.

“Electricity’s going to operate on a new basis,” he explained. “Graded flat rate according tooccupancy.”

The superior butler remarked sceptically:

“What you mean is it’s going to cost more like everything else.”

“That depends. Fair shares for all, that’s what I say. Did you go in to the meeting atKilchester last night?”

“No.”

“Your boss, Mr. Carpenter, spoke very well, they say. Think he’ll get in?”

“It was a near shave last time, I believe.”

“Yes. A hundred and twenty-five majority, something like that. Do you drive him in to thesemeetings, or does he drive himself?”

“Usually drives himself. Likes driving. He’s got a Rolls Bentley.”

“Does himself well. Mrs. Carpenter drive too?”

“Yes. Drives a lot too fast, in my opinion.”

“Women usually do. Was she at the meeting last night too? Or isn’t she interested inpolitics?”

The superior butler grinned.

“Pretends she is, anyway. However, she didn’t stick it out last night. Had a headache orsomething and left in the middle of the speeches.”

“Ah!” The electrician peered into the fuse boxes. “Nearly done now,” he remarked. He put afew more desultory questions as he collected his tools and prepared to depart.

He walked briskly down the drive, but round the corner from the gateway he stopped andmade an entry in his pocket book.

“C. Drove home alone last night. Reached home 10:30 (approx.). Could havebeen at Kilchester Central Station time indicated. Mrs. C. left meeting early. Gothome only ten minutes before C. Said to have come home by train.”

It was the second entry in the electrician’s book. The first ran:

“Dr. R. Called out on case last night. Direction of Kilchester. Could have been atKilchester Central Station at time indicated. Mrs. R. alone all evening in house(?)After taking coffee in, Mrs. Scott, housekeeper, did not see her again that night.

Has small car of her own.”

II

At Laburnums, collaboration was in process.

Robin Upward was saying earnestly:

“You do see, don’t you, what a wonderful line that is? And if we really get a feeling of sexantagonism between the chap and the girl it’ll pep the whole thing up enormously!”

Sadly, Mrs. Oliver ran her hands through her windswept grey hair, causing it to look asthough swept not by wind but by a tornado.

“You do see what I mean, don’t you, Ariadne darling?”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Oliver gloomily.

“But the main thing is for you to feel really happy about it.”

Nobody but a really determined self-deceiver could have thought that Mrs. Oliver lookedhappy.

Robin continued blithely:

“What I feel is, here’s that wonderful young man, parachuted down—”

Mrs. Oliver interrupted:

“He’s sixty.”

“Oh no!”

“He is.”

“I don’t see him like that. Thirty-five—not a day older.”

“But I’ve been writing books about him for thirty years, and he was at least thirty-five in thefirst one.”

“But, darling, if he’s sixty, you can’t have the tension between him and the girl—what’s hername? Ingrid. I mean, it would make him just a nasty old man!”

“It certainly would.”

“So you see, he must be thirty-five,” said Robin triumphantly.

“Then he can’t be Sven Hjerson. Just make him a Norwegian young man who’s in theResistance Movement.”

“But darling Ariadne, the whole point of the play is Sven Hjerson. You’ve got an enormouspublic who simply adore Sven Hjerson, and who’ll flock to see Sven Hjerson. He’s box office,darling!”

“But people who read my books know what he’s like! You can’t invent an entirely newyoung man in the Norwegian Resistance Movement and just call him Sven Hjerson.”

“Ariadne darling, I did explain all that. It’s not a book, darling, it’s a play. And we’ve just gotto have glamour! And if we get this tension, this antagonism between Sven Hjerson and this—what’s-her-name?—Karen—you know, all against each other and yet really frightfully attracted—”

“Sven Hjerson never cared for women,” said Mrs. Oliver coldly.

“But you can’t have him a pansy, darling. Not for this sort of play. I mean it’s not green baytrees or anything like that. It’s thrills and murders and clean open-air fun.”

The mention of open air had its effect.

“I think I’m going out,” said Mrs. Oliver abruptly. “I need air. I need air badly.”

“Shall I come with you?” asked Robin tenderly.

“No, I’d rather go alone.”

“Just as you like, darling. Perhaps you’re right. I’d better go and whip up an egg nog forMadre. The poor sweet is feeling just a teeny weeny bit left out of things. She does like attention,you know. And you’ll think about that scene in the cellar, won’t you? The whole thing is comingreally wonderfully well. It’s going to be the most tremendous success. I know it is!”

