Twenty-five

The inquest was over—a verdict had been returned of murder by a person or persons unknown.

After the inquest, at the invitation of Hercule Poirot, those who had attended it came to LongMeadows.

Working diligently, Poirot had induced some semblance of order in the long drawing room.

Chairs had been arranged in a neat semicircle, Maureen’s dogs had been excluded with difficulty,and Hercule Poirot, a self-appointed lecturer, took up his position at the end of the room andinitiated proceedings with a slightly self-conscious clearing of the throat.

“Messieurs et Mesdames—”

He paused. His next words were unexpected and seemed almost farcical.

“Mrs. McGinty’s dead. How did she die?

Down on her knees just like I.

Mrs. McGinty’s dead. How did she die?

Holding her hand out just like I.

Mrs. McGinty’s dead. How did she die?

Like this .?.?.”

Seeing their expressions, he went on:

“No, I am not mad. Because I repeat to you the childish rhyme of a childish game, it does notmean that I am in my second childhood. Some of you may have played that game as children. Mrs.

Upward had played it. Indeed she repeated it to me—with a difference. She said: ‘Mrs. McGinty’sdead. How did she die? Sticking her neck out just like I.’ That is what she said—and that is whatshe did. She stuck her neck out—and so she also, like Mrs. McGinty, died. .?.?.

“For our purpose we must go back to the beginning—to Mrs. McGinty—down on her kneesscrubbing other people’s houses, Mrs. McGinty was killed, and a man, James Bentley, wasarrested, tried and convicted. For certain reasons, Superintendent Spence, the officer in charge ofthe case, was not convinced of Bentley’s guilt, strong though the evidence was. I agreed with him.

I came down here to answer a question. ‘How did Mrs. McGinty die? Why did she die?’

“I will not make you the long and complicated histories. I will say only that as simple a thingas a bottle of ink gave me a clue. In the Sunday Comet, read by Mrs. McGinty on the Sundaybefore her death, four photographs were published. You know all about those photographs bynow, so I will only say that Mrs. McGinty recognized one of those photographs as a photographshe had seen in one of the houses where she worked.

“She spoke of this to James Bentley though he attached no importance to the matter at thetime, nor indeed afterwards. Actually he barely listened. But he had the impression that Mrs.

McGinty had seen the photograph in Mrs. Upward’s house and that when she referred to a womanwho need not be so proud if all was known, she was referring to Mrs. Upward. We cannot dependon that statement of his, but she certainly used that phrase about pride and there is no doubt thatMrs. Upward was a proud and imperious woman.

“As you all know—some of you were present and the others will have heard—I producedthose four photographs at Mrs. Upward’s house. I caught a flicker of surprise and recognition inMrs. Upward’s expression and taxed her with it. She had to admit it. She said that she ‘had seenone of the photographs somewhere but she couldn’t remember where.’ When asked whichphotograph, she pointed to a photograph of the child Lily Gamboll. But that, let me tell you, wasnot the truth. For reasons of her own, Mrs. Upward wanted to keep her recognition to herself. Shepointed to the wrong photograph to put me off.

“But one person was not deceived—the murderer. One person knew which photograph Mrs.

Upward had recognized. And here I will not beat to and fro about the bush—the photograph inquestion was that of Eva Kane—a woman who was accomplice, victim or possibly leading spiritin the famous Craig Murder Case.

“On the next evening Mrs. Upward was killed. She was killed for the same reason that Mrs.

McGinty was killed. Mrs. McGinty stuck her hand out, Mrs. Upward stuck her neck out—theresult was the same.

“Now before Mrs. Upward died, three women received telephone calls. Mrs. Carpenter, Mrs.

Rendell, and Miss Henderson. All three calls were a message from Mrs. Upward asking the personin question to come and see her that evening. It was her servant’s night out and her son and Mrs.

Oliver were going into Cullenquay. It would seem, therefore, that she wanted a privateconversation with each of these three women.

“Now why three women? Did Mrs. Upward know where she had seen the photograph of EvaKane? Or did she know she had seen it but could not remember where? Had these three womenanything in common? Nothing, it would seem, but their age. They were all, roughly, in theneighbourhood of thirty.

“You have, perhaps, read the article in the Sunday Comet. There is a truly sentimental picturein it of Eva Kane’s daughter in years to come. The women asked by Mrs. Upward to come and seeher were all of the right age to be Eva Kane’s daughter.

