Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

“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?”