清洁女工之死18

Eighteen

I“Quite a neat bit of work,” said Superintendent¹ Spence.

His red countryman’s face was angry. He looked across to where Hercule Poirot sat gravelylistening.

“Neat and ugly,” he said. “She was strangled,” he went on. “Silk scarf—one of her own silkscarves, one she’d been wearing that day—just passed around the neck and the ends crossed—andpulled. Neat, quick, efficient. The thugs did it that way in India. The victim doesn’t struggle or cryout—pressure on the carotid artery².”

“Special knowledge?”

“Could be—need not. If you were thinking of doing it, you could read up the subject. There’sno practical difficulty. “Specially with the victim quite unsuspicious—and she was unsuspicious.”

Poirot nodded.

“Someone she knew.”

“Yes. They had coffee together—a cup opposite her and one opposite the—guest. Prints hadbeen wiped off the guest’s cup very carefully but lipstick³ is more difficult—there were still fainttraces of lipstick.”

“A woman, then?”

“You expected a woman, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes. Yes, that was indicated.”

Spence went on:

“Mrs. Upward recognized one of those photographs—the photograph of Lily Gamboll. So itties up with the McGinty murder.”

“Yes,” said Poirot. “It ties up with the McGinty murder.”

He remembered Mrs. Upward’s slightly amused expression as she had said:

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

Sticking her neck out, just like I.”

Spence was going on:

“She took an opportunity that seemed good to her—her son and Mrs. Oliver were going off tothe theatre. She rang up the person concerned and asked that person to come and see her. Is thathow you figure it out? She was playing detective.”

“Something like that. Curiosity. She kept her knowledge to herself, but she wanted to find outmore. She didn’t in the least realize what she was doing might be dangerous.” Poirot sighed. “Somany people think of murder as a game. It is not a game. I told her so. But she would not listen.”

“No, we know that. Well, that fits in fairly well. When young Robin⁴ started off with Mrs.

Oliver and ran back into the house his mother had just finished telephoning to someone. Shewouldn’t say who to. Played it mysterious. Robin and Mrs. Oliver thought it might be you.”

“I wish it had been,” said Hercule Poirot. “You have no idea to whom it was that shetelephoned?”

“None whatever. It’s all automatic round here, you know.”

“The maid couldn’t help you in any way?”

“No. She came in about half past ten—she has a key to the back door. She went straight intoher own room which leads off the kitchen and went to bed. The house was dark and she assumedthat Mrs. Upward had gone to bed and that the others had not yet returned.”

Spence added:

“She’s deaf and pretty crotchety as well. Takes very little notice of what goes on—and Iimagine does as little work as she can with as much grumbling⁵ as possible.”

“Not really an old faithful?”

“Oh no! She’s only been with the Upwards⁶ a couple of years.”

A constable⁷ put his head round the door.

“There’s a young lady to see you, sir,” he said. “Says there’s something perhaps you ought toknow. About last night.”

“About last night? Send her in.”

Deirdre Henderson came in. She looked pale and strained and, as usual, rather awkward.

“I thought perhaps I’d better come,” she said. “If I’m not interrupting you or anything,” sheadded apologetically.

“Not at all, Miss Henderson.”

Spence rose and pushed forward a chair. She sat down on it squarely in an ungainlyschoolgirlish sort of way.

“Something about last night?” said Spence encouragingly. “About Mrs. Upward, you mean?”

“Yes, it’s true, isn’t it, that she was murdered? I mean the post said so and the baker⁸. Mothersaid of course it couldn’t be true—” She stopped.

“I’m afraid your mother isn’t quite right there. It’s true enough. Now, you wanted to make a—to tell us something?”

Deirdre nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “You see, I was there.”

A difference crept into Spence’s manner. It was, perhaps, even more gentle, but an officialhardness underlay⁹ it.

“You were there,” he said. “At Laburnums. At what time?”

“I don’t know exactly,” said Deirdre. “Between half past eight and nine, I suppose. Probablynearly nine. After dinner, anyway. You see, she telephoned to me.”

“Mrs. Upward telephoned to you?”

“Yes. She said Robin and Mrs. Oliver were going to the theatre in Cullenquay and that shewould be all alone and would I come along and have coffee with her.”

“And you went?”

“Yes.”

“And you—had coffee with her?”

Deirdre shook her head.

“No, I got there—and I knocked. But there wasn’t any answer. So I opened the door and wentinto the hall. It was quite dark and I’d seen from outside that there was no light in the sitting room.

So I was puzzled. I called ‘Mrs. Upward’ once or twice but there was no answer. So I thoughtthere must be some mistake.”

“What mistake did you think there could have been?”

“I thought perhaps she’d gone to the theatre with them after all.”

“Without letting you know?”

“That did seem queer.”

