Mrs. McGinty's Dead Read online

‘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 only yesterday 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 the time to lay by.’

  ‘I do so agree with you,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I tell Mrs Upward that if she’d only make more of 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 the east. 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 a chilblain 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 not difficult, since the Sealyham was old and fat and was enjoying a leisurely examination of tufts of grass 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 of a 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 the Times Book Club and Mother doesn’t like detective stories. She’s frightfully sensitive and they keep 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 of which 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 a house 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. His name’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 and he 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 just got each other, you see.’

  ‘I thought Robin told me that you had a stepfather.’

  Deirdre said bitterly: ‘Oh yes, I’ve got a step father.’

  Mrs Oliver said vaguely: ‘It’s not the same thing, is it, as one’s own father. Do you remember 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. There are 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 her handbag. In it she wrote: ‘Not Deirdre Henderson,’ and underlined the not so firmly that the pencil broke.

  III

  Half-way up the hill she met Robin Upward coming down it with a handsome platinum-haired young woman.

  Robin introduced them.

  ‘This is the wonderful Ariadne Oliver, Eve,’ he said. ‘My dear, I don’t know how she does it. Looks so benevolent, too, doesn’t she? Not at all as though she wallowed in crime. This is Eve Carpenter. 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 possible to belong to nowadays, really small and select, and without a chance of getting in. I adore lost causes.’

  He added to Mrs Oliver:

  ‘Eve wants us to come in for drinks this evening. A sort of party for you, Ariadne. You know, meet the lion. We’re all terribly terribly thrilled to have you here. Can’t you put the scene of 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 was rather rude to him yesterday, so she’s going to ask him to the party too. But seriously, dear, do make 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 nice victim. 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 in country cottage.’

  ‘We haven’t settled on a murderer yet,’ said Robin. ‘What about my Mamma? Using her wheeled 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’t mind 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 rushed forward, 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 getting along?’

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

  ‘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 after you 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 at Cullenquay. 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 of the duck pond, whence a furious quacking had arisen.

  Chapter 13

  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 good deal of gin had been consumed, and the party was going well, there was a tendency for old friends to 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. Poirot unfolded the piece of paper.

  ‘Dr Rendell,’ he read.

  He looked questioningly at Mrs Oliver. Mrs Oliver nodded vigorously, a large plume of grey 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. But whatever the reason was, you can be quite sure it was him. I’ve looked at all the others, and he’s the 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 and came home separately. Mrs Rendell may have sat at home all the evening listening to her wireless or 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. The foreign maid, Frieda, on the other hand, was at the pictures last night, so she cannot tell us who was 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-past ten, 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 Oliver laughed. ‘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 a big 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 long hairs of the dogs, the broken legs of the chairs, the terrible, terrible bed in which I sleep’—he shut his eyes in remembrance of agonies—‘the tepid water in the bathroom, the holes in
the stair carpet, and the coffee—words cannot describe to you the fluid which they serve to you as coffee. It is 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 more difficult.’

  ‘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 at them both with affection.

  ‘I think I’m a bit tiddly,’ she announced. ‘Such lots of lovely gin. I do like parties! We don’t often have one in Broadhinny. It’s because of you both being so celebrated. I wish I could write books. 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 wondered how 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 should take 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 a stomach 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 looking into the far distance.

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