fifteen, sixteen, maids in the kitchen
i
the interview with agnes fletcher took place in hertford, in a somewhat derelict teashop, for
agnes had been anxious not to tell her story under miss morley’s critical eye.
the first quarter of an hour was taken up listening to exactly how particular agnes’ mother had
always been. also how agnes’ father, though a proprietor of licensed premises, had never once
had any friction with the police, closing time being strictly observed to the second, and indeed
agnes’ father and mother were universally respected and looked up to in little darlingham,
gloucestershire, and none of mrs. fletcher’s family of six (two having died in infancy) had ever
occasioned their parents the least anxiety. and if agnes, now, were to get mixed up with the
police in any way, mum and dad would probably die of it, because as she’d been saying, they’d
always held their heads high, and never had no trouble of any kind with the police.
after this had been repeated, da capo, and with various embellishments, several times, agnes
drew a little nearer to the subject of the interview.
“i wouldn’t like to say anything to miss morley, sir, because it might be, you see, that she’d say
as how i ought to have said something before, but me and cook, we talked it over and we didn’t
see as it was any business of ours, because we’d read quite clear and plain in the paper as how the
master had made a mistake in the drug he was giving and that he’d shot himself and the pistol was
in his hands and everything, so it did seem quite clear, didn’t it, sir?”
“when did you begin to feel differently?” poirot hoped to get a little nearer the promised
revelation by an encouraging but not too direct question.
agnes replied promptly.
“seeing it in the paper about that frank carter—miss nevill’s young man as was. when i read
as he’d shot at that gentleman where he was gardener, well, i thought, it looks as if he might be
queer in the head, because i do know there’s people it takes like that, think they’re being
persecuted, or something, and that they’re ringed round by enemies, and in the end it’s dangerous
to keep them at home and they have to be took away to the asylum. and i thought that maybe that
frank carter was like that, because i did remember that he used to go on about mr. morley and
say as mr. morley was against him and trying to separate him from miss nevill, but of course she
wouldn’t hear a word against him, and quite right too we thought—emma and me, because you
couldn’t deny as mr. carter was very nice-looking and quite the gentleman. but, of course, neither
of us thought he’d really done anything to mr. morley. we just thought it was a bit queer if you
know what i mean.”
poirot said patiently:
“what was queer?”
“it was that morning, sir, the morning mr. morley shot himself. i’d been wondering if i dared
run down and get the post. the postman had come but that alfred hadn’t brought up the letters,
which he wouldn’t do, not unless there was some for miss morley or mr. morley, but if it was just
for emma and me he wouldn’t bother to bring them up till lunch time.
“so i went out on the landing and i looked down over the stairs. miss morley didn’t like us
going down to the hall, not during the master’s business hours, but i thought maybe as i’d see
alfred taking in a patient to the master and i’d call down to him as he came back.”
agnes gasped, took a deep breath and went on: “and it was then i saw him—that frank carter,
i mean. halfway up the stairs he was—our stairs, i mean, above the master’s floor. and he was
standing there waiting and looking down—and i’ve come to feel more and more as though there
was something queer about it. he seemed to be listening very intent, if you know what i mean?”
“what time was this?”
“it must have been getting on for half past twelve, sir. and just as i was thinking: there now,
it’s frank carter, and miss nevill’s away for the day and won’t he be disappointed, and i was
wondering if i ought to run down and tell him because it looked as though that lump of an alfred
had forgot, otherwise i thought he wouldn’t have been waiting for her. and just as i was
hesitating, mr. carter, he seemed to make up his mind, and he slipped down the stairs very quick
and went along the passage towards the master’s surgery, and i thought to myself, the master
won’t like that, and i wondered if there was going to be a row, but just then emma called me, said
whatever was i up to? and i went up again and then, afterwards, i heard the master had shot
himself and, of course, it was so awful it just drove everything out of my head. but later, when
that police inspector had gone i said to emma, i said, i didn’t say anything about mr. carter
having been up with the master this morning, and she said was he? and i told her, and she said
well, perhaps i ought to tell, but anyway i said i’d better wait a bit, and she agreed, because
neither of us didn’t want to get frank carter into trouble if we could help. and then, when it came
to the inquest and it come out that the master had made that mistake in a drug and really had got
the wind up and shot himself, quite natural-like—well, then, of course, there was no call to say
anything. but reading that piece in the paper two days ago—oh! it did give me a turn! and i said
to myself, ‘if he’s one of those loonies that thinks they’re persecuted and goes round shooting
people, well, then maybe he did shoot the master after all!’”
her eyes, anxious and scared, looked hopefully at hercule poirot. he put as much reassurance
into his voice as he could.
“you may be sure that you have done absolutely the right thing in telling me, agnes,” he said.
“well, i must say, sir, it does take a load off my mind. you see, i’ve kept saying to myself as
perhaps i ought to tell. and then, you see, i thought of getting mixed up with the police and what
mother would say. she’s always been so particular about us all….”
“yes, yes,” said hercule poirot hastily.
he had had, he felt, as much of agnes’ mother as he could stand for one afternoon.
