Читать книгу Murder in the Mews - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 8

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 Plenderleith nodded.

‘I’ve known Barbara about five years. I met her first travelling abroad—in Egypt to be exact. She was on her way home from India. I’d been at the British School in Athens for a bit and was having a few weeks in Egypt before going home. We were on a Nile cruise together. We made friends, decided we liked each other. I was looking at the time for someone to share a flat or a tiny house with me. Barbara was alone in the world. We thought we’d get on well together.’

‘And you did get on well together?’ asked Poirot.

‘Very well. We each had our own friends—Barbara was more social in her likings—my friends were more of the artistic kind. It probably worked better that way.’

Poirot nodded. Japp went on:

‘What do you know about Mrs Allen’s family and her life before she met you?’

Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.

‘Not very much really. Her maiden name was Armitage, I believe.’

‘Her husband?’

‘I don’t fancy that he was anything to write home about. He drank, I think. I gather he died a year or two after the marriage. There was one child, a little girl, which died when it was three years old. Barbara didn’t talk much about her husband. I believe she married him in India when she was about seventeen. Then they went off to Borneo or one of the God-forsaken spots you send ne’er-do-wells to—but as it was obviously a painful subject I didn’t refer to it.’

‘Do you know if Mrs Allen was in any financial difficulties?’

‘No, I’m sure she wasn’t.’

‘Not in debt—anything of that kind?’

‘Oh, no! I’m sure she wasn’t in that kind of a jam.’

‘Now there’s another question I must ask—and I hope you won’t be upset about it, Miss Plenderleith. Had Mrs Allen any particular man friend or men friends?’

Jane Plenderleith answered coolly:

‘Well, she was engaged to be married if that answers your question.’

‘What is the name of the man she was engaged to?’

‘Charles Laverton-West. He’s M.P. for some place in Hampshire.’

‘Had she known him long?’

‘A little over a year.’

‘And she has been engaged to him—how long?’

‘Two—no—nearer three months.’

‘As far as you know there has not been any quarrel?’

Miss Plenderleith shook her head.

‘No. I should have been surprised if there had been anything of that sort. Barbara wasn’t the quarrelling kind.’

‘How long is it since you last saw Mrs Allen?’

‘Friday last, just before I went away for the weekend.’

‘Mrs Allen was remaining in town?’

‘Yes. She was going out with her fiancé on the Sunday, I believe.’

‘And you yourself, where did you spend the weekend?’

‘At Laidells Hall, Laidells, Essex.’

‘And the name of the people with whom you were staying?’

‘Mr and Mrs Bentinck.’

‘You only left them this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must have left very early?’

‘Mr Bentinck motored me up. He starts early because he has to get to the city by ten.’

‘I see.’

Japp nodded comprehendingly. Miss Plenderleith’s replies had all been crisp and convincing.

Poirot in his turn put a question.

‘What is your own opinion of Mr Laverton-West?’

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

‘Does that matter?’

‘No, it does not matter, perhaps, but I should like to have your opinion.’

‘I don’t know that I’ve thought about him one way or the other. He’s young—not more than thirty-one or two—ambitious—a good public speaker—means to get on in the world.’

‘That is on the credit side—and on the debit?’

‘Well,’ Miss Plenderleith considered for a moment or two. ‘In my opinion he’s commonplace—his ideas are not particularly original—and he’s slightly pompous.’

‘Those are not very serious faults, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, smiling.

‘Don’t you think so?’

Her tone was slightly ironic.

‘They might be to you.’

He was watching her, saw her look a little disconcerted. He pursued his advantage.

‘But to Mrs Allen—no, she would not notice them.’

‘You’re perfectly right. Barbara thought he was wonderful—took him entirely at his own valuation.’

Poirot said gently:

‘You were fond of your friend?’

He saw the hand clench on her knee, the tightening of the line of the jaw, yet the answer came in a matter-of-fact voice free from emotion.

‘You are quite right. I was.’

Japp said:

‘Just one other thing, Miss Plenderleith. You and she didn’t have a quarrel? There was no upset between you?’

‘None whatever.’

‘Not over this engagement business?’

‘Certainly not. I was glad she was able to be so happy about it.’

There was a momentary pause, then Japp said:

‘As far as you know, did Mrs Allen have any enemies?’

This time there was a definite interval before Jane Plenderleith replied. When she did so, her tone had altered very slightly.

‘I don’t know quite what you mean by enemies?’

‘Anyone, for instance, who would profit by her death?’

‘Oh, no, that would be ridiculous. She had a very small income anyway.’

‘And who inherits that income?’

Jane Plenderleith’s voice sounded mildly surprised as she said:

‘Do you know, I really don’t know. I shouldn’t be surprised if I did. That is, if she ever made a will.’

‘And no enemies in any other sense?’ Japp slid off to another aspect quickly. ‘People with a grudge against her?’

‘I don’t think anyone had a grudge against her. She was a very gentle creature, always anxious to please. She had a really sweet, lovable nature.’

For the first time that hard, matter-of-fact voice broke a little. Poirot nodded gently.

Japp said:

‘So it amounts to this—Mrs Allen has been in good spirits lately, she wasn’t in any financial difficulty, she was engaged to be married and was happy in her engagement. There was nothing in the world to make her commit suicide. That’s right, isn’t it?’

There was a momentary silence before Jane said:

‘Yes.’

Japp rose.

‘Excuse me, I must have a word with Inspector Jameson.’

He left the room.

Hercule Poirot remained tête à tête with Jane Plenderleith.