Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [18]
‘In that case I’d be only too thankful to be convinced of it.’
‘And two heads are better than one? Voilà, everything is settled. I precipitate myself upon the business. There is, that is clear, no time to be lost. Already the scent is cold. Mrs McGinty was killed—when?’
‘Last November, 22nd.’
‘Then let us at once get down to the brass tacks.’
‘I’ve got my notes on the case which I’ll pass over to you.’
‘Good. For the moment, we need only the bare outline. If James Bentley did not kill Mrs McGinty, who did?’
Spence shrugged his shoulders and said heavily:
‘There’s nobody, so far as I can see.’
‘But that answer we do not accept. Now, since for every murder there must be a motive, what, in the case of Mrs McGinty, could the motive be? Envy, revenge, jealousy, fear, money? Let us take the last and the simplest? Who profited by her death?’
‘Nobody very much. She had two hundred pounds in the Savings Bank. Her niece gets that.’
‘Two hundred pounds is not very much—but in certain circumstances it could be enough. So let us consider the niece. I apologize, my friend, for treading in your footsteps. You too, I know, must have considered all this. But I have to go over with you the ground already traversed.’
Spence nodded his large head.
‘We considered the niece, of course. She’s thirty-eight, married. Husband is employed in the building and decorating trade—a painter. He’s got a good character, steady employment, sharp sort of fellow, no fool. She’s a pleasant young woman, a bit talkative, seemed fond of her aunt in a mild sort of way. Neither of them had any urgent need for two hundred pounds, though quite pleased to have it, I dare say.’
‘What about the cottage? Do they get that?’
‘It was rented. Of course, under the Rent Restriction Act the landlord couldn’t get the old woman out. But now she’s dead, I don’t think the niece could have taken over—anyway she and her husband didn’t want to. They’ve got a small modern council house of their own of which they are extremely proud.’ Spence sighed. ‘I went into the niece and her husband pretty closely—they seemed the best bet, as you’ll understand. But I couldn’t get hold of anything.’
‘Bien. Now let us talk about Mrs McGinty herself. Describe her to me—and not only in physical terms, if you please.’
Spence grinned.
‘Don’t want a police description? Well, she was sixty-four. Widow. Husband had been employed in the drapery department of Hodges in Kilchester. He died about seven years ago. Pneumonia. Since then, Mrs McGinty has been going out daily to various houses round about. Domestic chores. Broadhinny’s a small village which has lately become residential. One or two retired people, one of the partners in an engineering works, a doctor, that sort of thing. There’s quite a good bus and train service to Kilchester, and Cullenquay which, as I expect you know, is quite a large summer resort, is only eight miles away, but Broadhinny itself is still quite pretty and rural—about a quarter of a mile off the main Drymouth and Kilchester road.’
Poirot nodded.
‘Mrs McGinty’s cottage was one of four that form the village proper. There is the post office and village shop, and agricultural labourers live in the others.’
‘And she took in a lodger?’
‘Yes. Before her husband died, it used to be summer visitors, but after his death she just took one regular. James Bentley had been there for some months.’
‘So we come to—James Bentley?’
‘Bentley’s last job was with a house agent’s in Kilchester. Before that, he lived with his mother in Cullenquay. She was an invalid and he looked after her and never went out much. Then she died, and an annuity she had died with her. He sold the little house and found a job. Well educated man, but no special qualifications or aptitudes, and, as I say, an unprepossessing manner. Didn’t find it easy to get anything. Anyway, they took him on at Breather & Scuttle’s. Rather a second-rate firm. I don’t think he was particularly efficient or successful.