"I think he's pretty much of a has-been," said Ann.
"I don't understand what he's up to at all," said Adam. "He even went to see my mother - or some friend of his did."
"Your mother?" said Ann, "why?"
"I've no idea. He seems to have a kind of morbid interest in mothers. He went to see Jennifer's mother, too."
"Did he go and see Miss Rich's mother, and Chaddy's?"
"I gather Miss Rich hasn't got a mother," said Adam. "Otherwise, no doubt, he would have gone to see her."
"Miss Chadwick's got a mother in Cheltenham, she told me," said Ann, "but she's about eighty odd, I believe. Poor Miss Chadwick, she looks about eighty herself. She's coming to talk to us now."
Adam looked up. "Yes," he said, "she's aged a lot in the last week."
"Because she really loves the school," said Ann. "It's her whole life. She can't bear to see it go downhill."
Miss Chadwick indeed looked ten years older than she had done on the day of the opening of term. Her step had lost its brisk efficiency. She no longer trotted about, happy and bustling. She came up to them now, her steps dragging a little.
"Will you please come to Miss Bulstrode," she said to Adam. "She has some instruction about the garden."
"I'll have to clean up a bit first," said Adam. He laid down his tools and moved off in the direction of the potting shed.
Ann and Miss Chadwick walked together toward the house.
"It does seem quiet, doesn't it," said Ann, looking round. "Like an empty house at the theatre," she added thoughtfully, "with people spaced out by the box office as tactfully as possible to make them look like an audience."
"It's dreadful," said Miss Chadwick, "dreadful! Dreadful to think that Meadowbank has come to this. I can't get over it. I can't sleep at night. Everything in ruins. All the years of work, of building up something really fine."
"It may get all right again," said Ann cheerfully. "People have got very short memories, you know."
"Not as short as all that," said Miss Chadwick grimly.
Ann did not answer. In her heart she rather agreed with Miss Chadwick.
III
Mademoiselle Blanche came out of the classroom where she had been teaching French literature.
She glanced at her watch. Yes, there would be plenty of time for what she intended to do. With so few pupils there was always plenty of time these days.
She went upstairs to her room and put on her hat. She was not one of those who went about hatless. She studied her appearance in the mirror with dissatisfaction. Not a personality to be noticed! Well, there could be advantages in that! She smiled to herself. It had made it easy for her to use her sister's testimonials. Even the passport photograph had gone unchallenged. It would have been a thousand pities to waste those excellent credentials when Angele had died. Angele had really enjoyed teaching. For herself, it was unutterable boredom. But the pay was excellent. Far above what she herself had ever been able to earn. And besides, things had turned out unbelievably well. The future was going to be very different. Oh, yes, very different. The drab Mademoiselle Blanche would be transformed. She saw it all in her mind's eye. The Riviera. Herself smartly dressed, suitably made up. All one needed in this world was money. Oh, yes, things were going to be very pleasant indeed. It was worth having come to this detestable English school.
She picked up her handbag, went out of her room and along the corridor. Her eyes dropped to the kneeling woman who was busy there. A new daily help. A police spy, of course. How simple they were - to think that one would not know!
A contemptuous smile on her lips, she went out of the house and down the drive to the front gate. The bus stop was almost opposite. She stood at it, waiting. The bus should be here in a moment or two.
There were very few people about in this quiet country road. A car, with a man bending over the open hood. A bicycle leaning against a hedge. A man also waiting for the bus.
One or other of the three would, no doubt, follow her. It would be skillfully done, not obviously. She was quite alive to the fact, and it did not worry her. Her "shadow" was welcome to see where she went and what she did.
The bus came. She got in. A quarter of an hour later, she got out in the main square of the town. She did not trouble to look behind her. She crossed to where the show windows of a fairly large department store showed their display of new model gowns. Poor stuff, for provincial tastes, she thought, with a curling lip. But she stood looking at them as though much attracted.
Presently she went inside, made one or two trivial purchases, then went up to the first floor and entered the ladies' rest room. There was a writing table there, some easy chairs, and a telephone box. She went into the box, put the necessary coins in, dialled the number she wanted, waiting to hear if the right voice answered.
She nodded in approval, and spoke.
