followed her.
The interior of Laburnums was charming. Poirot guessed that a very large sum of money had been spent on it, but the result was an expensive and charming simplicity. Each small piece of cottage oak was a genuine piece.
In a wheeled chair by the fireplace of the living-room Laura Upward smiled a welcome. She was a vigorous-looking woman of sixty-odd, with iron-grey hair and a determined chin.
“I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs Oliver,” she said. “I expect you hate people talking to you about your books, but they've been an enormous solace to me for years - and especially since I've been such a cripple.”
“That's very nice of you,” said Mrs Oliver, looking uncomfortable and twisting her hands in a schoolgirlish way.
“Oh, this is M. Poirot, a old friend of mine. We met by chance just outside here. Actually I hit him with an apple core. Like William Tell - only the other way about.”
“How d'you do, M. Poirot. Robin.”
“Yes, Madre?”
“Get some drinks. Where are the cigarettes?”
“On that table.”
Mrs Upward asked: “Are you a writer, too, M. Poirot?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs Oliver. “He's a detective. You know. The Sherlock Holmes kind - deerstalkers and violins and all that. And he's come here to solve a murder.”
There was a faint tinkle of broken glass. Mrs Upward said sharply: “Robin, do be careful.” To Poirot she said: “That's very interesting, M. Poirot.”
“So Maureen Summerhayes was right,” exclaimed Robin. “She told me some long rigmarole about having a detective on the premises. She seemed to think it frightfully funny. But it's really quite serious, isn't it?”
“Of course it's serious,” said Mrs Oliver. “You've got a criminal in your midst.”
“Yes, but look here, who's been murdered? Or is it someone that's been dug up and it's all frightfully hush hush?”
“It is not hush hush,” said Poirot. “The murder, you know about it already.”
“Mrs Mc - something - a charwoman - last autumn,” said Mrs Oliver.
“Oh!” Robin Upward sounded disappointed. “But that's all over.”
“It's not over at all,” said Mrs Oliver. “They arrested the wrong man, and he'll be hanged if M. Poirot doesn't find the real murderer in time. It's all frightfully exciting.”
Robin apportioned the drinks.
“White Lady for you, Madre.”
“Thank you, my dear boy.”
Poirot frowned slightly. Robin handed drinks to Mrs Oliver and to him.
“Well,” said Robin, “here's to crime.”
He drank.
“She used to work here,” he said.
“Mrs McGinty?” asked Mrs Oliver.
“Yes. Didn't she, Madre?”
“When you say work here, she came one day a week.”
“And odd afternoons sometimes.”
“What was she like?” asked Mrs Oliver.
“Terribly respectable,” said Robin. “And maddeningly tidy. She had a ghastly way of tidying up everything and putting things into drawers so that you simply couldn't guess where they were.”
Mrs Upward said with a certain grim humour:
“If somebody didn't tidy things away at least one day a week, you soon wouldn't be able to move in this small house.”
“I know, Madre, I know. But unless things are left where I put them, I simply can't work at all. My notes get all disarranged.”
“It's annoying to be as helpless as I am,” said Mrs Upward. “We have a faithful old maid, but it's all she can manage just to do a little simple cooking.”
“What is it?” asked Mrs Oliver. “Arthritis?”
“Some form of it. I shall have to have a permanent nurse-companion soon, I'm afraid. Such a bore. I like being independent.”
“Now, darling,” said Robin. “Don't work yourself up.”
He patted her arm.
She smiled at him with sudden tenderness.
“Robin's as good as a daughter to me,” she said. “He does everything - and thinks of everything. No one could be more considerate.”
They smiled at each other.
Hercule Poirot rose.
“Alas,” he said. “I must go. I have another call to make and then a
The interior of Laburnums was charming. Poirot guessed that a very large sum of money had been spent on it, but the result was an expensive and charming simplicity. Each small piece of cottage oak was a genuine piece.
In a wheeled chair by the fireplace of the living-room Laura Upward smiled a welcome. She was a vigorous-looking woman of sixty-odd, with iron-grey hair and a determined chin.
“I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs Oliver,” she said. “I expect you hate people talking to you about your books, but they've been an enormous solace to me for years - and especially since I've been such a cripple.”
“That's very nice of you,” said Mrs Oliver, looking uncomfortable and twisting her hands in a schoolgirlish way.
“Oh, this is M. Poirot, a old friend of mine. We met by chance just outside here. Actually I hit him with an apple core. Like William Tell - only the other way about.”
“How d'you do, M. Poirot. Robin.”
“Yes, Madre?”
“Get some drinks. Where are the cigarettes?”
“On that table.”
Mrs Upward asked: “Are you a writer, too, M. Poirot?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs Oliver. “He's a detective. You know. The Sherlock Holmes kind - deerstalkers and violins and all that. And he's come here to solve a murder.”
There was a faint tinkle of broken glass. Mrs Upward said sharply: “Robin, do be careful.” To Poirot she said: “That's very interesting, M. Poirot.”
“So Maureen Summerhayes was right,” exclaimed Robin. “She told me some long rigmarole about having a detective on the premises. She seemed to think it frightfully funny. But it's really quite serious, isn't it?”
“Of course it's serious,” said Mrs Oliver. “You've got a criminal in your midst.”
“Yes, but look here, who's been murdered? Or is it someone that's been dug up and it's all frightfully hush hush?”
“It is not hush hush,” said Poirot. “The murder, you know about it already.”
“Mrs Mc - something - a charwoman - last autumn,” said Mrs Oliver.
“Oh!” Robin Upward sounded disappointed. “But that's all over.”
“It's not over at all,” said Mrs Oliver. “They arrested the wrong man, and he'll be hanged if M. Poirot doesn't find the real murderer in time. It's all frightfully exciting.”
Robin apportioned the drinks.
“White Lady for you, Madre.”
“Thank you, my dear boy.”
Poirot frowned slightly. Robin handed drinks to Mrs Oliver and to him.
“Well,” said Robin, “here's to crime.”
He drank.
“She used to work here,” he said.
“Mrs McGinty?” asked Mrs Oliver.
“Yes. Didn't she, Madre?”
“When you say work here, she came one day a week.”
“And odd afternoons sometimes.”
“What was she like?” asked Mrs Oliver.
“Terribly respectable,” said Robin. “And maddeningly tidy. She had a ghastly way of tidying up everything and putting things into drawers so that you simply couldn't guess where they were.”
Mrs Upward said with a certain grim humour:
“If somebody didn't tidy things away at least one day a week, you soon wouldn't be able to move in this small house.”
“I know, Madre, I know. But unless things are left where I put them, I simply can't work at all. My notes get all disarranged.”
“It's annoying to be as helpless as I am,” said Mrs Upward. “We have a faithful old maid, but it's all she can manage just to do a little simple cooking.”
“What is it?” asked Mrs Oliver. “Arthritis?”
“Some form of it. I shall have to have a permanent nurse-companion soon, I'm afraid. Such a bore. I like being independent.”
“Now, darling,” said Robin. “Don't work yourself up.”
He patted her arm.
She smiled at him with sudden tenderness.
“Robin's as good as a daughter to me,” she said. “He does everything - and thinks of everything. No one could be more considerate.”
They smiled at each other.
Hercule Poirot rose.
“Alas,” he said. “I must go. I have another call to make and then a
Similar Books
