Chapter 9 Chapter nine

"All nice people." Poirot murmured as he stepped to a gate near the station near the crossroads.A brass plaque on the steps said Dr. Rendell, M.D., lived here. Dr. Rendell, a tall, jovial man of about forty, gave his visitor a cordial welcome.He said: "The presence of the great Hercule Poirot honors our quiet little village." "Ah," said Poirot, satisfied and very happy. "So you've heard of me?" "Of course we've heard of you. Who doesn't know you?" Any answer to this question would hurt Poirot's pride.He just said politely, "Fortunately, you happened to be at home when I came to visit."

It was not luck, in fact on the contrary, it was Poirot's timing.However, Dr. Rendell replied heartily: "Yeah, I just happened to be home. There's a surgery in a quarter of an hour. Now, what can I do for you? I'm curious and eager to know what you're doing here, whether you're here for a vacation, or if we What happened in the middle?" "That was in the past, not now." "Past? I can't remember—" "Mrs. McGinty." "Oh, of course, of course, I almost forgot. But you don't mean that's what you're here for—that's not what you're here for? It's too late now."

"Allow me to assure you that I am in the employ of the defendant, and have come here on orders to find new evidence for appeal." Dr. Rendell asked sharply: "But what new evidence?" "Well, well, I have no right to say—" "Oh, of course—forgive me." "But something came to my mind, how should I put it, and I thought there was something very strange—very—how should I put it—provoking. Dr. Rendell, I came to you because I knew Mrs. McGinty was once employed by you, and worked for you." "Oh, yes, yes, she helped me. How about something to drink? Sherry? Whiskey? Do you prefer sherry? Me too." Seated next to Lo, she continued, "She used to come in once a week and help with some cleanup. I had a good housekeeper—very nice—but the brass handles on the furniture, and the cleaning of the kitchen floor Such work—well, my housekeeper, Mrs. Scott, has a bad knee, and she cannot kneel very well to wipe floors, and Mrs. McGinty is a very good hire."

"Do you think she is an honest and trustworthy person?" "Honesty? Well, that's a curious question. I don't think I can say--I haven't had a chance to know, but she's pretty honest, as far as I know." "Then, if she has said a word to whom, do you think she is telling the truth?" Dr. Rendell looked puzzled. "Oh, I don't like to think that. I don't really know much about her. I can ask Mrs. Scott, and she will know more." "No, it's better not to do that." "You've made me more and more curious," said Dr. Rendell kindly. "What does she go around talking about? Is she a little slanderous. Slander, I think, is what I mean."

Poirot just shook his head slightly.He said: "You understand that all of this is being kept under wraps at the moment and I'm only just beginning my investigation." Dr. Rendell said dryly: "Then you must hurry up, don't you?" "You're right. Time is running out for me." "I must say that your statement astonishes me. . . We here are quite sure that it was Bentley who killed the man. There can be no doubt about it." "This appears to be a very ordinary, trivial case, of no great interest. Is that what you are talking about?"

"Yes—yes, that is a very fair and proper assessment of the case." "Do you know James Bentley?" "He came to see me once or twice. He was nervous, worried about his health. I think his mother spoiled him too much, and people see that a lot. We have a similar one here. matter." "Oh, really?" "Yes, I mean Mrs. Upward, Laura Upward, who doted too much on her son. She tied him up to her skirts, and she kept him at her disposal. He's a bright lad, but not as bright as he thinks he is, between you and me—but still quite gifted, and on the way to becoming a playwright."

"Have they lived here long?" "It's been three or four years. None of the residents of Broadshinney have settled here that long. The original village was a few farmhouses around the 'Long Meadow' hotel, where I know you live now. Bar?" "Yes." Poirot's tone was less cheerful than expected. Dr. Rendell had a look of pleasure on his face. "It really doesn't look like a hotel," he said. "That woman doesn't know anything about running a hotel. She used to live in India, and when she got married she was surrounded by a horde of servants. I dare say You don't feel at all comfortable living there, no one ever lives there long. As for poor old Somerhays, he's working on a vegetable garden now, and it's not going to be a surprise anytime soon. Achievement. She's a good person, but she doesn't have any business sense. Fortunately, in this day and age, business is everywhere if you don't want to put yourself in deep water. Don't think I've cured it Which patient, I'm just a proud form filler and certificate signer. But I still like Mrs. Somerhays, Mrs. Somerhays is a very charming woman, although Mr. Summerhays is moody and temperamental. Grumpy, he belongs to the old generation, he's out of date. Old Colonel Somerhays, you know, is very high-spirited, and often gets into a fit of rage."

