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.
“Well, now we have the answer. Because in the Sports Pavilion there was a tennis racquet containing a fortune in jewels. Someone knew about that racquet. Who was it? It could have been Miss Springer herself. She was, so you all say, rather peculiar about that Sports Pavilion. Disliked people coming there—unauthorized people, that is to say. She seemed to be suspicious of their motives. Particularly was that so in the case of Mademoiselle Blanche.”
“Mademoiselle Blanche,” said Kelsey thoughtfully.
Hercule Poirot again spoke to Adam.
“You yourself considered Mademoiselle Blanche’s manner odd where it concerned the Sports Pavilion?”
“She explained,” said Adam. “She explained too much. I should never have questioned her right to be there if she had not taken so much trouble to explain it away.”
Poirot nodded.
“Exactly. That certainly gives one to think. But all we know is that Miss Springer was killed in the Sports Pavilion at one o’clock in the morning when she had no business to be there.”
He turned to Kelsey.
“Where was Miss Springer before she came to Meadowbank?”
“We don’t know,” said the Inspector. “She left her last place of employment,” he mentioned a famous school, “last summer. Where she has been since we do not know.” He added dryly: “There was no occasion to ask the question until she was dead. She has no near relatives, nor, apparently, any close friends.”
“She could have been in Ramat, then,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“I believe there was a party of schoolteachers out there at the time of the trouble,” said Adam.
“Let us say, then, that she was there, that in some way she learned about the tennis racquet. Let us assume that after waiting a short time to familiarize herself with the routine at Meadowbank she went out one night to the Sports Pavilion. She got hold of the racquet and was about to remove the jewels from their hiding place when—” he paused—“when someone interrupted her. Someone who had been watching her? Following her that evening? Whoever it was had a pistol—and shot her—but had no time to prise out the jewels, or to take the racquet away, because people were approaching the Sports Pavilion who had heard the shot.”
He stopped.
“You think that’s what happened?” asked the Chief Constable.
“I do not know,” said Poirot. “It is one possibility. The other is that that person with the pistol was there first, and was surprised by Miss Springer. Someone whom Miss Springer was already suspicious of. She was, you have told me, that kind of woman. A noser out of secrets.”
“And the other woman?” asked Adam.
Poirot looked at him. Then, slowly, he shifted his gaze to the other two men.
“You do not know,” he said. “And I do not know. It could have been someone from outside—?”
His voice half asked a question.
Kelsey shook his head.
“I think not. We have sifted the neighbourhood very carefully. Especially, of course, in the case of strangers. There was a Madam Kolinsky staying nearby—known to Adam here. But she could not have been concerned in either murder.”
“Then it comes back to Meadowbank. And there is only one method to arrive at the truth—elimination.”
Kelsey sighed.
“Yes,” he said. “That’s what it amounts to. For the first murder, it’s a fairly open field. Almost anybody could have killed Miss Springer. The exceptions are Miss Johnson and Miss Chadwick—and a child who had the earache. But the second murder narrows things down. Miss Rich, Miss Blake and Miss Shapland are out of it. Miss Rich was staying at the Alton Grange Hotel, twenty miles away, Miss Blake was at Littleport on Sea, Miss Shapland was in London at a nightclub, the Nid Sauvage, with Mr. Dennis Rathbone.”
“And Miss Bulstrode was also away, I understand?”
Adam grinned. The Inspector and the Chief Constable looked shocked.
“Miss Bulstrode,” said the Inspector severely, “was staying with the Duchess of Welsham.”
“That eliminates Miss Bulstrode then,” said Poirot gravely. “And leaves us—what?”
“Two members of the domestic staff who sleep in, Mrs. Gibbons and a girl called Doris Hogg. I can’t consider either of them seriously. That leaves Miss Rowan and Mademoiselle Blanche.”
“And the pupils, of course.”
Kelsey looked startled.
“Surely you don’t suspect them?”
“Frankly, no. But one must be exact.”
Kelsey paid no attention to exactitude. He plodded on.
“Miss Rowan has been here over a year. She has a good record. We know nothing against her.”
“So we come, then, to Mademoiselle Blanche. It is there that the journey ends.”
There was a silence.
“There’s no evidence,” said Kelsey. “Her credentials seem genuine enough.”
“They would have to be,” said Poirot.
“She snooped,” said Adam. “But snooping isn’t evidence of murder.”
“Wait a minute,” said Kelsey, “there was something about a key. In our first interview with her—I’ll look it up—something about the key of the Pavilion falling out of the door and she picked it up and forgot to replace it—walked out with it and Springer bawled her out.”
“Whoever wanted to go out there at night and look for the racquet would have had to have a key to get in with,” said Poirot. “For that, it would have been necessary to take an impression of the key.”
“Surely,” said Adam, “in that case she would never have mentioned the key incident to you.”