“You couldn’t think of any other explanation?”

“Well, I thought perhaps Frieda might have bungled¹⁰ the original message. She does get thingswrong sometimes. She’s a foreigner. She was excited herself last night because she was leaving.”

“What did you do, Miss Henderson?”

“I just went away.”

“Back home?”

“Yes—that is, I went for a walk first. It was quite fine.”

Spence was silent for a moment or two, looking at her. He was looking, Poirot noticed, at hermouth.

Presently he roused himself and said briskly:

“Well, thank you, Miss Henderson. You were quite right to come and tell us this. We’remuch obliged to you.”

He got up and shook hands with her.

“I thought I ought to,” said Deirdre. “Mother didn’t want me to.”

“Didn’t she now?”

“But I thought I’d better.”

“Quite right.”

He showed her out and came back.

He sat down, drummed on the table and looked at Poirot.

“No lipstick,” he said. “Or is that only this morning?”

“No, it is not only this morning. She never uses it.”

“That’s odd, nowadays, isn’t it?”

“She is rather an odd kind of girl—undeveloped.”

“And no scent¹¹, either, as far as I could smell. That Mrs. Oliver says there was a distinct smellof scent—expensive scent, she says—in the house last night. Robin Upward confirms that. Itwasn’t any scent his mother uses.”

“This girl would not use scent, I think,” said Poirot.

“I shouldn’t think so either,” said Spence. “Looks rather like the hockey captain from an old-fashioned girls’ school—but she must be every bit of thirty, I should say.”

“Quite that.”

“Arrested development, would you say?”

Poirot considered. Then he said it was not quite so simple as that.

“It doesn’t fit,” said Spence frowning. “No lipstick, no scent. And since she’s got a perfectlygood mother, and Lily Gamboll’s mother was done in in a drunken brawl¹² in Cardiff when LilyGamboll was nine years old, I don’t see how she can be Lily Gamboll. But — Mrs. Upwardtelephoned her to come there last night—you can’t get away from that.” He rubbed his nose. “Itisn’t straightforward¹³ going.”

“What about the medical evidence?”

“Not much help there. All the police surgeon will say definitely is that she was probably deadby half past nine.”

“So she may have been dead when Deirdre Henderson came to Laburnums?”

“Probably was if the girl is speaking the truth. Either she is speaking the truth—or else she’sa deep one. Mother didn’t want her to come to us, she said. Anything there?”

Poirot considered.

“Not particularly. It is what mother would say. She is the type, you comprehend, that avoidsunpleasantness.”

Spence sighed.

“So we’ve got Deirdre Henderson—on the spot. Or else someone who came there beforeDeirdre Henderson. A woman. A woman who used lipstick and expensive scent.”

Poirot murmured: “You will inquire—”

Spence broke in.

“I’m inquiring! Just tactfully for the moment. We don’t want to alarm anyone. What was EveCarpenter doing last night? What was Shelagh Rendell doing last night? Ten to one they were justsitting at home. Carpenter, I know, had a political meeting.”

“Eve,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “The fashions in names change, do they not? Hardly ever,nowadays, do you hear of an Eva. It has gone out. But Eve, it is popular.”

“She can afford expensive scent,” said Spence, pursuing his own train of thought.

He sighed.

“We’ve got to get at more of her background. It’s so convenient to be a war widow. You canturn up anywhere looking pathetic and mourning some brave young airman. Nobody likes to askyou questions.

He turned to another subject.

“That sugar hammer or what-not you sent along—I think you’ve hit the bull’s-eye. It’s theweapon used in the McGinty murder. Doctor agrees it’s exactly suitable for the type of blow. Andthere has been blood on it. It was washed, of course—but they don’t realize nowadays that amicroscopic amount of blood will give a reaction with the latest reagents. Yes, it’s human bloodall right. And that again ties up with the Wetherbys and the Henderson girl. Or doesn’t it?”

“Deirdre Henderson was quite definite that the sugar hammer went to the Harvest FestivalBring and Buy.”

“And Mrs. Summerhayes was equally positive it was the Christmas one?”

“Mrs. Summerhayes is never positive about anything,” said Poirot gloomily. “She is acharming person, but she has no order or method in her composition. But I will tell you this—Iwho have lived at Long Meadows—the doors and the windows they are always open. Anyone—anyone at all, could come and take something away and later come and put it back and neitherMajor Summerhayes nor Mrs. Summerhayes would notice. If it is not there one day, she thinksthat her husband has taken it to joint¹⁴ a rabbit or to chop wood—and he, he would think she hadtaken it to chop dogmeat. In that house nobody uses the right implements—they just seize what isat hand and leave it in the wrong place. And nobody remembers anything. If I were to live like thatI should be in a continual state of anxiety—but they—they do not seem to mind.”

