Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [43]
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘What I said, mademoiselle.’
‘Yes, but—’ She stopped.
Poirot said nothing.
Deirdre Henderson said slowly:
‘You’ve upset my mother. She hates things like that—robberies and murders and—and violence.’
‘It must, then, have been a great shock to her when a woman who had actually worked here was killed.’
‘Oh yes—oh yes, it was.’
‘She was prostrated—yes?’
‘She wouldn’t hear anything about it…We—I—we try to—to spare her things. All the beastliness.’
‘What about the war?’
‘Luckily we never had any bombs near here.’
‘What was your part in the war, mademoiselle?’
‘Oh, I did VAD work in Kilchester. And some driving for the WVS I couldn’t have left home, of course. Mother needed me. As it was, she minded my being out so much. It was all very difficult. And then servants—naturally mother’s never done any housework—she’s not strong enough. And it was so difficult to get anyone at all. That’s why Mrs McGinty was such a blessing. That’s when she began coming to us. She was a splendid worker. But of course nothing—anywhere—is like it used to be.’
‘And do you mind that so much, mademoiselle?’
‘I? Oh no.’ She seemed surprised. ‘But it’s different for mother. She—she lives in the past a lot.’
‘Some people do,’ said Poirot. His visual memory conjured up the room he had been in a short time before. There had been a bureau drawer half pulled out. A drawer full of odds and ends—a silk pin-cushion, a broken fan, a silver coffee pot—some old magazines. The drawer had been too full to shut. He said softly: ‘And they keep things—memories of old days—the dance programme, the fan, the photographs of bygone friends, even the menu cards and the theatre programmes because, looking at these things, old memories revive.’
‘I suppose that’s it,’ said Deirdre. ‘I can’t understand it myself. I never keep anything.’
‘You look forwards, not back?’
Deirdre said slowly:
‘I don’t know that I look anywhere…I mean, today’s usually enough, isn’t it?’
The front door opened and a tall, spare, elderly man came into the hall. He stopped dead as he saw Poirot.
He glanced at Deirdre and his eyebrows rose in interrogation.
‘This is my stepfather,’ said Deirdre. ‘I—I don’t know your name?’
‘I am Hercule Poirot,’ said Poirot with his usual embarrassed air of announcing a royal title.
Mr Wetherby seemed unimpressed.
He said, ‘Ah,’ and turned to hang up his coat.
Deirdre said:
‘He came to ask about Mrs McGinty.’
Mr Wetherby remained still for a second, then he finished his adjustment of the coat on the peg.
‘That seems to me rather remarkable,’ he said. ‘The woman met her death some months ago and, although she worked here, we have no information concerning her or her family. If we had done we should already have given it to the police.’
There was finality in his tone. He glanced at his watch.
‘Lunch, I presume, will be ready in a quarter of an hour.’
‘I’m afraid it may be rather late today.’
Mr Wetherby’s eyebrows rose again.
‘Indeed? Why, may I ask?’
‘Frieda has been rather busy.’
‘My dear Deirdre, I hate to remind you, but the task of running the household devolves on you. I should appreciate a little more punctuality.’
Poirot opened the front door and let himself out. He glanced over his shoulder.
There was cold dislike in the gaze that Mr Wetherby gave his stepdaughter. There was something very like hate in the eyes that looked back at him.
Chapter 10
Poirot left his third call until after luncheon. Luncheon was under-stewed oxtail, watery potatoes, and what Maureen hoped optimistically might turn out to be pancakes. They were very peculiar.
Poirot walked slowly up the hill. Presently, on his right, he would come to Laburnums, two cottages knocked into one and remodelled to modern taste. Here lived Mrs Upward and that promising young playwright, Robin Upward.
Poirot paused a moment at the gate to pass a hand over his moustaches. As he did so a car came twisting slowly down the hill and an apple core directed with force struck him on the cheek.
Startled, Poirot let out