Murder in the Mews Read online

  “No, I don’t think I thought of that. If anything was wrong, it seemed to me that the police were the people to send for.”

  “Then you thought—pardon, mademoiselle—that there was something wrong?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Because you could not get a reply to your knocks? But possibly your friend might have taken a sleeping draught or something of that kind—”

  “She didn’t take sleeping draughts.”

  The reply came sharply.

  “Or she might have gone away and locked her door before going?”

  “Why should she lock it? In any case she would have left a note for me.”

  “And she did not—leave a note for you? You are quite sure of that?”

  “Of course I am sure of it. I should have seen it at once.”

  The sharpness of her tone was accentuated.

  Japp said:

  “You didn’t try and look through the keyhole, Miss Plenderleith?”

  “No,” said Jane Plenderleith thoughtfully. “I never thought of that. But I couldn’t have seen anything, could I? Because the key would have been in it?”

  Her inquiring gaze, innocent, wide-eyed, met Japp’s. Poirot smiled suddenly to himself.

  “You did quite right, of course, Miss Plenderleith,” said Japp. “I suppose you’d no reason to believe that your friend was likely to commit suicide?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “She hadn’t seemed worried—or distressed in any way?”

  There was a pause—an appreciable pause before the girl answered.

  “No.”

  “Did you know she had a pistol?”

  Jane Plenderleith nodded.

  “Yes, she had it out in India. She always kept it in a drawer in her room.”

  “H’m. Got a licence for it?”

  “I imagine so. I don’t know for certain.”

  “Now, Miss Plenderleith, will you tell me all you can about Mrs. Allen, how long you’ve known her, where her relations are—everything in fact.”

  Jane Plenderleith nodded.

  “I’ve known Barbara about five years. I met her first travelling abroad—in Egypt to be exact. She was on her way home from India. I’d been at the British School in Athens for a bit and was having a few weeks in Egypt before going home. We were on a Nile cruise together. We made friends, decided we liked each other. I was looking at the time for someone to share a flat or a tiny house with me. Barbara was alone in the world. We thought we’d get on well together.”

  “And you did get on well together?” asked Poirot.

  “Very well. We each had our own friends—Barbara was more social in her likings—my friends were more of the artistic kind. It probably worked better that way.”

  Poirot nodded. Japp went on:

  “What do you know about Mrs. Allen’s family and her life before she met you?”

  Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.

  “Not very much really. Her maiden name was Armitage, I believe.”

  “Her husband?”

  “I don’t fancy that he was anything to write home about. He drank, I think. I gather he died a year or two after the marriage. There was one child, a little girl, which died when it was three years old. Barbara didn’t talk much about her husband. I believe she married him in India when she was about seventeen. Then they went off to Borneo or one of the godforsaken spots you send ne’er-do-wells to—but as it was obviously a painful subject I didn’t refer to it.”

  “Do you know if Mrs. Allen was in any financial difficulties?”

  “No, I’m sure she wasn’t.”

  “Not in debt—anything of that kind?”

  “Oh, no! I’m sure she wasn’t in that kind of a jam.”

  “Now there’s another question I must ask—and I hope you won’t be upset about it, Miss Plenderleith. Had Mrs. Allen any particular man friend or men friends?”

  Jane Plenderleith answered coolly:

  “Well, she was engaged to be married if that answers your question.”

  “What is the name of the man she was engaged to?”

  “Charles Laverton-West. He’s M.P. for some place in Hampshire.”

  “Had she known him long?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “And she has been engaged to him—how long?”

  “Two—no—nearer three months.”

  “As far as you know there has not been any quarrel?”

  Miss Plenderleith shook her head.

  “No. I should have been surprised if there had been anything of that sort. Barbara wasn’t the quarrelling kind.”

  “How long is it since you last saw Mrs. Allen?”

  “Friday last, just before I went away for the weekend.”

  “Mrs. Allen was remaining in town?”

  “Yes. She was going out with her fiancé on the Sunday, I believe.”

  “And you yourself, where did you spend the weekend?”

  “At Laidells Hall, Laidells, Essex.”

  “And the name of the people with whom you were staying?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bentinck.”

  “You only left them this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have left very early?”

  “Mr. Bentinck motored me up. He starts early because he has to get to the city by ten.”

  “I see.”

  Japp nodded comprehendingly. Miss Plenderleith’s replies had all been crisp and convincing.

  Poirot in his turn put a question.

  “What is your own opinion of Mr. Laverton-West?”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  “Does that matter?”

  “No, it does not matter, perhaps, but I should like to have your opinion.”

  “I don’t know that I’ve thought about him one way or the other. He’s young—not more than thirty-one or two—ambitious—a good public speaker—means to get on in the world.”

  “That is on the credit side—and on the debit?”

  “Well,” Miss Plenderleith considered for a moment or two. “In my opinion he’s commonplace—his ideas are not particularly original—and he’s slightly pompous.”

  “Those are not very serious faults, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, smiling.

  “Don’t you think so?”

  Her tone was slightly ironic.