Spence sighed.

“Well—there’s one good thing about all this—they won’t execute James Bentley until thisbusiness is all cleared up. We’ve forwarded a letter to the Home Secretary’s office. It gives uswhat we’ve been wanting—time.”

“I think,” said Poirot, “that I would like to see Bentley again—now that we know a littlemore.”

II

There was little change in James Bentley. He was, perhaps, rather thinner, his hands were morerestless—otherwise he was the same quiet, hopeless creature.

Hercule Poirot spoke¹⁵ carefully. There had been some fresh evidence. The police werereopening the case. There was, therefore, hope. .?.?.

But James Bentley was not attracted by hope.

He said:

“It will be all no good. What more can they find out?”

“Your friends,” said Hercule Poirot, “are working very hard.”

“My friends?” He shrugged¹⁶ his shoulders. “I have no friends.”

“You should not say that. You have, at the very least, two friends.”

“Two friends? I should like to know who they are.”

His tone expressed no wish for the information, merely a weary disbelief.

“First, there is Superintendent Spence—”

“Spence? Spence? The police superintendent who worked up the case against me? That’salmost funny.”

“It is not funny. It is fortunate. Spence is a very shrewd and conscientious¹⁷ police officer. Helikes to be very sure that he has got the right man.”

“He’s sure enough of that.”

“Oddly enough, he is not. That is why, as I said, he is your friend.”

“That kind of a friend!”

Hercule Poirot waited. Even James Bentley, he thought, must have some human attributes.

Even James Bentley could not be completely devoid¹⁸ of ordinary human curiosity.

And true enough, presently James Bentley said:

“Well, who’s the other?”

“The other is Maude Williams.”

Bentley did not appear to react.

“Maude Williams? Who is she?”

“She worked in the office of Breather & Scuttle¹⁹.”

“Oh—that Miss Williams.”

“Précisément, that Miss Williams.”

“But what’s it got to do with her?”

There were moments when Hercule Poirot found the personality of James Bentley soirritating that he heartily²⁰ wished that he could believe Bentley guilty of Mrs. McGinty’s murder.

Unfortunately the more Bentley annoyed him, the more he came round to Spence’s way ofthinking. He found it more and more difficult to envisage²¹ Bentley’s murdering anybody. JamesBentley’s attitude to murder would have been, Poirot felt sure, that it wouldn’t be much goodanyway. If cockiness, as Spence insisted, was a characteristic of murderers, Bentley was certainlyno murderer.

Containing himself, Poirot said:

“Miss Williams interests herself in this affair. She is convinced you are innocent.”

“I don’t see what she can know about it.”

“She knows you.”

James Bentley blinked. He said, grudgingly²²:

“I suppose she does, in a way, but not well.”

“You worked together in the office, did you not? You had, sometimes, meals together?”

“Well—yes—once or twice. The Blue Cat Café, it’s very convenient—just across the street.”

“Did you never go for walks with her?”

“As a matter of fact we did, once. We walked up on the downs.”

Hercule Poirot exploded.

“Ma foi, is it a crime that I seek to drag from you? To keep the company with a pretty girl, isit not natural? Is it not enjoyable? Can you not be pleased with yourself about it?”

“I don’t see why,” said James Bentley.

“At your age it is natural and right to enjoy the company of girls.”

“I don’t know many girls.”

“?a se voit! But you should be ashamed of that, not smug! You knew Miss Williams. Youhad worked with her and talked with her and sometimes had meals with her, and once went for awalk on the downs. And when I mention her, you do not even remember her name!”

James Bentley flushed.

“Well, you see—I’ve never had much to do with girls. And she isn’t quite what you’d call alady, is she? Oh very nice—and all that—but I can’t help feeling that Mother would have thoughther common.”

“It is what you think that matters.”

Again James Bentley flushed.

“Her hair,” he said. “And the kind of clothes she wears — Mother, of course, was old-fashioned—”

He broke off.

“But you found Miss Williams—what shall I say— sympathetic?”

“She was always very kind,” said James Bentley slowly. “But she didn’t — really —understand. Her mother died when she was only a child, you see.”

“And then you lost your job,” said Poirot. “You couldn’t get another. Miss Williams met youonce at Broadhinny, I understand?”

James Bentley looked distressed²³.

“Yes—yes. She was coming over there on business and she sent me a postcard. Asked me tomeet her. I can’t think why. It isn’t as if I knew her at all well.”

“But you did meet her?”

“Yes. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“And you took her to the pictures or a meal?”

James Bentley looked scandalized.

“Oh no. Nothing of that kind. We—er—just talked whilst she was waiting for her bus.”

“Ah, how amusing that must have been for the poor girl!”

James Bentley said sharply:

“I hadn’t got any money. You must remember that. I hadn’t any money at all.”

