Mrs McGinty’s Dead. Agatha Christie

he said, ‘I don’t think he did it…’

       Chapter 2

      There was a moment or two of silence.

      ‘You came to me—’

      Poirot did not finish the sentence.

      Superintendent Spence looked up. The colour in his face was deeper than it had been. It was a typical countryman’s face, unexpressive, self-contained, with shrewd but honest eyes. It was the face of a man with definite standards who would never be bothered by doubts of himself or by doubts of what constituted right and wrong.

      ‘I’ve been a long time in the Force,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a good deal of experience of this, that and the other. I can judge a man as well as any other could do. I’ve had cases of murder during my service—some of them straightforward enough, some of them not so straightforward. One case you know of, M. Poirot—’

      Poirot nodded.

      ‘Tricky, that was. But for you, we mightn’t have seen clear. But we did see clear—and there wasn’t any doubt. The same with the others you don’t know about. There was Whistler, he got his—and deserved it. There were those chaps who shot old Guterman. There was Verall and his arsenic. Tranter got off—but he did it all right. Mrs Courtland—she was lucky—her husband was a nasty perverted bit of work, and the jury acquitted her accordingly. Not justice—just sentiment. You’ve got to allow for that happening now and again. Sometimes there isn’t enough evidence—sometimes there’s sentiment, sometimes a murderer manages to put it across the jury—that last doesn’t happen often, but it can happen. Sometimes it’s a clever bit of work by defending counsel—or a prosecuting counsel takes the wrong tack. Oh yes, I’ve seen a lot of things like that. But—but—’

      Spence wagged a heavy forefinger.

      ‘I haven’t seen—not in my experience—an innocent man hanged for something he didn’t do. It’s a thing, M. Poirot, that I don’t want to see.

      ‘Not,’ added Spence, ‘in this country!’

      Poirot gazed back at him.

      ‘And you think you are going to see it now. But why—’

      Spence interrupted him.

      ‘I know some of the things you’re going to say. I’ll answer them without you having to ask them. I was put on this case. I was put on to get evidence of what happened. I went into the whole business very carefully. I got the facts, all the facts I could. All those facts pointed one way—pointed to one person. When I’d got all the facts I took them to my superior officer. After that it was out of my hands. The case went to the Public Prosecutor and it was up to him. He decided to prosecute—he couldn’t have done anything else—not on the evidence. And so James Bentley was arrested and committed for trial, and was duly tried and has been found guilty. They couldn’t have found him anything else, not on the evidence. And evidence is what a jury have to consider. Didn’t have any qualms about it either, I should say. No, I should say they were all quite satisfied he was guilty.’

      ‘But you—are not?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why?’

      Superintendent Spence sighed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his big hand.

      ‘I don’t know. What I mean is, I can’t give a reason—a concrete reason. To the jury I dare say he looked like a murderer—to me he didn’t—and I know a lot more about murderers than they do.’

      ‘Yes, yes, you are an expert.’

      ‘For one thing, you know, he wasn’t cocky. Not cocky at all. And in my experience they usually are. Always so damned pleased with themselves. Always think they’re stringing you along. Always sure they’ve been so clever about the whole thing. And even when they’re in the dock and must know they’re for it, they’re still in a queer sort of way getting a kick out of it all. They’re in the limelight. They’re the central figure. Playing the star part—perhaps for the first time in their lives. They’re—well—you know—cocky!’

      Spence brought out the word with an air of finality.

      ‘You’ll understand what I mean by that, M. Poirot.’

      ‘I understand very well. And this James Bentley—he was not like that?’

      ‘No. He was—well, just scared stiff. Scared stiff from the start. And to some people that would square in with his being guilty. But not to me.’

      ‘No, I agree with you. What is he like, this James Bentley?’

      ‘Thirty-three, medium height, sallow complexion, wears glasses—’

      Poirot arrested the flow.

      ‘No, I do not mean his physical characteristics. What sort of a personality?’

      ‘Oh—that.’ Superintendent Spence considered. ‘Unprepossessing sort of fellow. Nervous manner. Can’t look you straight in the face. Has a sly sideways way of peering at you. Worst possible sort of manner for a jury. Sometimes cringing and sometimes truculent. Blusters in an inefficient kind of way.’

      He paused and added in a conversational tone:

      ‘Really a shy kind of chap. Had a cousin rather like that. If anything’s awkward they go and tell some silly lie that hasn’t a chance of being believed.’

      ‘He does not sound attractive, your James Bentley.’

      ‘Oh, he isn’t. Nobody could like him. But I don’t want to see him hanged for all that.’

      ‘And you think he will be hanged?’

      ‘I don’t see why not. His counsel may lodge an appeal—but if so it will be on very flimsy grounds—a technicality of some kind, and I don’t see that it will have a chance of success.’

      ‘Did he have a good counsel?’

      ‘Young Graybrook was allotted to him under the Poor Persons’ Defence Act. I’d say he was thoroughly conscientious and put up the best show he could.’

      ‘So the man had a fair trial and was condemned by a jury of his fellow-men.’

      ‘That’s right. A good average jury. Seven men, five women—all decent reasonable souls. Judge was old Stanisdale. Scrupulously fair—no bias.’

      ‘So—according to the law of the land—James Bentley has nothing to complain of?’

      ‘If he’s hanged for something he didn’t do, he’s got something to complain of!’

      ‘A very just observation.’

      ‘And the case against him was my case—I collected the facts and put them together—and it’s on that case and those facts that he’s been condemned. And I don’t like it, M. Poirot, I don’t like it.’

      Hercule Poirot looked for a long time at the red agitated face of Superintendent Spence.

      ‘Eh bien,’ he said. ‘What do you suggest?’

      Spence looked acutely embarrassed.

      ‘I expect you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s coming. The Bentley case is closed. I’m on another case already—embezzlement. Got to go up to Scotland tonight. I’m not a free man.’

      ‘And I—am?’

      Spence nodded in a shame-faced sort of way.

      ‘You’ve got it. Awful cheek, you’ll think. But I can’t think of anything else—of any other way. I did all I could at the time, I examined every possibility I could. And I didn’t get anywhere. I don’t believe I ever would get anywhere. But who knows, it may be different for you. You look at things in—if you’ll pardon