found, but he had not wanted the weapon to be found. For the money would point to James Bentley and the weapon would point to—whom?
He shook his head. He had visited the other two cottages. They had been less exuberant than Mrs Kiddle and less dramatic than Mrs Elliot. They had said in effect that Mrs McGinty was a very respectable woman who kept herself to herself, that she had a niece over at Cullavon, that nobody but the said niece ever came to see her, that nobody, so far as they knew, disliked her or bore a grudge against her, that was it true that there was a petition being got up for James Bentley and would they be asked to sign it?
‘I get nowhere—nowhere,’ said Poirot to himself. ‘There is nothing—no little gleam. I can well understand the despair of Superintendent Spence. But it should be different for me. Superintendent Spence, he is a good and painstaking police officer, but me, I am Hercule Poirot. For me, there should be illumination!’
One of his patent leather shoes slopped into a puddle and he winced.
He was the great, the unique Hercule Poirot, but he was also a very old man and his shoes were tight.
He entered the post office.
The right-hand side was given to the business of His Majesty’s mails. The left-hand side displayed a rich assortment of varied merchandise, comprising sweets, groceries, toys, hardware, stationery, birthday cards, knitting wool and children’s underclothes.
Poirot proceeded to a leisurely purchase of stamps.
The woman who bustled forward to attend to him was middle-aged with sharp, bright eyes.
‘Here,’ said Poirot to himself, ‘is undoubtedly the brains of the village of Broadhinny.’
Her name, not inappropriately, was Mrs Sweetiman.
‘And twelve pennies,’ said Mrs Sweetiman, deftly extracting them from a large book. ‘That’s four and tenpence altogether. Will there be anything more, sir?’
She fixed a bright eager glance at him. Through the door at the back a girl’s head showed listening avidly. She had untidy hair and a cold in the head.
‘I am by way of being a stranger in these parts,’ said Poirot solemnly.
‘That’s right, sir,’ agreed Mrs Sweetiman. ‘Come down from London, haven’t you?’
‘I expect you know my business here as well as I do,’ said Poirot with a slight smile.
‘Oh no, sir, I’ve really no idea,’ said Mrs Sweetiman in a wholly perfunctory manner.
‘Mrs McGinty,’ said Poirot.
Mrs Sweetiman shook her head.
‘That was a sad business—a shocking business.’
‘I expect you knew her well?’
‘Oh I did. As well as anyone in Broadhinny, I should say. She’d always pass the time of day with me when she came in here for any little thing. Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. And not settled yet, or so I’ve heard people say.’
‘There is a doubt—in some quarters—as to James Bentley’s guilt.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Sweetiman, ‘it wouldn’t be the first time the police got hold of the wrong man—though I wouldn’t say they had in this case. Not that I should have thought it of him really. A shy, awkward sort of fellow, but not dangerous or so you’d think. But there, you never know, do you?’
Poirot hazarded a request for notepaper.
‘Of course, sir. Just come across the other side, will you?’
Mrs Sweetiman bustled round to take her place behind the left-hand counter.
‘What’s difficult to imagine is, who it could have been if it wasn’t Mr Bentley,’ she remarked as she stretched up to a top shelf for notepaper and envelopes. ‘We do get some nasty tramps along here sometimes, and it’s possible one of these might have found a window unfastened and got in that way. But he wouldn’t go leaving the money behind him, would he? Not after doing murder to get it—and pound notes anyway, nothing with numbers or marked. Here you are, sir, that’s a nice blue Bond, and envelopes to match.’
Poirot made his purchase.
‘Mrs McGinty never spoke of being nervous of anyone, or afraid, did she?’ he asked.
‘Not to me, she didn’t. She wasn’t a nervous woman. She’d stay late sometimes at Mr Carpenter’s—that’s Holmeleigh at the top of the hill. They often have people to dinner and stopping with them, and Mrs McGinty would go there in the evening sometimes to help wash up, and she’d come down the hill in the dark, and that’s more than I’d like to do. Very dark it is—coming down that hill.’
‘Do you know her niece at all—Mrs Burch?’
‘I know her just to speak to. She and her husband come over sometimes.’
‘They inherited a little money when Mrs McGinty died.’
The piercing dark eyes looked at him severely.
‘Well, that’s natural enough, isn’t it, sir? You can’t take it with you, and it’s only right your own flesh and blood should get it.’
‘Oh yes, oh yes, I am entirely in agreement. Was Mrs McGinty fond of her niece?’
‘Very fond of her, I think, sir. In a quiet way.’
‘And her niece’s husband?’
An evasive look appeared in Mrs Sweetiman’s face.
‘As far as I know.’
‘When did you see Mrs McGinty last?’
Mrs Sweetiman considered, casting her mind back.
‘Now let me see, when was it, Edna?’ Edna, in the doorway, sniffed unhelpfully. ‘Was it the day she died? No, it was the day before—or the day before that again? Yes, it was a Monday. That’s right. She was killed on the Wednesday. Yes, it was Monday. She came in to buy a bottle of ink.’
‘She wanted a bottle of ink?’
‘Expect she wanted to write a letter,’ said Mrs Sweetiman brightly.
‘That seems probable. And she was quite her usual self, then? She did not seem different in any way?’
‘N-no, I don’t think so.’
The sniffing Edna shuffled through the door into the shop and suddenly joined in the conversation.
‘She was different,’ she asserted. ‘Pleased about something—well—not quite pleased—excited.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Mrs Sweetiman. ‘Not that I noticed it at the time. But now that you say so—sort of spry, she was.’
‘Do you remember anything she said on that day?’
‘I wouldn’t ordinarily. But what with her being murdered and the police and everything, it makes things stand out. She didn’t say anything about James Bentley, that I’m quite sure. Talked about the Carpenters a bit and Mrs Upward—places where she worked, you know.’
‘Oh yes, I was going to ask you whom exactly she worked for here.’
Mrs Sweetiman replied promptly:
‘Mondays and Thursdays she went to Mrs Summerhayes at Long Meadow. That’s where you are staying, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Poirot sighed, ‘I suppose there is not anywhere else to stay?’
‘Not right in Broadhinny, there isn’t. I suppose you aren’t very comfortable at Long Meadows? Mrs Summerhayes is a nice lady but she doesn’t know the first thing about a house. These ladies don’t who come back from foreign parts. Terrible