  “They might be to you.”

  He was watching her, saw her look a little disconcerted. He pursued his advantage.

  “But to Mrs. Allen—no, she would not notice them.”

  “You’re perfectly right. Barbara thought he was wonderful—took him entirely at his own valuation.”

  Poirot said gently:

  “You were fond of your friend?”

  He saw the hand clench on her knee, the tightening of the line of the jaw, yet the answer came in a matter-of-fact voice free from emotion.

  “You are quite right. I was.”

  Japp said:

  “Just one other thing, Miss Plenderleith. You and she didn’t have a quarrel? There was no upset between you?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Not over this engagement business?”

  “Certainly not. I was glad she was able to be so happy about it.”

  There was a momentary pause, then Japp said:

  “As far as you know, did Mrs. Allen have any enemies?”

  This time there was a definite interval before Jane Plenderleith replied. When she did so, her tone had altered very slightly.

  “I don’t know quite what you mean by enemies?”

  “Anyone, for instance, who would profit by her death?”

  “Oh, no, that would be ridiculous. She had a very small income anyway.”

  “And who inherits that income?”

  Jame Plenderleith’s voice sounded mildly surprised as she said:

  “Do you know, I really don’t know. I shouldn’t be surprised if I did. That is, if she ever made a will.”

  “And no enemies in any ot
her sense?” Japp slid off to another aspect quickly. “People with a grudge against her?”

  “I don’t think anyone had a grudge against her. She was a very gentle creature, always anxious to please. She had a really sweet, lovable nature.”

  For the first time that hard, matter-of-fact voice broke a little. Poirot nodded gently.

  Japp said:

  “So it amounts to this—Mrs. Allen has been in good spirits lately, she wasn’t in any financial difficulty, she was engaged to be married and was happy in her engagement. There was nothing in the world to make her commit suicide. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  There was a momentary silence before Jane said:

  “Yes.”

  Japp rose.

  “Excuse me, I must have a word with Inspector Jameson.”

  He left the room.

  Hercule Poirot remained tête à tête with Jane Plenderleith.

  Three

  For a few minutes there was silence.

  Jane Plenderleith shot a swift appraising glance at the little man, but after that she stared in front of her and did not speak. Yet a consciousness of his presence showed itself in a certain nervous tension. Her body was still but not relaxed. When at last Poirot did break the silence the mere sound of his voice seemed to give her a certain relief. In an agreeable everyday voice he asked a question.

  “When did you light the fire, mademoiselle?”

  “The fire?” Her voice sounded vague and rather absentminded. “Oh, as soon as I arrived this morning.”

  “Before you went upstairs or afterwards?”

  “Before.”

  “I see. Yes, naturally . . . And it was already laid—or did you have to lay it?”

  “It was laid. I only had to put a match to it.”

  There was a slight impatience in her voice. Clearly she suspected him of making conversation. Possibly that was what he was doing. At any rate he went on in quiet conversational tones.

  “But your friend—in her room I noticed there was a gas fire only?”

  Jane Plenderleith answered mechanically.

  “This is the only coal fire we have—the others are all gas fires.”

  “And you cook with gas, too?”

  “I think everyone does nowadays.”

  “True. It is much labour saving.”

  The little interchange died down. Jane Plenderleith tapped on the ground with her shoe. Then she said abruptly:

  “That man—Chief Inspector Japp—is he considered clever?”

  “He is very sound. Yes, he is well thought of. He works hard and painstakingly and very little escapes him.”

  “I wonder—” muttered the girl.

  Poirot watched her. His eyes looked very green in the firelight. He asked quietly:

  “It was a great shock to you, your friend’s death?”

  “Terrible.”

  She spoke with abrupt sincerity.

  “You did not expect it—no?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So that it seemed to you at first, perhaps, that it was impossible—that it could not be?”

  The quiet sympathy of his tone seemed to break down Jane Plenderleith’s defences. She replied eagerly, naturally, without stiffness.

  “That’s just it. Even if Barbara did kill herself, I can’t imagine her killing herself that way.”

  “Yet she had a pistol?”

  Jane Plenderleith made an impatient gesture.

  “Yes, but that pistol was a—oh! a hang over. She’d been in out-of-the-way places. She kept it out of habit—not with any other idea. I’m sure of that.”

  “Ah! and why are you sure of that?”

  “Oh, because of the things she said.”

  “Such as—?”

  His voice was very gentle and friendly. It led her on subtly.

  “Well, for instance, we were discussing suicide once and she said much the easiest way would be to turn the gas on and stuff up all the cracks and just go to bed. I said I thought that would be impossible—to lie there waiting. I said I’d far rather shoot myself. And she said no, she could never shoot herself. She’d be too frightened in case it didn’t come off and anyway she said she’d hate the bang.”

  “I see,” said Poirot. “As you say, it is odd . . . Because, as you have just told me, there was a gas fire in her room.”

  Jane Plenderleith looked at him, slightly startled.

