Chapter 12 Chapter Twelve

The man who was checking the meter was chatting with Guy Carpenter's butler, who had been watching him check the meter. "This line is going to be extended to a new residential area," he explained, "and the current consumption will increase accordingly according to the population density." The butler asked suspiciously: "You mean the cost of electricity is going to go up like everything else?" "It depends. Fees are reasonable and resources are shared, that's what I mean. Did you attend last night's rally in Kiltchester?" "No."

"They say your master, Mr. Carpenter, gave a very good speech. Do you think he'll be elected?" "I think he almost got elected last time." "Yes. Only one hundred and twenty-five votes. Do you usually drive him to a rally like that, or does he drive himself?" "Usually he drives himself. He likes to drive. He has a Rolls Bentley." "He's all right to drive himself. Will Mrs. Carpenter drive too?" "Yes. In my opinion, she was driving too fast." "Women are usually like that. Was she at last night's rally? Maybe she's not interested in politics?"

The butler grinned. "Anyhow, she pretended to be interested. She didn't follow through last night, though, because of a headache or something, and she walked out in the middle of the speech." "Oh!" The electrician checked the fuse again. "It's almost fine now," he said. When he was packing up his tools and preparing to leave, he casually chatted a few other questions. He walked quickly down the drive, but just round the bend in the road by the gate, he stopped and added another entry to his notepad: "Carpenter drove home alone last night. Arrived at 10:30 at the latest. It is possible that he could have been at Kiltchester Central Station at the time of the incident. Mrs Carpenter left the meeting early. Arrived home only ten minutes before Mr. Carpenter, said to be home by train."

This is the second entry in the electrician's notebook.The first article reads as follows: "Dr. Rundle was out last night. Direction was Kilchester. Could have been at Kilchester Central Station at the time of the incident. Mrs. Rundle was home alone (?) all evening, delivering coffee The housekeeper, Mrs. Scott, did not see her that evening after that. She had her own limousine." At Labanhams, a novelist-playwright collaboration is underway. Robin Upward was saying eagerly: "You can really see what a great line that is, can't you? And if we can actually get the guy and the girl to antagonize, the whole story will have a huge appeal!"

Mrs. Oliver ran her hands dejectedly through her permed, gray hair, leaving it looking as messy as a tornado. "You do see what I mean, don't you? My dear Ariaden?" "Oh, I see what you mean." Mrs. Oliver looked sullen. "But, the main thing is that you should really be happy about it." Unless she was deluding herself, there was absolutely no sign of happiness on Mrs. Oliver's face. Robin looked happy and continued: "My feeling is that it was a wonderful young man who parachuted out of the sky—" Mrs. Oliver interrupted him: "He's sixty years old."

"Oh no!" "He is sixty years old." "I don't think of him that way. He can't be more than thirty-five—couldn't grow old a day." "But I've been writing about him for thirty-five years. He was at least thirty-five in my first book." "But, my dear, if he's sixty, you can't get him into an affair with that girl—what's the girl's name? Ah, yes, Ingrid. I mean, the Makes him an old bastard!" "Of course it is." "So you know he must be thirty-five," said Robin, not without pride. "He's not Sven Yersin, then. Just make the character a Norwegian youth in the Resistance."

"But, dear Ariaden, the whole core of this playwright is Sven Yersin. You have won a large audience to adore Sven Yersin. They flock to the theater just to see him, and he is Most engaging character, dear!" "But people who read my book know what kind of character he is! You can't make up a whole new character out of thin air, call this person Sven Yersin and forget about it, and the person you invented is actually a Norwegian resistance movement. New youth." "Ariaden, my dear, I have really explained all this. It is not a book, my dear, it is a play, a play. We just have to make it charming! If we can write To this emotional entanglement, you can add Sven Yersin and this girl—what's her name?—Karen—you know, they're both hostile and at odds, and yet, at the same time, they're really relatively attractive. , fascinated by each other—"

"Sven Yersin has no interest in women," said Mrs. Oliver coldly. "But he can't win a bouquet of violets if you do it, my dear. He doesn't fit in this kind of play. I mean it's not about green laurel trees or cheering and singing for the victors." Heroic characters. It's a drama about thrilling murders and crisp, open-air entertainment." Mention the crisp outdoor air, and it has an immediate effect. "I think I should go for a walk," said Mrs. Oliver abruptly. "I need air. I need fresh air badly." "Shall I go out with you?" Robin asked tenderly.

