Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [52]
Spence murmured: ‘If we could get anything at all definite. One really suspicious circumstance. As it is, it’s all theory and rather far-fetched theory at that. The whole thing’s thin, you know, as I said. Does anyone really murder for the reasons we’ve been considering?’
‘That depends,’ said Poirot. ‘It depends on a lot of family circumstances we do not know. But the passion for respectability is very strong. These are not artists or Bohemians. Very nice people live in Broadhinny. My postmistress said so. And nice people like to preserve their niceness. Years of happy married life, maybe, no suspicion that you were once a notorious figure in one of the most sensational murder trials, no suspicion that your child is the child of a famous murderer. One might say “I would rather die than have my husband know!” Or “I would rather die than have my daughter discover who she is!” And then you would go on to reflect that it would be better, perhaps, if Mrs McGinty died…’
Spence said quietly:
‘So you think it’s the Wetherbys.’
‘No. They fit the best, perhaps, but that is all. In actual character, Mrs Upward is a more likely killer than Mrs Wetherby. She has determination and willpower and she fairly dotes on her son. To prevent his learning of what happened before she married his father and settled down to respectable married bliss, I think she might go far.’
‘Would it upset him so much?’
‘Personally I do not think so. Young Robin has a modern sceptical point of view, is thoroughly selfish, and in any case is less devoted, I should say, to his mother than she to him. He is not another James Bentley.’
‘Granting Mrs Upward was Eva Kane, her son Robin wouldn’t kill Mrs McGinty to prevent the fact coming out?’
‘Not for a moment, I should say. He would probably capitalize on it. Use the fact for publicity for his plays! I can’t see Robin Upward committing a murder for respectability, or devotion, or in fact for anything but a good solid gain to Robin Upward.’
Spence sighed. He said: ‘It’s a wide field. We may be able to get something on the past history of these people. But it will take time. The war has complicated things. Records destroyed—endless opportunities for people who want to cover their traces doing so by means of other people’s identity cards, etc., especially after “incidents” when nobody could know which corpse was which! If we could concentrate on just one lot, but you’ve got so many possibles, M. Poirot.’
‘We may be able to cut them down soon.’
Poirot left the superintendent’s office with less cheerfulness in his heart than he had shown in his manner. He was obsessed as Spence was, by the urge of time. If only he could have time…
And farther back still was the one teasing doubt—was the edifice he and Spence had built up really sound? Supposing, after all, that James Bentley was guilty…
He did not give in to that doubt, but it worried him.
Again and again he had gone over in his mind the interview he had had with James Bentley. He thought of it now whilst he waited on the platform at Kilchester for his train to come in. It had been market day and the platform was crowded. More crowds were coming in through the barriers.
Poirot leaned forward to look. Yes, the train was coming at last. Before he could right himself he felt a sudden hard purposeful shove in the small of his back. It was so violent and so unexpected that he was taken completely unawares. In another second he would have fallen on the line under the incoming train, but a man beside him on the platform caught hold of him in the nick of time, pulling him back.
‘Why, whatever came over you?’ he demanded. He was a big burly Army sergeant. ‘Taken queer? Man, you were nearly under the train.’
‘I thank you. I thank you a thousand times.’ Already the crowd was milling round them, boarding the train, others leaving it.
‘All right now? I’ll help you in.’
Shaken, Poirot subsided on to a seat.
Useless to say ‘I was pushed,’ but he had been pushed. Up till that