Thirteen

Mrs. Oliver, glass in hand, approached Hercule Poirot towards the end of the Carpenters’ party.

Up till that moment they had each of them been the centre of an admiring circle. Now that a gooddeal of gin had been consumed, and the party was going well, there was a tendency for old friendsto get together and retail local scandal, and the two outsiders were able to talk to each other.

“Come out on the terrace,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a conspirator’s whisper.

At the same time she pressed into his hand a small piece of paper.

Together they stepped out through the French windows and walked along the terrace. Poirotunfolded the piece of paper.

“Dr. Rendell,” he read.

He looked questioningly at Mrs. Oliver. Mrs. Oliver nodded vigorously, a large plume ofgrey hair falling across her face as she did so.

“He’s the murderer,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“You think so? Why?”

“I just know it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “He’s the type. Hearty and genial, and all that.”

“Perhaps.”

Poirot sounded unconvinced.

“But what would you say was his motive?”

“Unprofessional conduct,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And Mrs. McGinty knew about it. Butwhatever the reason was, you can be quite sure it was him. I’ve looked at all the others, and he’sthe one.”

In reply, Poirot remarked conversationally:

“Last night somebody tried to push me on to the railway line at Kilchester station.”

“Good gracious. To kill you, do you mean?”

“I have no doubt that was the idea.”

“And Dr. Rendell was out on a case, I know he was.”

“I understand—yes—that Dr. Rendell was out on a case.”

“Then that settles it,” said Mrs. Oliver with satisfaction.

“Not quite,” said Poirot. “Both Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter were in Kilchester last night andcame home separately. Mrs. Rendell may have sat at home all the evening listening to her wirelessor she may not—no one can say. Miss Henderson often goes to the pictures in Kilchester.”

“She didn’t last night. She was at home. She told me so.”

“You cannot believe all you are told,” said Poirot reprovingly. “Families hang together. Theforeign maid, Frieda, on the other hand, was at the pictures last night, so she cannot tell us whowas or was not at home at Hunter’s Close! You see, it is not so easy to narrow things down.”

“I can probably vouch for our lot,” said Mrs. Oliver. “What time did you say this happened?”

“At nine thirty-five exactly.”

“Then at any rate Laburnums has got a clean bill of health. From eight o’clock to half pastten, Robin, his mother, and I were playing poker patience.”

“I thought possibly that you and he were closeted together doing the collaboration?”

“Leaving Mamma to leap on a motor bicycle concealed in the shrubbery?” Mrs. Oliverlaughed. “No, Mamma was under our eye.” She sighed as sadder thoughts came to her.

“Collaboration,” she said bitterly. “The whole thing’s a nightmare! How would you like to see abig black moustache stuck on to Superintendent Battle and be told it was you.”

Poirot blinked a little.

“But it is a nightmare, that suggestion!”

“Now you know what I suffer.”

“I, too, suffer,” said Poirot. “The cooking of Madame Summerhayes, it is beyond description.

It is not cooking at all. And the draughts, the cold winds, the upset stomachs of the cats, the longhairs of the dogs, the broken legs of the chairs, the terrible, terrible bed in which I sleep”—he shuthis eyes in remembrance of agonies—“the tepid water in the bathroom, the holes in the staircarpet, and the coffee—words cannot describe to you the fluid which they serve to you as coffee. Itis an affront to the stomach.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And yet, you know, she’s awfully nice.”

“Mrs. Summerhayes? She is charming. She is quite charming. That makes it much moredifficult.”

“Here she comes now,” said Mrs. Oliver.

Maureen Summerhayes was approaching them.

There was an ecstatic look on her freckled face. She carried a glass in her hand. She smiled atthem both with affection.

“I think I’m a bit tiddly,” she announced. “Such lots of lovely gin. I do like parties! We don’toften have one in Broadhinny. It’s because of you both being so celebrated. I wish I could writebooks. The trouble with me is, I can’t do anything properly.”

