nervous.
'Pardon, madame. You made me jump.'
Mrs Rendell smiled mechanically. If he were nervous, Mrs Rendell, he thought, was even more so. There was twitching in one of her eyelids and her hands worked restlessly together.
'I – I hope I'm not interrupting you. Perhaps you're busy.'
'But no, I am not busy. The day it is fine. I enjoy the feeling of spring. It is good to be outdoors. In the house of Mrs Summerhayes there is always, but always, the current of air.'
'The current -'
'What in England you call a draught.'
'Yes. Yes, I suppose there is.'
'The windows, they will not shut and the doors they fly open all the time.'
'It's rather a ramshackle house. And of course, the Summerhayes are so badly off they can't afford to do much to it. I'd let it go if I were them. I know it's been in the family for hundreds of years, but nowadays you just can't cling on to things for sentiment's sake.'
'No, we are not sentimental nowadays.'
There was a silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Poirot watched those nervous white hands. He waited for her to take the initiative. When she did speak it was abruptly.
'I suppose,' she said,' that when you are, well, investigating a thing, you'd always have to have a pretext?'
Poirot considered the question. Though he did not look at her, he was perfectly well aware of her eager sideways glance fixed on him.
'As you say, madame,' he replied noncommittally, 'it is a convenience.'
'To explain your being there, and – and asking things.'
'It might be expedient.'
'Why – why are you really here in Broadhinny, M. Poirot?'
He turned a mild surprised gaze on her.
'But, my dear lady, I told you – to inquire into the death of Mrs McGinty.'
Mrs Rendell said sharply:
'I know that's what you say. But it's ridiculous.'
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
'Is it?'
'Of course it is. Nobody believes it.'
'And yet I assure you, it is simple fact.'
Her pale blue eyes blinked and she looked away.
'You won't tell me.'
'Tell you – what, madame?'
She changed the subject abruptly again, it seemed.
'I wanted to ask you – about anonymous letters.'
'Yes,' said Poirot encouragingly as she stopped.
'They're really always lies, aren't they?'
'They are sometimes lies,' said Poirot cautiously.
'Usually,' she persisted.
'I don't know that I would go as far as saying that.'
Shelagh Rendell said vehemently:
'They're cowardly, treacherous, mean things!'
'All that, yes, I would agree.'
'And you wouldn't ever believe what was said in one, would you?'
'That is a very difficult question,' said Poirot gravely.
'I wouldn't. I wouldn't believe anything of that kind.'
She added vehemently:
'I know why you're down here. And it isn't true, I tell you, it isn't true.'
She turned sharply and walked away.
Hercule Poirot raised his eyebrows in an interested fashion.
'And now what?' he demanded of himself. 'Am I being taken up the garden walk? Or is this the bird of a different colour?'
It was all, he felt, very confusing.
Mrs Rendell professed to believe that he was down here for a reason other than that of inquiring into Mrs McGinty's death. She had suggested that that was only a pretext.
Did she really believe that? Or was she, as he had just said to himself, leading him up the garden walk?
What had anonymous letters got to do with it?
Was Mrs Rendell the original of the photograph that Mrs Upward had said she had 'seen recently'?
In other words, was Mrs Rendell Lily Gamboll? Lily Gamboll, a rehabilitated member of society, had been last heard of in Eire. Had Dr Rendell met and married his wife there, in ignorance of her history? Lily Gamboll had been trained as a stenographer. Her path and the doctor's might easily have crossed.
Poirot shook his head and sighed.
It was all perfectly possible. But he had to be sure.
A chilly wind sprang up suddenly and the sun went in.
Poirot shivered and retraced his steps to the house.
Yes, he had to be sure. If he could find the actual weapon of the murder -
And at that moment, with a strange feeling of certainty – he saw it.
II
Afterwards he wondered whether, subconsciously, he had seen and noted it much earlier. It had stood there, presumably, ever since he had come to Long Meadows…
There on the littered top of the bookcase near the window.
He thought: 'Why did I never notice that before?'
He picked it up, weighed it in his hands, examined it, balanced it, raised it to strike -
Maureen came in through the door with her usual rush, two dogs accompanying her. Her voice, light and friendly, said:
'Hullo, are you playing with the sugar cutter?'
'Is that what it is? A sugar cutter?'
'Yes. A sugar cutter – or a sugar hammer – I don't know what exactly is the right term. It's rather fun, isn't it? So childish with the little bird on top.'
Poirot turned the implement carefully in his hands. Made of much ornamented brass, it was shaped like an adze, heavy, with a sharp cutting edge. It was studded here and there with coloured stones, pale blue and red. On top of it was a frivolous little bird with turquoise eye.
'Lovely thing for killing anyone, wouldn't it be?' said Maureen conversationally.
She took it from him and aimed a murderous blow on a point in space.
'Frightfully easy,' she said. 'What's that bit in the Idylls of the King? ''Mark's way,' he said, and clove him to the brain.' I should think you could cleave anyone to the brain with this all right, don't you?'
Poirot looked at her. Her freckled face was serene and cheerful.
She said:
'I've told Johnnie what's coming to him if I get fed up with him. I call it the wife's best friend!'
She laughed, put the sugar hammer down and turned towards the door.
'What did I come in here for?' she mused. 'I can't remember… Bother! I'd better go and see if that pudding needs more water in the saucepan.'