Mrs. Oliver sighed.

“But the main thing,” continued Robin, “is for you to feel happy about it!”

Casting a cold look at him, Mrs. Oliver threw a showy military cape which she had oncebought in Italy about her ample shoulders and went out into Broadhinny.

She would forget her troubles, she decided, by turning her mind to the elucidation of realcrime. Hercule Poirot needed help. She would take a look at the inhabitants of Broadhinny,exercise her woman’s intuition which had never failed, and tell Poirot who the murderer was.

Then he would only have to get the necessary evidence.

Mrs. Oliver started her quest by going down the hill to the post office and buying two poundsof apples. During the purchase, she entered into amicable conversation with Mrs. Sweetiman.

Having agreed that the weather was very warm for the time of year, Mrs. Oliver remarkedthat she was staying with Mrs. Upward at Laburnums.

“Yes, I know. You’ll be the lady from London that writes the murder books? Three of themI’ve got here now in Penguins.”

Mrs. Oliver cast a glance over the Penguin display. It was slightly overlaid by children’swaders.

“The Affair of the Second Goldfish,” she mused, “that’s quite a good one. The Cat it wasWho Died—that’s where I made a blowpipe a foot long and it’s really six feet. Ridiculous that ablowpipe should be that size, but someone wrote from a museum to tell me so. Sometimes I thinkthere are people who only read books in the hope of finding mistakes in them. What’s the otherone of them? Oh! Death of a Débutante—that’s frightful tripe! I made sulphonal soluble in waterand it isn’t, and the whole thing is wildly impossible from start to finish. At least eight people diebefore Sven Hjerson gets his brainwave.”

“Very popular they are,” said Mrs. Sweetiman, unmoved by this interesting self-criticism.

“You wouldn’t believe! I’ve never read any myself, because I don’t really get time for reading.”

“You had a murder of your own down here, didn’t you?” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Yes, last November that was. Almost next door here, as you might say.”

“I hear there’s a detective down here, looking into it?”

“Ah, you mean the little foreign gentleman up at Long Meadows? He was in here onlyyesterday and—”

Mrs. Sweetiman broke off as another customer entered for stamps.

She bustled round to the post office side.

“Good morning, Miss Henderson. Warm for the time of year today.”

“Yes, it is.”

Mrs. Oliver stared hard at the tall girl’s back. She had a Sealyham with her on a lead.

“Means the fruit blossom will get nipped later!” said Mrs. Sweetiman, with gloomy relish.

“How’s Mrs. Wetherby keeping?”

“Fairly well, thank you. She hasn’t been out much. There’s been such an east wind lately.”

“There’s a very good picture on at Kilchester this week, Miss Henderson. You ought to go.”

“I thought of going last night, but I couldn’t really bother.”

“It’s Betty Grable next week—I’m out of 5s. books of stamps. Will two 2s. 6d. ones do you?”

As the girl went out, Mrs. Oliver said:

“Mrs. Wetherby’s an invalid, isn’t she?”

“That’s as may be,” Mrs. Sweetiman replied rather acidly. “There’s some of us as hasn’t thetime to lay by.”

“I do so agree with you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I tell Mrs. Upward that if she’d only make moreof an effort to use her legs it would be better for her.”

Mrs. Sweetiman looked amused.

“She gets about when she wants to—or so I’ve heard.”

“Does she now?”

Mrs. Oliver considered the source of information.

“Janet?” she hazarded.

“Janet Groom grumbles a bit,” said Mrs. Sweetiman. “And you can hardly wonder, can you?

Miss Groom’s not so young herself and she has the rheumatism cruel bad when the wind’s in theeast. But archititis, it’s called, when it’s the gentry has it, and invalid chairs and what not. Ah well,I wouldn’t risk losing the use of my legs, I wouldn’t. But there, nowadays even if you’ve got achilblain you run to the doctor with it so as to get your money’s worth out of the National Health.

Too much of this health business we’ve got. Never did you any good thinking how bad you feel.”

“I expect you’re right,” said Mrs. Oliver.

She picked up her apples and went out in pursuit of Deirdre Henderson. This was notdifficult, since the Sealyham was old and fat and was enjoying a leisurely examination of tufts ofgrass and pleasant smells.

Dogs, Mrs. Oliver considered, were always a means of introduction.

“What a darling!” she exclaimed.

