Cat Among the Pigeons

  “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.

  Twenty

  CONVERSATION

  “Well—I don’t know what to say,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “Really I don’t know what to say—”

  She looked with definite distaste at Hercule Poirot.

  “Henry, of course,” she said, “is not at home.”

  The meaning of this pronouncement was slightly obscure, but Hercule Poirot thought that he knew what was in her mind. Henry, she was feeling, would be able to deal with this sort of thing. Henry had so many international dealings. He was always flying to the Middle East and to Ghana and to South America and to Geneva, and even occasionally, but not so often, to Paris.

  “The whole thing,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, “has been most distressing. I was so glad to have Jennifer safely at home with me. Though, I must say,” she added, with a trace of vexation, “Jennifer has really been most tiresome. After having made a great fuss about going to Meadowbank and being quite sure she wouldn’t like it there, and saying it was a snobby kind of school and not the kind she wanted to go to, now she sulks all day long because I’ve taken her away. It’s really too bad.”

  “It is undeniably a very good school,” said Hercule Poirot. “Many people say the best school in England.”

  “It was, I daresay,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe.

  “And will be again,” said Hercule Poirot.

  “You think so?” Mrs. Sutcliffe looked at him doubtfully. His sympathetic manner was gradually piercing her defences. There is nothing that eases the burden of a mother’s life more than to be permitted to unburden herself of the difficulties, rebuffs and frustrations which she has in dealing with her offspring. Loyalty so often compels silent endurance. But to a foreigner like Hercule Poirot Mrs. Sutcliffe felt that this loyalty was not applicable. It was not like talking to the mother of another daughter.

  “Meadowbank,” said Hercule Poirot, “is just passing through an unfortunate phase.”

  It was the best thing he could think of to say at the moment. He felt its inadequacy and Mrs. Sutcliffe pounced upon the inadequacy immediately.

  “Rather more than unfortunate!” she said. “Two murders! And a girl kidnapped. You can’t send your daughter to a school where the mistresses are being murdered all the time.”

  It seemed a highly reasonable point of view.

  “If the murders,” said Poirot, “turn out to be the work of one person and that person is apprehended, that makes a difference, does it not?”

  “Well—I suppose so. Yes,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe doubtfully. “I mean—you mean—oh, I see, you mean like Jack the Ripper or that other man—who was it? Something to do with Devonshire. Cream? Neil Cream. Who went about killing an unfortunate type of woman. I suppose this murderer just goes about killing schoolmistresses! If once you’ve got him safely in prison, and hanged too, I hope, because you’re only allowed one murder, aren’t you?—like a dog with a bite—what was I saying? Oh yes, if he’s safely caught, well, then I suppose it would be different. Of course there can’t be many people like that, can there?”

  “One certainly hopes not,” said Hercule Poirot.

  “But then there’s this kidnapping too,” pointed out Mrs. Sutcliffe. “You don’t want to send your daughter to a school where she may be kidnapped, either, do you?”

  “Assuredly not, madame. I see how clearly you have thought out the whole thing. You are so right in all you say.”

  Mrs. Sutcliffe looked faintly pleased. Nobody had said anything like that to her for some time. Henry had merely said things like “What did you want to send her to Meadowbank for anyway?” and Jennifer had sulked and refused to answer.

  “I have thought about it,” she said. “A great deal.”

  “Then I should not let kidnapping worry you, madame. Entre nous, if I may speak in confidence, about Princess Shaista—It is not exactly a kidnapping—one suspects a romance—”

  “You mean the naughty girl just ran away to marry somebody?”

  “My lips are sealed,” said Hercule Poirot. “You comprehend it is not desired that there should be any scandal. This is in confidence entre nous. I know you will say nothing.”

  “Of course not,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe virtuously. She looked down at the letter that Poirot had brought with him from the Chief Constable. “I don’t quite understand who you are, M.—er—Poirot. Are you what they call in books—a private eye?”

  “I am a consultant,” said Hercule Poirot loftily.

  This flavour of Harley Street encouraged Mrs. Sutcliffe a great deal.

  “What do you want to talk to Jennifer about?” she demanded.

