The Thirteen Problems - Agatha Christie [85]
‘Some girl will be lucky some day,’ said Melchett carelessly. ‘He was rather sweet on that poor girl, Rose Emmott, wasn’t he?’
Mrs Bartlett sighed.
‘It made me tired, it did. Him worshipping the ground she trod on and her not caring a snap of the fingers for him.’
‘Where does Joe spend his evenings, Mrs Bartlett?’
‘Here, sir, usually. He does some odd piece of work in the evenings, sometimes, and he’s trying to learn book-keeping by correspondence.’
‘Ah! really. Was he in yesterday evening?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re sure, Mrs Bartlett?’ said Sir Henry sharply.
She turned to him.
‘Quite sure, sir.’
‘He didn’t go out, for instance, somewhere about eight to eight-thirty?’
‘Oh, no.’ Mrs Barlett laughed. ‘He was fixing the kitchen dresser for me nearly all the evening, and I was helping him.’
Sir Henry looked at her smiling assured face and felt his first pang of doubt.
A moment later Ellis himself entered the room.
He was a tall broad-shouldered young man, very good-looking in a rustic way. He had shy, blue eyes and a good-tempered smile. Altogether an amiable young giant.
Melchett opened the conversation. Mrs Bartlett withdrew to the kitchen.
‘We are investigating the death of Rose Emmott. You knew her, Ellis.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated, then muttered, ‘Hoped to marry her one day. Poor lass.’
‘You have heard of what her condition was?’
‘Yes.’ A spark of anger showed in his eyes. ‘Let her down, he did. But ’twere for the best. She wouldn’t have been happy married to him. I reckoned she’d come to me when this happened. I’d have looked after her.’
‘In spite of—’
‘ ’Tweren’t her fault. He led her astray with fine promises and all. Oh! she told me about it. She’d no call to drown herself. He weren’t worth it.’
‘Where were you, Ellis, last night at eight-thirty?’
Was it Sir Henry’s fancy, or was there really a shade of constraint in the ready—almost too ready—reply.
‘I was here. Fixing up a contraption in the kitchen for Mrs B. You ask her. She’ll tell you.’
‘He was too quick with that,’ thought Sir Henry. ‘He’s a slow-thinking man. That popped out so pat that I suspect he’d got it ready beforehand.’
Then he told himself that it was imagination. He was imagining things—yes, even imagining an apprehensive glint in those blue eyes.
A few more questions and answers and they left. Sir Henry made an excuse to go to the kitchen. Mrs Bartlett was busy at the stove. She looked up with a pleasant smile. A new dresser was fixed against the wall. It was not quite finished. Some tools lay about and some pieces of wood.
‘That’s what Ellis was at work on last night?’ said Sir Henry.
‘Yes, sir, it’s a nice bit of work, isn’t it? He’s a very clever carpenter, Joe is.’
No apprehensive gleam in her eye—no embarrassment.
But Ellis—had he imagined it? No, there had been something.
‘I must tackle him,’ thought Sir Henry.
Turning to leave the kitchen, he collided with a perambulator.
‘Not woken the baby up, I hope,’ he said.
Mrs Bartlett’s laugh rang out.
‘Oh, no, sir. I’ve no children—more’s the pity. That’s what I take the laundry on, sir.’
‘Oh! I see—’
He paused then said on an impulse:
‘Mrs Bartlett. You knew Rose Emmott. Tell me what you really thought of her.’
She looked at him curiously.
‘Well, sir, I thought she was flighty. But she’s dead—and I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.’
‘But I have a reason—a very good reason for asking.’
He spoke persuasively.
She seemed to consider, studying him attentively. Finally she made up her mind.
‘She was a bad lot, sir,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t say so before Joe. She took him in good and proper. That kind can—more’s the pity. You know how it is, sir.’
Yes, Sir Henry knew. The Joe Ellises of the world were peculiarly vulnerable. They trusted blindly. But for that very cause the