The big young woman with the plain face looked gratified.

“He is rather attractive,” she said. “Aren’t you, Ben?”

Ben looked up, gave a slight wiggle of his sausage-like body, resumed his nasal inspection ofa tuft of thistles, approved it and proceeded to register approval in the usual manner.

“Does he fight?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “Sealyhams do very often.”

“Yes, he’s an awful fighter. That’s why I keep him on the lead.”

“I thought so.”

Both women considered the Sealyham.

Then Deirdre Henderson said with a kind of rush:

“You’re—you’re Ariadne Oliver, aren’t you?”

“Yes. I’m staying with the Upwards.”

“I know. Robin told us you were coming. I must tell you how much I enjoy your books.”

Mrs. Oliver, as usual, went purple with embarrassment.

“Oh,” she murmured unhappily. “I’m very glad,” she added gloomily.

“I haven’t read as many of them as I’d like to, because we get books sent down from theTimes Book Club and Mother doesn’t like detective stories. She’s frightfully sensitive and theykeep her awake at night. But I adore them.”

“You’ve had a real crime down here, haven’t you?” said Mrs. Oliver. “Which house was it?

One of these cottages?”

“That one there.”

Deirdre Henderson spoke in a rather choked voice.

Mrs. Oliver directed her gaze on Mrs. McGinty’s former dwelling, the front doorstep ofwhich was at present occupied by two unpleasant little Kiddles who were happily torturing a cat.

As Mrs. Oliver stepped forward to remonstrate, the cat escaped by a firm use of its claws.

The eldest Kiddle, who had been severely scratched, set up a howl.

“Serves you right,” said Mrs. Oliver, adding to Deirdre Henderson: “It doesn’t look like ahouse where there’s been a murder, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Both women seemed to be in accord about that.

Mrs. Oliver continued:

“An old charwoman, wasn’t it, and somebody robbed her?”

“Her lodger. She had some money—under the floor.”

“I see.”

Deirdre Henderson said suddenly:

“But perhaps it wasn’t him after all. There’s a funny little man down here—a foreigner. Hisname’s Hercule Poirot—”

“Hercule Poirot? Oh yes, I know all about him.”

“Is he really a detective?”

“My dear, he’s frightfully celebrated. And terribly clever.”

“Then perhaps he’ll find out that he didn’t do it after all.”

“Who?”

“The—the lodger. James Bentley. Oh, I do hope he’ll get off.”

“Do you? Why?”

“Because I don’t want it to be him. I never wanted it to be him.”

Mrs. Oliver looked at her curiously, startled by the passion in her voice.

“Did you know him?”

“No,” said Deirdre slowly, “I didn’t know him. But once Ben got his foot caught in a trap andhe helped me to get him free. And we talked a little. .?.?.”

“What was he like?”

“He was dreadfully lonely. His mother had just died. He was frightfully fond of his mother.”

“And you are very fond of yours?” said Mrs. Oliver acutely.

“Yes. That made me understand. Understand what he felt, I mean. Mother and I—we’ve justgot each other, you see.”

“I thought Robin told me that you had a stepfather.”

Deirdre said bitterly: “Oh yes, I’ve got a stepfather.”

Mrs. Oliver said vaguely: “It’s not the same thing, is it, as one’s own father. Do youremember your own father?”

“No, he died before I was born. Mother married Mr. Wetherby when I was four years old. I—I’ve always hated him. And Mother—” She paused before saying: “Mother’s had a very sad life.

She’s had no sympathy or understanding. My stepfather is a most unfeeling man, hard and cold.”

Mrs. Oliver nodded, and then murmured:

“This James Bentley doesn’t sound at all like a criminal.”

“I never thought the police would arrest him. I’m sure it must have been some tramp. Thereare horrid tramps along this road sometimes. It must have been one of them.”

Mrs. Oliver said consolingly:

“Perhaps Hercule Poirot will find out the truth.”

“Yes, perhaps—”

She turned off abruptly into the gateway of Hunter’s Close.

Mrs. Oliver looked after her for a moment or two, then drew a small notebook from herhandbag. In it she wrote: “Not Deirdre Henderson,” and underlined the not so firmly that the pencilbroke.

III

Halfway up the hill she met Robin Upward coming down it with a handsome platinum-hairedyoung woman.

Robin introduced them.

