Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen

"There is no doubt," said Poirot to himself next morning, "that spring has come." His complaints of the previous night seemed to be groundless. Mrs. Upward is a sensitive woman, and she will take care of herself. Yet, in some peculiar way, she had deceived him.He couldn't make out her reaction at all.It was obvious that she didn't want him to be clear.She recognized the picture of Lily Gamble, and she was determined to act alone. Reflecting on these circumstances, Poirot paced up a garden path when a sound behind him startled him. "M. Poirot." Mrs. Rendell had already followed him quietly, and her steps were so light that Poirot did not hear her footsteps.Since yesterday until now, he has felt particularly tense.

"Excuse me, ma'am. You startled me." Mrs. Rundle smiled dully.If he was nervous, he thought Mrs. Rendell was even more nervous.One of her eyelashes kept flickering, and her two hands rubbed together restlessly. "I—I hope I didn't interrupt you. Perhaps you were busy." "No, no, I'm not busy. The weather is fine, and I like the feeling of spring. It's good to be out of doors. There's always, always drafts in Mrs. Somerhays's." "airflow--" "It's just a constant flow of air." "Ah, yes. I suppose so."

"Those windows would never close, and the doors would always pop open." "It's a really run-down house. But of course, the Somerhayses are having such a hard time and they can't afford to fix it. If it were me, I'd let it go. I know the house is in Their family has been passed down for hundreds of years, but these days, you can't cling to old things just for the sake of affection." "Yeah, we're all no longer sentimental now." There was a silence.Poirot watched the white, nervous hands out of the corner of his eye.He waited for her to speak first.When she did speak, the words were very abrupt.

"I think," she said, "that you always have to have a condition when you're going to investigate something?" Poirot thought about the question.Although he didn't look at her, he could clearly feel the eager eyes she was staring at him. "As you say, ma'am," he replied noncommittally, "it is very convenient." "To explain why you're there, and—and to ask those questions." "That might be useful." "Why—why at all did you come to Broadshinney, M. Poirot?" He stared at her with some surprise. "But, my dear lady, I told you—I have come to inquire into Mrs. McGinty's death."

Mrs. Rundle said sharply: "I know you're going to say that. But it's ridiculous." Poirot raised his eyebrows. "yes?" "Of course. Nobody would believe that." "But I assure you, it is so." Her dull blue eyes blinked and looked away. "You won't tell me." "Tell you—what, ma'am?" She seemed to change the subject abruptly and roughly. "I want to ask you—about the anonymous letter." "Go on," said Poirot encouragingly, when she stopped. "Anonymous letters always lie, don't they?"

"Sometimes lies," said Poirot cautiously. "Usually a lie," she insisted. "I don't know if I should say that." Sheila Rendell said emphatically: "Writing anonymous letters is the work of cowardly, scheming, cunning people!" "Oh, yes, I should agree with that." "You wouldn't believe anything in an anonymous letter, would you?" "That is a difficult question," said Poirot gravely. "I don't believe it. I don't believe a word in it." She added in a strong tone: "I know why you're here. It's not true, and I tell you, it's not true."

She turned abruptly and walked away. Hercule Poirot raised his eyebrows with interest. "What now?" he asked himself, "shall I go on walking in the garden? Is this a bird of a different color?" He was perplexed. Mrs. Rendell insisted that he was here for more than just investigating Mrs. McGinty's murder.She thinks it's just a prerequisite. Does she really believe that?Or was she leading him down a path in a different direction? What does the anonymous letter have to do with this case? Was Mrs. Rendell the person in the photograph Mrs. Upward said she had seen "recently"?In other words, was Mrs. Rendell Lily Gamble?As a member of society restored to normal life, Lily Gamble's name was last mentioned in Erie.Was it there that Dr. Rendell met his wife and married her, knowing nothing of her past history?Lily Gamble trained as a stenographer.Her work was easily connected with the doctor's profession.

Poirot shook his head and sighed. This is very possible.But he needs evidence. A cold wind picked up suddenly, and the sun went down. Poirot shuddered and walked towards the house. Yes, he needs evidence to figure it out.If he could find the murder weapon— At that moment he felt strangely certain that he had seen the murder weapon. Then, subconsciously, he wondered if he had seen and noticed it long ago.If, say, it had been there since his stay at the "Long Meadow"... It sits on top of the bookshelf near the window. He thought, "Why didn't I notice it before?"

He took it, weighed it in his hand, checked it, shook it from side to side, and then raised it up again to chop— Maureen came rushing in as usual, with the dogs, and said in a light and friendly voice: "Hello, are you playing with a sugar ax?" "Is this a sugar ax? Is that what it's called?" "Yeah. A sugar ax--or a sugar-hammer--I don't know what to call it. It's weird looking, isn't it? And there's a little bird on the axe, too childish." Poirot carefully turned the tool in his hand and examined it over and over again.It was of figured bronze, resembling a hatchet, heavy and sharp, with red and blue ornaments.On the tip of the ax was a bird with green eyes, looking silly and frivolous.

