Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [45]
‘You men,’ said Mrs Oliver indulgently. ‘Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard—’
She left this well-worn theme hanging in the air as a voice hailed them from the door of the cottage.
‘Hallo,’ said the voice, an agreeable light tenor. ‘Is that Mrs Oliver?’
‘Here I am,’ called Mrs Oliver. To Poirot she murmured: ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be very discreet.’
‘No, no, madame. I do not want you to be discreet. On the contrary.’
Robin Upward came down the path and through the gate. He was bareheaded and wore very old grey flannel trousers and a disreputable sports coat. But for a tendency to embonpoint, he would have been good looking.
‘Ariadne, my precious!’ he exclaimed and embraced her warmly.
He stood away, his hands on her shoulders.
‘My dear, I’ve had the most marvellous idea for the second act.’
‘Have you?’ said Mrs Oliver without enthusiasm. ‘This is M. Hercule Poirot.’
‘Splendid,’ said Robin. ‘Have you got any luggage?’
‘Yes, it’s in the back.’
Robin hauled out a couple of suitcases.
‘Such a bore,’ he said. ‘We’ve no proper servants. Only old Janet. And we have to spare her all the time. That’s such a nuisance don’t you think? How heavy your cases are. Have you got bombs in them?’
He staggered up the path, calling out over his shoulder:
‘Come in and have a drink.’
‘He means you,’ said Mrs Oliver, removing her handbag, a book, and a pair of old shoes from the front seat. ‘Did you actually say just now that you wanted me to be indiscreet?’
‘The more indiscreet the better.’
‘I shouldn’t tackle it that way myself,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘but it’s your murder. I’ll help all I can.’
Robin reappeared at the front door.
‘Come in, come in,’ he called. ‘We’ll see about the car later. Madre is dying to meet you.’
Mrs Oliver swept up the path and Hercule Poirot followed her.
The interior of Laburnums was charming. Poirot guessed that a very large sum of money had been spent on it, but the result was an expensive and charming simplicity. Each small piece of cottage oak was a genuine piece.
In a wheeled chair by the fireplace of the living-room Laura Upward smiled a welcome. She was a vigorous looking woman of sixty-odd, with iron-grey hair and a determined chin.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs Oliver,’ she said. ‘I expect you hate people talking to you about your books, but they’ve been an enormous solace to me for years—and especially since I’ve been such a cripple.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ said Mrs Oliver, looking uncomfortable and twisting her hands in a schoolgirlish way. ‘Oh, this is M. Poirot, an old friend of mine. We met by chance just outside here. Actually I hit him with an apple core. Like William Tell—only the other way about.’
‘How d’you do, M. Poirot. Robin.’
‘Yes, Madre?’
‘Get some drinks. Where are the cigarettes?’
‘On that table.’
Mrs Upward asked: ‘Are you a writer, too, M. Poirot?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘He’s a detective. You know. The Sherlock Holmes kind—deerstalkers and violins and all that. And he’s come here to solve a murder.’
There was a faint tinkle of broken glass. Mrs Upward said sharply: ‘Robin, do be careful.’ To Poirot she said: ‘That’s very interesting, M. Poirot.’
‘So Maureen Summerhayes was right,’ exclaimed Robin. ‘She told me some long rigmarole about having a detective on the premises. She seemed to think it was frightfully funny. But it’s really quite serious, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it’s serious,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘You’ve got a criminal in your midst.’
‘Yes, but look here, who’s been murdered? Or is it someone that’s been dug up and it’s all frightfully hush hush?’
‘It is not hush hush,’ said Poirot. ‘The murder, you know about it already.’
‘Mrs Mc—something—a charwoman—last autumn,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Oh!’ Robin Upward sounded disappointed. ‘But that’s all over.’
‘It’s not over at all,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘They arrested the wrong man, and he’ll be hanged if M. Poirot doesn’t find the real murderer in time. It’s all frightfully exciting.’
Robin apportioned the drinks.
‘White Lady for you, Madre.’
‘Thank you, my dear boy.