“Of course. It was a few days before Mrs. McGinty was killed, wasn’t it?”

James Bentley nodded. He said unexpectedly:

“Yes, it was on the Monday. She was killed on Wednesday.”

“I’m going to ask you something else, Mr. Bentley. Mrs. McGinty took the Sunday Comet?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Did you ever see her Sunday Comet?”

“She used to offer it sometimes, but I didn’t often accept. Mother didn’t care for that kind ofpaper.”

“So you didn’t see that week’s Sunday Comet?”

“No.”

“And Mrs. McGinty didn’t speak about it, or about anything in it?”

“Oh yes, she did,” said James Bentley unexpectedly. “She was full of it!”

“Ah la la. So she was full of it. And what did she say? Be careful. This is important.”

“I don’t remember very well now. It was all about some old murder case. Craig, I think it was—no, perhaps it wasn’t Craig. Anyway, she said somebody connected with the case was living inBroadhinny now. Full of it, she was. I couldn’t see why it mattered to her.”

“Did she say who it was—in Broadhinny?”

James Bentley said vaguely²⁴:

“I think it was that woman whose son writes plays.”

“She mentioned her by name?”

“No—I—really it’s so long ago—”

“I implore²⁵ you—try to think. You want to be free again, do you not?”

“Free?” Bentley sounded surprised.

“Yes, free.”

“I—yes—I suppose I do—”

“Then think! What did Mrs. McGinty say?”

“Well—something like—‘so pleased with herself as she is and so proud. Not so much to beproud of if all’s known.’ And then, ‘You’d never think it was the same woman to look at thephotograph.’ But of course it had been taken years ago.”

“But what made you sure that it was Mrs. Upward of whom she was speaking?”

“I really don’t know .?.?. I just formed the impression. She had been speaking of Mrs. Upward—and then I lost interest and didn’t listen, and afterwards—well, now I come to think of it, I don’treally know who she was speaking about. She talked a lot you know.”

Poirot sighed.

He said: “I do not think myself that it was Mrs. Upward of whom she spoke. I think it wassomebody else. It is preposterous²⁶ to reflect that if you are hanged it will be because you do not payproper attention to the people with whom you converse²⁷ .?.?. Did Mrs. McGinty speak much to youof the houses where she worked, or the ladies of those houses?”

“Yes, in a way—but it’s no good asking me. You don’t seem to realize, M. Poirot, that I hadmy own life to think of at the time. I was in very serious anxiety.”

“Not in so much serious anxiety as you are now! Did Mrs. McGinty speak of Mrs. Carpenter—Mrs. Selkirk she was then—or of Mrs. Rendell?”

“Carpenter has that new house at the top of the hill and a big car, hasn’t he? He was engagedto Mrs. Selkirk—Mrs. McGinty was always very down on Mrs. Selkirk. I don’t know why.

‘Jumped up,’ that’s what she used to call her. I don’t know what she meant by it.”

“And the Rendells?”

“He’s the doctor, isn’t he? I don’t remember her saying anything particular about them.”

“And the Wetherbys?”

“I do remember what she said about them. ‘No patience with her fusses and her fancies,’

that’s what she said. And about him, ‘Never a word, good or bad, out of him.’” He paused. “Shesaid—it was an unhappy house.”

Hercule Poirot looked up. For a second James Bentley’s voice had held something that Poirothad not heard in it before. He was not repeating obediently what he could recall. His mind, for avery brief space, had moved out of its apathy²⁸. James Bentley was thinking of Hunter’s Close, ofthe life that went on there, of whether or not it was an unhappy house. James Bentley was thinkingobjectively.

Poirot said softly:

“You knew them? The mother? The father? The daughter?”

“Not really. It was the dog. A Sealyham. It got caught in a trap. She couldn’t get it undone²⁹. Ihelped her.”

There was again something new in Bentley’s tone. “I helped her,” he had said, and in thosewords was a faint echo of pride.

Poirot remembered what Mrs. Oliver had told him of her conversation with DeirdreHenderson.

He said gently:

“You talked together?”

“Yes. She—her mother suffered a lot, she told me. She was very fond of her mother.”

“And you told her about yours?”

“Yes,” said James Bentley simply.

Poirot said nothing. He waited.

“Life is very cruel,” said James Bentley. “Very unfair. Some people never seem to get anyhappiness.”

“It is possible,” said Hercule Poirot.

“I don’t think she had had much. Miss Wetherby.”

“Henderson.”

“Oh yes. She told me she had a stepfather.”

“Deirdre Henderson,” said Poirot. “Deirdre of the Sorrows. A pretty name—but not a prettygirl, I understand?”

James Bentley flushed.

“I thought,” he said, “she was rather good-looking. .?.?.”

 

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