"No. I'd rather walk alone." "You do what you want, dear. Maybe you're right. I'd better go over and make mother an eggnog. Poor thing feels like a little girl out of favor now. She likes the attention, you know. You Will go on to think about that scene, right? The whole thing is really turning out really well. It's going to be a huge hit. I'm sure of it!" Mrs. Oliver sighed. "But, most of all," Robin went on, "you should be happy about it." Mrs. Oliver cast him a nonchalant glance, and flung over her broad shoulders a striking military cape which she had bought in Italy.Then, strode out of the room and walked towards Broadshinney Village.

She decided to turn her attention to the investigation and reasoning of real crimes, and to forget her present worries.Hercule Poirot needs help.She was going to visit a population all over Rodhinny, exercise her feminine instincts, which had never failed, and tell Poirot who the murderer was.At that time, he only needs to obtain the necessary evidence. Mrs. Oliver went down the hill to the post office, bought two pounds of apples, and thus began her investigation.While shopping for apples, she began a cordial conversation with Mrs. Sweetiman. After agreeing on the fact that the weather was going to be very warm in the near future, Mrs. Oliver mentioned that she was staying at Mrs. Rabnams Upward's. "Oh, I know. You're the woman writer from London who writes murder detective stories? I've got three Penguin detective stories here."