"This is the Maison Blanche. You understand me, the Maison Blanche? I have to speak of an account that is owed. You have until tomorrow evening. Tomorrow evening. To pay into the account of the Maison Blanche at the Credit Nationale in London, Ledbury St. branch, the sum that I tell you."
She named the sum.
"If that money is not paid in, then it will be necessary for me to report in the proper quarters what I observed on the night of the 12th. The reference - pay attention - is to Miss Springer. You have a little over twenty-four hours."
She hung up and emerged into the rest room. A woman had just come in from outside. Another customer of the shop, perhaps, or again perhaps not. But if the latter, it was too late for anything to be overheard.
Mademoiselle Blanche freshened herself up in the adjoining cloak room, then she went and tried on a couple of blouses, but did not buy them; she went out into the street again, smiling to herself. She looked into a bookshop, and then caught a bus back to Meadowbank.
She was smiling to herself as she walked up the drive. She had arranged matters very well. The sum she had demanded had not been too large - not impossible to raise at short notice. And it would do very well to go on with. Because, of course, in the future, there would be further demands...
Yes, a very pretty little source of income this was going to be. She had no qualms of conscience. She did not consider it in any way her duty to report what she knew and had seen to the police. That Springer had been a detestable woman, rude mal elevée. Prying into what was no business of hers. Ah, well, she had got her deserts.
Mademoiselle Blanche stayed for a while by the swimming pool. She watched Eileen Rich diving. Then Ann Shapland, too, climbed up and dived - very well, too. There was laughing, and squeals from the girls.
A bell rang, and Mademoiselle Blanche went in to take her junior class. They were inattentive and tiresome, but Mademoiselle Blanche hardly noticed. She would soon have done with teaching forever.
She went up to her room to tidy herself for supper. Vaguely, without really noticing, she saw that, contrary to her usual practice, she had thrown her garden coat across a chair in the corner instead of hanging it up as usual.
She leaned forward, studying her face in the glass. She applied powder, lipstick.
The movement was so quick that it took her completely by surprise. Noiseless! Professional. The coat on the chair seemed to gather itself together, drop to the ground and in an instant behind Mademoiselle Blanche a hand with a sandbag rose and, as she opened her lips to scream, fell, dully, on the back of her neck.
Chapter 22
INCIDENT IN ANATOLIA
Mrs. Upjohn was sitting by the side of the road overlooking a deep ravine. She was talking partly in French and partly with gestures to a large and solid looking Turkish woman who was telling her with as much detail as possible under these difficulties of communications all about her last miscarriage. Nine children she had had, she explained. Eight of them boys, and five miscarriages. She seemed as pleased at the miscarriages as she did at the births.
"And you?" she poked Mrs. Upjohn amiably in the ribs. "Combien - garзons - filles - combien?" She held up her hands ready to indicate on the fingers.
"Une fille," said Mrs. Upjohn.
"Et garзons?"
Seeing that she was about to fall in the Turkish woman's estimation, Mrs. Upjohn in a surge of nationalism proceeded to perjure herself. She held up five fingers of her right hand.
"Cinq," she said.
"Cinq garзons? Tres bien!"
The Turkish woman nodded with approbation and respect. She added that if only her cousin who spoke French really fluently were here they could understand each other a great deal better. She then resumed the story of her last miscarriage.
The other passengers were sprawled about near them, eating odd bits of food from the baskets they carried with them. The bus, looking slightly the worse for wear, was drawn up against an overhanging rock, and the driver and another man were busy inside the hood. Mrs. Upjohn had lost complete count of time. Floods had blocked two of the roads, detours had been necessary and they had once stuck for seven hours until the river they were fording subsided. Ankara lay in the not impossible future and that was all she knew. She listened to her friend's eager and incoherent conversation, trying to gauge when to nod admiringly, when to shake her head in sympathy.
A voice cut into her thoughts, a voice highly incongruous with her present surroundings.
"Mrs. Upjohn, I believe," said the voice.
Mrs. Upjohn looked up. A little way away a car had driven up. The man standing opposite her had undoubtedly alighted from it. His face was unmistakably British, as was his voice. He was impeccably dressed in a grey flannel suit.
"Good heavens," said Mrs. Upjohn. "Dr. Livingstone?"
"It must seem rather like that," said the stranger pleasantly. "My name's Atkinson. I'm from the Consulate in Ankara. We've been trying to get in touch with you for two or three days, but the roads have been cut."
