'You want a clue?' he said. 'Voila!'
And with a dramatic gesture he tossed them down on the table.
They clustered round, bending over, and uttering ejaculations.
'Look!'
'What frightful frumps!'
'Just look at the roses. 'Rowses, rowses, all the way!''
'My dear, that hat!'
'What a frightful child!'
'But who are they?'
'Aren't fashions ridiculous?'
'That woman must really have been rather good-looking once.'
'But why are they clues?'
'Who are they?'
Poirot looked slowly round at the circle of faces.
He saw nothing other than he might have expected to see.
'You do not recognise any of them?'
'Recognize?'
'You do not, shall I say, remember having any of those photographs before? But yes – Mrs Upward? You recognise something, do you not?'
Mrs Upward hesitated.
'Yes – I think -'
'Which one?'
Her forefinger went out and rested on the spectacled childlike face of Lily Gamboll.
'You have seen that photograph – when -?'
'Quite recently… Now where – no, I can't remember. But I'm sure I've seen a photograph just like that.'
She sat frowning, her brows drawn together.
She came out of her abstraction as Mrs Rendell came to her.
'Goodbye, Mrs Upward. I do hope you'll come to tea with me one day if you feel up to it.'
'Thank you, my dear. If Robin pushes me up the hill.'
'Of course, Madre. I've developed the most tremendous muscles pushing that chair. Do you remember the day we went to the Wetherbys and it was so muddy -'
'Ah!' said Mrs Upward suddenly.
'What is it, Madre?'
'Nothing. Go on.'
'Getting you up the hill again. First the chair skidded and then I skidded. I thought we'd never get home.'
Laughing, they took their leave and trooped out.
Alcohol, Poirot thought, certainly loosens the tongue…
Had he been wise or foolish to display those photographs?
Had that gesture also been the result of alcohol?
He wasn't sure.
But, murmuring an excuse, he turned back.
He pushed open the gate and walked up to the house. Through the open window on his left he heard the murmur of two voices. They were the voices of Robin and Mrs Oliver. Very little of Mrs Oliver and a good deal of Robin.
Poirot pushed the door open and went through the right-hand door into the room he had left a few moments before. Mrs Upward was sitting before the fire. There was a rather look on her face. She had been so deep in thought that his entry startled her.
At the sound of the apologetic little cough he gave, she looked up sharply, with a start.
'Oh,' she said. 'It's you. You startled me.'
'I am sorry, madame. Did you think it was someone else? Who did you think it was?'
She did not answer that, merely said:
'Did you leave something behind?'
'What I feared I had left was danger.'
'Danger?'
'Danger, perhaps, to you. Because you recognised one of those photographs just now.'
'I wouldn't say recognised. All old photographs look exactly alike.'
'Listen, madame. Mrs McGinty also, or so I believe, recognised one of those photographs. And Mrs McGinty is dead.'
With an unexpected glint of humour in her eye, Mrs Upward said:
'Mrs McGinty's dead. How did she die? Sticking her neck out just like I. Is that what you mean?'
'Yes. If you know anything – anything at all, tell it to me now. It will be safer so.'
'My dear man, it's not nearly so simple as that. I'm not at all sure that I do know anything – certainly nothing as definite as a fact. Vague recollections are very tricky things. One would have to have some idea of how and where and when, if you follow what I mean.'
'But it seems to me that you already have that idea.'
'There is more to it than that. There are various factors to be taken into consideration. Now it's no good your rushing me, M. Poirot. I'm not the kind of person who rushes into decisions. I've a mind of my own, and I take time to make it up. When I come to a decision, I act. But not till I'm ready.'
'You are in many ways a secretive woman, madame.'
'Perhaps – up to a point. Knowledge is power. Power must only be used for the right ends. You will excuse my saying that you don't perhaps appreciate the pattern of our English country life.'
'In other words you say to me, 'You are only a damned foreigner.''
Mrs Upward smiled slightly.
'I shouldn't be a rude as that.'
'If you do not want to talk to me, there is Superintendent Spence.'
'My dear M. Poirot. Not the police. No at this stage.'
He shrugged his shoulders.
'I have warned you.' he said.
For he was sure that by now Mrs Upward remembered quite well exactly when and where she had seen the photograph.
Chapter 14
I
'Decidedly,' said Hercule Poirot to himself the following morning, 'the spring is here.'
His apprehensions of the night before seemed singularly groundless.
Mrs Upward was a sensible woman who could take good care of herself.
Nevertheless in some curious way, she intrigued him. He did not at all understand her reactions. Clearly she did not want him to. She had recognised the photograph of Lily Gamboll and she was determined to play a lone hand.
Poirot, pacing a garden path while he pursued these reflections, was startled by a voice behind him.
'M. Poirot.'
Mrs Rendell had come up so quietly that he had not heard her. Since yesterday he had felt extremely