Mrs. Oliver glanced at the Penguin Bookcase.More than half of the counter was taken up by children's products. "The Case of the Second Goldfish is a pretty good book," she said, "The Cat That Died—I made a foot-long blowtorch when I wrote it, and it actually It's six feet long. It's weird to have a blowtorch that big, but, that's what someone in the museum wrote me. Sometimes I think some people read just to find fault in the book. There's also a book What is it? Ah! The title of the book is A Maiden's Death--it's full of nonsense and nothing good! I tried to make the sleeping pills dissolve in the water, but the sleeping pills don't, and the whole story has a big twist from the beginning. A lot of trouble, almost impossible to complete. At least eight people died in succession, and Sven Yersin played his cleverness." "These books are bestsellers," said Mrs. Sweetiman simply, indifferent to the author's amusing self-criticism. "You can't believe it! I've never read one myself. Because I really don't have time to read." "You've had a real murder here, haven't you?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Yes, that was in November last year, and it can almost be regarded as the next-door neighbor to this place." "I hear a detective is here investigating, is that so?" "Oh, you mean a little foreign gentleman at the Long Meadow? He was here yesterday—" Mrs. Sweetiman fell silent suddenly, because another customer came to buy stamps. She hurried to the postage counter. "Good morning, Miss Henderson. It's a very warm day." "Yes, it is very warm." Mrs. Oliver stared carefully at the tall girl's back.She had a short-legged white Welsh terrier. Mrs. Sweetiman asked: "How is Mrs. Weatherby?" "Very well, thank you. She doesn't go out much. The east wind has been blowing very hard lately." "Kilchester has a very nice film coming out this week, Miss Henderson, and you should see it." "I was thinking of going last night, but I just can't find the time." "Betty Grable next week—I've run out of five-shilling stamps. Would you mind getting them?" After the girl had gone, Mrs. Oliver said: "Mrs. Weatherby is a disabled person, isn't she?" "Maybe so," replied Mrs. Sweetiman sharply, "some of us just don't have time to lie still." "I quite agree with you," said Mrs. Oliver. "I told Mrs. Upward that a little effort to move her legs would do her good." Mrs. Sweetiman brightened. "When she wants to lie down, her legs don't work - I've heard people say that." "Is this the case with her now?" Mrs. Oliver considered the source of the news. "From Janet?" she ventured a guess. "Janet Groom is a bit whiny," said Mrs. Sweetiman. "You don't find it surprising, do you? Miss Groom is not young herself, and when the east wind blows her own rheumatism Serious too. But they call it arthritis, and when rich people get it, they end up in wheelchairs or something. Ah well, I don't want to risk losing my legs Well, I can't do that. But nowadays, even if you have chilblains, you go to the doctor just to get the benefits of the NHS and make your money worthwhile. We have too much of this kind of health care .Think about how bad it feels to be sick yourself, and this healthcare isn't going to do you any good at all." "I think you're right," said Mrs. Oliver. She gathered up her apples and went out after Deirdre Henderson.It did not take much trouble, for the little dog was old and fat, and walked slowly, enjoying the scent of the grass. Mrs. Oliver's experience is that dogs are always an effective way to help people get acquainted. "How lovely!" she exclaimed. There was a look of gratitude on the calm face of the tall young woman. "The dog is charming indeed," she said. "Aren't you charming, Ben?" Ben raised his head, shook its sausage-like body slightly, sniffed a bunch of thistles, nodded, and leaned forward again, expressing his usual satisfaction with the smell. "Does he fight?" Mrs. Oliver asked. "These little dogs usually fight very hard." "Yes, he's a fierce fighter. That's why I always let him lead the way when I go out." "I've thought about that too." Both women stared at the puppy. After a while, Deirdre Henderson asked abruptly: "You're—you're Ariadon Oliver, aren't you?" "Yes. I'm staying with the Upwards now." "I know, Robin told us you were coming. I have to tell you how much I like your book." Mrs. Oliver blushed, as usual, with embarrassment at being complimented. "Ah," she murmured in a low voice, "I'm glad." She added without looking happy. "Although I want to read a lot, I haven't been able to because our books are provided directly by the Thames Book Club, and my mother doesn't like detective novels. She is very sensitive and the kind of books will make her sleep through the night Not at all. But I am obsessed with detective stories." "You've had a real murder here, haven't you?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "In what house? In one of these farmhouses?" "That house over there." Deirdre Henderson's voice sounded startled. Mrs. Oliver casts her eyes on Mrs. McGinty's former house, where two unpleasant-looking children are sitting on the doorstep, happily torturing a cat.When Mrs. Oliver came up to stop them, the cat stretched out its sharp claws and broke free from the boy's grasp, taking advantage of it and running away.The big boy was scratched by the cat and howled loudly in pain. "You deserve it," said Mrs. Oliver, and then to Deirdre Henderson. "It doesn't look like a house where there's been a murder, does it?" "Yes, it's not like it." The two women seem to agree on this. Mrs. Oliver continued: "It was a cleaning lady who was killed, wasn't she? It was said that someone had murdered her." "Her tenant did it. She had some money—she hid it under the floorboards in the house." "I see." Deirdre Henderson suddenly remarked: "But maybe he didn't do it at all. We have a very interesting little foreigner here. His name is Hercule Poirot—" "Hercule Poirot? Ah, yes, I know him well." "Is he really a detective?" "Honey, he's very famous, and he's very smart." "Then maybe he'll find out that he didn't kill anyone at all." "Who?" "That—that lodger. James Bentley. Oh, I wish he'd been cleared." "Do you think so? Why?" "Because I didn't want it to be him. I never wanted it to be him." Mrs. Oliver looked at her curiously, struck by the intensity of emotion in her voice. "Do you know