Chapter 22 Chapter Twenty Two

Hercule Poirot hired a car and returned to Broadhinney. He is tired because he keeps thinking.Thinking is always exhausting.And his thinking was not entirely satisfactory.It was as if a pattern, plainly visible, could be woven into a thing, yet, although he was holding the weaving material in his hand, he just couldn't see what the pattern was. But that's the problem, that's the crux, that's the whole sticking point.The pattern itself has its own color, subtle and imperceptible. Not far from Kilchester, his car met the pick-up car from Summerhays, which was coming from the opposite direction.Johnny was driving the car, and there was another person in the car.Poirot hardly noticed their passing.He was still lost in thought.

When he got back to the Long Meadow he went straight into the parlor.He removed a basket full of spinach from the most comfortable chair in the room and sat down.The sound of a typewriter tapping could be heard faintly overhead.That's Robin Upward painstakingly revising a script.He had changed his drafts three times, tore them up and started over, he told Poirot.But somehow, he still had trouble concentrating. Robin may truly feel the great grief of his mother's death, but he is still Robin Upward, and his primary interest is himself. "Mother," he said solemnly, "should expect me to keep working."

Hercule Poirot had heard similar things said by many.This hope of the dead for the living is a most convenient supposition, and those killed by death never have any doubts about the hopes of their loved ones, and those hopes are usually in accordance with their own inclinations. In the present circumstances, this is likely to be true.Mrs Upward has high hopes for Robin's work and is enormously proud of him. Poirot leaned back and closed his eyes. He thought of Mrs. Upward.He was wondering what kind of person Mrs. Upward really was.He thought of a line he once heard a superintendent say.

"We're going to take him apart and see what he's made of." What was Mrs. Upward made of? The door slammed and Maureen Summerhays burst in.Her hair was disheveled and anxious. "I can't imagine what happened to Johnny," she said. "He went to the post office with those packages and was overdue. I was expecting him to fix the chicken coop door." Poirot, being a true gentleman, should probably have volunteered and offered to fix the chicken coop door.However, Poirot did not do this.He wanted to go on thinking about the two murders, about Mrs. Upward's character.

"I can't find the form from the Department of Agriculture," continued Maureen. "I've looked everywhere." "The spinach is on the sofa," said Poirot, offering to help. Maureen didn't miss spinach. "That form came in last week," she tried to think. "I must have put it somewhere. Maybe when I mended Johnny's coat." She quickly rummaged through the cupboards and started pulling drawers out of the way, sweeping most of the stuff across the floor in a brutal and merciless manner.Hercule Poirot looked at her with anguish. Suddenly, she let out a triumphant cheer.

"found it!" She rushed out of the room happily. Hercule Poirot sighed and continued his meditation. Organize things in order and be precise— He frowned.The clutter next to the cupboard interfered with his concentration.How can you find something like this! Organized and precise.That's the way things should be.Order and rules. Although he turned his head away, he could still see the mess on the floor.Needlework buttons, a pile of socks, letters, knitting yarn, magazines, sealing wax, photographs, a jumper—all in disorder! Poirot got up, went to the cupboard, and with quick and agile movements began to put these things back into the open drawers.

Pullovers, socks, wool.Then, put the sealing wax, photos and letters in the second drawer. The phone rang. The piercing sound of the bell made him jump up. He hurried to the phone and picked up the receiver. "Hello, hello, hello," he said. It was Superintendent Spence's voice speaking to him on the phone. "Ah! It is you, M. Poirot. I was looking for you." Spence's voice was barely audible.A man who was very worried became full of confidence this time. "That photo of the confession made me say a whole lot of stupid nonsense," he said with accusation and indulgence, "and we have new evidence. A girl in the Broadshinney post office Major Summerhays just brought her in. Seems like she was standing opposite that house that night when she saw a woman go in. It was about eight-thirty and before nine. It wasn't Dale Hen Dessen. It was a woman with blond hair. Which brings us back to our original train of thought—it must have been one of them—Eva Carpenter and Sheila Rendell. The only The question is—which one?"

Poirot opened his mouth, but said nothing.He carefully and deliberately put the receiver down again. He stood motionless, staring ahead. The phone rang again. "Hey Hey hey!" "Would you please find M. Poirot?" "I am Hercule Poirot." "I get it. I'm Maud Williams. You can be at the post office in fifteen minutes?" "I'll go right away." He put the receiver back. He looked down at his feet.Should he change a pair of shoes?His feet hurt a little.Oh well - it's okay. Poirot put on his hat with determination and left. On his way down the hill he was greeted by one of Superintendent Spence's subordinates, who happened to be coming out of Rabnum's Yard.