“You are a good wife and mother, madame,” said Poirot primly.

Maureen’s eyes opened. Attractive hazel eyes in a small freckled face. Mrs. Oliver wonderedhow old she was. Not much more than thirty, she guessed.

“Am I?” said Maureen. “I wonder. I love them all terribly, but is that enough?”

Poirot coughed.

“If you will not think me presumptuous, madame. A wife who truly loves her husband shouldtake great care of his stomach. It is important, the stomach.”

Maureen looked slightly affronted.

“Johnnie’s got a wonderful stomach,” she said indignantly. “Absolutely flat. Practically not astomach at all.”

“I was referring to what is put inside it.”

“You mean my cooking,” said Maureen. “I never think it matters much what one eats.”

Poirot groaned.

“Or what one wears,” said Maureen dreamily. “Or what one does. I don’t think things matter—not really.”

She was silent for a moment or two, her eyes alcoholically hazy, as though she was lookinginto the far distance.

“There was a woman writing in the paper the other day,” she said suddenly. “A really stupidletter. Asking what was best to do—to let your child be adopted by someone who could give itevery advantage—every advantage, that’s what she said—and she meant a good education, andclothes and comfortable surroundings—or whether to keep it when you couldn’t give it advantagesof any kind. I think that’s stupid—really stupid. If you can just give a child enough to eat—that’sall that matters.”

She stared down into her empty glass as though it were a crystal.

“I ought to know,” she said. “I was an adopted child. My mother parted with me and I hadevery advantage, as they call it. And it’s always hurt—always—always—to know that you weren’treally wanted, that your mother could let you go.”

“It was a sacrifice for your good, perhaps,” said Poirot.

Her clear eyes met his.

“I don’t think that’s ever true. It’s the way they put it to themselves. But what it boils down tois that they can, really, get on without you .?.?. And it hurts. I wouldn’t give up my children—notfor all the advantages in the world!”

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

“And I, too, agree,” said Poirot.

“Then that’s all right,” said Maureen cheerfully. “What are we arguing about?”

Robin, who had come along the terrace to join them, said:

“Yes, what are you arguing about?”

“Adoption,” said Maureen. “I don’t like being adopted, do you?”

“Well, it’s much better than being an orphan, don’t you think so, darling? I think we ought togo now, don’t you, Ariadne?”

The guests left in a body. Dr. Rendell had already had to hurry away. They walked down thehill together talking gaily with that extra hilarity that a series of cocktails induces.

When they reached the gate of Laburnums, Robin insisted that they should all come in.

“Just to tell Madre all about the party. So boring for her, poor sweet, not to have been able togo because her leg was playing her up. But she so hates being left out of things.”

They surged in cheerfully and Mrs. Upward seemed pleased to see them.

“Who else was there?” she asked. “The Wetherbys?”

“No, Mrs. Wetherby didn’t feel well enough, and that dim Henderson girl wouldn’t comewithout her.”

“She’s really rather pathetic, isn’t she?” said Shelagh Rendell.

“I think almost pathological, don’t you?” said Robin.

“It’s that mother of hers,” said Maureen. “Some mothers really do almost eat their young,don’t they?”

She flushed suddenly as she met Mrs. Upward’s quizzical eye.

“Do I devour you, Robin?” Mrs. Upward asked.

“Madre! Of course not!”

To cover her confusion Maureen hastily plunged into an account of her breeding experienceswith Irish wolfhounds. The conversation became technical.

Mrs. Upward said decisively:

“You can’t get away from heredity—in people as well as dogs.”

Shelagh Rendell murmured:

“Don’t you think it’s environment?”

Mrs. Upward cut her short.

“No, my dear, I don’t. Environment can give a veneer—no more. It’s what’s bred in peoplethat counts.”

Hercule Poirot’s eyes rested curiously on Shelagh Rendell’s flushed face. She said with whatseemed unnecessary passion:

“But that’s cruel—unfair.”

