Hercule Poirot - 25 - Mrs McGinty's Dead by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery
Published: 2010-06-22T23:00:00+00:00

Mrs McGinty's Dead

III

Half-way up the hill she met Robin Upward coming down it with a handsome platinum-haired young woman.

Robin introduced them.

“This is the wonderful Ariadne Oliver, Eve,” he said. “My dear, I don't know how she does it. Looks so benevolent, too, doesn't she? Not at all as though she wallowed in crime. This is Eve Carpenter. Her husband is going to be our next Member. The present one, Sir George Cartwright, is quite gaga, poor old man. He jumps out at young girls from behind doors.”

“Robin, you mustn't invent such terrible lies. You'll discredit the Party.”

“Well, why should I care? It isn't my Party. I'm a Liberal. That's the only Party it's possible to belong to nowadays, really small and select, and without a chance of getting in. I adore lost causes.”

He added to Mrs Oliver:

“Eve wants us to come in for drinks this evening. A sort of Party for you, Ariadne. You know, meet the lion. We're all terribly thrilled to have you here. Can't you put the scene of your next murder in Broadhinny?”

“Oh do, Mrs Oliver,” said Eve Carpenter.

“You can easily get Sven Hjerson down here,” said Robin. “He can be like Hercule Poirot, staying at the Summerhayes' Guest House. We're just going there now because I told Eve Hercule Poirot is just as much a celebrity in his line as you are in yours, and she says she was rather rude to him yesterday, so she's going to ask him to the party too. But seriously, dear, do make your next murder happen in Broadhinny. We'd all be so thrilled.”

“Oh do, Mrs Oliver. It would be such fun,” said Eve Carpenter.

“Who shall we have as murderer and who as victim?” asked Robin.

“Who's your present charwoman?” asked Mrs Oliver.

“Oh my dear, not that kind of murder. So dull. No, I think Eve here would make rather a nice victim. Strangled, perhaps, with her own nylon stockings. No, that's been done.”

“I think you'd better be murdered, Robin,” said Eve. “The coming playwright, stabbed in country cottage.”

“We haven't settled on a murderer yet,” said Robin. “What about my Mamma? Using her wheeled chair so that there wouldn't be footprints. I think that would be lovely.”

“She wouldn't want to stab you, though, Robin.”

Robin considered.

“No, perhaps not. As a matter of fact I was considering her strangling you. She wouldn't mind doing that half as much.”

“But I want you to be the victim. And the person who kills you can be Deirdre Henderson. The repressed plain girl whom nobody notices.”

“There you are, Ariadne,” said Robin. “The whole plot of your next novel presented to you. All you'll have to do is work in a few fake clues, and - of course - do the actual writing. Oh, goodness, what terrible dogs Maureen does have.”

They had turned in at the gate of Long Meadows, and two Irish wolfhounds had rushed forward, barking.

Maureen Summerhayes came out into the stableyard with a bucket in her hand.

“Down, Flyn. Come here, Cormic. Hullo. I'm just cleaning out Piggy's stable.

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