Mrs McGinty’s Dead. Agatha Christie
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perhaps he’d gone a little mad.’
‘Did he ever seem to you a little—what shall I say—queer?’
‘Oh no. Not queer in that way. He was just shy and awkward as anyone might be. The truth was, he didn’t make the best of himself. He hadn’t confidence in himself.’
Poirot looked at her. She certainly had confidence in herself. Possibly she had enough confidence for two.
‘You liked him?’ he asked.
She flushed.
‘Yes, I did. Amy—that’s the other girl in the office—used to laugh at him and call him a drip, but I liked him very much. He was gentle and polite—and he knew a lot really. Things out of books, I mean.’
‘Ah yes, things out of books.’
‘He missed his mother. She’d been ill for years, you know. At least, not really ill, but not strong, and he’d done everything for her.’
Poirot nodded. He knew those mothers.
‘And of course she’d looked after him, too. I mean taken care of his health and his chest in winter and what he ate and all that.’
Again he nodded. He asked:
‘You and he were friends?’
‘I don’t know—not exactly. We used to talk sometimes. But after he left here, he—I—I didn’t see much of him. I wrote to him once in a friendly way, but he didn’t answer.’
Poirot said gently:
‘But you like him?’
She said rather defiantly:
‘Yes, I do…’
‘That is excellent,’ said Poirot.
His mind switched back to the day of his interview with the condemned prisoner…He saw James Bentley clearly. The mouse-coloured hair, the thin awkward body, the hands with their big knuckles and wrists, the Adam’s apple in the lean neck. He saw the furtive, embarrassed—almost sly glance. Not straightforward, not a man whose word could be trusted—a secretive, sly deceitful fellow with an ungracious, muttering way of talking…That was the impression James Bentley would give to most superficial observers. It was the impression he had given in the dock. The sort of fellow who would tell lies, and steal money, and hit an old woman over the head…
But on Superintendent Spence, who knew men, he had not made that impression. Nor on Hercule Poirot…And now here was this girl.
‘What is your name, mademoiselle?’ he asked.
‘Maude Williams. Is there anything I could do—to help?’
‘I think there is. There are people who believe, Miss Williams, that James Bentley is innocent. They are working to prove that fact. I am the person charged with that investigation, and I may tell you that I have already made considerable progress—yes, considerable progress.’
He uttered that lie without a blush. To his mind it was a very necessary lie. Someone, somewhere, had got to be made uneasy. Maude Williams would talk, and talk was like a stone in a pond, it made a ripple that went on spreading outwards.
He said: ‘You tell me that you and James Bentley talked together. He told you about his mother and his home life. Did he ever mention anyone with whom he, or perhaps his mother, was on bad terms?’
Maude Williams reflected.
‘No—not what you’d call bad terms. His mother didn’t like young women much, I gather.’
‘Mothers of devoted sons never like young women. No, I mean more than that. Some family feud, some enmity. Someone with a grudge?’
She shook her head.
‘He never mentioned anything of that kind.’
‘Did he ever speak of his landlady, Mrs McGinty?’
She shivered slightly.
‘Not by name. He said once that she gave him kippers much too often—and once he said his landlady was upset because she had lost her cat.’
‘Did he ever—you must be honest, please—mention that he knew where she kept her money?’
Some of the colour went out of the girl’s face, but she threw up her chin defiantly.
‘Actually, he did. We were talking about people being distrustful of banks—and he said his old landlady kept her spare money under a floorboard. He said: “I could help myself any day to it when she’s out.” Not quite as a joke, he didn’t joke, more as though he were really worried by her carelessness.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot. ‘That is good. From my point of view, I mean. When James Bentley thinks of stealing, it presents itself to him as an action that is done behind someone’s back. He might have said, you see, “Some day someone will knock her on the head for it.”’
‘But either way, he wouldn’t be meaning it.’
‘Oh no. But talk, however light, however idle, gives away, inevitably, the sort of person you are. The wise criminal would never open his mouth, but criminals are seldom wise and usually vain and they talk a good deal—and so most criminals are caught.’
Maude Williams said abruptly:
‘But someone must have killed the old woman.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Who did? Do you know? Have you any idea?’
‘Yes,’ said Hercule Poirot mendaciously. ‘I think I have a very good idea. But we are only at the beginning of the road.’
The girl glanced at her watch.
‘I must get back. We’re only supposed to take half an hour. One-horse place, Kilchester—I’ve always had jobs in London before. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do—really do, I mean?’
Poirot took out one of his cards. On it he wrote Long Meadows and the telephone number.
‘That is where I am staying.’
His name, he noted with chagrin, made no particular impression on her. The younger generation, he could not but feel, were singularly lacking in knowledge of notable celebrities.
III
Hercule Poirot caught a bus back to Broadhinny feeling slightly more cheerful. At any rate there was one person who shared his belief in James Bentley’s innocence. Bentley was not so friendless as he had made himself out to be.
His mind went back again to Bentley in prison. What a dispiriting interview it had been. There had been no hope aroused, hardly a stirring of interest.
‘Thank you,’ Bentley had said dully, ‘but I don’t suppose there is anything anyone can do.’
No, he was sure he had not got any enemies.
‘When people barely notice you’re alive, you’re not likely to have any enemies.’
‘Your mother? Did she have an enemy?’
‘Certainly not. Everyone liked and respected her.’
There was a faint indignation in his tone.
‘What about your friends?’
And James Bentley had said, or rather muttered, ‘I haven’t any friends…’
But that had not been quite true. For Maude Williams was a friend.
‘What a wonderful dispensation it is of Nature’s,’ thought Hercule Poirot, ‘that every man, however superficially unattractive, should be some woman’s choice.’
For