Twenty

Hercule Poirot was in Superintendent Spence’s office in Kilchester. He was leaning back in achair, his eyes closed and the tips of his fingers just touching each other in front of him.

The superintendent received some reports, gave instructions to a sergeant, and finally lookedacross at the other man.

“Getting a brainwave, M. Poirot?” he demanded.

“I reflect,” said Poirot. “I review.”

“I forgot to ask you. Did you get anything useful from James Bentley when you saw him?”

Poirot shook his head. He frowned.

It was indeed of James Bentley he had been thinking.

It was annoying, thought Poirot with exasperation, that on a case such as this where he hadoffered his services without reward, solely out of friendship and respect for an upright policeofficer, that the victim of circumstances should so lack any romantic appeal. A lovely young girl,now, bewildered and innocent, or a fine upstanding young man, also bewildered, but whose “headis bloody but unbowed,” thought Poirot, who had been reading a good deal of English poetry in ananthology lately. Instead, he had James Bentley, a pathological case if there ever was one, a self-centred creature who had never thought much of anyone but himself. A man ungrateful for theefforts that were being made to save him—almost, one might say, uninterested in them.

Really, thought Poirot, one might as well let him be hanged since he does not seem to care.

.?.?.

No, he would not go quite as far as that.

Superintendent Spence’s voice broke into these reflections.

“Our interview,” said Poirot, “was, if I might say so, singularly unproductive. Anythinguseful that Bentley might have remembered he did not remember—what he did remember is sovague and uncertain that one cannot build upon it. But at any rate it seems fairly certain that Mrs.

McGinty was excited by the article in the Sunday Comet and spoke about it to Bentley with specialreference to ‘someone connected with the case,’ living in Broadhinny.”

“With which case?” asked Superintendent Spence sharply.

“Our friend could not be sure,” said Poirot. “He said, rather doubtfully, the Craig case—butthe Craig case being the only one he had ever heard of, it would, presumably, be the only one hecould remember. But the ‘someone’ was a woman. He even quoted Mrs. McGinty’s words.

Someone who had ‘not so much to be proud of if all’s known.’ ”

“Proud?”

“Mais oui,” Poirot nodded his appreciation. “A suggestive word, is it not?”

“No clue as to who the proud lady was?”

“Bentley suggested Mrs. Upward—but as far as I can see for no real reason!”

Spence shook his head.

“Probably because she was a proud masterful sort of woman—outstandingly so, I should say.

But it couldn’t have been Mrs. Upward, because Mrs. Upward’s dead, and dead for the samereason as Mrs. McGinty died—because she recognized a photograph.”

Poirot said sadly: “I warned her.”

Spence murmured irritably:

“Lily Gamboll! So far as age goes, there are only two possibilities, Mrs. Rendell and Mrs.

Carpenter. I don’t count the Henderson girl—she’s got a background.”

“And the others have not?”

Spence sighed.

“You know what things are nowadays. The war stirred up everyone and everything. Theapproved school where Lily Gamboll was, and all its records, were destroyed by a direct hit. Thentake people. It’s the hardest thing in the world to check on people. Take Broadhinny—the onlypeople in Broadhinny we know anything about are the Summerhayes family, who have been therefor three hundred years, and Guy Carpenter, who’s one of the engineering Carpenters. All theothers are—what shall I say—fluid? Dr. Rendell’s on the Medical Register and we know where hetrained and where he’s practised, but we don’t know his home background. His wife came fromnear Dublin. Eve Selkirk, as she was before she married Guy Carpenter, was a pretty young warwidow. Anyone can be a pretty young war widow. Take the Wetherbys—they seem to havefloated round the world, here, there and everywhere. Why? Is there a reason? Did he embezzlefrom a bank? Or did they occasion a scandal? I don’t say we can’t dig up about people. We can—but it takes time. The people themselves won’t help you.”

“Because they have something to conceal—but it need not be murder,” said Poirot.

“Exactly. It may be trouble with the law, or it may be a humble origin, or it may be commonor garden scandal. But whatever it is, they’ve taken a lot of pains to cover up—and that makes itdifficult to uncover.”

“But not impossible.”

“Oh no. Not impossible. It just takes time. As I say, if Lily Gamboll is in Broadhinny, she’seither Eve Carpenter or Shelagh Rendell. I’ve questioned them—just routine—that’s the way I putit. They say they were both at home—alone. Mrs. Carpenter was the wide-eyed innocent, Mrs.

Rendell was nervous—but then she’s a nervous type, you can’t go by that.”

“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “She is a nervous type.”

He was thinking of Mrs. Rendell in the garden at Long Meadows. Mrs. Rendell had receivedan anonymous letter, or so she said. He wondered, as he had wondered before, about thatstatement.

Spence went on:

“And we have to be careful—because even if one of them is guilty, the other is innocent.”

“And Guy Carpenter is a prospective Member of Parliament and an important local figure.”

“That wouldn’t help him if he was guilty of murder or accessory to it,” said Spence grimly.

“I know that. But you have, have you not, to be sure?”

