Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [56]
‘Is he really a detective?’
‘My dear, he’s frightfully celebrated. And terribly clever.’
‘Then perhaps he’ll find out that he didn’t do it after all.’
‘Who?’
‘The—the lodger. James Bentley. Oh, I do hope he’ll get off.’
‘Do you? Why?’
‘Because I don’t want it to be him. I never wanted it to be him.’
Mrs Oliver looked at her curiously, startled by the passion in her voice.
‘Did you know him?’
‘No,’ said Deirdre slowly, ‘I didn’t know him. But once Ben got his foot caught in a trap and he helped me to get him free. And we talked a little…’
‘What was he like?’
‘He was dreadfully lonely. His mother had just died. He was frightfully fond of his mother.’
‘And you are very fond of yours?’ said Mrs Oliver acutely.
‘Yes. That made me understand. Understand what he felt, I mean. Mother and I—we’ve just got each other, you see.’
‘I thought Robin told me that you had a stepfather.’
Deirdre said bitterly: ‘Oh yes, I’ve got a step father.’
Mrs Oliver said vaguely: ‘It’s not the same thing, is it, as one’s own father. Do you remember your own father?’
‘No, he died before I was born. Mother married Mr Wetherby when I was four years old. I—I’ve always hated him. And Mother—’ She paused before saying: ‘Mother’s had a very sad life. She’s had no sympathy or understanding. My stepfather is a most unfeeling man, hard and cold.’
Mrs Oliver nodded, and then murmured:
‘This James Bentley doesn’t sound at all like a criminal.’
‘I never thought the police would arrest him. I’m sure it must have been some tramp. There are horrid tramps along this road sometimes. It must have been one of them.’
Mrs Oliver said consolingly:
‘Perhaps Hercule Poirot will find out the truth.’
‘Yes, perhaps—’
She turned off abruptly into the gateway of Hunter’s Close.
Mrs Oliver looked after her for a moment or two, then drew a small notebook from her handbag. In it she wrote: ‘Not Deirdre Henderson,’ and underlined the not so firmly that the pencil broke.
III
Half-way up the hill she met Robin Upward coming down it with a handsome platinum-haired young woman.
Robin introduced them.
‘This is the wonderful Ariadne Oliver, Eve,’ he said. ‘My dear, I don’t know how she does it. Looks so benevolent, too, doesn’t she? Not at all as though she wallowed in crime. This is Eve Carpenter. Her husband is going to be our next Member. The present one, Sir George Cartwright, is quite gaga, poor old man. He jumps out at young girls from behind doors.’
‘Robin, you mustn’t invent such terrible lies. You’ll discredit the Party.’
‘Well, why should I care? It isn’t my Party. I’m a Liberal. That’s the only Party it’s possible to belong to nowadays, really small and select, and without a chance of getting in. I adore lost causes.’
He added to Mrs Oliver:
‘Eve wants us to come in for drinks this evening. A sort of party for you, Ariadne. You know, meet the lion. We’re all terribly terribly thrilled to have you here. Can’t you put the scene of your next murder in Broadhinny?’
‘Oh do, Mrs Oliver,’ said Eve Carpenter.
‘You can easily get Sven Hjerson down here,’ said Robin. ‘He can be like Hercule Poirot, staying at the Summerhayes’ Guest House. We’re just going there now because I told Eve, Hercule Poirot is just as much a celebrity in his line as you are in yours, and she says she was rather rude to him yesterday, so she’s going to ask him to the party too. But seriously, dear, do make your next murder happen in Broadhinny. We’d all be so thrilled.’
‘Oh do, Mrs Oliver. It would be such fun,’ said Eve Carpenter.
‘Who shall we have as murderer and who as victim,’ asked Robin.
‘Who’s your present charwoman?’ asked Mrs Oliver.
‘Oh my dear, not that kind of murder. So dull. No, I think Eve here would make rather a nice victim. Strangled, perhaps, with her own nylon stockings. No, that’s been done.’
‘I think you’d better be murdered, Robin,’ said Eve. ‘The coming playwright, stabbed in country cottage.’
‘We haven’t settled on a murderer yet,’ said Robin. ‘What about my Mamma? Using her wheeled chair so that there wouldn’t be footprints.