Showing posts with label Cat Among the Pigeons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cat Among the Pigeons. Show all posts

Thursday, December 4, 2014




I

It was the opening day of the summer term at Meadowbank school. The late afternoon sun shone down on the broad gravel sweep in front of the house. The front door was flung hospitably wide, and just within it, admirably suited to its Georgian proportions, stood Miss Vansittart, every hair in place, wearing an impeccably cut coat and skirt.



About two months earlier than the first day of the summer term at Meadowbank, certain events had taken place which were to have unexpected repercussions in that celebrated girls’ school.



I

As Bob Rawlinson walked along the echoing marble corridors of the Palace, he had never felt so unhappy in his life. The knowledge that he was carrying three-quarters of a million pounds in his trousers pocket caused him acute misery.



It was some six weeks later that a young man tapped discreetly on the door of a room in Bloomsbury and was told to come in.



I

“Really!” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, in an annoyed voice, as she looked out of her hotel window, “I don’t see why it always has to rain when one comes back to England. It makes it all seem so depressing.”



Letter from Julia Upjohn to her mother:

Dear Mummy,

I’ve settled in now and am liking it very much. There’s a girl who is new this term too called Jennifer and she and I rather do things together.



I

In the Mistresses’ Common Room news was being exchanged. Foreign travel, plays seen, Art Exhibitions visited. Snapshots were handed round. The menace of coloured transparencies was in the offing. All the enthusiasts wanted to show their own pictures, but to get out of being forced to see other people’s.



I

“Not too bad, boy,” said old Briggs grudgingly, “not too bad.”

He was expressing approval of his new assistant’s performance in digging a strip of ground. It wouldn’t do, thought Briggs, to let the young fellow get above himself.



I

On night duty in Hurst St. Cyprian Police Station, Sergeant Green yawned. The telephone rang and he picked up the receiver. A moment later his manner had changed completely. He began scribbling rapidly on a pad.



I

Letter from Jennifer Sutcliffe to her mother:

Dear Mummy,

We had a murder last night. Miss Springer, the gym mistress. It happened in the middle of the night and the police came and this morning they’re asking everybody questions.

Miss Chadwick told us not to talk to anybody about it but I thought you’d like to know.

With love,

Jennifer




Mademoiselle Angèle Blanche was thirty-five at a guess. No makeup, dark brown hair arranged neatly but unbecomingly. A severe coat and skirt.

It was Mademoiselle Blanche’s first term at Meadowbank, she explained. She was not sure that she wished to remain for a further term.



When Inspector Kelsey returned to the station, the sergeant on duty said:

“We’ve got Adam Goodman here, waiting, sir.”

“Adam Goodman? Oh yes. The gardener.”

A young man had risen respectfully to his feet. He was tall, dark and good-looking. He wore stained corduroy trousers loosely held up by an aged belt, and an open-necked shirt of very bright blue.



I

Miss Bulstrode had another faculty which demonstrated her superiority over most other women. She could listen.
She listened in silence to both Inspector Kelsey and Adam. She did not so much as raise an eyebrow. Then she uttered one word.



I

The third weekend after the opening of term followed the usual plan. It was the first weekend on which parents were allowed to take pupils out. As a result Meadowbank was left almost deserted.



I

Miss Chadwick was restless. She turned to and fro in her bed counting sheep, and employing other time-honoured methods of invoking sleep. In vain.



“Come along,” said Inspector Kelsey, entering the room with a grim face. “There’s been another.”

“Another what?” Adam looked up sharply.



I

“My head is bloody but unbowed,” said Adam to himself.
He was looking at Miss Bulstrode. He had never, he thought, admired a woman more. She sat, cool and unmoved, with her life-work falling in ruins about her.



I

The girls went up to bed that night more quietly than usual. For one thing their numbers were much depleted. At least thirty of them had gone home. The others reacted according to their several dispositions. Excitement, trepidation, a certain amount of giggling that was purely nervous in origin and there were some again who were merely quiet and thoughtful.



I

Hercule Poirot had prepared himself to beat down an insular prejudice that a headmistress might have against aged foreigners with pointed patent leather shoes and large moustaches. But he was agreeably surprised. Miss Bulstrode greeted him with cosmopolitan aplomb. She also, to his gratification, knew all about him.



I

“Two murders at Meadowbank,” repeated Poirot thoughtfully.

“We’ve given you the facts,” said Kelsey. “If you’ve any ideas—”

“Why the Sports Pavilion?” said Poirot. “That was your question, wasn’t it?” he said to Adam.

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