“That doesn’t follow,” said Kelsey. “Springer might have talked about the key incident. If so, she might think it better to mention it in a casual fashion.”
“It is a point to be remembered,” said Poirot.
“It doesn’t take us very far,” said Kelsey.
He looked gloomily at Poirot.
“There would seem,” said Poirot, “(that is, if I have been informed correctly), one possibility. Julia Upjohn’s mother, I understand, recognized someone here on the first day of term. Someone whom she was surprised to see. From the context, it would seem likely that that someone was connected with foreign espionage. If Mrs. Upjohn definitely points out Mademoiselle as the person she recognized, then I think we could proceed with some assurance.”
“Easier said than done,” said Kelsey. “We’ve been trying to get in contact with Mrs. Upjohn, but the whole thing’s a headache! When the child said a bus, I thought she meant a proper coach tour, running to schedule, and a party all booked together. But that’s not it at all. Seems she’s just taking local buses to anyplace she happens to fancy! She’s not done it through Cook’s or a recognized travel agency. She’s all on her own, wandering about. What can you do with a woman like that? She might be anywhere. There’s a lot of Anatolia!”
“It makes it difficult, yes,” said Poirot.
“Plenty of nice coach tours,” said the Inspector in an injured voice. “All made easy for you—where you stop and what you see, and all-in fares so that you know exactly where you are.”
“But clearly, that kind of travel does not appeal to Mrs. Upjohn.”
“And in the meantime, here we are,” went on Kelsey. “Stuck! That Frenchwoman can walk out any moment she chooses. We’ve nothing on which we could hold her.”
Poirot shook his head.
“She will not do that.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I am sure. If you have committed murder, you do not want to do anything out of character, that may draw attention to you. Mademoiselle Blanche will remain here quietly until the end of the term.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am sure I am right. And remember, the person whom Mrs. Upjohn saw, does not know that Mrs. Upjohn saw her. The surprise when it comes will be complete.”
Kelsey sighed.
“If that’s all we’ve got to go on—”
“There are other things. Conversation, for instance.”
“Conversation?”
“It is very valuable, conversation. Sooner or later, if one has something to hide, one says too much.”
“Gives oneself away?” The Chief Constable sounded sceptical.
“It is not quite so simple as that. One is guarded about the thing one is trying to hide. But often one says too much about other things. And there are other uses for conversation. There are the innocent people who know things, but are unaware of the importance of what they know. And that reminds me—”
He rose to his feet.
“Excuse me, I pray. I must go and demand of Miss Bulstrode if there is someone here who can draw.”
“Draw?”
“Draw.”
“Well,” said Adam, as Poirot went out. “First girls’ knees, and now draughtsmanship! What next, I wonder?”
II
Miss Bulstrode answered Poirot’s questions without evincing any surprise.
“Miss Laurie is our visiting Drawing Mistress,” she said briskly. “But she isn’t here today. What do you want her to draw for you?” she added in a kindly manner as though to a child.
“Faces,” said Poirot.
“Miss Rich is good at sketching people. She’s clever at getting a likeness.”
“That is exactly what I need.”
Miss Bulstrode, he noted with approval, asked him no questions as to his reasons. She merely left the room and returned with Miss Rich.
After introductions, Poirot said: “You can sketch people? Quickly? With a pencil?”
Eileen Rich nodded.
“I often do. For amusement.”
“Good. Please, then, sketch for me the late Miss Springer.”
“That’s difficult. I knew her for such a short time. I’ll try.” She screwed up her eyes, then began to draw rapidly.
“Bien,” said Poirot, taking it from her. “And now, if you please, Miss Bulstrode, Miss Rowan, Mademoiselle Blanche and—yes—the gardener Adam.”
Eileen Rich looked at him doubtfully, then set to work. He looked at the result, and nodded appreciatively.
“You are good—you are very good. So few strokes—and yet the likeness is there. Now I will ask you to do something more difficult. Give, for example, to Miss Bulstrode a different hair arrangement. Change the shape of her eyebrows.”
Eileen stared at him as though she thought he was mad.
“No,” said Poirot. “I am not mad. I make an experiment, that is all. Please do as I ask.”
In a moment or two she said: “Here you are.”
“Excellent. Now do the same for Mademoiselle Blanche and Miss Rowan.”
When she had finished he lined up the three sketches.
“Now I will show you something,” he said. “Miss Bulstrode, in spite of the changes you have made is still unmistakably Miss Bulstrode. But look at the other two. Because their features are negative, and since they have not Miss Bulstrode’s personality, they appear almost different people, do they not?”
“I see what you mean,” said Eileen Rich.
She looked at him as he carefully folded the sketches away.
“What are you going to do with them?” she asked.
“Use them,” said Poirot.
[Cat Among the Pigeons -Agatha Christie] Nineteen Consultation Continued