"You wanted to get in touch with me? Why?" Suddenly Mrs. Upjohn rose to her feet. All traces of the gay traveller had disappeared. She was all mother, every inch of her. "Julia?" she said sharply. "Has something happened to Julia?"
"No, no," Mr. Atkinson reassured her. "Julia's quite all right. It's not that at all. There's been a spot of trouble at Meadowbank and we want to get you home there as soon as possible. I'll drive you back to Ankara, and you can get on a plane in about an hour's time."
Mrs. Upjohn opened her mouth and then shut it again. Then she rose and said, "You'll have to get my bag off the top of that bus. It's the dark blue one." She turned, shook hands with her Turkish companion, said: "I'm sorry, I have to go home now," waved to the rest of the bus load with the utmost friendliness, called out a Turkish farewell greeting which was part of her small stock of Turkish, and prepared to follow Mr. Atkinson immediately without asking any further questions. It occurred to him as it had occurred to many other people that Mrs. Upjohn was a very sensible woman.
Chapter 23
SHOWDOWN
In one of the smaller classrooms Miss Bulstrode looked at the assembled people. All the members of her staff were there: Miss Chadwick, Miss Johnson, Miss Rich, and the two younger mistresses. Ann Shapland sat with her pad and pencil in case Miss Bulstrode wanted her to take notes. Beside Miss Bulstrode sat Inspector Kelsey and beyond him, Hercule Poirot. Adam Goodman sat in a no man's land of his own halfway between the staff and what he called to himself, the executive body. Miss Bulstrode rose and spoke in her practiced, decisive voice.
"I feel it is due to you all," she said, "as members of my staff, and interested in the fortunes of the school, to know exactly to what point this inquiry has progressed. I have been informed by Inspector Kelsey of several facts. M. Hercule Poirot who has international connections, has obtained valuable assistance from Switzerland and will report himself on that particular matter. We have not yet come to the end of the inquiry, I am sorry to say, but certain minor matters have been cleared up and I thought it would be a relief to you all to know how matters stand at the present moment." Miss Bulstrode looked toward Inspector Kelsey, and he rose.
"Officially," he said, "I am not in a position to disclose all that I know. I can only reassure you to the extent of saying that we are making progress and we are beginning to have a good idea who is responsible for the three crimes that have been committed on the premises. Beyond that I will not go. My friend, M. Hercule Poirot, who is not bound by official secrecy and is at perfect liberty to give you his own ideas, will disclose to you certain information which he himself has been instrumental in procuring. I am sure you are all loyal to Meadowbank and to Miss Bulstrode and will keep to yourselves various matters upon which M. Poirot is going to touch and which are not of any public interest. The less gossip or speculation about them the better, so I will ask you to keep the facts that you will learn here today to yourselves. Is that understood?"
"Of course," said Miss Chadwick, speaking first and with emphasis. "Of course we're all loyal to Meadowbank, I should hope."
"Naturally," said Miss Johnson.
"Oh, yes," said the two younger mistresses.
"I agree," said Eileen Rich.
"Then perhaps, M. Poirot?"
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet, beamed on his audience and carefully twisted his mustaches. The two younger mistresses had a sudden desire to giggle, and looked away from each other pursing their lips together.
"It has been a difficult and anxious time for you all," he said. "I want you to know first that I do appreciate that. It has naturally been worst of all for Miss Bulstrode herself, but you have all suffered. You have suffered first the loss of three of your colleagues, one of whom has been here for a considerable period of time. I refer to Miss Vansittart. Miss Springer and Mademoiselle Blanche were, of course, newcomers but I do not doubt that their deaths were a great shock to you and a distressing happening. You must also have suffered a good deal of apprehension yourselves, for it must have seemed as though there were a kind of vendetta aimed against the mistresses of Meadowbank school. That I can assure you, and Inspector Kelsey will assure you also, is not so. Meadowbank by a fortuitous series of chances became the centre for the attentions of various undesirable interests. There has been, shall we say, a cat among the pigeons. There have been three murders here and also a kidnapping. I will deal first with the kidnapping, for all through this business the difficulty has been to clear out of the way extraneous matters which, though criminal in themselves, obscure the most important thread - the thread of a ruthless and determined killer in your midst."
