Chapter 7 Chapter VII

The cottage where Mrs. McGinty used to live was only a few steps from the bus stop.Two children were playing on the steps: one was holding an apple that looked like it had been gnawed by insects.The other was banging on the door with a tin tray in his hand, yelling and screaming.Both kids looked dirty and happy. Poirot stepped forward and knocked hard on the door, and all kinds of voices became even more chaotic.A woman looked over from around the corner.She was wearing a large, colorful coat and her hair was tousled. "Stop it, Ernie," she called. "Don't stop, don't stop!" Ernie said, and continued to tap the tray.

Poirot left the doorstep and walked towards the corner. "You can't do anything with the baby, can you?" said the woman. Poirot wanted to say there was a way, but he didn't open his mouth. The woman motioned him to go around the corner and enter through the back door. "I've bolted the front door, sir, please go in here." Poirot walked through a dirty room where farm implements were piled up and into the kitchen.The kitchen was dirtier than that one. "She wasn't killed here," said the woman. "She died in the living room." Poirot blinked.

"That's what you're here for, isn't it? You're a foreigner living with Mrs. Summerhays, aren't you?" "So you know all about me?" said Poirot, his face beaming. "Yes, indeed." "What's your name?" "Mrs. Kidder. My husband is a painter and we just moved here four months ago. We used to live with Bert's mother. They say you don't move into a house where there's been a murder." Right? But my answer is that a house is a house anyway, and it's better than being crammed in the back of the living room. It's terrible that people die here, isn't it? But anyway, we're never disturbed here. People It's always been said that murdered people hang around here, but she doesn't. Let's go see where the murder happened."

It felt like a tourist being served by a guide, and Poirot was satisfied. Mrs. Kidder led him into a small room, which was overcrowded with a heavy Jacobean setting.Unlike the other rooms in the house, it showed no signs of being lived in. "She fell on the floor with the back of her head smashed to the horror of Mrs. Elliot, who first found her body—she came with Larkin, the baker, upstairs My money was stolen. Come up here, and I'll show you where it was stolen." Mrs. Kidder led up the stairs, and Poirot was shown into a bedroom, which contained a large chest of drawers, a large brass bed, chairs, and a row of beautiful babies. Clothing, some wet, some dry.

"Here it is," said Mrs. Kidder proudly. Poirot looked round widely.It's hard to imagine that this disorganized, overcrowded place was once the residence of a clean freaked old lady. "This is where Mrs. McGinty lived and slept and she always took pride in the cleanliness of her room." "I don't think it's her furniture, is it?" "Oh, no. Her niece came over from Karenqua and took it all away. There's nothing left of Mrs. McGinty's here now." The Kidders moved into this room, and the living are always stronger than the dead. From downstairs came the screaming of a child.

"Oh, this is the baby waking up," explained Mrs. Kidder, needlessly. She hurried downstairs, followed by Poirot. "There's nothing to investigate here." He headed for the neighbor's house next door. "Yes, sir, I was the first to discover her." Mrs. Elliot's expression was very exaggerated.The courtyard was clean and orderly, and the only affectation was Mrs. Elliot's expression.She was a tall, thin, dark-haired woman.She beams as she recalls a proud moment in her life. "Larkin, that's the baker who knocked on my door and said, 'Mrs. McGinty's got into trouble. She won't answer our knocks. She seems very ill.' Indeed, I think she Could be sick, she's getting old. I figured she must have had a stroke. So I went over there and there were two men there, and of course they wouldn't come into her bedroom."

Poirot applauded the restraint of decorum. "I ran quickly up the stairs, and he followed, pale as a dead man, and I hadn't thought of a dead man at the time. Oh, of course, I didn't know what was the matter. I knocked hard on the door, But there was no answer from inside. So I turned the doorknob and walked in by myself. The whole room was in a mess—the boards had been pried up from the floor. 'This is robbery,' I said. But where is the poor old man What? Then we thought we'd go into the living room and see, ah, there she was. Lying on the floor with that poor head sunk in. Murder! I saw it straight away. Murder. It was It can't be anything else, burglary, murder, in Broadshinney, this happened! I yelled and yelled and cried and yelled."

"They went to such lengths with me that I passed out and they had to go to the Three Ducks and bring me brandy. Even when I woke up, it took a long time. I was trembling all over for a long time. 'Please stop shouting, ma'am!' said the Superintendent when he came. 'Please don't shout like that. Well, you'd better go home and have a cup of tea and calm yourself down.' So I went home. When Elliott came back from the outside, he looked at me and said, 'What the hell is going on? Is something wrong?’ I was shaking all over my body. I’ve always been so sensitive since I was a kid.”

