Mrs McGinty’s Dead

She fixed a bright eager glance at him. Through the door at the back a girl’s head showed listening avidly. She had untidy hair and a cold in the head.

‘I am by way of being a stranger in these parts,’ said Poirot solemnly.

‘That’s right, sir,’ agreed Mrs Sweetiman. ‘Come down from London, haven’t you?’

‘I expect you know my business here as well as I do,’ said Poirot with a slight smile.

‘Oh no, sir, I’ve really no idea,’ said Mrs Sweetiman in a wholly perfunctory manner.

‘Mrs McGinty,’ said Poirot.

Mrs Sweetiman shook her head.

‘That was a sad business—a shocking business.’

‘I expect you knew her well?’

‘Oh I did. As well as anyone in Broadhinny, I should say. She’d always pass the time of day with me when she came in here for any little thing. Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. And not settled yet, or so I’ve heard people say.’

‘There is a doubt—in some quarters—as to James Bentley’s guilt.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Sweetiman, ‘it wouldn’t be the first time the police got hold of the wrong man—though I wouldn’t say they had in this case. Not that I should have thought it of him really. A shy, awkward sort of fellow, but not dangerous or so you’d think. But there, you never know, do you?’

Poirot hazarded a request for notepaper.

‘Of course, sir. Just come across the other side, will you?’

Mrs Sweetiman bustled round to take her place behind the left-hand counter.

‘What’s difficult to imagine is, who it could have been if it wasn’t Mr Bentley,’ she remarked as she stretched up to a top shelf for notepaper and envelopes. ‘We do get some nasty tramps along here sometimes, and it’s possible one of these might have found a window unfastened and got in that way. But he wouldn’t go leaving the money behind him, would he? Not after doing murder to get it—and pound notes anyway, nothing with numbers or marked. Here you are, sir, that’s a nice blue Bond, and envelopes to match.’

Poirot made his purchase.

‘Mrs McGinty never spoke of being nervous of anyone, or afraid, did she?’ he asked.

‘Not to me, she didn’t. She wasn’t a nervous woman. She’d stay late sometimes at Mr Carpenter’s—that’s Holmeleigh at the top of the hill. They often have people to dinner and stopping with them, and Mrs McGinty would go there in the evening sometimes to help wash up, and she’d come down the hill in the dark, and that’s more than I’d like to do. Very dark it is—coming down that hill.’

‘Do you know her niece at all—Mrs Burch?’

‘I know her just to speak to. She and her husband come over sometimes.’

‘They inherited a little money when Mrs McGinty died.’

The piercing dark eyes looked at him severely.

‘Well, that’s natural enough, isn’t it, sir? You can’t take it with you, and it’s only right your own flesh and blood should get it.’

‘Oh yes, oh yes, I am entirely in agreement. Was Mrs McGinty fond of her niece?’

‘Very fond of her, I think, sir. In a quiet way.’

‘And her niece’s husband?’

An evasive look appeared in Mrs Sweetiman’s face.

‘As far as I know.’

‘When did you see Mrs McGinty last?’

Mrs Sweetiman considered, casting her mind back.

‘Now let me see, when was it, Edna?’ Edna, in the doorway, sniffed unhelpfully. ‘Was it the day she died? No, it was the day before—or the day before that again? Yes, it was a Monday. That’s right. She was killed on the Wednesday. Yes, it was Monday. She came in to buy a bottle of ink.’

‘She wanted a bottle of ink?’

‘Expect she wanted to write a letter,’ said Mrs Sweetiman brightly.

‘That seems probable. And she was quite her usual self, then? She did not seem different in any way?’

‘N-no, I don’t think so.’

The sniffing Edna shuffled through the door into the shop and suddenly joined in the conversation.

‘She was different,’ she asserted. ‘Pleased about something—well—not quite pleased—excited.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Mrs Sweetiman. ‘Not that I noticed it at the time. But now that you say so—sort of spry, she was.’

‘Do you remember anything she said on that day?’

‘I wouldn’t ordinarily. But what with her being murdered and the police and everything, it makes things stand out. She didn’t say anything about James Bentley, that I’m quite sure. Talked about the Carpenters a bit and Mrs Upward—places where she worked, you know.’

‘Oh yes, I was going to ask you whom exactly she worked for here.’

Mrs Sweetiman replied promptly:

‘Mondays and Thursdays she went to Mrs Summerhayes at Long Meadow. That’s where you are staying, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Poirot sighed, ‘I suppose there is not anywhere else to stay?’

‘Not right in Broadhinny, there isn’t. I suppose you aren’t very comfortable at Long Meadows? Mrs Summerhayes is a nice lady but she doesn’t know the first thing about a house. These ladies don’t who come back from foreign parts. Terrible mess there always was there to clean up, or so Mrs McGinty used to say. Yes, Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings Mrs Summerhayes, then Tuesday mornings Dr Rendell’s and afternoons Mrs Upward at Laburnums. Wednesday was Mrs Wetherby at Hunter’s Close and Friday Mrs Selkirk—Mrs Carpenter she is now. Mrs Upward’s an elderly lady who lives with her son. They’ve got a maid, but she’s getting on, and Mrs McGinty used to go once a week to give things a good turn out. Mr and Mrs Wetherby never seem to keep any help long—she’s rather an invalid. Mr and Mrs Carpenter have a beautiful home and do a lot of entertaining. They’re all very nice people.’

It was with this final pronouncement on the population of Broadhinny that Poirot went out into the street again.

He walked slowly up the hill towards Long Meadows. He hoped devoutly that the contents of the bulged tin and the bloodstained beans had been duly eaten for lunch and had not been saved for a supper treat for him. But possibly there were other doubtful tins. Life at Long Meadows certainly had its dangers.

It had been, on the whole, a disappointing day.

What had he learned?