"Is he the father of Major Summerhays?" "Yes, the old man died without much money. Of course, these people are always stubborn and won't make the slightest change. I don't know whether to admire them or call them fools." He looked at his watch. "I am not going to disturb any more," said Poirot. "I have a few minutes. Also, I would like to introduce you to my wife. I don't know where she is now, but she is very happy to hear you are here. We are both fascinated by solving crimes, read A lot of that stuff.” "Criminology, detective stories, or a weekend paper?" said Poirot, laughing.

"Read all three." "Do you condescend to read the Sunday Comet?" Rendell smiled. "Without such newspapers, how do you spend your Sundays?" "Five months ago there were some very interesting articles, one of which was about the women who were involved in the murders, and their misfortunes." "Yes, I remember the articles you mentioned, but they were a whole lot of nonsense." "Oh, do you think so?" "Of course, I've only seen Craig's case in the papers. The other cases -- like Courtland's, I can tell you, that woman was by no means a hapless innocent victim, she was absolutely A cruel and vicious woman, I know this because one of my uncles took care of that husband. Of course he is not authentic, but his wife is no better than him. She then grabbed the inexperienced young man , instigated him to murder her husband. Then he went to jail for manslaughter, and she walked away unscathed, a very wealthy widow who later married someone else."

"The Sunday Comet makes no mention of these circumstances. Do you know who she is married to?" Rendell shook his head. "I can't remember the name. But I've been told that she did a fine job herself and set herself up well." "Reading this article, one cannot help but wonder, where are the four women now?" said Poirot jokingly. "I know that last week, at a party, maybe someone would have recognized one of these four women, and I bet they all kept their pasts pretty well covered. Based on those old pictures, you don't know It would be impossible to recognize them, that's my word, they all look innocent."

