The A.B.C. Murders (Hercule Poirot 13)

“Yes, that’s me.”

“You knew Elizabeth Barnard?”

“Oh, yes, I knew Betty. Isn’t it awful? It’s just too awful! I can’t believe it’s true. I’ve been saying to the girls all the morning I just can’t believe it! ‘You know, girls,’ I said, ‘it just doesn’t seem real. Betty! I mean, Betty Barnard, who’s been here all along, murdered! I just can’t believe it,’ I said. Five or six times I’ve pinched myself just to see if I wouldn’t wake up. Betty murdered…It’s—well, you know what I mean—it doesn’t seem real.”

“You knew the dead girl well?” asked Crome.

“Well, she’s worked here longer than I have. I only came this March. She was here last year. She was rather quiet, if you know what I mean. She wasn’t one to joke or laugh a lot. I don’t mean that she was exactly quiet—she’d plenty of fun in her and all that—but she didn’t—well, she was quiet and she wasn’t quiet, if you know what I mean.”

I will say for Inspector Crome that he was exceedingly patient. As a witness the buxom Miss Higley was persistently maddening. Every statement she made was repeated and qualified half a dozen times. The net result was meagre in the extreme.

She had not been on terms of intimacy with the dead girl. Elizabeth Barnard, it could be guessed, had considered herself a cut above Miss Higley. She had been friendly in working hours, but the girls had not seen much of her out of them. Elizabeth Barnard had had a “friend’ who worked at the estate agents near the station. Court & Brunskill. No, he wasn’t Mr. Court nor Mr. Brunskill. He was a clerk there. She didn’t know his name. But she knew him by sight well. Good-looking—oh, very good-looking, and always so nicely dressed. Clearly, there was a tinge of jealousy in Miss Higley’s heart.

In the end it boiled down to this. Elizabeth Barnard had not confided in anyone in the café as to her plans for the evening, but in Miss Higley’s opinion she had been going to meet her “friend.” She had had on a new white dress, “ever so sweet with one of the new necks.”

We had a word with each of the other two girls but with no further results. Betty Barnard had not said anything as to her plans and no one had noticed her in Bexhill during the course of the evening.

Ten

THE BARNARDS

Elizabeth Barnard’s parents lived in a minute bungalow, one of fifty or so recently run up by a speculative builder on the confines of the town. The name of it was Llandudno. Mr. Barnard, a stout, bewildered-looking man of fifty-five or so, had noticed our approach and was standing waiting in the doorway.

“Come in, gentlemen,” he said.

Inspector Kelsey took the initiative.

“This is Inspector Crome of Scotland Yard, sir,” he said. “He’s come down to help us over this business.”

“Scotland Yard?” said Mr. Barnard hopefully. “That’s good. This murdering villain’s got to be laid by the heels. My poor little girl—” His face was distorted by a spasm of grief.

“And this is Mr. Hercule Poirot, also from London, and er—”

“Captain Hastings,” said Poirot.

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” said Mr. Barnard mechanically. “Come into the snuggery. I don’t know that my poor wife’s up to seeing you. All broken up, she is.”

However, by the time that we were ensconced in the living room of the bungalow, Mrs. Barnard had made her appearance. She had evidently been crying bitterly, her eyes were reddened and she walked with the uncertain gait of a person who had had a great shock.

“Why, mother, that’s fine,

” said Mr. Barnard. “You’re sure you’re all right—eh?”

He patted her shoulder and drew her down into a chair.

“The superintendent was very kind,” said Mr. Barnard. “After he’d broken the news to us, he said he’d leave any questions till later when we’d got over the first shock.”

“It is too cruel. Oh, it is too cruel,” cried Mrs. Barnard tearfully. “The cruellest thing that ever was, it is.”

Her voice had a faintly sing-song intonation that I thought for a moment was foreign till I remembered the name on the gate and realized that the “effer wass” of her speech was in reality proof of her Welsh origin.

“It’s very painful, madam, I know,” said Inspector Crome. “And we’ve every sympathy for you, but we want to know all the facts we can so as to get to work as quick as possible.”

“That’s sense, that is,” said Mr. Barnard, nodding approval.

“Your daughter was twenty-three, I understand. She lived here with you and worked at the Ginger Cat café, is that right?”

“That’s it.”