Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [66]
A faint amusement tinged the voice.
‘Very well.’
‘Bon Dieu, what a rarity! Now listen, I am coming into Kilchester at once. I will meet you in the same café where I met you before, at lunch time.’
‘Yes, certainly.’
Poirot rang off.
‘An admirable young woman,’ he reflected. ‘Quick-witted, knows her own mind—perhaps, even, she can cook…’
With some difficulty he disinterred the local telephone directory from under a treatise on pigkeeping and looked up the Wetherbys’ number.
The voice that answered him was that of Mrs Wetherby.
‘’Allo?’ Allo? It is M. Poirot—you remember, Madame—’
‘I don’t think I—’
‘M. Hercule Poirot.’
‘Oh yes—of course—do forgive me. Rather a domestic upset today—’
‘It is for that reason exactly I rang you up. I am desolated to learn of your difficulties.’
‘So ungrateful—these foreign girls. Her fare paid over here, and everything. I do so hate ingratitude.’
‘Yes, yes. I do indeed sympathize. It is monstrous—that is why I hasten to tell you that I have, perhaps, a solution. By the merest chance I know of a young woman wanting a domestic post. Not, I fear, fully trained.’
‘Oh, there’s no such thing as training nowadays. Will she cook—so many of them won’t cook.’
‘Yes—yes—she cooks. Shall I then send her to you—at least on trial? Her name is Maude Williams.’
‘Oh, please do, M. Poirot. Its most kind of you. Anything would be better than nothing. My husband is so particular and gets gets so annoyed with dear Deirdre when the household doesn’t go smoothly. One can’t expect men to understand how difficult everything is nowadays—I—’
There was an interruption. Mrs Wetherby spoke to someone entering the room, and though she had placed her hand over the receiver Poirot could hear her slightly muffled words.
‘It’s that little detective man—knows of someone to come in to replace Frieda. No, not foreign—English, thank goodness. Very kind of him, really, he seems quite concerned about me. Oh, darling, don’t make objections. What does it matter? You know the absurd way Roger goes on. Well, I think it’s very kind—and I don’t suppose she’s too awful.’
The asides over, Mrs Wetherby spoke with the utmost graciousness.
‘Thank you very much, M. Poirot. We are most grateful.’
Poirot replaced the receiver and glanced at his watch.
He went to the kitchen.
‘Madame, I shall not be in to lunch. I have to go to Kilchester.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said Maureen. ‘I didn’t get to that pudding in time. It had boiled dry. I think it’s really all right—just a little scorched perhaps. In case it tasted rather nasty I thought I would open a bottle of those raspberries I put up last summer. They seem to have a bit of mould on top but they say nowadays that that doesn’t matter. It’s really rather good for you—practically penicillin.’
Poirot left the house, glad that scorched pudding and near-penicillin were not to be his portion today. Better—far better—eat macaroni and custard and plums at the Blue Cat than the improvisations of Maureen Summerhayes.
II
At Laburnums a little friction had arisen.
‘Of course, Robin, you never seem to remember anything when you are working on a play.’
Robin was contrite.
‘Madre, I am most terribly sorry. I’d forgotten all about it’s being Janet’s night out.’
‘It doesn’t matter at all,’ said Mrs Upward coldly.
‘Of course it matters. I’ll ring up the Rep and tell them we’ll go tomorrow night instead.’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ve arranged to go tonight and you’ll go.’
‘But really—’
‘That’s settled.’
‘Shall I ask Janet to go out another night?’
‘Certainly not. She hates to have her plans disarranged.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t really mind. Not if I put it to her—’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort, Robin. Please don’t go upsetting Janet. And don’t go on about it. I don’t care to feel I’m a tiresome old woman spoiling other people’s pleasure.’
‘Madre—sweetest—’
‘That’s enough—you go and enjoy yourselves. I know who I’ll ask to keep me company.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s my secret,’ said Mrs Upward, her good humour restored. ‘Now stop fussing, Robin.’
‘I’ll ring up