The chime sounded, and Poirot stood up: "I can't bother you anymore, you have received me very kindly." "I'm afraid it won't be of much help to you. There are very few people like me who hardly know what their own cleaning lady is like. But please wait a moment, you must see my wife, otherwise she will never won't forgive me." He led Poirot into the hall and exclaimed: "Sheila—Sheila—" A vague answer came from upstairs. "Please come down immediately, I will introduce someone to you." A pale, thin, blond woman ran briskly down the stairs. "This is M. Hercule Poirot. What do you think, Sheila?" "Ah!" Mrs. Rundle was speechless for a moment, her pale blue eyes fixed on Poirot. "Madame." Poirot bowed slightly to her in his very characteristic way. "We heard you were here," said Sheila Rendell, "but we didn't expect—" She stopped, her blue eyes darting to her husband's face. "She obeyed him, and everything she said and did depended on his eyes and actions," thought Poirot. He said a few words of courtesy and then left. He got the impression that Dr. Rendell was amiable; Mrs. Rendell was strict-mouthed and understanding.So much was known about the Rundles. This was the Rendle house where Mrs. McGinty came to work every Thursday morning. Hunter Court is a solid Victorian building.There is a long driveway in front of the gate, overgrown with weeds and extremely untidy.When it was first built, it might not have been a very large house, but now it is too large to manage. Poirot asked the young foreign woman who answered the door if Mrs. Wetherby was at home.She stared at him for a moment, then said: "I don't know. Come in, maybe Miss Henderson is here?" She left him alone in the hall. According to the real estate agent, the hall is decorated very gorgeously - there are many antiques and cultural relics collected from all over the world.Neither looked very clean and tidy, they were dusty. After a while, the foreign woman appeared again. "Come in, please," she said. He was then shown into a small, cold room with a large desk, and on the mantelpiece stood a large, very ugly copper coffee-pot with a huge spout that looked like a huge Incomparably hooked nose. The door behind Poirot opened and a girl entered. "My mother is lying on the bed," she said, "what can I do for you?" "You are Miss Wetherby?" "I'm Henderson and Wetherby is my stepfather." This is a young woman in her thirties, plainly dressed, tall, with a reserved expression, and her big eyes are very alert. "I was anxious to know if you could tell me something about Mrs. McGinty? She used to work here." She stared at him. "Mrs. McGinty? But she's dead." "I know she is dead," said Poirot softly, "but I would like to hear about her." "Oh, is it because of insurance or something?" "Oh, not about insurance, but about new evidence." "New evidence? You mean—about the cause of her death?" "I am employed by the defendant's counsel," replied Poirot, "to investigate the circumstances in James Bentley's favour." Still staring at him, she asked: "But, isn't he the one who killed?" "The jury found the man to be homicide. However, trials can err." "So someone else killed her?" "possible." She asked eagerly: "Who?" "That—" said Poirot slowly, "is a question at present." "It's hard for me to understand." "Don't understand? I wish you could tell me about Mrs. McGinty, won't you?" She reluctantly said: "I suppose so. What do you want to know?" "Well, let's start at the beginning. What do you think of her?" "Oh, nothing special, she's just like everyone else." "Talky or taciturn? Very curious or cautious? Pleasant or frowning? A good woman or not a very good woman?" Miss Henderson thought about it. "She works very hard, but she talks too much, and sometimes she says something weird... I don't like her very much." The door opened, and the foreign maid said: "Miss Deirdre, your mother said please bring the guests up." "My mother wants me to take this gentleman upstairs to her?" "Yes. Thank you." Deirdre Henderson looked at Poirot suspiciously. "Would you like to go upstairs and talk to my mother?" "Of course I would." Deirdre Henderson led the way through the parlour, and up the stairs, she said inconsequentially: "Foreigners are really annoying sometimes." Since her remark was clearly referring to her maid and not to her visiting guests, Poirot paid no attention to it, not feeling himself offended. It occurred to him that Deirdre Henderson seemed to be a rather simple young woman, so simple that she could hardly speak in social situations. The upstairs room, filled with bric-a-brac, was the room of a traveling woman.This woman who has traveled to many places in the world seems determined to buy a souvenir from every place she visits.Most of the souvenirs are clearly made to please tourists and make money.There are too many sofas, tables, and chairs in the room, as well as too many clothes and fabrics, so the space seems too small.Sitting right in the middle of all the ornaments and clothes was Mrs Wetherby. Mrs. Wetherby looked like a little woman, a pathetic little woman in a large room.This is that effect.But in reality, she is not as small as she appears on the surface. The "Poor Little Me" tape would have been at its best if it had been played in this room. She was reclining comfortably on a sofa, with books and some sewing beside her, a glass of orange juice and a box of chocolates.She said happily: "You'll have to forgive me for not getting up to meet you, but the doctor insists that I do, and get a good rest every day. If I don't do what I'm told, everyone will blame me." Poirot took her outstretched hand and bowed slightly with a well-moded respect. Deirdre's stubborn voice came from behind him: "He wanted to know how Mrs. McGinty was doing." The delicate and delicate little hand was placed in Poirot's palm docilely, making Poirot feel for a moment that he was holding the paw of a small bird.But this is not the claw of a fine fine porcelain, but a claw that is extremely sharp and greedy for meat. Mrs. Wetherby laughed softly and said: "How ridiculous you are, dear Deirdre. Who is Mrs. McGinty?" "Oh, mother, you should really remember that she worked for us, the cleaning woman who was killed." "Stop it, dear, it's terrible! I've been nervous for weeks after she died. Poor old woman! But what a fool she is to hide money under the floorboards when she should have put it in To the bank. Of course I remember