Mrs McGinty's Dead by Agatha Christie

her. I could ask Mrs Scott. She'd know better.”
    “No, no. It would be better not to do that.”
    “You're arousing my curiosity,” said Dr Rendell genially. “What was it she was going around saying? Something a bit libellous, was it? Slanderous, I suppose I mean.”
    Poirot merely shook his head. He said: “You understand, all this is extremely hush hush at present. I am only at the very commencement of my investigation.”
    Dr Rendell said rather drily:
    “You'll have to hurry a bit, won't you?”
    “You are right. The time at my disposal is short.”
    “I must say you surprise me... We've all been quite sure down here that Bentley did it. There didn't seem any doubt possible.”
    “It seemed an ordinary sordid crime - not very interesting. That is what you would say?”
    “Yes - yes, that sums it up very fairly.”
    “You knew James Bentley?”
    “He came to see me professionally once or twice. He was nervous about his own health. Coddled by his mother, I fancy. One sees that so often. We've another case in point here.”
    “Ah, indeed?”
    “Yes. Mrs Upward. Laura Upward. Dotes upon that son of hers. She keeps him well tied to her apron-strings. He's a clever fellow - not quite as clever as he thinks himself, between you and me - but still definitely talented. By way of being a budding playwright is our Robin.”
    “They have been here long?”
    “Three or four years. Nobody has been in Broadhinny very long. The original village was only a handful of cottages, grouped round Long Meadows. You're staying there, I understand?”
    “I am,” said Poirot without undue elation.
    Dr Rendell appeared amused.
    “Guest House indeed,” he said. “What that young woman knows about running a Guest House is just nothing at all. She's lived in India all her married life with servants running round all over the place. I bet you're uncomfortable. Nobody ever stays long. As for poor old Summerhayes, he'll never make anything of this market gardening stunt he's trying to run. Nice fellow - but not an idea of the commercial life - and the commercial life it's got to be nowadays if you want to keep your head above water. Don't run away with the idea that I heal the sick. I'm just a glorified form-filler and signer of certificates. I like the Summerhayes, though. She's a charming creature, and though Summerhayes has a devilish temper and is inclined to be moody, he's one of the old gang. Out of the top drawer all right. You should have known old Colonel Summerhayes, a regular tartar, proud as the devil.”
    “That was Major Summerhayes' father?”
    “Yes. There wasn't much money when the old boy died and of course there have been death duties to cripple these people, but they're determined to stick to the old place. One doesn't know whether to admire them, or whether to say 'Silly fools.'”
    He looked at his watch.
    “I must not keep you,” said Poirot.
    “I've got a few minutes still. Besides, I'd like you to meet my wife. I can't think where she is. She was immensely interested to hear you were down here. We're both very crime-minded. Read a lot about it.”
    “Criminology, fiction, or the Sunday papers?” asked Poirot smiling.
    “All three.”
    “Do you descend as low as the Sunday Companion?”
    Rendell laughed.
    “What would Sunday be without it?”
    “They had some interesting articles above five months ago. One in particular about women who had been involved in murder cases and the tragedy of their lives.”
    “Yes, I remember the one you mean. All a lot of hooey, though?”
    “Ah, you think that?”
    “Well of course the Craig case I only know from reading about it, but one of the others - Courtland case, I can tell you that woman was no tragic innocent. Regular vicious bit of goods. I know because an uncle of mine attended her husband. He was certainly no beauty, but his wife wasn't much better. She got hold of that young greenhorn and egged him on to murder. Then he goes to prison for manslaughter