“This is the wonderful Ariadne Oliver, Eve,” he said. “My dear, I don’t know how she doesit. Looks so benevolent, too, doesn’t she? Not at all as though she wallowed in crime. This is EveCarpenter. Her husband is going to be our next Member. The present one, Sir George Cartwright,is quite gaga, poor old man. He jumps out at young girls from behind doors.”

“Robin, you mustn’t invent such terrible lies. You’ll discredit the Party.”

“Well, why should I care? It isn’t my Party. I’m a Liberal. That’s the only Party it’s possibleto belong to nowadays, really small and select, and without a chance of getting in. I adore lostcauses.”

He added to Mrs. Oliver:

“Eve wants us to come in for drinks this evening. A sort of party for you, Ariadne. Youknow, meet the lion. We’re all terribly terribly thrilled to have you here. Can’t you put the sceneof your next murder in Broadhinny?”

“Oh do, Mrs. Oliver,” said Eve Carpenter.

“You can easily get Sven Hjerson down here,” said Robin. “He can be like Hercule Poirot,staying at the Summerhayes’ Guest House. We’re just going there now because I told Eve,Hercule Poirot is just as much a celebrity in his line as you are in yours, and she says she wasrather rude to him yesterday, so she’s going to ask him to the party too. But seriously, dear, domake your next murder happen in Broadhinny. We’d all be so thrilled.”

“Oh do, Mrs. Oliver. It would be such fun,” said Eve Carpenter.

“Who shall we have as murderer and who as victim,” asked Robin.

“Who’s your present charwoman?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Oh my dear, not that kind of murder. So dull. No, I think Eve here would make rather a nicevictim. Strangled, perhaps, with her own nylon stockings. No, that’s been done.”

“I think you’d better be murdered, Robin,” said Eve. “The coming playwright, stabbed incountry cottage.”

“We haven’t settled on a murderer yet,” said Robin. “What about my Mamma? Using herwheeled chair so that there wouldn’t be footprints. I think that would be lovely.”

“She wouldn’t want to stab you, though, Robin.”

Robin considered.

“No, perhaps not. As a matter of fact I was considering her strangling you. She wouldn’tmind doing that half as much.”

“But I want you to be the victim. And the person who kills you can be Deirdre Henderson.

The repressed plain girl whom nobody notices.”

“There you are, Ariadne,” said Robin. “The whole plot of your next novel presented to you.

All you’ll have to do is work in a few false clues, and—of course—do the actual writing. Oh,goodness, what terrible dogs Maureen does have.”

They had turned in at the gate of Long Meadows, and two Irish wolfhounds had rushedforward, barking.

Maureen Summerhayes came out into the stableyard with a bucket in her hand.

“Down, Flyn. Come here, Cormic. Hallo. I’m just cleaning out Piggy’s stable.”

“We know that, darling,” said Robin. “We can smell you from here. How’s Piggy gettingalong?”

“We had a terrible fright about him yesterday. He was lying down and he didn’t want hisbreakfast. Johnnie and I read up all the diseases in the Pig Book and couldn’t sleep for worryingabout him, but this morning he was frightfully well and gay and absolutely charged Johnnie whenJohnnie came in with his food. Knocked him flat, as a matter of fact. Johnnie had to go and have abath.”

“What exciting lives you and Johnnie lead,” said Robin.

Eve said: “Will you and Johnnie come in and have drinks with us this evening, Maureen?”

“Love to.”

“To meet Mrs. Oliver,” said Robin, “but actually you can meet her now. This is she.”

“Are you really?” said Maureen. “How thrilling. You and Robin are doing a play together,aren’t you?”

“It’s coming along splendidly,” said Robin. “By the way, Ariadne, I had a brainwave afteryou went out this morning. About casting.”

“Oh, casting,” said Mrs. Oliver in a relieved voice.

“I know just the right person to play Eric. Cecil Leech—he’s playing in the Little Rep atCullenquay. We’ll run over and see the show one evening.”

“We want your P.G.,” said Eve to Maureen. “Is he about? I want to ask him tonight, too.”

“We’ll bring him along,” said Maureen.

“I think I’d better ask him myself. As a matter of fact I was a bit rude to him yesterday.”

“Oh! Well, he’s somewhere about,” said Maureen vaguely. “In the garden, I think—Cormic—Flyn—those damned dogs—” She dropped the bucket with a clatter and ran in the direction ofthe duck pond, whence a furious quacking had arisen.