these things, I just forgot her name." Deirdre repeated dully: "He wanted to know how she was." "Oh, please sit down now, M. Poirot. I'm very curious. Mrs. Rendell has just called to say that we have a very famous criminologist here. She told me something about you, Don F. When that fool Rida said there was a visitor, I was sure it must be you. So I ordered you to come upstairs, and now, please tell me what happened?" "As your daughter said, I would like to know about Mrs. McGinty, who worked here. I know she came to take care of you every Wednesday, and it was on Wednesdays that she was killed, so, after her She worked with you the day she died, didn't she?" "I think so. Now I can't say. It's been so long." "Yes, it's been months, but did she say anything that day—anything in particular?" "That kind of woman always talks too much," said Mrs. Wetherby disgustedly. "No one really wants to listen, but she's not going to say she's going to be robbed and killed that night, is she?" ?” "There is always a cause and an effect in everything," said Poirot. Mrs. Weatherby frowned. "I don't understand what you mean by that." "Perhaps I don't understand it myself--at least not yet. I'm trying to break through the mystery, to find clues. . . Do you read the weekend paper, Mrs. Wetherby?" Her blue eyes were wide open. "Yes, of course, we have the Observer and the Sunday Hour here, why ask that?" "I wonder. Because Mrs. McGinty has read the Sunday Comet and the News of the World." He paused, but there was no response, and Mrs. Wetherby sighed and closed her eyes slightly again.she says: "It's so depressing, that horrible lodger of hers, I do think he's a little out of his head, but he's obviously a fairly educated man. That makes it worse, doesn't it?" "Do you think so?" "Of course, that's what I thought. What a cruel crime, to use a meat-axe, alas!" "The police never found the murder weapon," said Poirot. "I think he probably threw it in a pond or something." "They've dredged those ponds," Deirdre said. "I, I saw it with my own eyes." "Honey," sighed her mother, "don't be so scary. You know how much I hate this kind of thing. My head can't take it." said the girl, looking directly at Poirot with stern eyes. "You shouldn't go on about it," she said. "It's not good for her. She's too sensitive to read a detective novel." "I'm sorry," said Poirot, rising. "There's only one reason I'm bothering you like this. A man is going to be killed in three weeks. If he doesn't—" Mrs. Wetherby raised herself on her elbows, and her voice was high-pitched and raspy. "Of course he did it," she cried, "of course he did it." Poirot shook his head. "I'm not quite sure." Poirot hurried out of the room, and as he went downstairs the girl came up from behind and stopped him in the drawing room. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Do you mean what I just said, miss?" "Yes, but—" She stopped. Poirot was silent. Deirdre Henderson said slowly: "You upset my mother, she hates that kind of thing - robbery, murder, and violence." "So, when a woman who did work here was killed, it must have been a great blow to her." "Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed." "She's exhausted, isn't she?" "She doesn't want to hear anything about it. We—I—we all try, try to keep her from any news of that, from all the nasty, horrible, horrible things. " "What about during the war?" "Fortunately our area has never been bombed." "Miss, what kind of work did you do during the war?" "Oh, I've done volunteer ambulance work in Kiltchester and I've driven for the Women's Volunteer Service. Of course, I can't leave the house, Mum needs me, as it is now, and she won't let me Going out too much, a lot of things are too hard, and the servants - of course, my mother never does the housework - she has not been very well. It is very difficult to find the right people to help. Because of this, Mrs. McGinty is so popular, she's been a great help to us, and she's been that way since she first came to help. She does a great job. But, of course, everything's not the same now as it used to be." "Do you mind these matters, miss?" "Me? Oh, no." She seemed very strange, "but it's different for mom, she—she lives in memories of the past a lot of the time." "Some people are like that," said Poirot, and his imagination returned to the room he had been in not so long ago.There he opened a chest of drawers filled with all sorts of little things—a broken fan, a silver coffee pot, old magazines.That drawer is too full to close.He said softly: "They preserve things - memories of bygone times - ball tickets, used fans, and pictures of old friends who have passed away, even menus and theater programmes, because, look These things, the memory of the past is revived." "I suppose so," said Deirdre, "but I don't understand it myself. I never keep things." "Are you always looking forward, not backward?" Deirdre said slowly: "I don't know where to look... I mean, it's enough to see right now, isn't it?" The front door opened and a tall, thin, elderly man entered the hall.When he saw Poirot, his feet froze. He glanced at Deirdre, his eyelids raised in a questioning manner. "This is my stepfather," said Deirdre. "I don't know your name." "My name is Hercule Poirot." Poirot was always embarrassed, as usual, when he had to say this great name. Mr. Weatherby seemed unimpressed. He said "Oh" and turned to hang up his coat. Deirdre says: "He came to ask about Mrs. McGinty." Mr. Weatherby paused for a moment without moving, and then hung up his coat on the peg. "It seems remarkable to me. The woman died a few months ago, and although she worked here, we know nothing about her or her family. If we had known, we would have known nothing about her." It should have been reported to the police.” There was a finish in his words, and he looked at his watch. "Luncheon will be ready in a quarter of an hour." "I'm afraid it's too late today." Mr. Weatherby's eyelids lifted again. "Really? May I ask why?" "Frida has been busy today." "My dear Deirdre, I hate having to remind you, but the management of the house has fallen to your shoulders. I would appreciate it if meals were served on time and things were kept on time." Poirot opened the front door and went out himself, looking back. There was a tinge of cold disgust in Mr. Wetherby's look at his stepdaughter, and something akin to hatred was discernible in the look in his return.