count the Henderson girl – she's got a background.'
'And the others have not?'
Spence sighed.
'You know what things are nowadays. The war stirred up everyone and everything. The approved school where Lily Gamboll was, and all its records, were destroyed by a direct hit. Then take people. It's the hardest thing in the world to check on people. Take Broadhinny – the only people in Broadhinny we know anything about are the Summerhayes family, who have been there for three hundred years, and Guy Carpenter, who's one of the engineering Carpenters. All the others are – what shall I say – fluid? Dr Rendell's on the Medical Register and we know where he trained and where he's practised, but we don't know his home background. His wife came from near Dublin. Eve Selkirk, as she was before she married Guy Carpenter, was a pretty young war widow. Anyone can be a pretty young war widow. Take the Wetherbys – they seem to have floated round the world, here, there and everywhere. Why? Is there a reason? Did he embezzle from a bank? Or did they occasion a scandal? I don't say we can't dig up about people. We can – but it takes time. The people themselves won't help you.'
'Because they have something to conceal – but it need not be murder,' said Poirot.
'Exactly. It may be trouble with the law, or it may be a humble origin, or it may be common or garden scandal. But whatever it is, they've taken a lot of pains to cover up – and that makes it difficult to uncover.'
'But not impossible.'
'Oh no. Not impossible. It just takes time. As I say, if Lily Gamboll is in Broadhinny, she's either Eve Carpenter or Shelagh Rendell. I've questioned them – just routine – that's the way I put it. They say they were both at home – alone. Mrs Carpenter was the wide-eyed innocent, Mrs Rendell was nervous – but then she's a nervous type, you can't go by that.'
'Yes,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'She is a nervous type.'
He was thinking of Mrs Rendell in the garden at Long Meadows. Mrs Rendell had received an anonymous letter, or so she said. He wondered, as he had wondered before, about that statement.
Spence went on:
'And we have to be careful – because even if one of them's guilty, the other is innocent.'
'And Guy Carpenter is a prospective Member of Parliament and an important local figure.'
'That wouldn't help him if he was guilty of murder or accessory to it,' said Spence grimly.
'I know that. But you have, have you not, to be sure?'
'That's right· Anyway you'll agree, won't you, that it lies between the two of them?'
Poirot sighed.
'No – no – I would not say that. There are other possibilities.'
'Such as?'
Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said in a different, almost casual tone of voice:
'Why do people keep photographs?'
'Why? Goodness knows why do people keep all sorts of things – junk – trash, bits and pieces. They do – that's all there is to it!'
'Up to a point I agree with you. Some people keep things. Some people throw everything away as soon as they have done with it. That, yes, it is a matter of temperament. But I speak now especially of photographs. Why do people keep, in particular, photographs?'
'As I say, because they just don't throw things away. Or else because it reminds them -'
Poirot pounced on the words.
'Exactly. It reminds them. Now again we ask – why? Why does a woman keep a photograph of herself when young? And I say that the first reason is, essentially, vanity. She has been a pretty girl and she keeps a photograph of herself to remind her of what a pretty girl she was. It encourages her when her mirror tells her unpalatable things. She says, perhaps, to a friend, 'That was me when I was eighteen…' and she sighs. You agree?'
'Yes – yes, I should say that's true enough.'
'Then that is reason No. 1. Vanity. Now reason No. 2. Sentiment.'
'That's the same thing?'
'No, no, not quite. Because this leads you to preserve not only your own photograph but that of someone else. A picture of your married daughter – when she was a child sitting on a hearthrug with tulle round her.'
'I've seen some of those,' Spence grinned.
'Yes. Very embarrassing to the subject sometimes, but mothers like to do it. And sons and daughters often keep pictures of their mothers, especially, say, if their mother died young. 'This was my mother as a girl.''
'I'm beginning to see what you're driving at, Poirot.'
'And there is, possibly, a third category. Not vanity, not sentiment, not love – perhaps hate – what do you say?'
'Hate?'
'Yes. To keep a desire for revenge alive. Someone who has injured you – you might keep a photograph to remind you, might you not?'
'But surely that doesn't apply in this case?'
'Does it not?'
'What are you thinking of?'
Poirot murmured:
'Newspaper reports are often inaccurate. The Sunday Companion stated that Eva Kane was employed by the Craigs as a nursery governess. Was that actually the case?'
'Yes, it was. But we're working on the assumption that it's Lily Gamboll we're looking for.'
Poirot sat up suddenly very straight in his chair. He wagged an imperative forefinger at Spence.
'Look. Look at the photograph of Lily Gamboll. She is not pretty – no! Frankly, with those teeth and those spectacles she is hideously ugly. Then nobody has kept that photograph for the first of our reasons. No woman would keep that photo out of vanity. If Eve Carpenter or Shelagh Rendell, who are both good-looking women, especially Eve Carpenter, had this photograph of themselves, they would tear it in pieces quickly in case somebody should see it!'
'Well, there is something in that.'
'So reason No. 1 is out. Now take sentiment. Did anybody love Lily Gamboll at that age? The whole point of Lily Gamboll is that they did not. She was an unwanted and unloved child. The person who liked her best was her aunt, and her aunt died under the chopper. So it was not sentiment that kept this picture. And revenge? Nobody hated her either. Her murdered aunt was a lonely woman without a husband and with no close friends. Nobody had hate for the little slum child – only pity.'
'Look here, M. Poirot, what you're saying is that nobody would have kept that photo.'
'Exactly – that is the result of my reflections.'
'But somebody did. Because Mrs Upward had seen it.'
'Had she?'
'Dash it all. It was you who told me. She said so herself.'
'Yes, she said so,' said Poirot. 'But the late Mrs Upward was, in some ways, a secretive woman. She liked to manage things her own way. I showed the photographs, and she recognised one of them. But then, for some reason, she wanted to keep the identification to herself. She wanted, let us say, to deal with a certain situation in the way she fancied. And so, being very quick-witted, she deliberately pointed to the wrong picture. Thereby keeping her knowledge to herself.'
'But why?'
'Because, as I say, she wanted to play a lone hand.'
'It wouldn't be blackmail? She was an extremely wealthy woman, you know, widow of a North Country manufacturer.'
'Oh no, not blackmail. More likely beneficence. We'll say that she quite liked the person in question, and that she didn't want to give their secret away. But nevertheless she was curious. She intended to have a private talk with that person. And whilst doing so, to make up her mind whether or not that person had had anything to do with the death of Mrs McGinty. Something like that.'
'Then that leaves the other three photos in?'
'Precisely. Mrs Upward meant to get in touch with the person in question at the first opportunity. That came
