think,’ said Hercule Poirot quietly, ‘that I shall not be in for lunch.’
‘I don’t know, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Burch.
She had said that three times already. Her natural distrust of foreign-looking gentlemen with black moustaches, wearing large fur-lined coats was not to be easily overcome.
‘Very unpleasant, it’s been,’ she went on. ‘Having poor auntie murdered and the police and all that. Tramping round everywhere, and ferreting about, and asking questions. With the neighbours all agog. I didn’t feel at first we’d ever live it down. And my husband’s mother’s been downright nasty about it. Nothing of that kind ever happened in her family, she kept saying. And “poor Joe” and all that. What about poor me? She was my aunt, wasn’t she? But really I did think it was all over now.’
‘And supposing that James Bentley is innocent, after all?’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Mrs Burch. ‘Of course he isn’t innocent. He did it all right. I never did like the looks of him. Wandering about muttering to himself. Said to auntie, I did: “You oughtn’t to have a man like that in the house. Might go off his head,” I said. But she said he was quiet and obliging and didn’t give trouble. No drinking, she said, and he didn’t even smoke. Well, she knows better now, poor soul.’
Poirot looked thoughtfully at her. She was a big, plump woman with a healthy colour and a good-humoured mouth. The small house was neat and clean and smelt of furniture polish and Brasso. A faint appetizing smell came from the direction of the kitchen.
A good wife who kept her house clean and took the trouble to cook for her man. He approved. She was prejudiced and obstinate but, after all, why not? Most decidedly, she was not the kind of woman one could imagine using a meat chopper on her aunt, or conniving at her husband’s doing so. Spence had not thought her that kind of woman, and rather reluctantly, Hercule Poirot agreed with him. Spence had gone into the financial background of the Burches and had found no motive there for murder, and Spence was a very thorough man.
He sighed, and persevered with his task, which was the breaking down of Mrs Burch’s suspicion of foreigners. He led the conversation away from murder and focused on the victim of it. He asked questions about ‘poor auntie’, her health, her habits, her preferences in food and drink, her politics, her late husband, her attitude to life, to sex, to sin, to religion, to children, to animals.
Whether any of this irrelevant matter would be of use, he had no idea. He was looking through a haystack to find a needle. But, incidentally, he was learning something about Bessie Burch.
Bessie did not really know very much about her aunt. It had been a family tie, honoured as such, but without intimacy. Now and again, once a month or so, she and Joe had gone over on a Sunday to have midday dinner with auntie, and more rarely, auntie had come over to see them. They had exchanged presents at Christmas. They’d known that auntie had a little something put by, and that they’d get it when she died.
‘But that’s not to say we were needing it,’ Mrs Burch explained with rising colour. ‘We’ve got something put by ourselves. And we buried her beautiful. A real nice funeral it was. Flowers and everything.’
Auntie had been fond of knitting. She didn’t like dogs, they messed up a place, but she used to have a cat—a ginger. It strayed away and she hadn’t had one since, but the woman at the post office had been going to give her a kitten. Kept her house very neat and didn’t like litter. Kept brass a treat and washed down the kitchen floor every day. She made quite a nice thing of going out to work. One shilling and tenpence an hour—two shillings from Holmeleigh, that was Mr Carpenter’s of the Works’ house. Rolling in money, the Carpenters were. Tried to get auntie to come more days in the week, but auntie wouldn’t disappoint her other ladies because she’d gone to them before she went to Mr Carpenter’s, and it wouldn’t have been right.
Poirot mentioned Mrs Summerhayes at Long Meadows.
Oh yes, auntie went to her—two days a week. They’d come back from India where they’d had a lot of native servants and Mrs Summerhayes didn’t know a thing about a house. They tried to market-garden, but they didn’t know anything about that, either. When the children came home for the holidays, the house was just pandemonium. But Mrs Summerhayes was a nice lady and auntie liked her.
So the portrait grew. Mrs McGinty knitted, and scrubbed floors and polished brass, she liked cats and didn’t like dogs. She liked children, but not very much. She kept herself to herself.
She attended church on Sunday, but didn’t take part in any church activities. Sometimes, but rarely, she went to the pictures. She didn’t hold with goings on—and had given up working for an artist and his wife when she discovered they weren’t properly married. She didn’t read books, but she enjoyed the Sunday paper and she liked old magazines when her ladies gave them to her. Although she didn’t go much to the pictures, she was interested in hearing about film stars and their doings. She wasn’t interested in politics, but voted Conservative like her husband had always done. Never spent much on clothes, but got quite a lot given her from her ladies, and was of a saving disposition.
Mrs McGinty was, in fact, very much the Mrs McGinty that Poirot had imagined she would be. And Bessie Burch, her niece, was the Bessie Burch of Superintendent Spence’s notes.
Before Poirot took his leave, Joe Burch came home for the lunch hour. A small, shrewd man, less easy to be sure about than his wife. There was a faint nervousness in his manner. He showed less signs of suspicion and hostility than his wife. Indeed he seemed anxious to appear cooperative. And that, Poirot reflected, was very faintly out of character. For why should Joe Burch be anxious to placate an importunate foreign stranger? The reason could only be that the stranger had brought with him a letter from Superintendent Spence of the County Police.
So Joe Burch was anxious to stand in well with the police? Was it that he couldn’t afford, as his wife could, to be critical of the police?
A man, perhaps, with an uneasy conscience. Why was that conscience uneasy? There could be so many reasons—none of them connected with Mrs McGinty’s death. Or was it that, somehow or other, the cinema alibi had been cleverly faked, and that it was Joe Burch who had knocked on the door of the cottage, had been admitted by auntie and who had struck down the unsuspecting old woman? He would pull out the drawers and ransack the rooms to give the appearance of robbery, he might hide the money outside, cunningly, to incriminate James Bentley, the money that was in the Savings Bank was what he was after. Two hundred pounds coming to his wife which, for some reason unknown, he badly needed. The weapon, Poirot remembered, had never been found. Why had that not also been found on the scene of the crime? Any moron knew enough to wear gloves or rub off fingerprints. Why then had the weapon, which must have been a heavy one with a sharp edge, been removed? Was it because it could easily be identified as belonging to the Burch ménage? Was that same weapon, washed and polished, here in the house now? Something in the nature of a meat chopper, the police surgeon had said—but not, it seemed, actually a meat chopper. Something, perhaps a little unusual…a little out of the ordinary, easily identified. The police had hunted for it, but not found it. They had searched woods, dragged ponds. There was nothing missing from Mrs McGinty’s kitchen, and nobody could say that James Bentley had had anything of that kind in his possession. They had never traced any purchase of a meat chopper or any such implement to him. A small, but negative point in his favour. Ignored in the weight of other evidence. But still a point…
Poirot cast a swift glance round the rather overcrowded
