Eve said:
'Will you and Johnnie come in and have drinks with us this evening, Maureen?'
'Love to.'
'To meet Mrs Oliver,' said Robin, 'but actually you can meet her now. This is she.'
'Are you really? ' said Maureen. 'How thrilling! You and Robin are doing a play together, aren't you?'
'It's coming along splendidly,' said Robin. 'By the way, Ariadne, I had a brainwave after you went out this morning. About casting.'
'Oh, casting,' said Mrs Oliver in a relieved voice.
'I know just the right person to play Eric. Cecil Leech – he's playing in the Little Rep at Cullenquay. We'll run over and see the show one evening.'
'We want your P.G.,' said Eve to Maureen. 'Is he about? I want to ask him tonight too.'
'We'll bring him along,' said Maureen.
'I think I'd better ask him myself. As a matter of fact I was a bit rude to him yesterday.'
'Oh! Well, he's somewhere about,' said Maureen vaguely. 'In the garden, I think – Cormic – Flyn – those damned dogs -'
She dropped the bucket with a clatter and ran in the direction of the duck pond, whence a furious quacking had arisen.
Chapter 13
Mrs Oliver, glass in hand, approached Hercule Poirot towards the end of the Carpenters' party. Up till that moment they had each of them been the centre of an admiring circle. Now that a good deal of gin had been consumed, and the party was going well, there was a tendency for old friends to get together and retail local scandal, and the two outsiders were able to talk to each other.
'Come out on the terrace,' said Mrs Oliver, in a conspirator's whisper.
At the same time she pressed into his hand a small piece of paper.
Together they stepped out through the french windows and walked along the terrace. Poirot unfolded the piece of paper.
'Dr Rendell,' he read.
He looked questioningly at Mrs Oliver. Mrs Oliver nodded vigorously, a large plume of grey hair falling across her face as she did so.
'He's the murderer,' said Mrs Oliver.
'You think so? Why?'
'I just know it,' said Mrs Oliver. 'He's the type. Hearty and genial, and all that.'
'Perhaps.'
Poirot sounded unconvinced.
'But what would you say was his motive?'
'Unprofessional conduct,' said Mrs Oliver. 'And Mrs McGinty knew about it. But whatever the reason was, you can be quite sure it was him. I've looked at all the others, and he's the one.'
In reply, Poirot remarked conversationally:
'Last night somebody tried to push me on to the railway line at Kilchester station.'
'Good gracious. To kill you, do you mean?'
'I have no doubt that was the idea.'
'And Dr Rendell was out on a case, I know he was.'
'I understand – yes – that Dr Rendell was out on a case.'
'Then that settles it,' said Mrs Oliver with satisfaction.
'Not quite,' said Poirot. 'Both Mr and Mrs Carpenter were in Kilchester last night and came home separately. Mrs Rendell may have sat at home all the evening listening to her wireless or she may not – no one can say. Miss Henderson often goes to the pictures in Kilchester.'
'She didn't last night. She was at home. She told me so.'
'You cannot believe all you are told,' said Poirot reprovingly. 'Families hang together. The foreign maid, Frieda, on the other hand, was at the pictures last night, so she cannot tell us who was or was not at home at Hunter's Close! You see, it is not so easy to narrow things down.'
'I can probably vouch for our lot,' said Mrs Oliver. 'What time did you say this happened?'
'At nine thirty-five exactly.'
'Then at any rate Laburnums has got a clean bill of health. From eight o'clock to half-past ten, Robin, his mother, and I were playing poker patience.'
'I thought possibly that you and he were closeted together doing the collaboration?'
'Leaving Mamma to leap on a motor bicycle concealed in the shrubbery?' Mrs Oliver laughed. 'No, Mamma was under our eye.' She sighed as sadder thoughts came to her. 'Collaboration,' she said bitterly. 'The whole thing's a nightmare! How would you like to see a big black moustache stuck on to Superintendent Battle and be told it was you.'
Poirot blinked a little.
'But it is a nightmare, that suggestion!'
'Now you know what I suffer.'
'I, too, I suffer,' said Poirot. 'The cooking of Madame Summerhayes, it is beyond description. It is not cooking at all. And the draughts, the cold winds, the upset stomachs of the cats, the long hairs of the dogs, the broken legs of the chairs, the terrible, terrible bed in which I sleep -' He shut his eyes in remembrance of agonies, 'the tepid water in the bathroom, the holes in the stair carpet, and the coffee – words cannot describe to you the fluid which they serve to you as coffee. It is an affront to the stomach.'
'Dear me,' said Mrs Oliver. 'And yet, you know, she's awfully nice.'
'Mrs Summerhayes? She is charming. She is quite charming. That makes it much more difficult.'
'Here she comes now,' said Mrs Oliver.
Maureen Summerhayes was approaching them.
There was an ecstatic look on her freckled face. She carried a glass in her hand. She smiled at them both with affection.
'I think I'm a bit tiddly,' she announced. 'Such lots of lovely gin. I do like parties! We don't often have one in Broadhinny. It's because of you both being so celebrated. I wish I could write books. The trouble with me is, I can't do anything properly.'
'You are a good wife and mother, madame,' said Poirot primly.
Maureen's eyes opened wide. Attractive hazel eyes in a small freckled face. Mrs Oliver wondered how old she was. Not much more than thirty, she guessed.
'Am I?' said Maureen. 'I wonder. I love them all terribly, but is that enough?'
Poirot coughed.
'If you will not think me presumptuous, madame. A wife who truly loves her husband should take great care of his stomach. It is important, the stomach.'
Maureen looked slightly affronted.
'Johnnie's got a wonderful stomach,' she said indignantly. 'Absolutely flat. Practically not a stomach at all.'
'I was referring to what is put inside it.'
'You mean my cooking,' said Maureen. 'I never think it matters much what one eats.'
Poirot groaned.
'Or what one wears,' said Maureen dreamily. 'Or what one does. I don't think things matter – not really.'
She was silent for a moment or two, her eyes alcoholically hazy, as though she was looking into the far distance.
'There was a woman writing in the paper the other day,' she said suddenly. 'A really stupid letter. Asking
