Chippendale chairs, a bureau, a writing desk. No expense had been spared, the best firms had been employed, and there was absolutely no sign of individual taste. The bride, Poirot thought, had been what? Indifferent? Careful?
He looked at her appraisingly as she turned. An expensive and good-looking young woman. Platinum blonde hair, carefully applied make-up, but something more - wide corn-flower blue eyes - eyes with a wide frozen stare in them - beautiful drowned eyes.
She said - graciously now, but concealing boredom:
“Do sit down.”
He sat. He said:
“You are most amiable, madame. These questions now, that I wish to ask you. They relate to a Mrs McGinty who died - was killed that is to say - last November.”
“Mrs McGinty? I don't know what you mean?”
She was glaring at him. Her eyes hard and suspicions.
“You remember Mrs McGinty?”
“No, I don't. I don't know anything about her.”
“You remember her murder? Or is murder so common here that you do not even notice it?”
“Oh, the murder? Yes, of course. I'd forgotten what the old woman's name was.”
“Although she worked for you in this house?”
“She didn't. I wasn't living here then. Mr Carpenter and I were only married three months ago.”
“But she did work for you. On Friday mornings, I think it was. You were then Mrs Selkirk and you lived in Rose Cottage.”
She said sulkily:
“If you know the answers to everything I don't see why you need to ask questions. Anyway, what's it all about?”
“I am making an investigation into the circumstance of the murder.”
“Why? What on earth for? Anyway, why come to me?”
“You might know something - that would help me.”
“I don't know anything at all. Why should I? She was only a stupid old charwoman. She kept her money under the floor and somebody robbed and murdered her for it. It was quite disgusting - beastly, the whole thing. Like things you read in the Sunday papers.”
Poirot took that up quickly.
"Like the Sunday papers, yes. Like the Sunday Companion. You read, perhaps, the Sunday Companion?
She jumped up, and made her way, blunderingly, towards the opened french windows. So uncertainly did she go that she actually collided with the window frame. Poirot was reminded of a beautiful big moth, fluttering blindly against a lamp shade.
She called: “Guy - Guy!”
A man's voice a little way away answered:
“Eve?”
“Come here quickly.”
A tall man of about thirty-five came into sight. He quickened his pace and came across the terrace to the window. Eve Carpenter said vehemently:
“There's a man here - a foreigner. He's asking me all sorts of questions about that horrid murder last year. Some old charwoman - you remember? I hate things like that. You know I do.”
Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing-room through the window. He had a long face like a horse, he was pale and looked rather supercilious. His manner was pompous.
Hercule Poirot found him unattractive.
“May I ask what all this is about?” he asked. “Have you been annoying my wife?”
Hercule Poirot spread out his hands.
“The last thing I should wish is to annoy so charming a lady. I hoped only that, the deceased woman having worked for her, she might be able to aid me in the investigations I am making.”
“But - what are these investigations?”
“Yes, ask him that,” urged has wife.
“A fresh inquiry is being made into the circumstances of Mrs McGinty's death.”
“Nonsense - the case is over.”
“No, no, there you are in error. It is not over.”
“A fresh inquiry, you say?” Guy Carpenter frowned. He said suspiciously: “By the police? Nonsense - you're nothing to do with the police.”
“That is correct. I am working independently of the police.”
“It's the Press,” Eve Carpenter broke in. “Some horrid Sunday newspaper. He said so.”
A gleam of caution came into Guy Carpenter's eye. In his position he was not anxious to antagonise the Press. He said,
He looked at her appraisingly as she turned. An expensive and good-looking young woman. Platinum blonde hair, carefully applied make-up, but something more - wide corn-flower blue eyes - eyes with a wide frozen stare in them - beautiful drowned eyes.
She said - graciously now, but concealing boredom:
“Do sit down.”
He sat. He said:
“You are most amiable, madame. These questions now, that I wish to ask you. They relate to a Mrs McGinty who died - was killed that is to say - last November.”
“Mrs McGinty? I don't know what you mean?”
She was glaring at him. Her eyes hard and suspicions.
“You remember Mrs McGinty?”
“No, I don't. I don't know anything about her.”
“You remember her murder? Or is murder so common here that you do not even notice it?”
“Oh, the murder? Yes, of course. I'd forgotten what the old woman's name was.”
“Although she worked for you in this house?”
“She didn't. I wasn't living here then. Mr Carpenter and I were only married three months ago.”
“But she did work for you. On Friday mornings, I think it was. You were then Mrs Selkirk and you lived in Rose Cottage.”
She said sulkily:
“If you know the answers to everything I don't see why you need to ask questions. Anyway, what's it all about?”
“I am making an investigation into the circumstance of the murder.”
“Why? What on earth for? Anyway, why come to me?”
“You might know something - that would help me.”
“I don't know anything at all. Why should I? She was only a stupid old charwoman. She kept her money under the floor and somebody robbed and murdered her for it. It was quite disgusting - beastly, the whole thing. Like things you read in the Sunday papers.”
Poirot took that up quickly.
"Like the Sunday papers, yes. Like the Sunday Companion. You read, perhaps, the Sunday Companion?
She jumped up, and made her way, blunderingly, towards the opened french windows. So uncertainly did she go that she actually collided with the window frame. Poirot was reminded of a beautiful big moth, fluttering blindly against a lamp shade.
She called: “Guy - Guy!”
A man's voice a little way away answered:
“Eve?”
“Come here quickly.”
A tall man of about thirty-five came into sight. He quickened his pace and came across the terrace to the window. Eve Carpenter said vehemently:
“There's a man here - a foreigner. He's asking me all sorts of questions about that horrid murder last year. Some old charwoman - you remember? I hate things like that. You know I do.”
Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing-room through the window. He had a long face like a horse, he was pale and looked rather supercilious. His manner was pompous.
Hercule Poirot found him unattractive.
“May I ask what all this is about?” he asked. “Have you been annoying my wife?”
Hercule Poirot spread out his hands.
“The last thing I should wish is to annoy so charming a lady. I hoped only that, the deceased woman having worked for her, she might be able to aid me in the investigations I am making.”
“But - what are these investigations?”
“Yes, ask him that,” urged has wife.
“A fresh inquiry is being made into the circumstances of Mrs McGinty's death.”
“Nonsense - the case is over.”
“No, no, there you are in error. It is not over.”
“A fresh inquiry, you say?” Guy Carpenter frowned. He said suspiciously: “By the police? Nonsense - you're nothing to do with the police.”
“That is correct. I am working independently of the police.”
“It's the Press,” Eve Carpenter broke in. “Some horrid Sunday newspaper. He said so.”
A gleam of caution came into Guy Carpenter's eye. In his position he was not anxious to antagonise the Press. He said,
Similar Books
