Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie
couldn’t have been killed possibly at a quarter past four.’
‘You can put that right out of your mind.’
Poirot had turned back the cover of the blotter.
‘Good idea,’ said Japp. ‘But no luck.’
The blotter showed an innocent white sheet of blotting-paper. Poirot turned over the leaves but they were all the same.
He turned his attention to the waste-paper basket.
It contained two or three torn-up letters and circulars. They were only torn once and were easily reconstructed. An appeal for money from some society for assisting ex-service men, an invitation to a cocktail party on November 3rd, an appointment with a dressmaker. The circulars were an announcement of a furrier’s sale and a catalogue from a department store.
‘Nothing there,’ said Japp.
‘No, it is odd …’ said Poirot.
‘You mean they usually leave a letter when it’s suicide?’
‘Exactly.’
‘In fact, one more proof that it isn’t suicide.’
He moved away.
‘I’ll have my men get to work now. We’d better go down and interview this Miss Plenderleith. Coming, Poirot?’
Poirot still seemed fascinated by the writing-bureau and its appointments.
He left the room, but at the door his eyes went back once more to the flaunting emerald quill pen.
At the foot of the narrow flight of stairs a door gave admission to a large-sized living-room—actually the converted stables. In this room, the walls of which were finished in a roughened plaster effect and on which hung etchings and woodcuts, two people were sitting.
One, in a chair near the fireplace, her hand stretched out to the blaze, was a dark efficient-looking young woman of twenty-seven or eight. The other, an elderly woman of ample proportions who carried a string bag, was panting and talking when the two men entered the room.
‘—and as I said, Miss, such a turn it gave me I nearly dropped down where I stood. And to think that this morning of all mornings—’
The other cut her short.
‘That will do, Mrs Pierce. These gentlemen are police officers, I think.’
‘Miss Plenderleith?’ asked Japp, advancing.
The girl nodded.
‘That is my name. This is Mrs Pierce who comes in to work for us every day.’
The irrepressible Mrs Pierce broke out again.
‘And as I was saying to Miss Plenderleith, to think that this morning of all mornings, my sister’s Louisa Maud should have been took with a fit and me the only one handy and as I say flesh and blood is flesh and blood, and I didn’t think Mrs Allen would mind, though I never likes to disappoint my ladies—’
Japp broke in with some dexterity.
‘Quite so, Mrs Pierce. Now perhaps you would take Inspector Jameson into the kitchen and give him a brief statement.’
Having then got rid of the voluble Mrs Pierce, who departed with Jameson talking thirteen to the dozen, Japp turned his attention once more to the girl.
‘I am Chief Inspector Japp. Now, Miss Plenderleith, I should like to know all you can tell me about this business.’
‘Certainly. Where shall I begin?’
Her self-possession was admirable. There were no signs of grief or shock save for an almost unnatural rigidity of manner.
‘You arrived this morning at what time?’
‘I think it was just before half-past ten. Mrs Pierce, the old liar, wasn’t here, I found—’
‘Is that a frequent occurrence?’
Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.
‘About twice a week she turns up at twelve—or not at all. She’s supposed to come at nine. Actually, as I say, twice a week she either “comes over queer,” or else some member of her family is overtaken by sickness. All these daily women are like that—fail you now and again. She’s not bad as they go.’
‘You’ve had her long?’
‘Just over a month. Our last one pinched things.’
‘Please go on, Miss Plenderleith.’
‘I paid off the taxi, carried in my suitcase, looked round for Mrs P., couldn’t see her and went upstairs to my room. I tidied up a bit then I went across to Barbara—Mrs Allen—and found the door locked. I rattled the handle and knocked but could get no reply. I came downstairs and rang up the police station.’
‘Pardon!’ Poirot interposed a quick, deft question. ‘It did not occur to you to try and break down the door—with the help of one of the chauffeurs in the mews, say?’
Her eyes turned to him—cool, grey-green eyes. Her glance seemed to sweep over him quickly and appraisingly.
‘No, I don’t think I thought of that. If anything was wrong, it seemed to me that the police were the people to send for.’
‘Then you thought—pardon, mademoiselle—that there was something wrong?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Because you could not get a reply to your knocks? But possibly your friend might have taken a sleeping draught or something of that kind—’
‘She didn’t take sleeping draughts.’
The reply came sharply.
‘Or she might have gone away and locked her door before going?’
‘Why should she lock it? In any case she would have left a note for me.’
‘And she did not—leave a note for you? You are quite sure of that?’
‘Of course I am sure of it. I should have seen it at once.’
The sharpness of her tone was accentuated.
Japp said:
‘You didn’t try and look through the keyhole, Miss Plenderleith?’
‘No,’ said Jane Plenderleith thoughtfully. ‘I never thought of that. But I couldn’t have seen anything, could I? Because the key would have been in it?’
Her inquiring gaze, innocent, wide-eyed, met Japp’s. Poirot smiled suddenly to himself.
‘You did quite right, of course, Miss Plenderleith,’ said Japp. ‘I suppose you’d no reason to believe that your friend was likely to commit suicide?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘She hadn’t seemed worried—or distressed in any way?’
There was a pause—an appreciable pause before the girl answered.
‘No.’
‘Did you know she had a pistol?’
Jane Plenderleith nodded.
‘Yes, she had it out in India. She always kept it in a drawer in her room.’
‘H’m. Got a licence for it?’
‘I imagine so. I don’t know for certain.’
‘Now, Miss Plenderleith, will you tell me all you can about Mrs Allen, how long you’ve known her, where her relations are—everything in fact.’
Jane