Poirot tactfully interrupted the woman's nervous narration. "Yes, yes, anyone can see that. When was the last time you saw poor Mrs. McGinty?" "It must have been the day before it happened. When I saw her, she was coming out of the house to go pick mint leaves in the backyard, and I was feeding the chickens." "Did she speak to you?" "I just said hello and said good afternoon." "Is that the last time you saw her? Did you see her the day she was killed?" "No. But I see her mind wandering," said Mrs. Elliot, in a low voice. "About eleven o'clock in the morning, I saw her coming down the road, shuffling as usual, step by step."

Poirot waited patiently, but it seemed to be of no further use.he asked: "Did you find it strange when the police arrested him?" "Oh, I don't think it's strange. I tell you, I always thought he was kind of stupid, and I have no doubts about it. These fools do stupid things sometimes. My uncle has a moron who sometimes does things Very stupid - that's how he was when he was growing up, he didn't even know how strong he was. Yes, that Bentley was kind of stupid. But if they put him in a mental institution instead of killing him I shouldn't be surprised if that's the case. Ah, look where he hides his money, no one hides money like that unless he wants to be found out. It's kind of silly, simple-minded, He's that kind of guy."

"Unless he wants the money he's hiding to be found," said Poirot to himself. "By the way, you haven't lost a machete or an axe?" "No, sir, I haven't lost it. The police have asked me that question, too, and all the people in our village." What weapon he used to hack her to death remains a mystery to this day. Hercule Poirot walked towards the post office. The murderer wanted the money to be found, but he didn't want the murder weapon to be found.Find that money and suspect James Bentley.So, who will be suspected when the murder weapon is found?He shook his head. He had already visited two houses, neither of them more lively than Mrs. Kidder, nor Mrs. Elliot's exaggerated fuss.They agreed that Mrs. McGinty was a very respectable woman, reclusive and womanly.She has a niece in Kalunkwe.Except for that niece, no one has ever seen her visit.As far as they knew, no one disliked her or had a grudge against her.It is said that someone proposed to write a petition for James Bentley. I wonder if this is true?Will they be asked to sign the petition? "I've got nothing—nothing," said Poirot to himself, "and I don't know what to do, what to do. I can now quite understand Superintendent Spence's disappointment. But it was to me It should be different. Superintendent Spence is a kind, hard-working, hard-working man. But I, I am Hercule Poirot! For me, there must be something to discover." One of his shiny leather shoes stepped into a small puddle and got a splash or two of mud.He quickly withdrew his feet.He was the great Hercule Poirot, but he was also an old man, and his shoes pinched.He went into the post office. The right side of the post office is for postal business; the left side displays a variety of goods, including candy, groceries, hardware, metal products, birthday cards, sewing kits, and children's clothes, etc. Wait. Poirot approached slowly, wishing to buy some stamps.A woman hurried over to receive him.This is a middle-aged woman with sharp and bright eyes.This, thought Poirot, was without a doubt the place where the news of Broadshinney was the greatest.The woman's name, however, was somewhat inappropriate. Her name was Mrs. Sweetiman. "Twelvepence," said Mrs Sweetiman, nimbly tearing off the stamps from a volume. "That's four shillings and tenpence. Would you like anything else, sir?" She watched him eagerly.Through the door behind her, a girl's head, with tousled hair, clearly wanted to hear what they had to say, poked out. "I don't know people here very well," began Poirot gravely. "Yes, sir," agreed Mrs. Sweetiman. "You're from London, aren't you?" "I hope you know the purpose of my visit," said Poirot with a slight smile. "Oh, no, sir, I don't know at all, I really don't," said Mrs. Sweetiman in a nonchalant way. "You know Mrs. McGinty," remarked Poirot. Mrs. Sweetiman shook her head. "That's a sad thing - it's shocking." "I suppose you know her very well?" "Oh, yes. I know her as well as everybody in Broadshinney, I daresay. She always chats with me for a while when she comes in here to shop. Yeah, it's a real shame that it happened. Terrible; it's not closed yet, is it? Or so I've heard people say." "As far as whether James Bentley is guilty, from a certain point of view, there are still doubts." "Ah," said Mrs. Sweetiman, "it's not the first time an officer has caught the wrong guy, though I hate to say that in this case. Nor should I wonder if he's really guilty. He's that easy Shy, awkward, but not threatening. You'd think so too. But it's hard to say something like that, isn't it?" Poirot asked her for paper and envelopes. "Of course, sir. Come over to the counter, please." Mrs. Sweetiman hurried to the left and sat down under the counter. "It's hard to imagine, if it wasn't Mr. Bentley who killed someone, then who would it be?" As she spoke, she reached to the top shelf for paper and envelopes. "We do have some pretty nasty bums here sometimes, and it's possible one of them jumped in when he saw the window was ajar. But he'd never leave the money