Chapter 8 chapter eight

"A letter?" Bessie Birch shook her head. "No, I haven't received a letter. What is she writing to me for?" Poirot reminded her: "Perhaps she has something to tell you." "My aunt is not a letter writer. She is almost seventy years old, and you know she had very little education in her youth." "But she can read, can't she?" "Oh, of course, she doesn't know much, and although she likes to read the News of the World and her Sunday Comet, it is difficult for her to write letters. If she has anything Wanting me to know, like delaying our visits to her or saying she couldn't come to us, she usually calls and tells Mr. Benson, a pharmacist who lives next door to us, and he Come and tell us, he's very good at his word. You know, it only costs us twopence to do it here, and there's a pay-phone in the Broadshinney Post Office."

Poirot nodded, appreciating the fact that twopence for a call was always cheaper than postage.He already had a clear impression of Mrs. McGinty, a thrifty, budget-conscious woman.He thought, she must have loved money very much during her lifetime. He asked softly again: "But it seems impossible to me that your aunt has not written to you?" "Ah, wrote Christmas cards." "Perhaps she has friends elsewhere in England and would like to write to them?" "I don't know that. She had a sister-in-law who died two years ago, and she knew Mrs. George, but she died too."

"So, if she's going to write to anyone, it must be in reply to a letter she's already received, isn't it?" Bessie Birch was full of confusion again. "I don't know who's going to write to her, I'm sure, of course," her face brightened suddenly. "The 'government' could always write to her, wouldn't it?" Poirot agreed.In this day and age, the so-called "government" to which Basie casually refers is a catchphrase, not an exception. "That kind of thing is usually stupid," said Mrs. Birch. "Always make you fill out a lot of forms and ask a lot of rude questions, decent people should not be asked like that."

"So maybe Mrs. McGinty has a government form or some inquiry that she needs to answer?" "If that's the case, she'll show it to Jo, so Jo can fill out the stuff for her, and that sort of thing messes her up, and she always asks Jo to do it for her." "Do you remember what letters were in her personal belongings?" "I don't recall any such things, but Mr. Superintendent went through them, and after a while he had me pack up her things, and take them away." "How are those things now?" "That chest over there is hers--it's solid, fine mahogany. There's a wardrobe upstairs, and some good kitchen stuff, and we've sold the rest, because we haven't got room to keep it. "

"I mean her personal items," he explained, "such as combs, brushes, photographs, towels, clothes, etc." "Oh, it's these things. I tell you, I put them all away in a wardrobe and they're still upstairs. I didn't know what to do with them. I thought I'd put them away at Christmas. Clothes are sold in the junk market, but I forgot. It seems inappropriate to give these clothes to people who like to buy used clothes." "I don't know—may I see those things?" "Of course. I don't know if you'll find anything useful, though. The police have gone through everything."

"I know, but I'd better go and have a look." Mrs. Bessie quickly led Poirot into the back bedroom.Poirot judged that this room was mainly used for storing clothes, and she drew a box from under the bed and said: "Oh, here it is, see for yourself. If you will excuse me, I must go away for a while, and I must go down and look at the stewpot." Poirot was more than willing to forgive her, and heard her thumping downstairs. He pulled the box over and opened it.A smell of camphor hits me head-on.With regret, he took out the contents, which showed beyond doubt that the woman was dead.

It contained a rather shabby black overcoat, two woolen pullovers, a coat and a skirt, stockings, and no underclothes which Bessie Birch might have worn herself.Two pairs of shoes wrapped in newspaper, a brush, a comb, very old but clean, a mirror that had aged well, and a wedding photo in a leather frame.Both of them were dressed in the same way as they were thirty years ago—it might have been a wedding photo of Mrs. McGinty and her husband.There are also two colored postcards, a china dog, a recipe cut out of a newspaper on how to make pickles, an article about flying saucers, and a third cutout of a newspaper clipping about Shipton prophecy, and a Bible and a prayer book.

No gauze or gloves.Bessie Birch may have taken them, or she may have thrown them away.According to Poirot's judgment, the clothes here were probably too small for the round Bessie, and Mrs. McGinty was a small woman. He unwrapped two pairs of shoes, wrapped in newspaper, which were of good quality, had not been worn much, and must have been a smaller size than Bessie Birch's feet. He was just about to wrap the shoes carefully in newspaper again, but his eyes were attracted by the title of that newspaper. It was a copy of the Sunday Comet, dated November nineteenth. Mrs. McGinty was murdered on November 22nd, so here was the paper she had bought the Sunday before her death.It must have been in her room at the time, and Bessie Birch wrapped it around her aunt's shoes by the way.

