Murder in the Mews

‘That man—Chief Inspector Japp—is he considered clever?’

‘He is very sound. Yes, he is well thought of. He works hard and painstakingly and very little escapes him.’

‘I wonder—’ muttered the girl.

Poirot watched her. His eyes looked very green in the firelight. He asked quietly:

‘It was a great shock to you, your friend’s death?’

‘Terrible.’

She spoke with abrupt sincerity.

‘You did not expect it—no?’

‘Of course not.’

‘So that it seemed to you at first, perhaps, that it was impossible—that it could not be?’

The quiet sympathy of his tone seemed to break down Jane Plenderleith’s defences. She replied eagerly, naturally, without stiffness.

‘That’s just it. Even if Barbara did kill herself, I can’t imagine her killing herself that way.’

‘Yet she had a pistol?’

Jane Plenderleith made an impatient gesture.

‘Yes, but that pistol was a—oh! a hang over. She’d been in out-of-the-way places. She kept it out of habit—not with any other idea. I’m sure of that.’

‘Ah! and why are you sure of that?’

‘Oh, because of the things she said.’

‘Such as—?’

His voice was very gentle and friendly. It led her on subtly.

‘Well, for instance, we were discussing suicide once and she said much the easiest way would be to turn the gas on and stuff up all the cracks and just go to bed. I said I thought that would be impossible—to lie there waiting. I said I’d far rather shoot myself. And she said no, she could never shoot herself. She’d be too frightened in case it didn’t come off and anyway she said she’d hate the bang.’

‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘As you say, it is odd … Because, as you have just told me, there was a gas fire in her room.’

Jane Plenderleith looked at him, slightly startled.

‘Yes, there was … I can’t understand—no, I can’t understand why she didn’t do it that way.’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Yes, it seems—odd—not natural somehow.’

‘The whole thing doesn’t seem natural. I still can’t believe she killed herself. I suppose it must be suicide?’

‘Well, there is one other possibility.’

‘What do you mean?’

Poirot looked straight at her.

‘It might be—murder.’

‘Oh, no?’ Jane Plenderleith shrank back. ‘Oh no! What a horrible suggestion.’

‘Horrible, perhaps, but does it strike you as an impossible one?’

‘But the door was locked on the inside. So was the window.’

‘The door was locked—yes. But there is nothing to show if it were locked from the inside or the outside. You see, the key was missing.’

‘But then—if it is missing …’ She took a minute or two. ‘Then it must have been locked from the outside. Otherwise it would be somewhere in the room.’

‘Ah, but it may be. The room has not been thoroughly searched yet, remember. Or it may have been thrown out of the window and somebody may have picked it up.’

‘Murder!’ said Jane Plenderleith. She turned over the possibility, her dark clever face eager on the scent. ‘I believe you’re right.’

‘But if it were murder there would have been a motive. Do you know of a motive, mademoiselle?’

Slowly she shook her head. And yet, in spite of the denial, Poirot again got the impression that Jane Plenderleith was deliberately keeping something back. The door opened and Japp came in.

Poirot rose.

‘I have been suggesting to Miss Plenderleith,’ he said, ‘that her friend’s death was not suicide.’

Japp looked momentarily put out. He cast a glance of reproach at Poirot.

‘It’s a bit early to say anything definite,’ he remarked. ‘We’ve always got to take all possibilities into account, you understand. That’s all there is to it at the moment.’

Jane Plenderleith replied quietly.

‘I see.’

Japp came towards her.

‘Now then, Miss Plenderleith, have you ever seen this before?’

On the palm of his hand he held out a small oval of dark blue enamel.

Jane Plenderleith shook her head.

‘No, never.’