"Good day, M. Poirot." Poirot replied politely.He noticed that Fletcher looked agitated. "The superintendent sent me to do a thorough search," he explained, "you know—anything we could miss. You wouldn't think of that, would you? Of course we searched the desk, but, the superintendent thought, maybe There would be a secret drawer - there must be newspaper clippings or something in it. Ah, no secret drawer. But, after searching through the drawer, I started to check the books. Sometimes people would put a letter in the in the book, you know?" Poirot replied that he knew. "So what did you find?" His question was polite.

"Not a letter or anything like that, no. But I found something interesting--at least I think. Look." He opened a wrapped newspaper to reveal a rather battered book. "It's on the shelf. An old book, printed many years ago. But here it is." He opened the book and turned the title page.Signed in pencil: Evelyn Hope. "Interesting, don't you think? If you can't remember, the name is—" "It was the name Eva Kane used when she left England. Of course I remember it," said Poirot. "It seems that when Mrs. McGinty recognized a person in the photograph at Broadshinney, it was Mrs. Upward. That complicates matters a little, doesn't it?"

"Indeed," said Poirot, moved, "I can assure you that when you take this back and tell Superintendent Spence he'll lose the hair of his head—yes, it will. .” "I hope it's not so bad," Sergeant Fletcher said. Poirot made no reply.He continued walking down the hill.His thoughts stopped.Nothing is right. He goes into the post office.Maud Williams was looking at the weaving patterns.Poirot did not speak to her.He went straight to the counter where the stamps were sold.When Maud finished his shopping, Mrs. Sweetiman came to meet him, and he bought some stamps.Maud came out of the shop. Maud seemed absorbed in his own thoughts, and said little.Poirot was then able to follow her quickly.He quickly caught up with her on the road, walking beside her. Mrs. Sweetiman looked out of the post office window, and muttered to herself in disapproval, "These foreigners! They're all the same. Old enough to be her grandpa, he is!" Poirot said: "You have something to tell me?" "I don't know if it matters. Someone tried to sneak into Mrs. Wetherby's room through the window." "when?" "This morning. She went out, and the girl was out for a walk with the dog. The cold old fellow was shut up in the study alone. I was working in the kitchen as usual--it was on the other side of the study--but, Actually it's extremely beneficial to--you understand?" Poirot nodded. "So I crept up the stairs and into the bedroom of the sharp woman. There was a ladder facing the window, and a man was fumbling for the window handle. Since the murder, she has locked everything and sealed it up. So tight that not a breath of fresh air could get in. When the man saw me, he jumped off the ladder and ran away. The ladder belonged to the gardener—he climbed on it to cut the ivy, and he went to have his tea. " "Who is that man? Can you describe him in detail?" "I just caught a glimpse of him. By the time I got to the window, he had come off the ladder and fled. When I saw him, he had his back to the sun, so I couldn't see his face." "Are you sure it was a man?" Maud thought about it. "Dress like a man—wear an old felt hat. That could be a woman, of course..." "Very interesting," said Poirot, "very interesting . . . nothing else?" "Not yet. That old woman kept some junk! There must be something wrong with her brain! I didn't hear her when she came home this morning, so she scolded me for eavesdropping and peeping. Next time I will really kill She. If anyone is looking for death, a woman is. A real nuisance." Poirot muttered softly: "Evelyn Hope..." "What did you say?" she asked after him. "You know the name?" "Oh—yes . . . that's what Eva or something used when she went to Australia. It—it was in the papers—in the Sunday Comet." "The Sunday Comet says a lot of things, but it doesn't say this. The police found a book in Mrs. Upward's house with that name on it." Maud exclaimed: "Then it was her—and she didn't die there...Michael was right." "Michael?" Maud said hastily: "I can't stay long, I'm going to be late making lunch. I put everything in the oven, but it will dry out." She said and ran away.Poirot stood where he was, watching her back. Behind the window of the post office, with her nose pressed against the glass, Mrs. Sweetiman wondered if the old foreigner was one of those... Back at the "Long Grass" Poirot took off his shoes and put on a pair of soft slippers—now the feet must have been relaxed. He sat down again in the rocking chair and began to think again.Up to now, he has many questions to think about.There were some problems he had missed in the past—little ones. The patterns are all there, all you need is a combination. Maureen, glass in hand, was talking in a dreamy voice--asking a question... Mrs. Oliver's account of the night with Cecil at the Rip Theatre?Michael?He was almost certain she had mentioned a man named Michael - Eva Kane, Craig's governess - Evelyn Hope... of course!This is Evelyn Hope!