Mrs McGinty’s Dead. Agatha Christie

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      ‘Oh—that.’ Superintendent Spence considered. ‘Unprepossessing sort of fellow. Nervous manner. Can’t look you straight in the face. Has a sly sideways way of peering at you. Worst possible sort of manner for a jury. Sometimes cringing and sometimes truculent. Blusters in an inefficient kind of way.’

      He paused and added in a conversational tone:

      ‘Really a shy kind of chap. Had a cousin rather like that. If anything’s awkward they go and tell some silly lie that hasn’t a chance of being believed.’

      ‘He does not sound attractive, your James Bentley.’

      ‘Oh, he isn’t. Nobody could like him. But I don’t want to see him hanged for all that.’

      ‘And you think he will be hanged?’

      ‘I don’t see why not. His counsel may lodge an appeal—but if so it will be on very flimsy grounds—a technicality of some kind, and I don’t see that it will have a chance of success.’

      ‘Did he have a good counsel?’

      ‘Young Graybrook was allotted to him under the Poor Persons’ Defence Act. I’d say he was thoroughly conscientious and put up the best show he could.’

      ‘So the man had a fair trial and was condemned by a jury of his fellow-men.’

      ‘That’s right. A good average jury. Seven men, five women—all decent reasonable souls. Judge was old Stanisdale. Scrupulously fair—no bias.’

      ‘So—according to the law of the land—James Bentley has nothing to complain of?’

      ‘If he’s hanged for something he didn’t do, he’s got something to complain of!’

      ‘A very just observation.’

      ‘And the case against him was my case—I collected the facts and put them together—and it’s on that case and those facts that he’s been condemned. And I don’t like it, M. Poirot, I don’t like it.’

      Hercule Poirot looked for a long time at the red agitated face of Superintendent Spence.

      ‘Eh bien,’ he said. ‘What do you suggest?’

      Spence looked acutely embarrassed.

      ‘I expect you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s coming. The Bentley case is closed. I’m on another case already—embezzlement. Got to go up to Scotland tonight. I’m not a free man.’

      ‘And I—am?’

      Spence nodded in a shame-faced sort of way.

      ‘You’ve got it. Awful cheek, you’ll think. But I can’t think of anything else—of any other way. I did all I could at the time, I examined every possibility I could. And I didn’t get anywhere. I don’t believe I ever would get anywhere. But who knows, it may be different for you. You look at things in—if you’ll pardon me for saying so—in a funny sort of way. Maybe that’s the way you’ve got to look at them in this case. Because if James Bentley didn’t kill her, then somebody else did. She didn’t chop the back of her head in herself. You may be able to find something that I missed. There’s no reason why you should do anything about this business. It’s infernal cheek my even suggesting such a thing. But there it is. I came to you because it was the only thing I could think of. But if you don’t want to put yourself out—and why should you—’

      Poirot interrupted him.

      ‘Oh, but indeed there are reasons. I have leisure—too much leisure. And you have intrigued me—yes, you have intrigued me very much. It is a challenge—to the little grey cells of my brain. And then, I have a regard for you. I see you, in your garden in six months’ time, planting, perhaps, the rose bushes—and as you plant them it is not with the happiness you should be feeling, because behind everything there is an unpleasantness in your brain, a recollection that you try to push away, and I would not have you feel that, my friend. And finally—’ Poirot sat upright and nodded his head vigorously, ‘there is the principle of the thing. If a man has not committed murder, he should not be hanged.’ He paused and then added, ‘But supposing that after all, he did kill her?’

      ‘In that case I’d be only too thankful to be convinced of it.’

      ‘And two heads are better than one? Voilà, everything is settled. I precipitate myself upon the business. There is, that is clear, no time to be lost. Already the scent is cold. Mrs McGinty was killed—when?’

      ‘Last November, 22nd.’

      ‘Then let us at once get down to the brass tacks.’

      ‘I’ve got my notes on the case which I’ll pass over to you.’

      ‘Good. For the moment, we need only the bare outline. If James Bentley did not kill Mrs McGinty, who did?’

      Spence shrugged his shoulders and said heavily:

      ‘There’s nobody, so far as I can see.’

      ‘But that answer we do not accept. Now, since for every murder there must be a motive, what, in the case of Mrs McGinty, could the motive be? Envy, revenge, jealousy, fear, money? Let us take the last and the simplest? Who profited by her death?’

      ‘Nobody very much. She had two hundred pounds in the Savings Bank. Her niece gets that.’

      ‘Two hundred pounds is not very much—but in certain circumstances it could be enough. So let us consider the niece. I apologize, my friend, for treading in your footsteps. You too, I know, must have considered all this. But I have to go over with you the ground already traversed.’

      Spence nodded his large head.

      ‘We considered the niece, of course. She’s thirty-eight, married. Husband is employed in the building and decorating trade—a painter. He’s got a good character, steady employment, sharp sort of fellow, no fool. She’s a pleasant young woman, a bit talkative, seemed fond of her aunt in a mild sort of way. Neither of them had any urgent need for two hundred pounds, though quite pleased to have it, I dare say.’

      ‘What about the cottage? Do they get that?’

      ‘It was rented. Of course, under the Rent Restriction Act the landlord couldn’t get the old woman out. But now she’s dead, I don’t think the niece could have taken over—anyway she and her husband didn’t want to. They’ve got a small modern council house of their own of which they are extremely proud.’ Spence sighed. ‘I went into the niece and her husband pretty closely—they seemed the best bet, as you’ll understand. But I couldn’t get hold of anything.’

      ‘Bien. Now let us talk about Mrs McGinty herself. Describe her to me—and not only in physical terms, if you please.’

      Spence grinned.

      ‘Don’t want a police description? Well, she was sixty-four. Widow. Husband had been employed in the drapery department of Hodges in Kilchester. He died about seven years ago. Pneumonia. Since then, Mrs McGinty has been going out daily to various houses round about. Domestic chores. Broadhinny’s a small village which has lately become residential. One or two retired people, one of the partners СКАЧАТЬ