"Killing everyone with it is fun, isn't it?" Maureen said casually. She took the ax from his hand, aimed at a target in the air, and chopped it down. "It's so easy," she said, "what's the song about it? 'That's what it did,' he said, by splitting his head off." I reckon whose head you want to split with this ax It's easy, don't you think?" Poirot looked her over.Her freckled face was serene and cheerful. she says: "I told Johnny what was going to happen to him if I bored him. I said this ax is a wife's best friend!"

She laughed loudly, put down the sugar axe, turned and walked towards the door. "What am I doing in the house?" she wondered. "I can't remember . When she was almost at the door, Poirot called to her. "You brought this ax back from India, didn't you?" "Oh no," Maureen said, "I got it at a yard sale over Christmas." "A flea fair?" asked Poirot, puzzled. "Garbage fairs," Maureen explained, "are held at the vicarage. You take what you don't need, and buy what you do. If you can find what you want, yes. Not too bad. Of course sometimes you can't find anything you want at all. I bought this ax and that coffee pot. I love the coffee spout and I love this little bird on the ax .” The coffee pot was small and made of copper.It had a large, curved spout, and Poirot remembered something very similar. "I think these are from Baghdad," Morin said. "At least I think that's what the Wetherbys told me. Maybe Persia." "Then it turned out it belonged to the Wetherbys?" "Yes, they've got a lot of old stuff in the house. I should go. Go see the pudding." She walked out.The door was slammed shut.Poirot picked up the ax again and carried it under the window. There is a faint brown on the edge of the blade. Poirot nodded. He hesitated for a moment, then took the ax and returned to his bedroom.In the bedroom, he carefully wrapped the ax in paper and wire, put it in a box, went downstairs again, and left the house. No one, he thought, would notice that an ax was missing.The household objects here are not neat. At Rabnames, script collaborations remain fraught with difficulty. "However, I do think it's inappropriate to cast him as a vegetarian," Robin was objecting. "It's too different to be appealing." "I have no choice," Mrs. Oliver insisted. "He's always been a vegetarian, and he carries a little utensil for squeezing carrots with him." "But, Ariaden, dear, why?" "How do I know?" said Mrs. Oliver angrily. "How do I know why I conceived a man with a revolver? I must have been mad! Why should I describe him as a Finn when I Don't know anything about Finland! Why is he a vegetarian? Why does he have all these weird behaviors and habits? That's how it's written and done. You tried a little - people seem to be Love these attempts - and then you just keep writing - before you figure out what the hell you're writing, you create crazy characters like Sven Yersin that tie your life up .Somebody even wrote to say how much you must like him. Like him? If I ever met that skinny, wobbly, vegan Finn in real life, I'd rather have a real murder, Better than anything I've ever made up." Robin Upward stared at her with wide-eyed respect. "You know, Ariaden, that might be a brilliant idea. There was a real Sven Yersin—and you murdered him. You might make a book of swan songs—in your Published posthumously." "Absolutely not!" said Mrs. Oliver. "What about the money after the book? I want every penny I get from writing murders now." "Yes, yes. On this point, I agree with you very much." The troubled playwright strode up and down the room. "Ingrid is becoming more and more tiresome," he said. "That scene in the cellar is going to be really good, and after that, I don't know how we don't have the next scene suddenly go from climax to climax." Come down." Mrs. Oliver was silent.She felt that every scene was a headache for Robin Upward. Robin glared at her disapprovingly. That morning, when she went for her usual walk to change her mind, she was unhappy with her wind-swept hair.Dampening a comb with water, she held her gray hair firmly to her scalp, and her high forehead, wide, heavy glasses, and her stern demeanor reminded Robin that she was becoming more and more like a The school teacher made a young man like him feel intimidated, and he was speechless in amazement.He found it increasingly difficult to call her "darling," and even "Ariaden" was not easy.He said irritably: "You know, I'm not in the mood today. Maybe it's all because of too much gin last night. Let's stop with the script and talk about casting. If we can get Dennis Calleri, of course, is brilliant. But he's busy with movies right now. Joan Bellew would be perfect as Ingrid - it's a good thing she wants to play the part. Ery C—I thought of Eric. How about we go to the Little Rip Theater tonight? You tell me what you think of Cecil in that part." Mrs. Oliver was hopeful about the proposal, and she agreed.Robin walks off to make a phone call. "Well," he said when he came back, "everything is arranged." The seemingly sunny weather in the morning was not as good as people expected.The clouds were thick and the weather was gloomy, as if it was a sign of rain.When Poirot wandered through the thick undergrowth to the gate of Hunter's Court, he made up his mind that he did not