Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie

together. We made friends, decided we liked each other. I was looking at the time for someone to share a flat or a tiny house with me. Barbara was alone in the world. We thought we’d get on well together.’

      ‘And you did get on well together?’ asked Poirot.

      ‘Very well. We each had our own friends—Barbara was more social in her likings—my friends were more of the artistic kind. It probably worked better that way.’

      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 God-forsaken 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?’

      Jane 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