Sunday, November 19; on Monday, Mrs. McGinty went to the post office to buy a bottle of ink...   Was it possible that she had read something in the Sunday paper? He opened another pair of shoes, which was covered by News of the World, also dated November nineteenth. He flattened the two newspapers, picked them up and sat on a chair to read them carefully.He soon discovered the problem. In the Sunday Comet, an article had been cut out, leaving a rectangular blank on the middle page.The white space is too large for any clipping. He carefully read the two newspapers, but found nothing interesting, so he rewrapped the two pairs of shoes and put them neatly back into the box.Then he stepped downstairs.

Mrs Birch was busy in the kitchen. "I suppose you don't find anything useful?" "Ah," he said again, in a very casual tone. "Do you remember having a clipped newspaper in your aunt's purse or handbag?" "I don't remember, maybe the police took it?" The police won't take it away.Poirot was sure of this from the notes Spence had made.The contents of the dead old woman's handbag were listed, but the clipped newspaper was not included. Hercule Poirot thought to himself: The next step is easy, it's either total failure, or I'm finally making progress.

Poirot sat still, facing the piles of dusty newspapers, thinking that his awareness of the importance of the bottle of ink had not made him waste his efforts. The "Sunday Comet" is full of past romances. The "Sunday Comet" Poirot is reading now is dated November 19, Sunday, and at the top of the middle page is the following striking Headline: women victims of past tragedies, Where are these women now? Below the caption are four blurry photos, apparently taken many years ago.They don't look so unfortunate, in fact, their expressions are rather funny, because they all wear out-of-date clothes, and there is nothing funnier than out-of-date fashion-although in the past thirty years, they It might look glamorous, or, at any rate, their outfits were once in vogue. Below each photo is a name and a brief description: Eva Kane, the "other woman" in the famous Craig case; Janis Courtland, the unhappy wife of a drug-addicted husband A fetish, a good-for-nothing, downright fiend; little Lily Gamble, an unfortunate child of our overcrowded age; Vera Blake, a wife suspected of murdering her husband. Next, the question was raised again in bold boldface: Where are these women now? Poirot blinked, regained his composure, and began to read carefully the life legends of these age-old heroines whose memories were vague. He remembered the name Eva Kane.Because the Craig case was a sensation at the time.Alfred Craig was a conscientious city clerk, small in stature, pleasant and pleasant in his manner.His great misfortune was that he married a nasty, moody wife.Mrs. Craig put him in debt, was domineering, nagged at him endlessly, and was mentally ill.Some malicious friends said that it was all due to imagination.Eva Kane was the family's nanny. She was only nineteen years old, beautiful, helpless, and quite simple.She fell madly in love with Craig, and he loved her, and then one day, the neighbors heard that Mrs. Craig had gone abroad for medical treatment, and it all came from Craig. of.As the first step in a foreign trip, he drove her to London late one night, then to the south of France, and finally returned to the town where he lived. After some time he mentioned that his wife's health was not improving according to her letters.Eva Kane has stayed at home, taking care of the housework for him.At this point, rumors started to spread, and finally, Craig received the news that his wife died of illness abroad, he left home, came back a week later, and told everyone that he was done with his wife while abroad. funeral. In some ways, Craig is a simpleton.He made the mistake of mentioning the location of his wife's death, saying it was the Riviera, a famous tourist destination in France.A friend of mine who lives there has written to learn that neither a woman named Mrs. Craig has been found dead nor has any funeral been heard of there. After a while, rumors spread and someone reported the incident to the police.What happened afterwards can be briefly summarized as follows: Mrs. Craig had never been to that tourist attraction in France. She was dismembered and buried in the cellar of Craig's home. The autopsy report showed that she was poisoned to death by pesticides. Craig was arrested and arrested. Went to court; Eva Kane was initially charged as an accomplice, but the charges were later dropped when it became clear that she had no knowledge of what happened.In the end, Craig confessed and was sentenced to death, and Eva Kane, who was about to have a baby, left the town. In the words of the Sunday Comet: Her well-meaning relatives in the New World gave her a home there, and she changed her name.This poor young woman, in her credulous youth, had been seduced and seduced by a cold-blooded murderer.She has since left the island forever and started a new life.The past will forever be sealed up in her heart, and her father's real name will forever be hidden from her daughter. "My daughter grows up to be happy, happy, and carefree, and her life must never be stained by a cruel past. I swear to do my best to make this happen, and the memory of my misfortune will remain forever I'm alone." The fragile, pitiful, gullible Eva has learned the ugliness and sin of human beings at such a young age.Where is she now?Was it an old woman living quietly in a small town east or west, respected by her