“So it would seem that living in Broadhinny was a young woman who was the daughter ofthe celebrated murderer Craig and of his mistress Eva Kane, and it would also seem that thatyoung woman would go to any lengths to prevent that fact being known. Would go, indeed, to thelength of twice committing murder. For when Mrs. Upward was found dead, there were two coffeecups on the table, both used, and on the visitor’s cup faint traces of lipstick.

“Now let us go back to the three women who received telephone messages. Mrs. Carpentergot the message but says she did not go to Laburnums that night. Mrs. Rendell meant to go, butfell asleep in her chair. Miss Henderson did go to Laburnums but the house was dark and shecould not make anyone hear and she came away again.

“That is the story these three woman tell—but there is conflicting evidence. There is thatsecond coffee cup with lipstick on it, and an outside witness, the girl Edna, states positively thatshe saw a fair-haired woman go in to the house. There is also the evidence of scent—an expensiveand exotic scent which Mrs. Carpenter uses alone of those concerned.”

There was an interruption. Eve Carpenter cried out:

“It’s a lie. It’s a wicked cruel lie. It wasn’t me! I never went there! I never went near theplace. Guy, can’t you do something about these lies?”

Guy Carpenter was white with anger.

“Let me inform you, M. Poirot, that there is a law of slander and all these people present arewitnesses.”

“Is it slander to say that your wife uses a certain scent—and also, let me tell you, a certainlipstick?”

“It’s ridiculous,” cried Eve. “Absolutely ridiculous! Anyone could go splashing my scentabout.”

Unexpectedly Poirot beamed on her.

“Mais oui, exactly! Anyone could. An obvious, not very subtle thing to do. Clumsy andcrude. So clumsy that, as far as I was concerned, it defeated its object. It did more. It gave me, asthe phrase goes, ideas. Yes, it gave me ideas.

“Scent—and traces of lipstick on a cup. But it is so easy to remove lipstick from a cup—Iassure you every trace can be wiped off quite easily. Or the cups themselves could be removed andwashed. Why not? There was no one in the house. But that was not done. I asked myself why?

And the answer seemed to be a deliberate stress on femininity, an underlining of the fact that itwas a woman’s murder. I reflected on the telephone calls to those three women—all of them hadbeen messages. In no case had the recipient herself spoken to Mrs. Upward. So perhaps it was notMrs. Upward who had telephoned. It was someone who was anxious to involve a woman—anywoman—in the crime. Again I asked why? And there can only be one answer—that it was not awoman who killed Mrs. Upward—but a man.”

He looked round on his audience. They were all very still. Only two people responded.

Eve Carpenter said with a sigh: “Now you’re talking sense!”

Mrs. Oliver, nodding her head vigorously, said: “Of course.”

“So I have arrived at this point—a man killed Mrs. Upward and a man killed Mrs. McGinty!

What man? The reason for the murder must still be the same—it all hinges on a photograph. Inwhose possession was that photograph? That is the first question. And why was it kept?”

“Well, that is perhaps not so difficult. Say that it was kept originally for sentimental reasons.

Once Mrs. McGinty is—removed, the photograph need not be destroyed. But after the secondmurder, it is different. This time the photograph has definitely been connected with the murder.

The photograph is now a dangerous thing to keep. Therefore you will all agree, it is sure to bedestroyed.”

He looked round at the heads that nodded agreement.

“But, for all that, the photograph was not destroyed! No, it was not destroyed! I know that—because I found it. I found it a few days ago. I found it in this house. In the drawer of the bureauthat you see standing against the wall. I have it here.”

He held out the faded photograph of a simpering girl with roses.

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It is Eva Kane. And on the back of it are written two words in pencil.

Shall I tell you what they are? ‘My mother .?.?.’?”

His eyes, grave and accusing, rested on Maureen Summerhayes. She pushed back the hairfrom her face and stared at him with wide bewildered eyes.

“I don’t understand. I never—”

“No, Mrs. Summerhayes, you do not understand. There can be only two reasons for keepingthis photograph after the second murder. The first of them is an innocent sentimentality. You hadno feeling of guilt and so you could keep the photograph. You told us yourself, at Mrs.

Carpenter’s house one day, that you were an adopted child. I doubt whether you have ever knownwhat your real mother’s name was. But somebody else knew. Somebody who has all the pride offamily—a pride that makes him cling to his ancestral home, a pride in his ancestors and hislineage. That man would rather die than have the world—and his children—know that MaureenSummerhayes is the daughter of the murderer Craig and of Eva Kane. That man, I have said,would rather die. But that would not help, would it? So instead let us say that we have here a manwho is prepared to kill.”

Johnnie Summerhayes got up from his seat. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, almostfriendly.

