stationery, birthday cards, knitting wool and children's underclothes.
Poirot proceeded to a leisurely purchase of stamps.
The woman who bustled forward to attend to him was middle-aged with sharp, bright eyes.
“Here,” said Poirot to himself, “is undoubtedly the brains of the village of Broadhinny.”
Her name, not inappropriately, was Mrs Sweetiman.
“And twelve pennies,” said Mrs Sweetiman, deftly extracting them from a large book. “That's four and ten-pence altogether. Will there be anything more, sir?”
She fixed a bright eager glance on him. Through the door at the back a girl's head showed listening avidly. She had untidy hair and a cold in the head.
“I am by way of being a stranger in these parts,” said Poirot solemnly.
“That's right, sir,” agreed Mrs Sweetiman. “Come down from London, haven't you?”
“I expect you know my business here as well as I do,” said Poirot with a slight smile.
“Oh no, sir, I've really no idea,” said Mrs Sweetiman in a wholly perfunctory manner.
“Mrs McGinty,” said Poirot.
Mrs Sweetiman shook her head.
“That was a sad business - a shocking business.”
“I expect you knew her well?”
“Oh I did. As well as anyone in Broadhinny, I should say. She'd always pass the time of day with me when she came in here for any little thing. Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. And not settled yet, or so I've heard people say.”
“There is a doubt - in some quarters - as to James Bentley's guilt.”
“Well,” said Mrs Sweetiman, “it wouldn't be the first time the police got hold of the wrong man - though I wouldn't say they had in this case. Not that I should have thought it of him really. A shy awkward sort of fellow, but not dangerous or so you'd think. But there, you never know, do you?”
Poirot hazarded a request for notepaper.
“Of course, sir. Just come across the other side, will you?”
Mrs Sweetiman bustled round to take her place behind the left-hand counter.
“What's difficult to imagine is, who it could have been if it wasn't Mr Bentley,” she remarked as she stretched up to a top shelf for notepaper and envelopes. “We do get some nasty tramps along here sometimes, and it's possible one of these might have found a window unfastened and got in that way. But he wouldn't go leaving the money behind him, would he? Not after doing murder to get it - and pound notes anyway, nothing with numbers or marked. Here you are, sir, that's a nice blue Bond, and envelopes to match.”
Poirot made his purchase.
“Mrs McGinty never spoke of being nervous of anyone, or afraid, did she?” he asked.
“Not to me, she didn't. She wasn't a nervous woman. She'd stay late sometimes at Mr Carpenter's - that's Holmeleigh at the top of the hill. They often have people to dinner and stopping with them, and Mrs McGinty would go there in the evening sometimes to help wash up, and she'd come down the hill in the dark, and that's more than I'd like to do. Very dark it is. Coming down that hill.”
“Do you know her niece at all - Mrs Burch?”
“I know her just to speak to. She and her husband come over sometimes.”
“They inherited a little money when Mrs McGinty died.”
The piercing dark eyes looked at him severely.
“Well, that's natural enough, isn't it, sir? You can't take it with you, and it's only right your own flesh and blood should get it.”
“Oh yes, oh yes, I am entirely in agreement. Was Mrs McGinty fond of her niece?”
“Very fond of her, I think, sir. In a quiet way.”
“And her niece's husband?”
An evasive look appeared in Mrs Sweetiman's face.
“As far as I know.”
“When did you see Mrs McGinty last?”
Mrs Sweetiman considered, casting her mind back.
“Now let me see, when was it, Edna?” Edna, in the doorway, sniffed unhelpfully. “Was it the day she died? No, it was the day before - or the day before that again? Yes, it was a Monday. That's right. She was killed on the Wednesday. Yes, it was Monday. She
Poirot proceeded to a leisurely purchase of stamps.
The woman who bustled forward to attend to him was middle-aged with sharp, bright eyes.
“Here,” said Poirot to himself, “is undoubtedly the brains of the village of Broadhinny.”
Her name, not inappropriately, was Mrs Sweetiman.
“And twelve pennies,” said Mrs Sweetiman, deftly extracting them from a large book. “That's four and ten-pence altogether. Will there be anything more, sir?”
She fixed a bright eager glance on him. Through the door at the back a girl's head showed listening avidly. She had untidy hair and a cold in the head.
“I am by way of being a stranger in these parts,” said Poirot solemnly.
“That's right, sir,” agreed Mrs Sweetiman. “Come down from London, haven't you?”
“I expect you know my business here as well as I do,” said Poirot with a slight smile.
“Oh no, sir, I've really no idea,” said Mrs Sweetiman in a wholly perfunctory manner.
“Mrs McGinty,” said Poirot.
Mrs Sweetiman shook her head.
“That was a sad business - a shocking business.”
“I expect you knew her well?”
“Oh I did. As well as anyone in Broadhinny, I should say. She'd always pass the time of day with me when she came in here for any little thing. Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. And not settled yet, or so I've heard people say.”
“There is a doubt - in some quarters - as to James Bentley's guilt.”
“Well,” said Mrs Sweetiman, “it wouldn't be the first time the police got hold of the wrong man - though I wouldn't say they had in this case. Not that I should have thought it of him really. A shy awkward sort of fellow, but not dangerous or so you'd think. But there, you never know, do you?”
Poirot hazarded a request for notepaper.
“Of course, sir. Just come across the other side, will you?”
Mrs Sweetiman bustled round to take her place behind the left-hand counter.
“What's difficult to imagine is, who it could have been if it wasn't Mr Bentley,” she remarked as she stretched up to a top shelf for notepaper and envelopes. “We do get some nasty tramps along here sometimes, and it's possible one of these might have found a window unfastened and got in that way. But he wouldn't go leaving the money behind him, would he? Not after doing murder to get it - and pound notes anyway, nothing with numbers or marked. Here you are, sir, that's a nice blue Bond, and envelopes to match.”
Poirot made his purchase.
“Mrs McGinty never spoke of being nervous of anyone, or afraid, did she?” he asked.
“Not to me, she didn't. She wasn't a nervous woman. She'd stay late sometimes at Mr Carpenter's - that's Holmeleigh at the top of the hill. They often have people to dinner and stopping with them, and Mrs McGinty would go there in the evening sometimes to help wash up, and she'd come down the hill in the dark, and that's more than I'd like to do. Very dark it is. Coming down that hill.”
“Do you know her niece at all - Mrs Burch?”
“I know her just to speak to. She and her husband come over sometimes.”
“They inherited a little money when Mrs McGinty died.”
The piercing dark eyes looked at him severely.
“Well, that's natural enough, isn't it, sir? You can't take it with you, and it's only right your own flesh and blood should get it.”
“Oh yes, oh yes, I am entirely in agreement. Was Mrs McGinty fond of her niece?”
“Very fond of her, I think, sir. In a quiet way.”
“And her niece's husband?”
An evasive look appeared in Mrs Sweetiman's face.
“As far as I know.”
“When did you see Mrs McGinty last?”
Mrs Sweetiman considered, casting her mind back.
“Now let me see, when was it, Edna?” Edna, in the doorway, sniffed unhelpfully. “Was it the day she died? No, it was the day before - or the day before that again? Yes, it was a Monday. That's right. She was killed on the Wednesday. Yes, it was Monday. She
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