Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

“Naturally.”

“Because you could not get a reply to your knocks? But possibly your friend might have taken a sleeping draught or something of that kind—”

“She didn’t take sleeping draughts.”

The reply came sharply.

“Or she might have gone away and locked her door before going?”

“Why should she lock it? In any case she would have left a note for me.”

“And she did not—leave a note for you? You are quite sure of that?”

“Of course I am sure of it. I should have seen it at once.”

The sharpness of her tone was accentuated.

Japp said:

“You didn’t try and look through the keyhole, Miss Plenderleith?”

“No,” said Jane Plenderleith thoughtfully. “I never thought of that. But I couldn’t have seen anything, could I? Because the key would have been in it?”

Her inquiring gaze, innocent, wide-eyed, met Japp’s. Poirot smiled suddenly to himself.

“You did quite right, of course, Miss Plenderleith,” said Japp. “I suppose you’d no reason to believe that your friend was likely to commit suicide?”

“Oh, no.”

“She hadn’t seemed worried—or distressed in any way?”

There was a pause—an appreciable pause before the girl answered.

“No.”

“Did you know she had a pistol?”

Jane Plenderleith nodded.

“Yes, she had it out in India. She always kept it in a drawer in her room.”

“H’m. Got a licence for it?”

“I imagine so. I don’t know for certain.”

“Now, Miss Plenderleith, will you tell me all you can about Mrs. Allen, how long you’ve known her, where her relations are—everything in fact.”

Jane Plenderleith nodded.

“I’ve known Barbara about five years. I met her first travelling abroad—in Egypt to be exact. She was on her way home from India. I’d been at the British School in Athens for a bit and was having a few weeks in Egypt before going home. We were on a Nile cruise 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?”