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 godforsaken 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?”
Jame 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.
V
For a few minutes there was silence.
Jane Plenderleith shot a swift appraising glance at the little man, but after that she stared in front of her and did not speak. Yet a consciousness of his presence showed itself in a certain nervous tension. Her body was still but not relaxed. When at last Poirot did break the silence the mere sound of his voice seemed to give her a certain relief. In an agreeable everyday voice he asked a question.
“When did you light the fire, mademoiselle?”
“The fire?” Her voice sounded vague and rather absentminded. “Oh, as soon as I arrived this morning.”
“Before you went upstairs or afterwards?”
“Before.”
“I see. Yes, naturally . . . And it was already laid—or did you have to lay it?”
“It was laid. I only had to put a match to it.”
There was a slight impatience in her voice. Clearly she suspected him of making conversation. Possibly that was what he was doing. At any rate he went on in quiet conversational tones.
“But your friend—in her room I noticed there was a gas fire only?”
Jane Plenderleith answered mechanically.
“This is the only coal fire we have—the others are all gas fires.”
“And you cook with gas, too?”
“I think everyone does nowadays.”
“True. It is much labour saving.”
The little interchange died down. Jane Plenderleith tapped on the ground with her shoe. Then she said abruptly:
“That man—Chief Inspector Japp—is he considered clever?”
“He is very sound. Yes, he is well thought of. He works hard and painstakingly and very little escapes him.”
“I wonder—” muttered the girl.
Poirot watched her. His eyes looked very green in the firelight
. He asked quietly:
“It was a great shock to you, your friend’s death?”
“Terrible.”
She spoke with abrupt sincerity.
“You did not expect it—no?”
“Of course not.”
“So that it seemed to you at first, perhaps, that it was impossible—that it could not be?”
The quiet sympathy of his tone seemed to break down Jane Plenderleith’s defences. She replied eagerly, naturally, without stiffness.
“That’s just it. Even if Barbara did kill herself, I can’t imagine her killing herself that way.”
“Yet she had a pistol?”
Jane Plenderleith made an impatient gesture.
“Yes, but that pistol was a—oh! a hang over. She’d been in out-of-the-way places. She kept it out of habit—not with any other idea. I’m sure of that.”
“Ah! and why are you sure of that?”
“Oh, because of the things she said.”
“Such as—?”
His voice was very gentle and friendly. It led her on subtly.
“Well, for instance, we were discussing suicide once and she said much the easiest way would be to turn the gas on and stuff up all the cracks and just go to bed. I said I thought that would be impossible—to lie there waiting. I said I’d far rather shoot myself. And she said no, she could never shoot herself. She’d be too frightened in case it didn’t come off and anyway she said she’d hate the bang.”
“I see,” said Poirot. “As you say, it is odd . . . Because, as you have just told me, there was a gas fire in her room.”
Jane Plenderleith looked at him, slightly startled.
“Yes, there was . . . I can’t understand—no, I can’t understand why she didn’t do it that way.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Yes, it seems—odd—not natural somehow.”
“The whole thing doesn’t seem natural. I still can’t believe she killed herself. I suppose it must be suicide?”
“Well, there is one other possibility.”
“What do you mean?”
Poirot looked straight at her.
“It might be—murder.”
“Oh, no?” Jane Plenderleith shrank back. “Oh no! What a horrible suggestion.”
“Horrible, perhaps, but does it strike you as an impossible one?”
“But the door was locked on the inside. So was the window.”
“The door was locked—yes. But there is nothing to show if it were locked from the inside or the outside. You see, the key was missing.”
“But then—if it is missing . . .” She took a minute or two. “Then it must have been locked from the outside. Otherwise it would be somewhere in the room.”
“Ah, but it may be. The room has not been thoroughly searched yet, remember. Or it may have been thrown out of the window and somebody may have picked it up.”
“Murder!” said Jane Plenderleith. She turned over the possibility, her dark clever face eager on the scent. “I believe you’re right.”
“But if it were murder there would have been a motive. Do you know of a motive, mademoiselle?”
Slowly she shook her head. And yet, in spite of the denial, Poirot again got the impression that Jane Plenderleith was deliberately keeping something back. The door opened and Japp came in.
Poirot rose.
“I have been suggesting to Miss Plenderleith,” he said, “that her friend’s death was not suicide.”
Japp looked momentarily put out. He cast a glance of reproach at Poirot.
“It’s a bit early to say anything definite,” he remarked. “We’ve always got to take all possibilities into account, you understand. That’s all there is to it at the moment.