'I was in the ironmongery business in Kennington. Retired two years ago. Always meant to live near the sea.'
'You have two daughters?'
'Yes. My elder daughter works in an office in London in the City.'
'Weren't you alarmed when your daughter didn't come home last night?'
'We didn't know she hadn't,' said Mrs. Barnard tearfully. 'Dad and I always go to bed early. Nine o'clock's our time. We never knew Betty hadn't come home till the police officer came and said—and said—'
She broke down.
'Was your daughter in the habit of—er—returning home late?'
'You know what girls are nowadays, inspector,' said Barnard. 'Independent, that's what they are. These summer evenings they're not going to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in by eleven.'
'How did she get in? Was the door open?'
'Left the key under the mat—that's what we always did.'
'There is some rumour, I believe, that your daughter was engaged to be married?'
'They don't put it as formally as that nowadays,' said Mr. Barnard.
'Donald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much,' said Mrs. Barnard. 'Poor fellow, it'll be terrible for him—this news. Does he know yet, I wonder?'
'He works in Court & Brunskill's, I understand.'
'Yes, they're the estate agents.'
'Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after her work?'
'Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer.'
'Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday?'
'She didn't say. Betty never said much about what she was doing or where she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can't believe—'
Mrs. Barnard started sobbing again.
'Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, Mother,' urged her husband. 'We' we got to get to the bottom of this . . . .'
'I'm sure Donald would never—would never—' sobbed Mrs. Barnard.
'Now just you pull yourself together,' repeated Mr. Barnard.
He turned to the two inspectors. 'I wish to God I could give you some help—but the plain fact is I know nothing—nothing at all that can help you to the dastardly scoundrel who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girl—with a decent young fellow that she was—well, we'd have called it walking out with in my young days. Why anyone should want to murder her simply beats me—it doesn't make sense.'
'You're very near the truth there, Mr. Barnard,' said Crome. 'I tell you what I'd like to do—have a look over Miss Barnard's room. There may be something—letters—or a diary.'
'Look over it and welcome,' said Mr. Barnard, rising.
He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I brought up the rear.
I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelace, and as I did so, a taxi drew up outside and a girl jumped out of it. She paid the driver and hurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As she entered the door she saw me and stopped dead.
There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me.
'Who are you?' she said.
I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply. Should I give my name? Or mention that I had come here with the police? The girl, however, gave me no time to make a decision.
'Oh, well,' she said, 'I can guess.'
She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing and threw it on the ground. I could see her better now as she turned a little so that the light fell on her.
My first impression was of the Dutch dolls that my sisters used to play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheekbones were high and her whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow, unattractive. She was not good-looking—plain rather—but there was an intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quite impossible to overlook.
'You are Miss Barnard?' I asked.
'I am Megan Barnard. You belong to the police, I suppose.'
'Well,' I said, 'not exactly—'
She interrupted me. 'I don't think I've got anything to say to you. My sister was a nice bright girl with no men friends. Good morning.'
She gave a short laugh as she spoke and regarded me challengingly. 'That's the correct phrase, I believe?' she said.
'I'm not a reporter, if that's what you're getting at.'
'Well, what are you?' She looked round. 'Where's mum and dad?'
'Your father is showing the police your sister's bedroom. Your mother's in there. She's very upset.'
The girl seemed to make a decision.
'Come in here,' she said.
She pulled open a door and passed through. I followed her and found myself in a small, neat kitchen.
I was about to shut the door behind me—but found an unexpected resistance. The next moment Poirot had slipped quietly into the room and shut the door behind him.
'Mademoiselle Barnard?' he said with a quick bow.
'This is M. Hercule Poirot,' I said.
Megan Barnard gave him a quick, appraising glance.
'I've heard of you,' she said. 'You're the fashionable private sleuth, aren't you?'
'Not a pretty description—but it suffices,' said Poirot.
The girl sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. She felt in her bag for a cigarette. She placed it between her lips, lighted it, and then said in between two puffs of smoke: 'Somehow, I don't see what M. Hercule Poirot is doing in our humble little crime.'
'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, 'what you do not see and what I do not see would probably fill a volume. But all that is of no practical importance. What is of practical importance is something that will not be easy to find.'
'What's that?'
'Death, mademoiselle, unfortunately creates a prejudice. A prejudice in favour of the deceased. I heard what you said just now to my friend Hastings. 'A nice bright girl with no men friends.' You said that in mockery of the newspapers, And it is very true—when a young girl is dead, that is the kind of thing that is said. She was bright. She was happy. She was sweet-tempered. She had not a care in the world. She had no undesirable acquaintances. There is a great charity always to the dead. Do you know what I should like this minute? I should like to find someone who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know she is dead. Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me—the truth.'
Megan Barnard looked at him for a few minutes in silence whilst she smoked. Then, at last, she spoke. Her words made me jump.
'Betty,' she said, 'was an unmitigated little ass!'
XI. Megan Barnard
As I said, Megan Barnard's words, and still more the crisp businesslike tone in which they were uttered, made me jump.
Poirot, however, merely bowed his head gravely. 'A la bonne heure,' he said. 'You are intelligent, mademoiselle.'
Megan Barnard said, still in the same detached tone: 'I was extremely fond of Betty. But my fondness didn't blind me from seeing exactly the kind of silly little fool she was—and even telling her so upon occasion! Sisters are like that.'