  “Yes, there was . . . I can’t understand—no, I can’t understand why she didn’t do it that way.”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “Yes, it seems—odd—not natural somehow.”

  “The whole thing doesn’t seem natural. I still can’t believe she killed herself. I suppose it must be suicide?”

  “Well, there is one other possibility.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Poirot looked straight at her.

  “It might be—murder.”

  “Oh, no?” Jane Plenderleith shrank back. “Oh no! What a horrible suggestion.”

  “Horrible, perhaps, but does it strike you as an impossible one?”

  “But the door was locked on the inside. So was the window.”

  “The door was locked—yes. But there is nothing to show if it were locked from the inside or the outside. You see, the key was missing.”

  “But then—if it is missing . . .” She took a minute or two. “Then it must have been locked from the outside. Otherwise it would be somewhere in the room.”

  “Ah, but it may be. The room has not been thoroughly searched yet, remember. Or it may have been thrown out of the window and somebody may have picked it up.”

  “Murder!” said Jane Plenderleith. She turned over the possibility, her dark clever face eager on the scent. “I believe you’re right.”

  “But if it were murder there would have been a motive. Do you know of a motive, mademoiselle?”

  Slowly she shook her head. And yet, in spite of the denial, Poirot again got the impression that Jane Plenderleith was deliberately keeping something back. The door opened and Japp came in.

  Poirot rose.

  “I have been suggesting to Miss Plenderleith,” he said, “that her friend’s death was not suicide.”

  Japp looked momentarily put out. He cast a glance of reproach at Poirot.

  “It’s a bit early to say anything definite,” he remarked. “We’ve always got to take all possibilities into account, you understand. That’s all there is to it at the moment.”

  Jane Plenderleith replied quietly.

  “I see.”

  Japp came towards her.

  “Now then, Miss Plenderleith, have you ever seen this before?”

  On the palm of his hand he held out a small oval of dark blue enamel.

  Jane Plenderleith shook her head.

  “No, never.”

  “It’s not yours nor Mrs. Allen’s?”

  “No. It’s not the kind of thing usually worn by our sex, is it?”

  “Oh! so you recognize it.”

  “Well, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? That’s half of a man’s cuff link.”

  Four

  “That young woman’s too cocky by half,” Japp complained.

  The two men were once more in Mrs. Allen’s bedroom. The body had been photographed and removed and the fingerprint man had done his work and departed.

  “It would be unadvisable to treat her as a fool,” agreed Poirot. “She most emphatically is not a fool. She is, in fact, a particularly clever and competent young woman.”

  “Think she did it?” asked Japp with a momentary ray of hope. “She might have, you know. We’ll have to get her alibi looked into. Some quarrel over this young man—this budding M.P. She’s rather too scathing about him, I think! Sounds fishy. Rather as though she were sweet on him herself and he’d turned her down. She’s the kind that would bump anyone off if she felt like it, and keep her head while she was doing it, too. Yes, we’ll have to look into that alibi. She had it very pat and after all Essex isn�
��t very far away. Plenty of trains. Or a fast car. It’s worthwhile finding out if she went to bed with a headache for instance last night.”

  “You are right,” agreed Poirot.

  “In any case,” continued Japp, “she’s holding out on us. Eh? Didn’t you feel that too? That young woman knows something.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  “Yes, that could be clearly seen.”

  “That’s always a difficulty in these cases,” Japp complained. “People will hold their tongues—sometimes out of the most honourable motives.”

  “For which one can hardly blame them, my friend.”

  “No, but it makes it much harder for us,” Japp grumbled.

  “It merely displays to its full advantage your ingenuity,” Poirot consoled him. “What about fingerprints, by the way?”

  “Well, it’s murder all right. No prints whatever on the pistol. Wiped clean before being placed in her hand. Even if she managed to wind her arm round her head in some marvellous acrobatic fashion she could hardly fire off a pistol without hanging on to it and she couldn’t wipe it after she was dead.”

  “No, no, an outside agency is clearly indicated.”

  “Otherwise the prints are disappointing. None on the door-handle. None on the window. Suggestive, eh? Plenty of Mrs. Allen’s all over the place.”

  “Did Jameson get anything?”

  “Out of the daily woman? No. She talked a lot but she didn’t really know much. Confirmed the fact that Allen and Plenderleith were on good terms. I’ve sent Jameson out to make inquiries in the mews. We’ll have to have a word with Mr. Laverton-West too. Find out where he was and what he was doing last night. In the meantime we’ll have a look through her papers.”

  He set to without more ado. Occasionally he grunted and tossed something over to Poirot. The search did not take long. There were not many papers in the desk and what there were were neatly arranged and docketed.

  Finally Japp leant back and uttered a sigh.

  “Not very much, is there?”

  “As you say.”

  “Most of it quite straightforward—receipted bills, a few bills as yet unpaid—nothing particularly outstanding. Social stuff—invitations. Notes from friends. These—” he laid his hand on a pile of seven or eight letters—“and her cheque book and passbook. Anything strike you there?”

  “Yes, she was overdrawn.”