  “Just to get her impressions of things,” said Poirot. “She is observant—yes?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe. “She’s not what I call a noticing kind of child at all. I mean, she is always so matter of fact.”

  “It is better than making up things that have never happened at all,” said Poirot.

  “Oh, Jennifer wouldn’t do that sort of thing,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, with certainty. She got up, went to the window and called “Jennifer.”

  “I wish,” she said, to Poirot, as she came back again, “that you’d try and get it into Jennifer’s head that her father and I are only doing our best for her.”

  Jennifer came into the room with a sulky face and looked with deep suspicion at Hercule Poirot.

  “How do you do?” said Poirot. “I am a very old friend of Julia Upjohn. She came to London to find me.”

  “Julia went to London?” said Jennifer, slightly surprised. “Why?”

  “To ask my advice,” said Hercule Poirot.

  Jennifer looked unbelieving.

  “I was able to give it to her,” said Poirot. “She is now back at Meadowbank,” he added.

  “So her Aunt Isabel didn’t take her away,” said Jennifer, shooting an irritated look at her mother.

  Poirot looked at Mrs. Sutcliffe and for some reason, perhaps because she had been in the middle of counting the laundry when Poirot arrived and perhaps because of some unexplained compulsion, she got up and left the room.

  “It’s a bit hard,” said Jennifer, “to be out of all that’s going on there. All this fuss! I told Mummy it was silly. After all, none of the pupils have been killed.”

  “Have you any ideas of your own about the murders?” asked Poirot.

  Jennifer shook her head. “Someone who’s batty?” she offered. She added thoughtfully, “I suppose Miss Bulstrode will have to get some new mistresses now.”

  “It seems possible, yes,” said Poirot. He went on, “I am interested, Mademoiselle Jennifer, in the woman who came and offered you a new racquet for your old one. Do you remember?”

  “I should think I do remember,” said Jennifer. “I’ve never found out to this day who really sent it. It wasn’t Aunt Gina at all.”

  “What did this woman look like?” said Poirot.

  “The one who brought the racquet?” Jennifer half closed her eyes as though thinking. “Well, I don’t know. She had on a sort of fussy dress with a little cape, I think. Blue, and a floppy sort of hat.”

  “Yes?” said Poirot. “I meant perhaps not so much her clothes as her face.”

  “A good deal of makeup, I think,” said Jennifer vaguely. “A bit too much for the country, I mean, and fair hair. I think she wa
s an American.”

  “Had you ever seen her before?” asked Poirot.

  “Oh no,” said Jennifer. “I don’t think she lived down there. She said she’d come down for a luncheon party or a cocktail party or something.”

  Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He was interested in Jennifer’s complete acceptance of everything that was said to her. He said gently,

  “But she might not have been speaking the truth?”

  “Oh,” said Jennifer. “No, I suppose not.”

  “You’re quite sure you hadn’t seen her before? She could not have been, for instance, one of the girls dressed up? Or one of the mistresses?”

  “Dressed up?” Jennifer looked puzzled.

  Poirot laid before her the sketch Eileen Rich had done for him of Mademoiselle Blanche.

  “This was not the woman, was it?”

  Jennifer looked at it doubtfully.

  “It’s a little like her—but I don’t think it’s her.”

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  There was no sign that Jennifer recognized that this was actually a sketch of Mademoiselle Blanche.

  “You see,” said Jennifer, “I didn’t really look at her much. She was an American and a stranger, and then she told me about the racquet—”

  After that, it was clear, Jennifer would have had eyes for nothing but her new possession.

  “I see,” said Poirot. He went on, “Did you ever see at Meadowbank anyone that you’d seen out in Ramat?”

  “In Ramat?” Jennifer thought. “Oh no—at least—I don’t think so.”

  Poirot pounced on the slight expression of doubt. “But you are not sure, Mademoiselle Jennifer.”

  “Well,” Jennifer scratched her forehead with a worried expression, “I mean, you’re always seeing people who look like somebody else. You can’t quite remember who it is they look like. Sometimes you see people that you have met but you don’t remember who they are. And they say to you ‘You don’t remember me,’ and then that’s awfully awkward because really you don’t. I mean, you sort of know their face but you can’t remember their names or where you saw them.”