“Rather a lot of nonsense you’re talkin,” aren’t you? Enjoying yourself spouting out a lot oftheories? Theories, that’s all they are! Saying things about my wife—”

His anger broke suddenly in a furious tide.

“You damned filthy swine—”

The swiftness of his rush across the floor took the room unawares. Poirot skipped backnimbly and Superintendent Spence was suddenly between Poirot and Summerhayes.

“Now, now, Major Summerhayes, take it easy—take it easy—”

Summerhayes recovered himself, shrugged, said:

“Sorry. Ridiculous really! After all—anyone can stick a photograph in a drawer.”

“Precisely,” said Poirot. “And the interesting thing about this photograph is that it has nofingerprints on it.”

He paused, then nodded his head gently.

“But it should have had,” he said. “If Mrs. Summerhayes kept it, she would have kept itinnocently, and so her fingerprints should have been on it.”

Maureen exclaimed:

“I think you’re mad. I’ve never seen that photograph in my life—except at Mrs. Upward’sthat day.”

“It is fortunate for you,” said Poirot, “that I know that you are speaking the truth. Thephotograph was put into that drawer only a few minutes before I found it there. Twice that morningthe contents of that drawer were tumbled on to the ground, twice I replaced them; the first time thephotograph was not in the drawer, the second time it was. It had been placed there during thatinterval—and I know by whom.”

A new note crept into his voice. He was no longer a ridiculous little man with an absurdmoustache and dyed hair, he was a hunter very close to his quarry.

“The crimes were committed by a man—they were committed for the simplest of all reasons—for money. In Mrs. Upward’s house there was a book found and on the flyleaf of that book iswritten Evelyn Hope. Hope was the name Eva Kane took when she left England. If her real namewas Evelyn then in all probability she gave the name of Evelyn to her child when it was born. ButEvelyn is a man’s name as well as a woman’s. Why had we assumed that Eva Kane’s child was agirl? Roughly because the Sunday Comet said so! But actually the Sunday Comet had not said soin so many words, it had assumed it because of a romantic interview with Eva Kane. But EvaKane left England before her child was born—so nobody could say what the sex of the childwould be.

“That is where I let myself be misled. By the romantic inaccuracy of the Press.

“Evelyn Hope, Eva Kane’s son, comes to England. He is talented and he attracts the attentionof a very rich woman who knows nothing about his origin—only the romantic story he chooses totell her. (A very pretty little story it was—all about a tragic young ballerina dying of tuberculosisin Paris!)

“She is a lonely woman who has recently lost her own son. The talented young playwrighttakes her name by deed poll.

“But your real name is Evelyn Hope, isn’t it, Mr. Upward?”

Robin Upward cried out shrilly:

“Of course it isn’t! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You really cannot hope to deny it. There are people who know you under that name. Thename Evelyn Hope, written in the book, is in your handwriting—the same handwriting as thewords ‘my mother’ on the back of this photograph. Mrs. McGinty saw the photograph and thewriting on it when she was tidying your things away. She spoke to you about it after reading theSunday Comet. Mrs. McGinty assumed that it was a photograph of Mrs. Upward when young,since she had no idea Mrs. Upward was not your real mother. But you knew that if once shementioned the matter so that it came to Mrs. Upward’s ears, it would be the end. Mrs. Upward hadquite fanatical views on the subject of heredity. She would not tolerate for a moment an adoptedson who was the son of a famous murderer. Nor would she forgive your lies on the subject.

“So Mrs. McGinty had at all costs to be silenced. You promised her a little present, perhaps,for being discreet. You called on her the next evening on your way to broadcast—and you killedher! Like this .?.?.”

With a sudden movement, Poirot seized the sugar hammer from the shelf and whirled it roundand down as though to bring it crashing down on Robin’s head.

So menacing was the gesture that several of the circle cried out.

Robin Upward screamed. A high terrified scream.

He yelled: “Don’t .?.?. don’t .?.?. It was an accident. I swear it was an accident. I didn’t meanto kill her. I lost my head. I swear I did.”

“You washed off the blood and put the sugar hammer back in this room where you had foundit. But there are new scientific methods of determining blood stains—and of bringing up latentfingerprints.”

“I tell you I never meant to kill her .?.?. It was all a mistake .?.?. And anyway it isn’t my fault.?.?. I’m not responsible. It’s in my blood. I can’t help it. You can’t hang me for something thatisn’t my fault. .?.?.”

Under his breath Spence muttered: “Can’t we? You see if we don’t!”

Aloud he spoke in a grave official voice:

“I must warn you, Mr. Upward, that anything you say .?.?.”