Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [55]
Mrs Oliver stared hard at the tall girl’s back. She had a Sealyham with her on a lead.
‘Means the fruit blossom will get nipped later!’ said Mrs Sweetiman, with gloomy relish. ‘How’s Mrs Wetherby keeping?’
‘Fairly well, thank you. She hasn’t been out much. There’s been such an east wind lately.’
‘There’s a very good picture on at Kilchester this week, Miss Henderson. You ought to go.’
‘I thought of going last night, but I couldn’t really bother.’
‘It’s Betty Grable next week—I’m out of 5s. books of stamps. Will two 2s. 6d. ones do you?’
As the girl went out, Mrs Oliver said:
‘Mrs Wetherby’s an invalid, isn’t she?’
‘That’s as may be,’ Mrs Sweetiman replied rather acidly. ‘There’s some of us as hasn’t the time to lay by.’
‘I do so agree with you,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I tell Mrs Upward that if she’d only make more of an effort to use her legs it would be better for her.’
Mrs Sweetiman looked amused.
‘She gets about when she wants to—or so I’ve heard.’
‘Does she now?’
Mrs Oliver considered the source of information.
‘Janet?’ she hazarded.
‘Janet Groom grumbles a bit,’ said Mrs Sweetiman.‘And you can hardly wonder, can you? Miss Groom’s not so young herself and she has the rheumatism cruel bad when the wind’s in the east. But archititis, it’s called, when it’s the gentry has it, and invalid chairs and what not. Ah well, I wouldn’t risk losing the use of my legs, I wouldn’t. But there, nowadays even if you’ve got a chilblain you run to the doctor with it so as to get your money’s worth out of the National Health. Too much of this health business we’ve got. Never did you any good thinking how bad you feel.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ said Mrs Oliver.
She picked up her apples and went out in pursuit of Deirdre Henderson. This was not difficult, since the Sealyham was old and fat and was enjoying a leisurely examination of tufts of grass and pleasant smells.
Dogs, Mrs Oliver considered, were always a means of introduction.
‘What a darling!’ she exclaimed.
The big young woman with the plain face looked gratified.
‘He is rather attractive,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you, Ben?’
Ben looked up, gave a slight wiggle of his sausage-like body, resumed his nasal inspection of a tuft of thistles, approved it and proceeded to register approval in the usual manner.
‘Does he fight?’ asked Mrs Oliver. ‘Sealyhams do very often.’
‘Yes, he’s an awful fighter. That’s why I keep him on the lead.’
‘I thought so.’
Both women considered the Sealyham.
Then Deirdre Henderson said with a kind of rush:
‘You’re—you’re Ariadne Oliver, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m staying with the Upwards.’
‘I know. Robin told us you were coming. I must tell you how much I enjoy your books.’
Mrs Oliver, as usual, went purple with embarrassment.
‘Oh,’ she murmured unhappily. ‘I’m very glad,’ she added gloomily.
‘I haven’t read as many of them as I’d like to, because we get books sent down from the Times Book Club and Mother doesn’t like detective stories. She’s frightfully sensitive and they keep her awake at night. But I adore them.’
‘You’ve had a real crime down here, haven’t you?’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Which house was it? One of these cottages?’
‘That one there.’
Deirdre Henderson spoke in a rather choked voice.
Mrs Oliver directed her gaze on Mrs McGinty’s former dwelling, the front doorstep of which was at present occupied by two unpleasant little Kiddles who were happily torturing a cat. As Mrs Oliver stepped forward to remonstrate, the cat escaped by a firm use of its claws.
The eldest Kiddle, who had been severely scratched, set up a howl.
‘Serves you right,’ said Mrs Oliver, adding to Deirdre Henderson: ‘It doesn’t look like a house where there’s been a murder, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
Both women seemed to be in accord about that.
Mrs Oliver continued:
‘An old charwoman, wasn’t it, and somebody robbed her?’
‘Her lodger. She had some money—under the floor.’
‘I see.’
Deirdre Henderson said suddenly:
‘But perhaps it wasn’t him after all. There’s a funny little man down here—a foreigner. His name’s Hercule Poirot—’
‘Hercule Poirot? Oh yes,