Third Girl by Agatha Christie

what you were up to,” said David. “That’s why I hailed you. I hoped you’d stop and give me a bit of dope. She’s my girl. You know that, I suppose?”
    â€œI understand that that is supposed to be the idea,” said Poirot cautiously. “If so, you should know where she is. Is that not so, Mr.—I am sorry, I do not think I know your name beyond, that is, that your Christian name is David.”
    â€œBaker.”
    â€œPerhaps, Mr. Baker, you have had a quarrel.”
    â€œNo, we haven’t had a quarrel. Why should you think we had?”
    â€œMiss Norma Restarick left Crosshedges on Sunday evening, or was it Monday morning?”
    â€œIt depends. There is an early bus you can take. Gets you to London a little after ten. It would make her a bit late at work, but not too much. Usually she goes back on Sunday night.”
    â€œShe left there Sunday night but she has not arrived at Borodene Mansions.”
    â€œApparently not. So Claudia says.”
    â€œThis Miss Reece-Holland—that is her name, is it not?—was she surprised or worried?”
    â€œGood lord, no, why should she be. They don’t keep tabs on each other all the time, these girls.”
    â€œBut you thought she was going back there?”
    â€œShe didn’t go back to work either. They’re fed up at the shop, I can tell you.”
    â€œAre you worried, Mr. Baker?”
    â€œNo. Naturally—I mean, well, I’m damned if I know. I don’t see any reason I should be worried, only time’s getting on. What is it today—Thursday?”
    â€œShe has not quarrelled with you?”
    â€œNo. We don’t quarrel.”
    â€œBut you are worried about her, Mr. Baker?”
    â€œWhat business is it of yours?”
    â€œIt is no business of mine but there has, I understand, been trouble at home. She does not like her stepmother.”
    â€œQuite right too. She’s a bitch, that woman. Hard as nails. She doesn’t like Norma either.”
    â€œShe has been ill, has she not? She had to go to hospital.”
    â€œWho are you talking about—Norma?”
    â€œNo, I am not talking about Miss Restarick. I am talking about Mrs. Restarick.”
    â€œI believe she did go into a nursing home. No reason she should. Strong as a horse, I’d say.”
    â€œAnd Miss Restarick hates her stepmother.”
    â€œShe’s a bit unbalanced sometimes, Norma. You know, goes off the deep end. I tell you, girls always hate their stepmothers.”
    â€œDoes that always make stepmothers ill? Ill enough to go to hospital?”
    â€œWhat the hell are you getting at?”
    â€œGardening perhaps—or the use of weed killer.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by talking about weed killer? Are you suggesting that Norma—that she’d dream of—that—”
    â€œPeople talk,” said Poirot. “Talk goes round the neighbourhood.”
    â€œDo you mean that somebody has said that Norma has tried to poison her stepmother? That’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely absurd.”
    â€œIt is very unlikely, I agree,” said Poirot. “Actually, people have not been saying that.”
    â€œOh. Sorry. I misunderstood. But—what did you mean?”
    â€œMy dear young man,” said Poirot, “you must realise that there are rumours going about, and rumours are almost always about the same person—a husband.”
    â€œWhat, poor old Andrew? Most unlikely I should say.”
    â€œYes. Yes, it does not seem to me very likely.”
    â€œWell, what were you there for then? You are a detective, aren’t you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, then?”
    â€œWe are talking at cross-purposes,” said Poirot. “I did not go down there to inquire into any doubtful or possible case of poisoning. You must forgive me if I cannot answer your question. It is all very hush-hush, you understand.”
    â€œWhat on earth