Mrs McGinty’s Dead

‘You should have seen one of my marrows last year,’ said Spence with enthusiasm. ‘Colossal! And my roses. I’m keen on roses. I’m going to have—’

He broke off.

‘That’s not what I came to talk about.’

‘No, no, you came to see an old acquaintance—it was kind. I appreciate it.’

‘There’s more to it than that, I’m afraid, M. Poirot. I’ll be honest. I want something.’

Poirot murmured delicately:

‘There is a mortgage, possibly, on your house? You would like a loan—’

Spence interrupted in a horrified voice:

‘Oh, good Lord, it’s not money! Nothing of that kind.’

Poirot waved his hands in graceful apology.

‘I demand your pardon.’

‘I’ll tell you straight out—it’s damned cheek what I’ve come for. If you send me away with a flea in my ear I shan’t be surprised.’

‘There will be no flea,’ said Poirot. ‘But continue.’

‘It’s the McGinty case. You’ve read about it, perhaps?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Not with attention. Mrs McGinty—an old woman in a shop or a house. She is dead, yes. How did she die?’

Spence stared at him.

‘Lord!’ he said. ‘That takes me back. Extraordinary. And I never thought of it until now.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. Just a game. Child’s game. We used to play it when we were kids. A lot of us in a row. Question and answer all down the line. “Mrs McGinty’s dead!” “How did she die?” “Down on one knee just like I.” And then the next question, “Mrs McGinty’s dead.” “How did she die?” “Holding her hand out just like I.” And there we’d be, all kneeling and our right arms held out stiff. And then you got it! “Mrs McGinty’s dead.” “How did she die?” “Like THIS!” Smack, the top of the row would fall sideways and down we all went like a pack of ninepins!’ Spence laughed uproariously at the remembrance. ‘Takes me back, it does!’

Poirot waited politely. This was one of the moments when, even after half a lifetime in the country, he found the English incomprehensible. He himself had played at Cache Cache in his childhood, but he felt no desire to talk about it or even to think about it.

When Spence had overcome his own amusement, Poirot repeated with some slight weariness, ‘How did she die?’

The laughter was wiped off Spence’s face. He was suddenly himself again.

‘She was hit on the back of her head with some sharp, heavy implement. Her savings, about thirty pounds in cash, were taken after her room had been ransacked. She lived alone in a small cottage except for a lodger. Man of the name of Bentley. James Bentley.’

‘Ah yes, Bentley.’

‘The place wasn’t broken into. No signs of any tampering with the windows or locks. Bentley was hard up, had lost his job, and owed two months’ rent. The money was found hidden under a loose stone at the back of the cottage. Bentley’s coat sleeve had blood on it and hair—same blood group and the right hair. According to his first statement he was never near the body—so it couldn’t have come there by accident.’

‘Who found her?’

‘The baker called with bread. It was the day he got paid. James Bentley opened the door to him and said he’d knocked at Mrs McGinty’s bedroom door, but couldn’t get an answer. The baker suggested she might have been taken bad. They got the woman from next door to go up and see. Mrs McGinty wasn’t in the bedroom, and hadn’t slept in the bed, but the room had been ransacked and the floorboards had been prised up. Then they thought of looking in the parlour. She was there, lying on the floor, and the neighbour fairly screamed her head off. Then they got the police, of course.’

‘And Bentley was eventually arrested and tried?’

‘Yes. The case came on at the Assizes. Yesterday. Open and shut case. The jury were only out twenty minutes this morning. Verdict: Guilty. Condemned to death.’

Poirot nodded.

‘And then, after the verdict, you got in a train and came to London and came here to see me. Why?’

Superintendent Spence was looking into his beer glass. He ran his finger slowly round and round the rim.

‘Because,’ he said, ‘I don’t think he did it…’

Chapter 2 (#u0d668e7a-43ca-4acd-a0f5-133e7851156a)

There was a moment or two of silence.

‘You came to me—’

Poirot did not finish the sentence.

Superintendent Spence looked up. The colour in his face was deeper than it had been. It was a typical countryman’s face, unexpressive, self-contained, with shrewd but honest eyes. It was the face of a man with definite standards who would never be bothered by doubts of himself or by doubts of what constituted right and wrong.

‘I’ve been a long time in the Force,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a good deal of experience of this, that and the other. I can judge a man as well as any other could do. I’ve had cases of murder during my service—some of them straightforward enough, some of them not so straightforward. One case you know of, M. Poirot—’

Poirot nodded.

‘Tricky, that was. But for you, we mightn’t have seen clear. But we did see clear—and there wasn’t any doubt. The same with the others you don’t know about. There was Whistler, he got his—and deserved it. There were those chaps who shot old Guterman. There was Verall and his arsenic. Tranter got off—but he did it all right. Mrs Courtland—she was lucky—her husband was a nasty perverted bit of work, and the jury acquitted her accordingly. Not justice—just sentiment. You’ve got to allow for that happening now and again. Sometimes there isn’t enough evidence—sometimes there’s sentiment, sometimes a murderer manages to put it across the jury—that last doesn’t happen often, but it can happen. Sometimes it’s a clever bit of work by defending counsel—or a prosecuting counsel takes the wrong tack. Oh yes, I’ve seen a lot of things like that. But—but—’

Spence wagged a heavy forefinger.

‘I haven’t seen—not in my experience—an innocent man hanged for something he didn’t do. It’s a thing, M. Poirot, that I don’t want to see.

‘Not,’ added Spence, ‘in this country!’

Poirot gazed back at him.

‘And you think you are going to see it now. But why—’

Spence interrupted him.

‘I know some of the things you’re going to say. I’ll answer them without you having to ask them. I was put on this case. I was put on to get evidence of what happened. I went into the whole business very carefully. I got the facts, all the facts I could. All those facts pointed one way—pointed to one person. When I’d got all the facts I took them to my superior officer. After that it was out of my hands. The case went to the Public Prosecutor and it was up to him. He decided to prosecute—he couldn’t have done anything else—not on the evidence. And so James Bentley was arrested and committed for trial, and was duly tried and has been found guilty. They couldn’t have found him anything else, not on the evidence. And evidence is what a jury have to consider. Didn’t have any qualms about it either, I should say. No, I should say they were all quite satisfied he was guilty.’

‘But you—are not?’