want to live in the shallow valley in front of the hillside.The house is surrounded by trees, and the courtyard walls are covered with ivy.This, he thought, would indeed require a lumberjack's axe. (Lumber axe? Or a sugar hammer?) He rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, he rang again. It was Deirdre Henderson who came to answer the door.She seemed surprised. "Oh," she said, "it's you." "Can I come in and talk to you?" "I—oh, yes, I think so." She led him into the same dark, cramped living room he had been in before.On the mantelpiece he recognized the older brother of the little coffee pot on the Maureen bookshelf.Its huge hooked spout seemed to suggest the ferocity of the East to dominate this Western cottage. "I'm afraid we're in a bit of a mess today," said Deirdre apologetically. "Our helper—the German girl is leaving. She's only been here a month. In fact, it seems like she's just a helper. Traveling across the country to cope with this period, because she wants to get married. Now, they both have made arrangements, and she will leave soon this evening." Poirot clicked his tongue. "Very inconsiderate." "That's it. My stepfather said it wasn't legal for her to do it. But, even if it wasn't legal, I don't see what anyone else could do about it if she just left and got married. We wouldn't even have Didn't even know she was leaving. She could have walked out of this house without even saying a word." "Ah, this age doesn't understand people." "Yeah," said Deirdre dejectedly, "I think so." She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. "I'm tired," she said, "I'm tired." "Yes," said Poirot softly, "I think you may be very tired." "What do you want, M. Poirot?" "I want to ask about a sugar hammer." "Knock a sugar ax?" For a moment a look of bewilderment appeared on her face. "A tool of brass with a bird on it, inlaid with red and green stones." Poirot was very careful to give an exact description. "Oh yes. I know." There was no warmth or interest in her voice. "I suppose it belongs to your family?" "Yes. My mother bought it from the bazaar in Baghdad. It was one of the things we got from the market at the vicarage." "It's a flea fair, right?" "Yeah. We've got a lot of these flea fairs around here. It's hard to find people to pay for, but usually you can always find something to give away." "So the ax was in the house until Christmas, when you took it to the yard sale, didn't you?" Deirdre frowned and thought about it. "Not the fair at Christmas. The one before that. The one at Harvest." "Harvest - that's supposed to be - when? October? September?" "The end of September." There was silence in the cabin.Poirot looked at the girl, and she looked up at him.Her complexion was mild and her face was expressionless.Behind her indifferent expression, he tried to guess what was going on in her heart.Maybe it's a pool of stagnant water, maybe just like she said, she's just tired... He asked softly and eagerly: "Are you sure it was the Harvest Deal? Surely not the Christmas one?" "Very sure." Her gaze was steady, her eyes unblinking. Hercule Poirot waited.He patiently continued to wait... However, the situation he was waiting for did not appear. He solemnly said: "I cannot disturb you any longer, miss." She walked with him toward the gate. Now, he walked down the drive again on foot. Two different accounts emerged—two accounts that could not possibly coincide. Who is right?Should I trust Maureen Summerhays or Deirdre Henderson? This was crucial if the sugar ax had been used as a murder weapon, as he believed.Harvest Festival is at the end of September.Between then and Christmas, on November 22, Mrs. McGinty was murdered.Whose property was the ax at the time of her murder? He walked towards the post office.Mrs. Sweetiman is always helpful and goes out of her way.She said that she went to both trade fairs, and she always went to both of them.You can find a lot of good stuff there.She also helps people get things ready in advance.Although most people take things with them, they don't prepare them in advance.A brass hammer?It looks like an axe and is inlaid with colored stones and a bird.No, she doesn't remember very well.There are so many similar things at the trade fair, so chaotic, and some things need to be caught quickly.Ah, maybe she could think of something like that--the price was five shillings, and there was a coffee pot, but the coffee pot had a hole in the bottom--not usable, but for decoration.But she couldn't remember exactly when—it must have been a while.Maybe it was Christmas, maybe it was earlier.she didn't notice... She took Poirot's package.Want to register?Yes. She copied the address down, and as she handed him the receipt he noticed a look of interest in her keen dark eyes. Hercule Poirot wandered up the hill, brooding to himself. Of the two, Maureen Summerhays was muddle-headed, jovial, careless, and more likely to be mistaken.Harvest or Christmas is a thing for her. Deirdre Henderson, slow and stiff, probably had a much more precise memory of times and dates. However, that annoying problem remains. After his question, why didn't she ask him why he wanted to know about the situation?Isn't this a natural, almost unavoidable problem? But Deirdre Henderson didn't ask him.