Chapter 11 Chapter 10 The Barnards

Elizabeth Barnard's parents lived in the tiny bungalow in the early eleventh, and there were fifty or so of them.The bungalows were hastily built in small towns by a speculative builder.The town was called Llandalno.Mr. Barnard, a small, bewildered man of about fifty-five years of age, noticed our approach, and stood waiting for us at the door. "Come in, gentlemen," he said. Inspector Kelsey spoke first. "This is Inspector Crome of Scotland Yard, sir," said he. "He came to help us specifically with this case." "Scotland Yard?" said Mr. Barnard hopefully. "That's very good. That murderous villain deserved to be run over. My poor girl." His face was convulsed with a convulsion of grief.

"This is Hercule Poirot, also from London, and—" "Captain Hastings," said Poirot. "Nice to see you, gentlemen," said Mr. Barnard mechanically. "Come into the back room, please. I don't know if my poor lady will be able to see you. She's quite broken." As we sat down in the living room of the bungalow, Mrs. Barnard finally made her appearance.Obviously, she was crying in grief, her eyes were red and swollen, she was staggering, and she looked like she had suffered a heavy blow. "Why, are you all right?" said Mr. Barnard, "are you sure you are all right?"

He held her shoulders and led her into a chair. "The Superintendent was very kind," said Mr. Barnard, "and when he gave us the news, he said he was going to wait until after we'd had our first shock before making further inquiries." "It's cruel, it's cruel," cried Mrs. Barnard through tears, "it must be the cruelest thing." There was a slight singing tone in her voice that I thought was a foreign accent.It wasn't until I remembered the name on the door that I realized some of the sounds in her speech actually indicated that she was Welsh.

"I know it's deeply saddening, ma'am," Crome said. "We sympathize with you, but we want to know all the facts so we can get to work as quickly as possible." "That makes sense," said Mr. Barnard, nodding his approval. "I understand that your daughter is twenty-three years old. She lives with you and works at Ginger Cat, right?" "good." "This place is new, isn't it? Where did you live before?" "I run a little hardware business in Kennington. I retired two years ago. We've always wanted to live by the sea."

"You have two daughters?" "Yes. The eldest works in an office in London." "Aren't you shocked that your daughter didn't come home last night?" "We didn't know she didn't come back," said Mrs. Barnard through tears. "Her father and I used to go to bed early. We went to bed at nine o'clock. We didn't know Betty didn't come home until the police came to tell I say……" She couldn't help crying. "Does your daughter often come home late?" "Inspector, you know what girls are like these days," said Barnard. "They're quite independent. They don't rush home on summer evenings. Betty doesn't come home until eleven o'clock. Home."

"How did she get in? Is the door open?" "The keys are under the mat—we'll do that." "I think there are rumors that your daughter is engaged." "They're not formally engaged at the moment," Mr. Barnard said. "His name is Donald Fraser, and I like him. I like him very much," said Mrs. Barnard. "Poor thing, this news is very difficult for him. I wonder if he already knows?" " "I understand that he works for Court and Brunskill?" "Yes. They deal in real estate." "Is he likely to go on a date with your daughter when he's off work?"

"They don't meet every night, maybe once or twice a week." "Do you know if they had a date last night?" "She didn't. Betty never said much about what she wanted or where she was going. But she's a nice girl. Oh, I can't believe it." Mrs. Barnard began to sob. "Calm down, wife. Take heart," her husband advised. "We're almost done." "I don't think Donald will ever—never—" cried Mrs. Barnard. "It's time for you to cheer up now," repeated Mr. Barnard. "I wish I could help you, but I don't know anything, I don't know anything, and I can't help you find that damn villain. Betty's a lovely, happy girl—she's with the decent Young people come and go, and it reminds us of our own youth. It breaks my heart that anyone would have murdered her, it's inexplicable."

"You have told the truth, Mr. Barnard," said Crome. "I wanted to tell you what I wanted to do—to see Miss Barnard's room. There might be letters or something—or Journal." "Go and see, please," said Mr. Barnard, rising. He led the way, Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I was in the rear. I stopped for a while to tie my shoelaces, and at that moment a taxi pulled up at the door, and a girl got out of the cab. After paying the driver, she hurried towards the house, carrying a only boxes.When she saw me when she came in, she froze there. "Who are you?" she said.

I went down a few steps and I was annoyed not only how to answer.Should I be named?Or rather I came with the police.This girl doesn't have time for me to make up my mind. "Oh," she said, "I can guess that too." She took off the white lambskin hat she was wearing and threw it on the ground.She turned and the light fell on her and I could see her more clearly now. My first impression of her was the Dutch doll my sisters played with as a child.Her hair was black, with short bangs cut straight across her forehead.Her cheekbones were high, and her whole body was eerily modern-day rigid, yet attractive.She is not very beautiful, rather mediocre, but there is something strong about her, a persuasive force, which makes it impossible for people to ignore her.

"You're Miss Barnard?" I asked. "I'm Megan Barnard. I suppose you're from the police?" "Oh," I said, "it's not quite—" She cut me off. "I don't think I have anything to tell you. My sister is a beautiful, bright girl. She has no boyfriend. Good morning!" She gave me a brief smile as she spoke and looked at me challengingly. "I believe that statement is accurate," she said. "I'm not a reporter, if you think so." "So who are you?" She looked around. "Where are Mom and Dad?"

"Your father is showing the police to your sister's room. Your mother has come in and she is upset." The girl seemed to have made a decision. "Come here," she said. She opened a door and walked in.I followed her and soon found myself in a small, clean kitchen. I tried to close the door behind me, but met unexpected resistance.Poirot flashed calmly into the room and closed the door behind him. "Miss Barnard?" he said with a quick bow. "This is Hercule Poirot," I said. Megan Barnard looked her over quickly, thinking. "I've heard of you," she said. "You're a fine private eye, aren't you?" "It's not a pretty picture, but it's adequate," said Poirot. The girl sat down at the kitchen table, took out a cigarette from her bag, lit it between her lips, and said between two puffs: "I wonder what M. Hercule Poirot can do in such a mean little case as ours?" "Ma'am," said Poirot, "may be many things that you and I do not understand. But all this is of little importance. It is the circumstances which are not easy to see." "What would that be?" "Death, madam, is very unfortunate to be prejudiced. There is often a favorable prejudice against the dead. I heard you say to my friend Hastings just now, 'She is a beautiful, intelligent girl, and has no boyfriend.' You're laughing at the papers. But it's true, when a girl dies, that's what's said. She's bright, she's jovial, she's mild-tempered, she has no troubles in the world, she has no nasty acquaintances .People are always generous with the dead.You know what I'm trying to do right now?I want to find someone who knows Elizabeth Barnard but doesn't know she's dead!Then I might hear Some useful words—truth.” Megan Barnard watched him for a few minutes, smoking, and then, finally, she spoke.Her words took me by surprise. "Betty," she said, "is a complete little fool."