'Did you see Mrs Summerhayes, or Major Summerhayes?'
'I saw Mrs Summerhayes, I suppose it was. She took me up to the bedroom. The old pussy was in bed.'
'Would Mrs Summerhayes remember you?'
'Don't suppose so. Even if she did, it wouldn't matter, would it? After all, one changes one's job quite often these days. But I don't suppose she even looked at me. Her sort don't.'
There was a faint bitterness in Maude Williams' voice.
'Did you see anyone else in Broadhinny?'
Maude said rather awkwardly:
'Well, I saw Mr Bentley.'
'Ah, you saw Mr Bentley. By accident.'
Maude wriggled a little in her chair.
'No, as a matter of fact, I'd sent him a post card. Telling him I was coming that day. Asked him if he'd meet me as a matter of fact. Not that there was anywhere to go. Dead little hole. No cafe or cinema or anything. As a matter of fact we just talked in the bus stop. While I was waiting for my bus back.'
'That was before the death of Mrs McGinty?'
'Oh yes. But not much before, though. Because it was only a few days later that it was all in the newspapers.'
'Did Mr Bentley speak to you at all of his landlady?'
'I don't think so.'
'And you spoke to no one else in Broadhinny?'
'Well – only Mr Robin Upward. I've heard him talk on the wireless. I saw him coming out of his cottage and I recognised him from his pictures and I did ask him for his autograph.'
'And he gave it you?'
'Oh yes, he was ever so nice about it. I hadn't my book with me, but I'd got an odd sheet of notepaper, and he whipped out his fountain pen and wrote it at once.'
'Do you know any of the other people in Broadhinny by sight?'
'Well, I know the Carpenters, of course. They're in Kilchester a lot. Lovely car they've got, and she wears lovely clothes. She opened a Bazaar about a month ago. They say he's going to be our next M.P.'
Poirot nodded. Then he took from his pocket the envelope that he always carried about with him. He spread the four photographs on the table.
'Do you recognise any of – what's the matter?'
'It was Mr Scuttle. Just going out of the door. I hope he didn't see you with me. It might seem a bit odd. People are talking about you, you know. Saying you've been sent over from Paris – from the Sooretay or some name like that.'
'I am Belgian, not French, but no matter.'
'What's this about these photographs?' She bent over, studying them closely. 'Rather on the old-fashioned side, aren't they?'
'The oldest is thirty years ago.'
'Awfully silly, old fashioned clothes look. Makes the women look such fools.'
'Have you seen any of them before?'
'D'you mean do I recognise any of the women, or do you mean have I seen the pictures?'
'Either.'
'I've an idea I've seen that one.' Her finger rested against Janice Courtland in her cloche hat. 'In some paper or other, but I can't remember when. That kid looks a bit familiar, too. But I can't remember when I saw them; some time ago.'
'All those photographs appeared in the Sunday Companion on the Sunday before Mrs McGinty died.'
Maude looked at him sharply.
'And they've got, something to do with it? That's why you want me to -'
She did not finish the sentence.
'Yes,' said Hercule Poirot. 'That is why.'
He took something else from his pocket and showed it to her. It was the cutting from the Sunday Companion.
'You had better read that,' he said.
She read it carefully. Her bright golden head bent over the flimsy bit of newsprint.
Then she looked up.
'So that's who they are? And reading this has given you ideas?'
'You could not express it more justly.'
'But all the same I don't see -' She was silent a moment, thinking. Poirot did not speak. However pleased he might be with his own ideas, he was always ready to hear other people's ideas too.
'You think one or other of these people is in Broadhinny?'
'It might be, might it not?'
'Of course. Anyone may be anywhere…' She went on, placing her finger on Eva Kane's pretty simpering face: 'She'd be quite old now – about Mrs Upward's age.'
'About that.'
'What I was thinking was – the sort of woman she was – there must be several people who'd have it in for her.'
'That is a point of view,' said Poirot slowly. 'Yes, it is a point of view.' He added: 'You remember the Craig case?'
'Who doesn't?' said Maude Williams. 'Why, he's in Madame Tussaud's! I was only a kid at the time, but the newspapers are always bringing him up and comparing the case with other cases. I don't suppose it will ever be forgotten, do you?'
Poirot raised his head sharply.
He wondered what brought that sudden note of bitterness into her voice.
Chapter 17
Feeling completely bewildered, Mrs Oliver was endeavouring to cower in the corner of a very minute theatrical dressing-room. Not being the figure to cower, she only succeeded in bulging. Bright young men, removing grease paint with towels, surrounded her and at intervals pressed warm beer upon her.
Mrs Upward, her good humour completely restored, had speeded their departure with good wishes. Robin had been assiduous in making all arrangements for her comfort before departure, running back a couple of times after they were in the car to see that all was as it should be.
On the last occasion he came back grinning.
'Madre was just ringing off on the telephone, and the wicked old thing still won't tell me who she was ringing up. But I bet I know.'
'I know, too,' said Mrs Oliver.
'Well, who do you say?'
'Hercule Poirot.'
'Yes, that's my guess, too. She's going to pump him. Madre does like having her little secrets, doesn't she? Now darling, about the play tonight. It's very important that you tell me honestly just what you think of Cecil – and whether he's your idea of Eric…'
Needless to say, Cecil Leech had not been at all Mrs Oliver's idea of Eric. Nobody, indeed, could have been more unlike. The play itself she had enjoyed, but the ordeal of 'going round afterwards' was fraught with its usual terrors.
Robin, of course, was in his element. He had Cecil (at least Mrs Oliver supposed it was Cecil) pinned against the wall and was talking nineteen to the dozen. Mrs Oliver had been terrified of Cecil and much preferred somebody called Michael who was talking to her kindly at the moment. Michael, at least, did not expect her to reciprocate, in