behind. Anyway , that's thirty pounds too, here you are, sir. It's nice blue letter-paper, and it's a pretty thing with these envelopes." Poirot took the things and paid for them. "Did Mrs. McGinty never mention who she was afraid of or who made her nervous?" he asked. "She didn't tell me that. She wasn't a timid, easily scared person. Sometimes she stayed late at Mr. Carpenter's—they lived on top of a hill, and they often had guests for dinner and Lives there. Mrs. McGinty sometimes goes there at night to help with the wash, and often comes down from the hill in the middle of the night, and I don't like to do that, it's dark, and then come down the hill." "Do you know her niece? It's Mrs. Birch." "I just say hello when I see her. She comes here sometimes with her husband. They inherited a little money when Mrs. McGinty died." She looked at him with piercing black eyes. "Oh, that's natural, isn't it, sir? You can't take it yourself; it's very natural for your own blood to get it." "Oh, yes, yes. I quite agree with that. Does Mrs. McGinty like her niece?" "Yes, very much, sir. I think her love is too obvious." "Does she like her niece's husband too?" A look of escape came over Mrs. Sweetiman's face. "As far as I know it is." "When was the last time you saw Mrs. McGinty?" Mrs. Sweetiman thought about it. "Well—let me see, when was that, Edna?" Edna gasped on the steps and did not answer. "Is it the day she was killed?" "No, it wasn't. It was the day before she died--or before that. Oh, yes, it was Monday, that's right, she was killed on Wednesday. She bought a bottle of ink that day. I I suppose she wanted to write a letter," said Mrs Sweetiman wisely. "It's possible. She looked the same that day, didn't she? Is there anything unusual about her?" "No, I don't think so." Breathing heavily, Edna broke in through the door and interrupted suddenly: "She was different that day!" she affirmed. "She was happy about something—not very happy, but excited." "Perhaps you're right," said Mrs. Sweetiman. "I didn't notice it at the time. Now that you put it that way, I do remember that she was a little radiant and refreshed." "Do you remember what she said that day?" "Usually I don't remember talking to people, but because of her murder and the police questioning and stuff, it reminds me. She didn't say anything about James Bentley at all. about the Carpenters, and Mrs. Upodd--these are the families she works for, you know." "Ah, yes. I was going to ask you exactly who she works for here?" Mrs. Sweetiman answered immediately, "On Mondays and Thursdays she helps Mrs. Somerhays, the hotel where you are staying, doesn't she?" "Yes," sighed Poirot. "I suppose there is no other place to live?" "Not in Broadshinney. You don't feel comfortable living there, do you? Mrs. Somerhays is a nice lady, but she can't look after a house, and women who come back from abroad are like that. Always make a mess of the house." Yes, it has to be cleaned whenever I go. Mrs. McGinty always says that. Yes, at Mrs. Somerhays's hotel on Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings; then at Dr. Raeder's on Tuesday mornings, To Mrs. Upauld's; to Mrs. Wetherby's on Wednesday; to Mrs. Carpenter's on Friday. Mrs. Upaudie is old, and lives with her son, and they have a maid, but she is a novice, Mrs. McGinty usually went there once a week to sort things out; Mr. and Mrs. Wetherby never seemed to be employed for long, and Mrs. Wetherby was always weak and sick; Guests. They're all nice people." After hearing this last remark about the Broadskinese, Poirot walked out of the post office and re-entered the street. He walked slowly up the hill towards the Long Meadow Hotel where he was staying.He wished with all his heart that the contents of the bloated can and the blood-stained beans had been eaten at noon, as Mrs. Summerhays had arranged, instead of being served to him for dinner.But there would be other dubiously similar cans, and this kind of life at the Long Meadow Hotel certainly had its own dangers.Overall, what did he gain from a disappointing day? That James Bentley had a friend, and neither he nor Mrs. McGinty had any enemies.Two days before her death Mrs. McGinty had looked excited and had bought a bottle of ink when Poirot stopped suddenly and stood firmly in place. Is this a useful, thought-provoking clue?Had he finally discovered something? He asked himself these questions slowly, why did Mrs. McGinty want to buy a bottle of ink?Mrs. Sweetiman's answer to this was rather serious, and she guessed that she meant to write a letter, and thus made a great discovery--an important fact which almost escaped his notice.Because for him, as for most people, writing a letter is a very ordinary thing.But to Mrs. McGinty it was so extraordinary, and to her writing letters was so extraordinary that if she wanted to do it, she had to go out and buy a bottle ink.Mrs. McGinty, then, had seldom written letters before.Mrs. Sweetiman, who worked in the post office, could not be mistaken for the fact.But Mrs. McGinty wrote just two days before she died.Who was she writing to?And why?This may not be very important, she may be writing to her niece, or it may be to a friend she has never met.It was ludicrous to go to such lengths on something as simple as buying a bottle of ink, but that was all he got.He wants to follow this clue. A bottle of ink.