Mrs McGinty’s Dead. Agatha Christie

would it bother you if I sliced the beans in here? The smell in the kitchen is too frightful.’

      ‘Madame, I should be enchanted.’

      It was not, perhaps, the exact phrase, but it was near enough. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that Poirot had seen any chance of a conversation of more than six seconds’ duration.

      Mrs Summerhayes flung herself down in a chair and began slicing beans with frenzied energy and considerable awkwardness.

      ‘I do hope,’ she said, ‘that you’re not too frightfully uncomfortable? If there’s anything you want altered, do say so.’

      Poirot had already come to the opinion that the only thing in Long Meadows he could even tolerate was his hostess.

      ‘You are too kind, madame,’ he replied politely. ‘I only wish it were within my powers to provide you with suitable domestics.’

      ‘Domestics!’ Mrs Summerhayes gave a squeal. ‘What a hope! Can’t even get hold of a daily. Our really good one was murdered. Just my luck.’

      ‘That would be Mrs McGinty,’ said Poirot quickly.

      ‘Mrs McGinty it was. God, how I miss that woman! Of course it was all a big thrill at the time. First murder we’ve ever had right in the family, so to speak, but as I told Johnnie, it was a downright bit of bad luck for us. Without McGinty I just can’t cope.’

      ‘You were attached to her?’

      ‘My dear man, she was reliable. She came. Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings—just like a clock. Now I have that Burp woman from up by the station. Five children and a husband. Naturally she’s never here. Either the husband’s taken queer, or the old mother, or the children have some foul disease or other. With old McGinty, at least it was only she herself who came over queer, and I must say she hardly ever did.’

      ‘And you found her always reliable and honest? You had trust in her?’

      ‘Oh, she’d never pinch anything—not even food. Of course she snooped a bit. Had a look at one’s letters and all that. But one expects that sort of thing. I mean they must live such awfully drab lives, mustn’t they?’

      ‘Had Mrs McGinty had a drab life?’

      ‘Ghastly, I expect,’ said Mrs Summerhayes vaguely. ‘Always on your knees scrubbing. And then piles of other people’s washing-up waiting for you on the sink when you arrive in the morning. If I had to face that every day, I’d be positively relieved to be murdered. I really would.’

      The face of Major Summerhayes appeared at the window. Mrs Summerhayes sprang up, upsetting the beans, and rushed across to the window, which she opened to the fullest extent.

      ‘That damned dog’s eaten the hens’ food again, Maureen.’

      ‘Oh damn, now he’ll be sick!’

      ‘Look here,’ John Summerhayes displayed a colander full of greenery, ‘is this enough spinach?’

      ‘Of course not.’

      ‘Seems a colossal amount to me.’

      ‘It’ll be about a teaspoonful when it’s cooked. Don’t you know by now what spinach is like?’

      ‘Oh Lord!’

      ‘Has the fish come?’

      ‘Not a sign of it.’

      ‘Hell, we’ll have to open a tin of something. You might do that, Johnnie. One of the ones in the corner cupboard. That one we thought was a bit bulged. I expect it’s quite all right really.’

      ‘What about the spinach?’

      ‘I’ll get that.’

      She leaped through the window, and husband and wife moved away together.

      ‘Nom d’un nom d’un nom!’ said Hercule Poirot. He crossed the room and closed the window as nearly as he could. The voice of Major Summerhayes came to him borne on the wind.

      ‘What about this new fellow, Maureen? Looks a bit peculiar to me. What’s his name again?’

      ‘I couldn’t remember it just now when I was talking to him. Had to say Mr Er-um. Poirot—that’s what it is. He’s French.’

      ‘You know, Maureen, I seem to have seen that name somewhere.’

      ‘Home Perm, perhaps. He looks like a hairdresser.’ Poirot winced.

      ‘N-no. Perhaps it’s pickles. I don’t know. I’m sure it’s familiar. Better get the first seven guineas out of him, quick.’

      The voices died away.

      Hercule Poirot picked up the beans from the floor where they had scattered far and wide. Just as he finished doing so, Mrs Summerhayes came in again through the door.

      He presented them to her politely:

      ‘Voici, madame.’

      ‘Oh, thanks awfully. I say, these beans look a bit black. We store them, you know, in crocks, salted down. But these seem to have gone wrong. I’m afraid they won’t be very nice.’

      ‘I, too, fear that…You permit that I shut the door? There is a decided draught.’

      ‘Oh yes, do. I’m afraid I always leave doors open.’

      ‘So I have noticed.’

      ‘Anyway, that door never stays shut. This house is practically falling to pieces. Johnnie’s father and mother lived here and they were badly off, poor dears, and they never did a thing to it. And then when we came home from India to live here, we couldn’t afford to do anything either. It’s fun for the children in the holidays, though, lots of room to run wild in, and the garden and everything. Having paying guests here just enables us to keep going, though I must say we’ve had a few rude shocks.’

      ‘Am I your only guest at present?’

      ‘We’ve got an old lady upstairs. Took to her bed the day she came and has been there ever since. Nothing the matter with her that I can see. But there she is, and I carry up four trays a day. Nothing wrong with her appetite. Anyway, she’s going tomorrow to some niece or other.’

      Mrs Summerhayes paused for a moment before resuming in a slightly artificial voice.

      ‘The fishman will be here in a minute. I wonder if you’d mind—er—forking out the first week’s rent. You are staying a week, aren’t you?’

      ‘Perhaps longer.’

      ‘Sorry to bother you. But I’ve not got any cash in the house and you know what these people are like—always dunning you.’

      ‘Pray do not apologize, madame.’ Poirot took out seven pound notes and added seven shillings. Mrs Summerhayes gathered the money up with avidity.

      ‘Thanks a lot.’

      ‘I should, perhaps, madame, tell you a little more about myself. I am Hercule Poirot.’

      The revelation left Mrs Summerhayes unmoved.

      ‘What a lovely name,’ she said kindly. ‘Greek, isn’t it?’

      ‘I am, as you may know,’ said Poirot, ‘a detective.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Perhaps the most famous detective there is.’

      Mrs Summerhayes screamed with amusement.

      ‘I see you’re a great practical joker, M. Poirot. What are you detecting? Cigarette ash and footprints?’

      ‘I am investigating the murder of Mrs McGinty,’ said Poirot. ‘And I do not joke.’

      ‘Ouch,’ said Mrs Summerhayes, ‘I’ve cut my hand.’

      She raised a finger and inspected it.

      Then she stared at Poirot.

      ‘Look