fact Michael seemed to prefer a monologue. Somebody called Peter made occasional incursions on the conversation, but on the whole it resolved itself into a thin stream of faintly amusing malice by Michael.
'- too sweet of Robin,' he was saying. 'We've been urging him to come and see the show. But of course he's completely under that terrible woman's thumb, isn't he? Dancing attendance. And really Robin is brilliant, don't you think so? Quite quite brilliant. He shouldn't be sacrificed on a Matriarchal altar. Women can be awful, can't they? You know what she did to poor Alex Roscoff? All over him for nearly a year and then discovered that he wasn't a Russian emigre at all. Of course he had been telling her some very tall stories, but quite amusing, and we all knew it wasn't true, but after all why should one care? – and then when she found out he was just a little East End tailor's son, she dropped him, my dear. I mean, I do hate a snob, don't you? Really Alex was thankful to get away from her. He said she could be quite frightening sometimes – a little queer in the head, he thought. Her rages! Robin dear, we're talking about your wonderful Madre. Such a shame she couldn't come tonight. But it's marvelous to have Mrs Oliver. All those delicious murders.'
An elderly man with a deep bass voice grasped Mrs Oliver's hand and held it in a hot, sticky grasp.
'How can I ever thank you?' he said in tones of deep melancholy. 'You've saved my life – saved my life many a time.'
Then they all came out into the fresh night air and went across to the Pony's Head, where there were more drinks and more stage conversation.
By the time Mrs Oliver and Robin were driving homewards, Mrs Oliver was quite exhausted. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Robin, on the other hand, talked without stopping.
'- and you do think that might be an idea, don't you?' he finally ended.
'What?'
Mrs Oliver jerked open her eyes.
She had been lost in a nostalgic dream of home. Walls covered with exotic birds and foliage. A deal table, her typewriter, black coffee, apples everywhere… What bliss, glorious and solitary bliss! What a mistake for an author to emerge from her secret fastness. Authors were shy, unsociable creatures, atoning for their lack of social aptitude by inventing their own companions and conversations.
'I'm afraid you're tired,' said Robin.
'Not really. The truth is I'm not very good with people.'
'I adore people, don't you?' said Robin happily.
'No,' said Mrs Oliver firmly.
'But you must. Look at all the people in your books.'
'That's different. I think trees are much nicer than people, more restful.'
'I need people,' said Robin, stating an obvious fact. 'They stimulate me.'
He drew up at the gate of Laburnums.
'You go in,' he said. 'I'll put the car away.'
Mrs Oliver extracted herself with the usual difficulty and walked up the path.
'The door's not locked,' Robin called.
It wasn't. Mrs Oliver pushed it open and entered. There were no lights on, and that struck her as rather ungracious on her hostess's part. Or was it perhaps economy? Rich people were so often economical. There was a smell of scent in the hall, something rather exotic and expensive. For a moment Mrs Oliver wondered if she were in the right house, then she found the light switch and pressed it down.
The light sprang up in the low oak-beamed square hall. The door into the sitting-room was ajar and she caught sight of a foot and leg. Mrs Upward, after all, had not gone to bed. She must have fallen asleep in her chair, and since no lights were on, she must have been asleep a long time.
Mrs Oliver went to the door and switched on the lights in the sitting-room.
'We're back -' she began and then stopped.
Her hand went up to her throat. She felt a tight knot there, a desire to scream that she could not put into operation.
Her voice came out in a whisper:
'Robin – Robin…'
It was some time before she heard him coming up the path, whistling, and then she turned quickly and ran to meet him in the hall.
'Don't go in there – don't go in. Your mother – she – she's dead – I think – she's been killed…'
Chapter 18
I
'Quite a neat bit of work,' said Superintendent Spence.
His red countryman's face was angry. He looked across to where Hercule Poirot sat gravely listening.
'Neat and ugly,' he said. 'She was strangled,' he went on. 'Silk scarf – one of her own silk scarves, one she'd been wearing that day – just passed around the neck and the ends crossed – and pulled. Neat, quick, efficient. The thugs did it that way in India. The victim doesn't struggle or cry out – pressure on the carotid artery.'
'Special knowledge?'
'Could be – need not. If you were thinking of doing it, you could read up the subject. There's no practical difficulty. Especially with the victim quite unsuspicious – and she was unsuspicious'
Poirot nodded.
'Someone she knew.'
'Yes. They'd had coffee together – a cup opposite her and one opposite the guest. Prints had been wiped off the guest's cup very carefully but lipstick is more difficult – there were still faint traces of lipstick.'
'A woman, then?'
'You expected a woman, didn't you?'
'Oh yes. Yes, that was indicated.'
Spence went on:
'Mrs Upward recognised one of those photographs – the photograph of Lily Gamboll. So it ties up with the McGinty murder.'
'Yes,' said Poirot. 'It ties up with the McGinty murder.'
He remembered Mrs Upward's slightly amused expression as she had said:
'Mrs McGinty's dead. How did she die?
Sticking her neck out, just like I.'
Spence was going on:
'She took an opportunity that seemed good to her – her son and Mrs Oliver were going off to the theatre. She rang up the person concerned and asked that person to come and see her. Is that how you figure it out? She was playing detective.'
'Something like that. Curiosity. She kept her knowledge to herself, but she wanted to find out more. She didn't in the least realise what she was doing might be dangerous.'
Poirot sighed. 'So many people think of murder as a game. It is not a game. I told her so. But she would not listen.'
'No, we know that. Well, that fits in fairly well. When young Robin started off with Mrs Oliver and ran back into the house his mother had just finished telephoning to someone. She wouldn't' say who to. Played it mysterious. Robin and Mrs Oliver thought it might be you.'
'I wish it had been,' said Hercule Poirot. 'You have no idea to whom it was that she telephoned?'
'None whatever. It's all automatic round here, you know.'
