Cards on the Table - Agatha Christie [59]
Inspector Harper shook his head.
No. She’d only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine. Young ladies didn’t stay long as a rule.’
Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn’t stay long. A difficult woman, evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her predecessors had done. No need to kill—unless it were sheer unreasoning vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.
‘Who did get Mrs Benson’s money?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn’t be very much—not when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one of these annuities.’
Nothing there then. But Mrs Benson had died. And Anne Meredith had not told him that she had been at Combeacre.
It was all profoundly unsatisfactory.
He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was quite clear and emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Miss—couldn’t remember her name—nice girl but rather helpless— had been very upset and distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs Benson’s last companion—a nice modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs Benson. Mrs Benson had been—not difficult—but a trifle severe towards young people. She was the rigid type of Christian.
Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few months—that was all—and her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression. A nice little thing seemed to be the accepted description.
Mrs Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A disagreeable woman—but that was all.
Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered her employer.
Chapter 23
The Evidence of a Pair of Silk Stockings
As Superintendent Battle’s train rushed eastwards through England, Anne Meredith and Rhoda Dawes were in Hercule Poirot’s sitting-room.
Anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the morning’s post, but Rhoda’s counsel had prevailed.
‘Anne—you’re a coward—yes, a coward. It’s no good going on being an ostrich, burying your head in the sand. There’s been a murder and you’re one of the suspects—the least likely one perhaps—’
‘That would be the worst,’ said Anne with a touch of humour. ‘It’s always the least likely person who did it.’
‘But you are one,’ continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. ‘And it’s no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and nothing to do with you.’
‘It is nothing to do with me,’ Anne persisted. ‘I mean, I’m quite willing to answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot, he’s an outsider.’
‘And what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? He’ll think you’re bursting with guilt.’
‘I’m certainly not bursting with guilt,’ said Anne coldly.
‘Darling, I know that. You couldn’t murder anybody if you tried. But horrible suspicious foreigners don’t know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house. Otherwise he’ll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants.’
‘We haven’t got any servants.’
‘We’ve got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on, Anne, let’s go. It will be rather fun really.’
‘I don’t see why he wants to see me.’ Anne was obstinate.
‘To put one over on the official police, of course,’ said Rhoda impatiently. ‘They always do—the amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all boots and brainlessness.’
‘Do you think this man Poirot is clever?’
‘He doesn’t look a Sherlock,’ said Rhoda. ‘I expect he has been quite good in his day. He’s gaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne, let’s go and see the old boy. He