him?" "No," said Deirdre slowly, "I don't know him well. But, once, my puppy Ben got a foot in a trap and he helped me untie it. And we talked ..." "How is he?" "He was very lonely. His mother had just passed away. He loved her very much." "Do you love your mother very much, too?" asked Mrs. Oliver sharply. "Yes, it made sense to me, I mean, made me understand how he felt. Me and my mother--we've got each other, and you know that." "I remember Robin telling me you had a stepfather." Deirdre said bitterly, "Oh, yes, I have a stepfather." Mrs. Oliver said vaguely: "That's not the same as your own father, is it? Do you remember your biological father now?" "Don't remember, he died before I was born. Mum married Mr. Weatherby when I was four. I—I always hated him. And Mum—" She paused, "Mum It's been a hard time. She doesn't get sympathy or understanding. My stepfather is the most unconscionable man, ruthless and hard-hearted." Mrs. Oliver nodded, then whispered: "There is nothing like a criminal about this James Bentley." "I never thought the police would catch him. I'm sure it must have been done by some bum. The bums are terrific around here on the road sometimes. One of them must have done it." Mrs. Oliver said reassuringly: "Perhaps Hercule Poirot will find out the truth at last." "Yes, maybe—" She turned abruptly and walked up the doorway of Hunter's yard. Mrs. Oliver stared behind her for a moment, then produced a small notepad from her handbag."Not Deirdre Henderson," she wrote on it, and under the word "No," she had broken her pencil with such force. Halfway up the hill she came across Robin Upward walking downhill with a pretty young woman with platinum hair. Robin introduced them. "Eva, that's the wonderful Ariadon Oliver," he said. "Honey, I don't know how she balances herself. She seems so kind and generous too, doesn't she? A bit It's not like someone whose mind is preoccupied with the conception and reasoning of murder. This is Eva Carpenter. Her husband will be our next MP. The current MP is Mr. George Carter Wetherby Befuddled and mad. He used to hide behind doors and pounce on young girls." "Robin, you can't spread such terrible rumors. You're going to tarnish the party's reputation." "Oh, why should I care? It's not my party. I'm a libertarian. It's the only organization I could possibly belong to these days. It's small and picky. There's no chance of advancement. I adore Lost business." He said to Mrs. Oliver again: "Eva wants us to a party tonight. It's a party just for you, Ariaden. You know, it's for the famous people. We're all very, very excited to see you here with us. Don't you Can't you set the murder scene in your next book in the context of Broadshinney?" "Oh, you must, Mrs. Oliver," said Eva Carpenter. "You could easily have Sven Yersin here," said Robin, "and he could stay at the Summerhays Hotel like Hercule Poirot. We're going there now." , because I said to Eva that Hercule Poirot is as famous in his line of work as you are in literature, and she said she treated him rather rudely yesterday, and that she was going to invite him too. Evening party. Seriously, though, my dear, do put your next murder in Broadshinney. We're all going to be very excited." "Oh, please do, Mrs. Oliver. How interesting that would be!" said Eva Carpenter. "Who do we make the murderer and who the victim?" Robin asked. "Who is your current cleaning lady?" Mrs. Oliver asked. "Ah, my dear, not that kind of murder. That would be too boring. No, I think Eva would make a pretty good victim. Maybe strangle her with her own stockings. Nope, someone used this method." "I think it's best if you get murdered, Robin," said Eva, "and the future playwright gets stabbed to death in a country cottage." "We haven't identified the killer yet," Robin said. "How about my mum? She can use her wheelchair so there aren't any footprints. I think it would be a brilliant idea." "She won't stab you to death, though, Robin." Robin thought about it. "Yeah, maybe not. In fact, I'm still thinking about her strangling you. She wouldn't give a damn about doing that." "But I want you to be a victim. Deirdre Henderson might be the one who killed you. That repressed girl is plain, and no one pays any attention to her." "That's it, Ariaden," said Robin, "you've got the plot for your next novel. All you have to do is make up some fiction and - of course - really work on your writing skills." Some work. Oh, my God, what a dog Maureen has." They had come to the door of the Long Meadow, from which two Irish Setters rushed forward, barking and howling. Maureen Summerhays came out of the yard and went into the pigsty with a bucket in her hand. "Get down, Flynn. Come here, Cormick. Hello, I was just cleaning out the pigsty." "We know, honey," said Robin, "we can smell you from where we stand. How's the piggy?" "Last night we were frightened by him. He lay on the ground motionless and didn't want to eat breakfast. Johnny and I checked all the diseases in the pig manual and couldn't sleep all night worrying about him. But this morning, he was fine again, he was alive and kicking, and when Johnny came to feed him, he went crazy and actually knocked him to the ground. Johnny had to go wash himself again bath." "What an exciting time you've had with Johnny," said Robin. Eva said, "Will you and Johnny come to our party tonight, Maureen?" "Of course I would." "Mostly to see Mrs. Oliver," said Robin, "but actually you can see her right now. This is it." "Is that really you?" exclaimed Maureen. "How exciting. You're writing a script with Robin, aren't you?" "We had a great time working together," said Robin. "By the way, Ariaden, I thought about casting after you went out this morning." "Ah, casting." Mrs. Oliver replied with a sigh of relief. "I've found the right man for Erek. Cecil Leach—he's in the repertoire. We're going to see him play someday." "We want to meet your lodger," Eva said to Maureen. "Is he there? I want to invite him over tonight, too." "We'll take him with us," Maureen said. "I think I'd better invite him myself. In fact, I was a little rough with him yesterday." "Ah! he must be there," said Maureen vaguely, "probably in the garden. Cormick--Flynn--these nasty dogs--" She dropped the bucket on the ground with a thump. On the ground, I ran towards the duck pond, and from there came the sound of angry ducks quacking.