Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [60]
‘Well, I can,’ said Robin. ‘Because I was broadcasting that night. I drove to Coalport to give a talk on Some Aspects of the Theatre. I remember because I discussed Galsworthy’s charwoman in the Silver Box at great length and the next day Mrs McGinty was killed and I wondered if the charwoman in the play had been like her.’
‘That’s right,’ said Shelagh Rendell suddenly. ‘And I remember now because you said your mother would be all alone because it was Janet’s night off, and I came down here after dinner to keep her company. Only unfortunately I couldn’t make her hear.’
‘Let me think,’ said Mrs Upward. ‘Oh! Yes, of course. I’d gone to bed with a headache and my bedroom faces the back garden.’
‘And next day,’ said Shelagh, ‘when I heard Mrs McGinty had been killed, I thought, “Oo! I might have passed the murderer in the dark”—because at first we all thought it must have been some tramp who broke in.’
‘Well, I still don’t remember what I was doing,’ said Maureen. ‘But I do remember the next morning. It was the baker told us. “Old Mrs McGinty’s been done in,” he said. And there I was, wondering why she hadn’t turned up as usual.’
She gave a shiver.
‘It’s horrible really, isn’t it?’ she said.
Mrs Upward was still watching Poirot.
He thought to himself: ‘She is a very intelligent woman—and a ruthless one. Also selfish. In whatever she did, she would have no qualms and no remorse…’
A thin voice was speaking—urging, querulous.
‘Haven’t you got any clues, M. Poirot?’
It was Shelagh Rendell.
Johnnie Summerhayes’ long dark face lit up enthusiastically.
‘That’s it, clues,’ he said. ‘That’s what I like in detective stories. Clues that mean everything to the detective—and nothing to you—until the end when you fairly kick yourself. Can’t you give us one little clue, M. Poirot?’
Laughing, pleading faces turned to him. A game to them all (or perhaps not to one of them?). But murder wasn’t a game—murder was dangerous. You never knew.
With a sudden brusque movement, Poirot pulled out four photographs from his pocket.
‘You want a clue?’ he said. ‘Voilà!’
And with a dramatic gesture he tossed them down on the table.
They clustered round, bending over, and uttering ejaculations.
‘Look!’
‘What frightful frumps!’
‘Just look at the roses. “Rowses, rowses, all the way!”’
‘My dear, that hat!’
‘What a frightful child!’
‘But who are they?’
‘Aren’t fashions ridiculous?’
‘That woman must really have been rather good-looking once.’
‘But why are they clues?’
‘Who are they?’
Poirot looked slowly round at the circle of faces.
He saw nothing other than he might have expected to see.
‘You do not recognize any of them?’
‘Recognize?’
‘You do not, shall I say, remember having seen any of those photographs before? But yes—Mrs Upward? You recognize something, do you not?’
Mrs Upward hesitated.
‘Yes—I think—’
‘Which one?’
Her forefinger went out and rested on the spectacled child-like face of Lily Gamboll.
‘You have seen that photograph—when?’
‘Quite recently…Now where—no, I can’t remember. But I’m sure I’ve seen a photograph just like that.’
She sat frowning, her brows drawn together.
She came out of her abstraction as Mrs Rendell came to her.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Upward. I do hope you’ll come to tea with me one day if you feel up to it.’
‘Thank you, my dear. If Robin pushes me up the hill.’
‘Of course, Madre. I’ve developed the most tremendous muscles pushing that chair. Do you remember the day we went to the Wetherbys and it was so muddy—’
‘Ah!’ said Mrs Upward suddenly.
‘What is it, Madre?’
‘Nothing. Go on.’
‘Getting you up the hill again. First the chair skidded and then I skidded. I thought we’d never get home.’
Laughing, they took their leave and trooped out.
Alcohol, Poirot thought, certainly loosens the tongue.
Had he been wise or foolish to display those photographs? Had that gesture also been the result of alcohol?
He wasn’t sure.
But, murmuring an excuse, he turned back.
He pushed open the gate and walked up to the house. Through the open window on his left he heard the murmur