“That’s right. Anyway, you’ll agree, won’t you, that it lies between the two of them?”

Poirot sighed.

“No—no—I would not say that. There are other possibilities.”

“Such as?”

Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said in a different, almost casual tone of voice:

“Why do people keep photographs?”

“Why? Goodness knows! Why do people keep all sorts of things—junk—trash, bits andpieces. They do—that’s all there is to it!”

“Up to a point I agree with you. Some people keep things. Some people throw everythingaway as soon as they have done with it. That, yes, it is a matter of temperament. But I speak nowespecially of photographs. Why do people keep, in particular, photographs?”

“As I say, because they just don’t throw things away. Or else because it reminds them—”

Poirot pounced on the words.

“Exactly. It reminds them. Now again we ask—why? Why does a woman keep a photographof herself when young? And I say that the first reason is, essentially, vanity. She has been a prettygirl and she keeps a photograph of herself to remind her of what a pretty girl she was. Itencourages her when her mirror tells her unpalatable things. She says, perhaps, to a friend, ‘Thatwas me when I was eighteen .?.?.’ and she sighs .?.?. You agree?”

“Yes—yes, I should say that’s true enough.”

“Then that is reason No. 1. Vanity. Now reason No. 2. Sentiment.”

“That’s the same thing?”

“No, no, not quite. Because this leads you to preserve not only your own photograph but thatof someone else .?.?. A picture of your married daughter—when she was a child sitting on ahearthrug with tulle round her.”

“I’ve seen some of those,” Spence grinned.

“Yes. Very embarrassing to the subject sometimes, but mothers like to do it. And sons anddaughters often keep pictures of their mothers, especially, say, if their mother died young. ‘Thatwas my mother as a girl.’?”

“I’m beginning to see what you’re driving at, Poirot.”

“And there is possibly, a third category. Not vanity, not sentiment, not love—perhaps hate—what do you say?”

“Hate?”

“Yes. To keep a desire for revenge alive. Someone who has injured you—you might keep aphotograph to remind you, might you not?”

“But surely that doesn’t apply in this case?”

“Does it not?”

“What are you thinking of?”

Poirot murmured:

“Newspaper reports are often inaccurate. The Sunday Comet stated that Eva Kane wasemployed by the Craigs as a nursery governess. Was that actually the case?”

“Yes, it was. But we’re working on the assumption that it’s Lily Gamboll we’re looking for.”

Poirot sat up suddenly very straight in his chair. He wagged an imperative forefinger atSpence.

“Look. Look at the photograph of Lily Gamboll. She is not pretty—no! Frankly, with thoseteeth and those spectacles she is hideously ugly. Then nobody has kept that photograph for the firstof our reasons. No woman would keep that photo out of vanity. If Eve Carpenter or ShelaghRendell, who are both good-looking women, especially Eve Carpenter, had this photograph ofthemselves, they would tear it in pieces quickly in case somebody should see it!”

“Well, there is something in that.”

“So reason No. 1 is out. Now take sentiment. Did anybody love Lily Gamboll at that age?

The whole point of Lily Gamboll is that they did not. She was an unwanted and unloved child.

The person who liked her best was her aunt, and her aunt died under the chopper. So it was notsentiment that kept this picture. And revenge? Nobody hated her either. Her murdered aunt was alonely woman without a husband and with no close friends. Nobody had hate for the little slumchild—only pity.”

“Look here, M. Poirot, what you’re saying is that nobody would have kept that photo.”

“Exactly—that is the result of my reflections.”

“But somebody did. Because Mrs. Upward had seen it.”

“Had she?”

“Dash it all. It was you who told me. She said so herself.”

“Yes, she said so,” said Poirot. “But the late Mrs. Upward was, in some ways, a secretivewoman. She liked to manage things her own way. I showed the photographs, and she recognizedone of them. But then, for some reason, she wanted to keep the identification to herself. Shewanted, let us say, to deal with a certain situation in the way she fancied. And so, being veryquick-witted, she deliberately pointed to the wrong picture. Thereby keeping her knowledge toherself.”

“But why?”

“Because, as I say, she wanted to play a lone hand.”

“It wouldn’t be blackmail? She was an extremely wealthy woman, you know, widow of aNorth Country manufacturer.”

“Oh no, not blackmail. More likely beneficence. We’ll say that she quite liked the person inquestion, and that she didn’t want to give their secret away. But nevertheless she was curious. Sheintended to have a private talk with that person. And whilst doing so, to make up her mindwhether or not that person had had anything to do with the death of Mrs. McGinty. Something likethat.”

“Then that leaves the other three photos in?”

“Precisely. Mrs. Upward meant to get in touch with the person in question at the firstopportunity. That came when her son and Mrs. Oliver went over to the Repertory Theatre atCullenquay.”

“And she telephoned to Deirdre Henderson. That puts Deirdre Henderson right back in thepicture. And her mother!”

Superintendent Spence shook his head sadly at Poirot.

“You do like to make it difficult, don’t you, M. Poirot?” he said.