what was best to do – to let your child be adopted by someone who could give it every advantage – every advantage, that's what she said – and she meant a good education, and clothes and comfortable surroundings – or whether to keep it when you couldn't give it advantages of any kind. I think that's stupid – really stupid. If you can just give child enough to eat – that's all that matters.'
She stared down into her empty glass as though it were a crystal.
'I ought to know,' she said. 'I was an adopted child. My mother parted with me and I had every advantage, as they call it. And it's always hurt – always – always – to know that you weren't really wanted, that your mother could let you go.'
'It was a sacrifice for your good, perhaps,' said Poirot.
Her clear eyes met his.
'I don't think that's ever true. It's the way they put it to themselves. But what it boils down to is that they can, really, get on without you. And it hurts. I wouldn't give up my children – not for all the advantages in the world!'
'I think you're quite right,' said Mrs Oliver.
'And I, too, agree,' said Poirot.
'Then that's all right,' said Maureen cheerfully. 'What are we arguing about?'
Robin, who had come along the terrace to join them, said:
'Yes, what are you arguing about?'
'Adoption,' said Maureen. 'I don't like being adopted, do you?'
'Well, it's much better than being an orphan, don't you think so, darling? I think we ought to go now, don't you? Ariadne?'
The guests left in a body. Dr Rendell had already had to hurry away. They walked down the hill together talking gaily with that extra hilarity that a series of cocktails induces.
When they reached the gate of Laburnums, Robin insisted that they should all come in.
'Just to tell Madre all about the party. So boring for her, poor sweet, not to have been able to go because her leg was playing her up. But she so hates being left out of things.'
They surged in cheerfully and Mrs Upward seemed pleased to see them.
'Who else was there?' she asked. 'The Wetherbys?'
' No, Mrs Wetherby didn't feel well enough, and that Henderson girl wouldn't come without her.'
'She's really rather pathetic, isn't she?' said Shelagh Rendell.
'I think almost pathological, don't you?' said Robin.
'It's that mother of hers, said Maureen. 'Some mothers really do almost eat their young, don't they?'
She flushed suddenly as she met Mrs Upward's quizzical eye.
'Do I devour you, Robin?' Mrs Upward asked.
'Madre! Of course not!'
To cover her confusion Maureen hastily plunged into an account of her breeding experiences with Irish wolfhounds. The conversation became technical.
Mrs Upward said decisively:
'You can't get away from heredity – in people as well as dogs.'
Shelagh Rendell murmured:
'Don't you think it's environment?'
Mrs Upward cut her short.
'No, my dear, I don't. Environment can give a veneer – no more. It's what's bred in people that counts.'
Hercule Poirot's eyes rested curiously on Shelagh Rendell's flushed face. She said with what seemed unnecessary passion:
'But that's cruel – unfair.'
Mrs Upward said: 'Life is unfair.'
The slow lazy voice of Johnnie Summerhayes joined in.
'I agree with Mrs Upward. Breeding tells. That's been my creed always.'
Mrs Oliver said questioningly: 'You mean things are handed down. Unto the third or fourth generation -'
Maureen Summerhayes said suddenly in her sweet high voice:
'But that quotation goes on: 'And show mercy unto thousands.''
Once again everybody seemed a little embarrassed, perhaps at the serious note that had crept into the conversation.
They made a diversion by attacking Poirot.
'Tell us all about Mrs. McGinty, M. Poirot Why didn't the dreary lodger kill her?'
'He used to mutter, you know,' said Robin. 'Walking about in the lanes. I've often met him. And really, definitely, he looked frightfully queer.'
'You must have some reason for thinking he didn't kill her, M. Poirot. Do tell us.'
Poirot smiled at them. He twirled his moustache.
'If he didn't kill her, who did?'
'Yes, who did?'
Mrs Upward said dryly: 'Don't embarrass the man. He probably suspects one of us.'
'One of us? Oo!'
In the clamour Poirot's eyes met those of Mrs Upward. They were amused and – something else – challenging?
'He suspects one of us,' said Robin delightedly. 'Now then, Maureen,' he assumed the manner of a bullying K.C., 'Where were you on the night of the – what night was it?'
'November 22nd,' said Poirot.
'On the night of the 22nd?'
'Gracious, I don't know,' said Maureen.
'Nobody could know after all this time,' said Mr Rendell.
'Well, I can,' said Robin. 'Because I was broadcasting that night. I drove to Coalport to give a talk on Some Aspects of the Theatre. I remember because I discussed Galsworthy's charwoman in the Silver Box at great length and the next day Mrs McGinty was killed and I wondered if the charwoman in the play had been like her.'
'That's right,' said Shelagh Rendell suddenly. 'And I remember now because you said your mother would be all alone because it was Janet's night off, and I came down here after dinner to keep her company. Only unfortunately I couldn't make her hear.'
'Let me think,' said Mrs Upward. 'Oh! yes, of course. I'd gone to bed with a headache and my bedroom faces the back garden.'
'And next day,' said Shelagh, 'when I heard Mrs McGinty had been killed, I thought 'Oo! I might have passed the murderer in the dark' – because at first we all thought it must have been some tramp who broke in.'
'Well, I still don't remember what I was doing,' said Maureen. 'But I do remember the next morning. It was the baker told us. 'Old Mrs McGinty's been done in,' he said. And there I was, wondering why she hadn't turned up as usual.'
She gave a shiver.
'It's horrible really, isn't it?' she said.
Mrs Upward was still watching Poirot.
He thought to himself: 'She s a very intelligent woman – and a ruthless one. Also selfish. In whatever she did, she would have no qualms and no remorse…'
A thin voice was speaking – urging, querulous.
'Haven't you got any clues, M. Poirot?'
It was Shelagh Rendell.
Johnnie Summerhayes' long dark face lit up enthusiastically.
'That's it, clues,' he said. 'That's what I like in detective stories. Clues that mean everything to the detective – and nothing to you – until the end when you fairly kick yourself. Can't you give us one little clue, M. Poirot?'
Laughing, pleading faces turned to him. A game to them all (or perhaps not to one of them?). But murder wasn't a game – murder was dangerous. You never knew.
With a sudden brusque movement, Poirot pulled out four photographs from his pocket.
