Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [47]
‘I’m Mrs Carpenter.’
She spoke ungraciously, but there was a faint suggestion of appeasement behind her manner.
‘My name is Hercule Poirot.’
Nothing registered. Not only was the great, the unique name unknown to her, but he thought that she did not even identify him as Maureen Summerhayes’ latest guest. Here, then, the local grape vine did not operate. A small but significant fact, perhaps.
‘Yes?’
‘I demand to see either Mr or Mrs Carpenter, but you, madame, will be the best for my purpose. For what I have to ask is of domestic matters.’
‘We’ve got a Hoover,’ said Mrs Carpenter suspiciously.
Poirot laughed.
‘No, no, you misunderstand. It is only a few questions that I ask about a domestic matter.’
‘Oh, you mean one of these domestic questionnaires. I do think it’s absolutely idiotic—’ She broke off. ‘Perhaps you’d better come inside.’
Poirot smiled faintly. She had just stopped herself from uttering a derogatory comment. With her husband’s political activities, caution in criticizing Government activities was indicated.
She led the way through the hall and into a good-sized room giving on to a carefully tended garden. It was a very new-looking room, a large brocaded suite of sofa and two wing-chairs, three or four reproductions of Chippendale chairs, a bureau, a writing desk. No expense had been spared, the best firms had been employed, and there was absolutely no sign of individual taste. The bride, Poirot thought, had been what? Indifferent? Careful?
He looked at her appraisingly as she turned. An expensive and good-looking young woman. Platinum blonde hair, carefully applied make-up, but something more—wide cornflower blue eyes—eyes with a wide frozen stare in them—beautiful drowned eyes.
She said—graciously now, but concealing boredom:
‘Do sit down.’
He sat. He said:
‘You are most amiable, madame. These questions now that I wish to ask you. They relate to a Mrs McGinty who died—was killed that is to say—last November.’
‘Mrs McGinty? I don’t know what you mean?’
She was glaring at him. Her eyes hard and suspicious.
‘You remember Mrs McGinty?’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about her.’
‘You remember her murder? Or is murder so common here that you do not even notice it?’
‘Oh, the murder? Yes, of course. I’d forgotten what the old woman’s name was.’
‘Although she worked for you in this house?’
‘She didn’t. I wasn’t living here then. Mr Carpenter and I were only married three months ago.’
‘But she did work for you. On Friday mornings, I think it was. You were then Mrs Selkirk and you lived in Rose Cottage.’
She said sulkily:
‘If you know the answers to everything I don’t see why you need to ask questions. Anyway, what’s it all about?’
‘I am making an investigation into the circumstances of the murder.’
‘Why? What on earth for? Anyway, why come to me?’
‘You might know something—that would help me.’
‘I don’t know anything at all. Why should I? She was only a stupid old charwoman. She kept her money under the floor and somebody robbed and murdered her for it. It was quite disgusting—beastly, the whole thing. Like things you read in the Sunday papers.’
Poirot took that up quickly.
‘Like the Sunday papers, yes. Like the Sunday Comet. You read, perhaps, the Sunday Comet?’
She jumped up, and made her way, blunderingly, towards the opened French windows. So uncertainly did she go that she actually collided with the window frame. Poirot was reminded of a beautiful big moth, fluttering blindly against a lamp shade.
She called: ‘Guy—Guy!’
A man’s voice a little way away answered:
‘Eve?’
‘Come here quickly.’
A tall man of about thirty-five came into sight. He quickened his pace and came across the terrace to the window. Eve Carpenter said vehemently:
‘There’s a man here—a foreigner. He’s asking me all sorts of questions about that horrid murder last year. Some old charwoman—you remember? I hate things like that. You know I do.’
Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing-room through the window. He had a long face like a horse, he was pale and looked rather