'Although she worked for you in this house?'
'She didn't. I wasn't living here then. Mr Carpenter and I were only married three months ago.'
'But she did work for you. On Friday mornings, I think it was. You were then Mrs Selkirk and you lived in Rose Cottage.'
She said sulkily:
'If you know the answers to everything I don't see why you need to ask questions. Anyway, what's it all about?'
'I am making an investigation into the circumstance of the murder.'
'Why? What on earth for? Anyway, why come to me?'
'You might know something – that would help me.'
'I don't know anything at all. Why should I? She was only a stupid old charwoman. She kept her money under the floor and somebody robbed and murdered her for it. It was quite disgusting – beastly, the whole thing. Like things you read in the Sunday papers.'
Poirot took that up quickly.
'Like the Sunday papers, yes. Like the Sunday Companion. You read, perhaps, the Sunday Companion?
She jumped up, and made her way, blunderingly, towards the opened french windows. So uncertainly did she go that she actually collided with the window frame. Poirot was reminded of a beautiful big moth, fluttering blindly against a lamp shade.
She called: 'Guy – Guy!'
A man's voice a little way away answered:
'Eve?'
'Come here quickly.'
A tall man of about thirty-five came into sight. He quickened his pace and came across the terrace to the window. Eve Carpenter said vehemently:
'There's a man here – a foreigner. He's asking me all sorts of questions about that horrid murder last year. Some old charwoman – you remember? I hate things like that. You know I do.'
Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing-room through the window. He had a long face like a horse, he was pale and looked rather supercilious. His manner was pompous.
Hercule Poirot found him unattractive.
'May I ask what all this is about?' he asked. 'Have you been annoying my wife?'
Hercule Poirot spread out his hands.
'The last thing I should wish is to annoy so charming a lady. I hoped only that, the deceased woman having worked for her, she might be able to aid me in the investigations I am making.'
'But – what are these investigations?'
'Yes, ask him that,' urged has wife.
'A fresh inquiry is being made into the circumstances of Mrs McGinty's death.'
'Nonsense – the case is over.'
'No, no, there you are in error. It is not over.'
'A fresh inquiry, you say?' Guy Carpenter frowned. He said suspiciously: 'By the police? Nonsense – you're nothing to do with the police.'
'That is correct. I am working independently of the police.'
'It's the Press,' Eve Carpenter broke in. 'Some horrid Sunday newspaper. He said so.'
A gleam of caution came into Guy Carpenter's eye. In his position he was not anxious to antagonise the Press. He said, more amicably:
'My wife is very sensitive. Murders and things like that upset her. I'm sure it can't be necessary for you to bother her. She hardly knew this woman.'
Eve said vehemently:
'She was only a stupid old charwoman. I told him so.'
She added:
'And she was a frightful liar, too.'
'Ah, that is interesting.' Poirot turned a beaming face from one to the other of them. 'So she told lies. That may give us a very valuable lead.'
'I don't see how,' said Eve sulkily.
'The establishment of motive,' said Poirot. 'That is the line I am following up.'
'She was robbed of her savings,' said Carpenter sharply. 'That was the motive of the crime.'
'Ah,' said Poirot softly. 'But was it?'
He rose like an actor who had just spoken a telling line.
'I regret if I have caused madame any pain,' he said politely. 'These affairs are always rather unpleasant.'
'The whole business was distressing,' said Carpenter quickly. 'Naturally my wife didn't like being reminded of it. I'm sorry we can't help you with any information.'
'Oh, but you have.'
'I beg your pardon?'
Poirot said softly:
'Mrs McGinty told lies. A valuable fact. What lies, exactly, did she tell, madame?'
He waited politely for Eve Carpenter to speak. She said at last:
'Oh, nothing particular. I mean – I can't remember.'
Conscious perhaps, that both men were looking at her expectantly, she said:
'Stupid things – about people. Things that couldn't be true.'
Still there was a silence, then Poirot said:
'I see – she had a dangerous tongue.'
Eve Carpenter made a quick movement.
'Oh no – I didn't mean as much as that. She was just a gossip, that was all.'
'Just a gossip,' said Poirot softly.
He made a gesture of farewell.
Guy Carpenter accompanied him out into the hall.
'This paper of yours – this Sunday paper – which is it?'
'The paper I mentioned to madame,' replied Poirot carefully, 'was the Sunday Companion.'
He paused. Guy Carpenter repeated thoughtfully:
'The Sunday Companion. I don't very often see that, I'm afraid.'
'It has interesting articles sometimes. And interesting illustrations…'
Before the pause could be too long, he bowed, and said quickly:
'Au revoir, Mr Carpenter. I am sorry if I have – disturbed you.'
Outside the gate, he looked back at the house.
'I wonder,' he said. 'Yes, I wonder…'
Chapter 11
Superintendent Spence sat opposite Hercule Poirot and sighed.
'I'm not saying you haven't got anything, M. Poirot,' he said slowly. 'Personally, I think you have. But it's thin. It's terribly thin!'
Poirot nodded.
'By itself it will not do. There must be more.'
'My sergeant or I ought to have spotted that newspaper.'
'No, no, you cannot blame yourself. The crime was so obvious. Robbery with violence. The room all pulled about, the money missing. Why should there be significance to you in a torn newspaper amongst the other confusion.'