neighbors?Perhaps, her eyes are still full of sadness, is there a young woman, happy and happy, who may bring a lot of children of her own to visit her old mother and tell her about her daily life? What about the little pains and grievances encountered, the chores, and the ignorance of all the past pains her mother had endured? "My dear," said Poirot, and then he exclaimed, "Janis Courtland, of course her unhappiness stems from her husband. She is cautious and cautious, lest she be provoked by her insatiable curiosity. He The strange menstruation made her suffer for eight years, eight years of suffering and martyrdom." The Sunday Comet commented in such a harsh tone.Later, Janis made a friend, a young man with an idealistic color and no deep experience in the world.Once, frightened by a scene of quarrel between the husband and wife that he happened to see, he made a surprise attack on the husband, and with such force that the latter's head hit By the smooth marble hearth, the skull was smashed. The jury found that the case had been caused by passion and that the young idealist had no motive to kill, and sentenced him to five years in prison for manslaughter. The suffering Janice felt the pressure of public opinion brought about by this case, and in order to forget all this, she went abroad. "Has she forgotten?" The Sunday Comet asked. "We hope so. Maybe somewhere, she became a happy wife and mother. For her, the nightmare suffering she endured in silence for so many years now looks back like a dream." "There, there," said Hercule Poirot, turning his eyes to Lily Gamble. "An unfortunate child of our overcrowded age, Lily Gamble seemed cast out of her overcrowded home, as if one of her aunts was in charge of Lily's life. Lily thought When I went to the movies, my aunt said, "No." Lily Gamble picked up a meat chopping ax that was on the table, and aimed at her aunt. "The aunt was thin and short, although she was usually domineering, and Lily killed her with the axe. "For a girl of twelve, Lily was well developed and strong. "The doors of the juvenile correctional facility were opened, and Lily disappeared from the lives of ordinary people. "Lily is now a grown woman, free and taking her place in our civilized society. "During her probation period, her behavior can be said to be very representative. Doesn't this mean that it is not such a child that we should condemn, but the social system? Raised, little Lily Gamble was just a victim of her own circumstances. "Now that atonement has been made for her unfortunate misstep, we wish her a happy life. A good citizen, a good wife and a good mother." "Poor little Lily Gamble." Poirot shook his head. A child of twelve swung a meat ax at her aunt's head with enough force to kill her.From his point of view, it was not a good boy by any means, and in this case his sympathy belonged to the aunt. He turned his attention to Vera Blake's report. It was obvious that Vera Blake was one of those women where everything goes wrong and everything goes wrong. First, one of her boyfriends turned out to belong to a criminal gang and was wanted by the police for killing a bank guard.She later married a respected businessman, only to discover that the businessman had accepted stolen property and sold it for others.The same is true of her two children, who have also received "special care" from the police as they grow older.They went to the store with their mother and did a lot of stealing when no one was looking.Finally, however, a "good guy" appeared in her life. He offered to give poor Vera a home in one of the Dominions overseas, and she took her children out of this heartrending country.From then on, a new life awaited them. After years of being battered by fate, Vera's pain is finally over. "I don't know," said Poirot suspiciously. "Perhaps she finds herself married to a great crook who regularly commits crimes on passenger steamers." Poirot leaned back and looked carefully at the four photographs. Eva Kane, with curly hair covering her ears and a large hat, holds a bouquet of roses that rub against her ears like she is holding a telephone receiver . Janice Courtland's hat was pulled down over her ears and a large scarf hung down to her hips. Lily Gamble looked like a child, with her mouth wide open and thick glasses, as if she had adenoid dyspnea. Vera Blake, dressed in black and white, looked so unfortunate that there were no obvious features. There must be some reason why Mrs. McGinty had cut out the reports and photographs.why?Is it just because she is interested in these stories? Poirot didn't think so. Mrs. McGinty had preserved only a few things from her sixty years of life.Poirot learned of this from the police records of her belongings.On the Sunday before she died, she cut out the newspaper, and on Monday, she went to buy a bottle of ink. She never wrote a letter, but this time she planned to write a letter to someone.If it had been an official letter, she would probably have asked Joe Birch to help her write it, so it would not have been an official letter.So what kind of letter is it?Poirot's eyes scanned the four photographs again. The Sunday Comet put it this way: Where are these women now? Poirot thought that one of these women might have been at Broadshinney last November. The next day Poirot had a private meeting with Miss Pamla Horsfall. Horsfall could not speak to him very long, for she must then go to Sheffield.She explained it to Poirot thus. Miss Horsfall was tall and manly, a heavy smoker and drinker.Looking at her rough face, and thinking that she was the author