Mrs. Upward said: “Life is unfair.”

The slow lazy voice of Johnnie Summerhayes joined in.

“I agree with Mrs. Upward. Breeding tells. That’s been my creed always.”

Mrs. Oliver said questioningly: “You mean things are handed down. Unto the third or fourthgeneration—”

Maureen Summerhayes said suddenly in her sweet high voice:

“But that quotation goes on: ‘And show mercy unto thousands.’”

Once again everybody seemed a little embarrassed, perhaps at the serious note that had creptinto the conversation.

They made a diversion by attacking Poirot.

“Tell us all about Mrs. McGinty, M. Poirot. Why didn’t the dreary lodger kill her?”

“He used to mutter, you know,” said Robin. “Walking about in the lanes. I’ve often met him.

And really, definitely, he looked frightfully queer.”

“You must have some reason for thinking he didn’t kill her, M. Poirot. Do tell us.”

Poirot smiled at them. He twirled his moustache.

“If he didn’t kill her, who did?”

“Yes, who did?”

Mrs. Upward said drily: “Don’t embarrass the man. He probably suspects one of us.”

“One of us? Oo!”

In the clamour Poirot’s eyes met those of Mrs. Upward. They were amused and—somethingelse—challenging?

“He suspects one of us,” said Robin delightedly. “Now then, Maureen,” he assumed themanner of a bullying K.C., “Where were you on the night of the—what night was it?”

“November 22nd,” said Poirot.

“On the night of the 22nd?”

“Gracious, I don’t know,” said Maureen.

“Nobody could know after all this time,” said Mrs. Rendell.

“Well, I can,” said Robin. “Because I was broadcasting that night. I drove to Coalport to givea talk on Some Aspects of the Theatre. I remember because I discussed Galsworthy’s charwomanin the Silver Box at great length and the next day Mrs. McGinty was killed and I wondered if thecharwoman in the play had been like her.”

“That’s right,” said Shelagh Rendell suddenly. “And I remember now because you said yourmother would be all alone because it was Janet’s night off, and I came down here after dinner tokeep her company. Only unfortunately I couldn’t make her hear.”

“Let me think,” said Mrs. Upward. “Oh! Yes, of course. I’d gone to bed with a headache andmy bedroom faces the back garden.”

“And next day,” said Shelagh, “when I heard Mrs. McGinty had been killed, I thought, ‘Oo! Imight have passed the murderer in the dark’—because at first we all thought it must have beensome tramp who broke in.”

“Well, I still don’t remember what I was doing,” said Maureen. “But I do remember the nextmorning. It was the baker told us. ‘Old Mrs. McGinty’s been done in,’ he said. And there I was,wondering why she hadn’t turned up as usual.”

She gave a shiver.

“It’s horrible really, isn’t it?” she said.

Mrs. Upward was still watching Poirot.

He thought to himself: “She is a very intelligent woman—and a ruthless one. Also selfish. Inwhatever she did, she would have no qualms and no remorse. .?.?.”

A thin voice was speaking—urging, querulous.

“Haven’t you got any clues, M. Poirot?”

It was Shelagh Rendell.

Johnnie Summerhayes’ long dark face lit up enthusiastically.

“That’s it, clues,” he said. “That’s what I like in detective stories. Clues that mean everythingto the detective—and nothing to you—until the end when you fairly kick yourself. Can’t you giveus one little clue, M. Poirot?”

Laughing, pleading faces turned to him. A game to them all (or perhaps not to one of them?).

But murder wasn’t a game—murder was dangerous. You never knew.

With a sudden brusque movement, Poirot pulled out four photographs from his pocket.

“You want a clue?” he said. “Voilà!”

And with a dramatic gesture he tossed them down on the table.

They clustered round, bending over, and uttering ejaculations.

“Look!”

“What frightful frumps!”

“Just look at the roses. ‘Rowses, rowses, all the way!’?”

“My dear, that hat!”

