Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [72]
‘Eve,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘The fashions in names change, do they not? Hardly ever, nowadays, do you hear of an Eva. It has gone out. But Eve, it is popular.’
‘She can afford expensive scent,’ said Spence, pursuing his own train of thought.
He sighed.
‘We’ve got to get at more of her background. It’s so convenient to be a war widow. You can turn up anywhere looking pathetic and mourning some brave young airman. Nobody likes to ask you questions.
He turned to another subject.
‘That sugar hammer or what-not you sent along—I think you’ve hit the bull’s-eye. It’s the weapon used in the McGinty murder. Doctor agrees it’s exactly suitable for the type of blow. And there has been blood on it. It was washed, of course—but they don’t realize nowadays that a microscopic amount of blood will give a reaction with the latest reagents. Yes, it’s human blood all right. And that again ties up with the Wetherbys and the Henderson girl. Or doesn’t it?’
‘Deirdre Henderson was quite definite that the sugar hammer went to the Harvest Festival Bring and Buy.’
‘And Mrs Summerhayes was equally positive it was the Christmas one?’
‘Mrs Summerhayes is never positive about anything,’ said Poirot gloomily. ‘She is a charming person, but she has no order or method in her composition. But I will tell you this—I who have lived at Long Meadows—the doors and the windows they are always open. Anyone—anyone at all, could come and take something away and later come and put it back and neither Major Summerhayes nor Mrs Summerhayes would notice. If it is not there one day, she thinks that her husband has taken it to joint a rabbit or to chop wood—and he, he would think she had taken it to chop dogmeat. In that house nobody uses the right implements—they just seize what is at hand and leave it in the wrong place. And nobody remembers anything. If I were to live like that I should be in a continual state of anxiety—but they—they do not seem to mind.’
Spence sighed.
‘Well—there’s one good thing about all this—they won’t execute James Bentley until this business is all cleared up. We’ve forwarded a letter to the Home Secretary’s office. It gives us what we’ve been wanting—time.’
‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that I would like to see Bentley again—now that we know a little more.’
II
There was little change in James Bentley. He was, perhaps, rather thinner, his hands were more restless—otherwise he was the same quiet, hopeless creature.
Hercule Poirot spoke carefully. There had been some fresh evidence. The police were re-opening the case. There was, therefore, hope…
But James Bentley was not attracted by hope.
He said:
‘It will be all no good. What more can they find out?’
‘Your friends,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘are working very hard.’
‘My friends?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I have no friends.’
‘You should not say that. You have, at the very least, two friends.’
‘Two friends? I should like to know who they are.’
His tone expressed no wish for the information, merely a weary disbelief.
‘First, there is Superintendent Spence—’
‘Spence? Spence? The police superintendent who worked up the case against me? That’s almost funny.’
‘It is not funny. It is fortunate. Spence is a very shrewd and conscientious police officer. He likes to be very sure that he has got the right man.’
‘He’s sure enough of that.’
‘Oddly enough, he is not. That is why, as I said, he is your friend.’
‘That kind of a friend!’
Hercule Poirot waited. Even James Bentley, he thought, must have some human attributes. Even James Bentley could not be completely devoid of ordinary human curiosity.
And true enough, presently James Bentley said:
‘Well, who’s the other?’
‘The other is Maude Williams.’
Bentley did not appear to react.
‘Maude Williams? Who is she?’
‘She worked in the office of Breather & Scuttle.’
‘Oh—that Miss Williams.’
‘Précisément, that Miss Williams.’
‘But what’s it got to do with her?’
There were moments when Hercule Poirot found the personality