of all the overly sentimental articles in the Sunday Comet, it always seemed unlikely, but it was so. "Tell me, tell me," said Miss Horsfall impatiently to Poirot. "I'm leaving right away." "I asked you out to talk to you about that article you wrote in the Sunday Comet, the series about unhappy women last November." "Ah, that series, it sucks, doesn't it?" Poirot made no comment on this.He said: "I would like to point out in particular the group of women involved in the crime that came out on November 19. It talked about Eva Kane, Janice Courtland, Vera Blake and Lily Gamble." Miss Horsfall grinned. "Oh, I remember. That 'Where Are These Unfortunate Women Now'?" "It seems to me that you usually get letters after these articles come out?" "That's for sure. Some people seem to have nothing better to do than write letters. Someone writes that he once saw Craig the murderer walking down the street; others like Tell me that his life has been more unfortunate than I could have imagined." "Did you get a letter from a Mrs. McGinty at Broadshinney after that article came out?" "My dear sir, how can I remember? How can I remember the names of the letters I have received in bundles?" "I think you will remember," said Poirot, "for this Mrs. McGinty was murdered a few days later." "Ah, now you've finally told the truth." Miss Horsfall forgot that she was going to Sheffield.She spread her feet and sat safely on the chair. "McGinty--McGinty, I do remember the name, got hit on the back of the head by her lodger, and from the public point of view, it wasn't a very exciting crime, and it wasn't very sexually appealing. It can be rendered. You said that woman wrote to me?" "I think she wrote to the Sunday Comet." "That's one thing, and it always comes to me. As for the murder—its name must have been in the papers—of course I should remember—" She paused. "Ah, I remember--it wasn't from Broadshinney, it was from Broadway." "Do you remember that?" "Yes, ah, I'm not sure, but that's a very interesting name, isn't it? McGinty. Yes, the handwriting is ugly, and it seems very low-educated. If I can read the handwriting . . . but I'm sure the letter came from Brovis." "You said it was badly written, Broadshinney and Broadway—these two places look alike, and it's easy to confuse them." "Yes, maybe, anyway, no one wants to know these quaint country names. McGinty, yes, I do remember it, and maybe the murder made the name I was impressed." "Can you remember what she said in the letter?" "About a photograph or something. She said she knew there was a photograph like the one in the paper—if she found it, would we pay her? How much?" "Have you answered her letter?" "My dear sir, we don't want that kind of thing at all. I sent her the same reply, thanked her politely, but didn't talk about any substantive issues, but we sent the letter to Browe - I don't know if she'll get it." She said she knew of a photo that was the same as in the newspaper. At this moment, a sentence came to Poirot's mind. It was the casual voice of Mrs. Maureen Summerhays. "Of course, she's a little inquisitive." Mrs. McGinty liked to inquire.She was honest and dependable, but she liked the gossip and asked about other people's affairs.People keep secrets - wanting to forget about the stupid, boring things in the past, sometimes you keep secrets for nostalgic reasons, sometimes you just don't want to look back and stop thinking about the past. Mrs. McGinty had seen an old photograph which she later recognized had been published in the Sunday Comet, and wondered if she could exchange it for money. Poirot stood up sharply. "Thank you, Miss Horsfall. Allow me to ask if the particulars of the cases you have written about are true. For example, I noticed that you got the trial date wrong for Craig's case - fact and the case about Courtland, where the husband's name was Hebert instead of Harbert, seems to me to be so; Lily Gamble His aunt lives in Buckinghamshire, not Berkshire." Miss Horsfall lit a cigarette. "My husband, nothing is accurate and reliable. The whole thing is a hodgepodge from beginning to end. I just put those things together, pulled them together, and then swiped a pen to express some emotions at will." "What I want to express is that your heroines may not be so representative?" Pamela let out a long laugh that neighed like a wild horse. "They're certainly not representative." "What do you think?" "I have no doubt that Eva Kane is a complete scumbag and not a hurt little bitch at all. As for Courtland, why did she silently put up with a sadist for eight years because He's been able to earn money to support his family, and that romantic little boyfriend is broke." "And what do you think of that unfortunate child, Lily Gamble?" "We don't want her jumping around me with a meat ax in her hand." Poirot marked it with his finger. "They left the country." Poirot said, wringing his fingers: "They left the country—they went to the New World—they went abroad—they went to the Dominions and started a new life. Is there now nothing to say whether they ever returned to the country?" "No," replied Miss Horsfall. "But now, I really have to go." Later that evening, Poirot called Spence. "I have been thinking of you, Poirot. Have you made any progress?" "I have already started an investigation," replied Poirot. "yes?" "The findings of the investigation are as follows: Those who live in Broadshinney are very good people." "What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?" "Ah, my friend, think about it. 'Nice people', before that, were motives for murder."