“What a frightful child!”

“But who are they?”

“Aren’t fashions ridiculous?”

“That woman must really have been rather good-looking once.”

“But why are they clues?”

“Who are they?”

Poirot looked slowly round at the circle of faces.

He saw nothing other than he might have expected to see.

“You do not recognize any of them?”

“Recognize?”

“You do not, shall I say, remember having seen any of those photographs before? But yes—Mrs. Upward? You recognize something, do you not?”

Mrs. Upward hesitated.

“Yes—I think—”

“Which one?”

Her forefinger went out and rested on the spectacled childlike face of Lily Gamboll.

“You have seen that photograph—when?”

“Quite recently .?.?. Now where—no, I can’t remember. But I’m sure I’ve seen a photographjust like that.”

She sat frowning, her brows drawn together.

She came out of her abstraction as Mrs. Rendell came to her.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Upward. I do hope you’ll come to tea with me one day if you feel up to it.”

“Thank you, my dear. If Robin pushes me up the hill.”

“Of course, Madre. I’ve developed the most tremendous muscles pushing that chair. Do youremember the day we went to the Wetherbys and it was so muddy—”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Upward suddenly.

“What is it, Madre?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“Getting you up the hill again. First the chair skidded and then I skidded. I thought we’dnever get home.”

Laughing, they took their leave and trooped out.

Alcohol, Poirot thought, certainly loosens the tongue.

Had he been wise or foolish to display those photographs? Had that gesture also been theresult of alcohol?

He wasn’t sure.

But, murmuring an excuse, he turned back.

He pushed open the gate and walked up to the house. Through the open window on his left heheard the murmur of two voices. They were the voices of Robin and Mrs. Oliver. Very little ofMrs. Oliver and a good deal of Robin.

Poirot pushed the door open and went through the right-hand door into the room he had left afew moments before. Mrs. Upward was sitting before the fire. There was a rather grim look on herface. She had been so deeply in thought that his entry startled her.

At the sound of the apologetic little cough he gave, she looked up sharply, with a start.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you. You startled me.”

“I am sorry, madame. Did you think it was someone else? Who did you think it was?”

She did not answer that, merely said:

“Did you leave something behind?”

“What I feared I had left was danger.”

“Danger?”

“Danger, perhaps, to you. Because you recognized one of those photographs just now.”

“I wouldn’t say recognized. All old photographs look exactly alike.”

“Listen, madame. Mrs. McGinty also, or so I believe, recognized one of those photographs.

And Mrs. McGinty is dead.”

With an unexpected glint of humour in her eye, Mrs. Upward said:

“Mrs. McGinty’s dead. How did she die? Sticking her neck out just like I. Is that what youmean?”

“Yes. If you know anything—anything at all, tell it to me now. It will be safer so.”

“My dear man, it’s not nearly so simple as that. I’m not at all sure that I do know anything—certainly nothing as definite as a fact. Vague recollections are very tricky things. One would haveto have some idea of how and where and when, if you follow what I mean.”

“But it seems to me that you already have that idea.”

“There is more to it than that. There are various factors to be taken into consideration. Nowit’s no good your rushing me, M. Poirot. I’m not the kind of person who rushes into decisions. I’vea mind of my own, and I take time to make it up. When I come to a decision, I act. But not till I’mready.”

“You are in many ways a secretive woman, madame.”

“Perhaps—up to a point. Knowledge is power. Power must only be used for the right ends.

You will excuse my saying that you don’t perhaps appreciate the pattern of our English countrylife.”

“In other words you say to me, ‘You are only a damned foreigner.’”

Mrs. Upward smiled slightly.

“I shouldn’t be as rude as that.”

“If you do not want to talk to me, there is Superintendent Spence.”

“My dear M. Poirot. Not the police. Not at this stage.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I have warned you,” he said.

For he was sure that by now Mrs. Upward remembered quite well exactly when and whereshe had seen the photograph of Lily Gamboll.