Chapter 3

For a few minutes there was silence.

Jane Plenderleith shot a swift appraising glance at the little man, but after that she stared in front of her and did not speak. Yet a consciousness of his presence showed itself in a certain nervous tension. Her body was still but not relaxed. When at last Poirot did break the silence the mere sound of his voice seemed to give her a certain relief. In an agreeable everyday voice he asked a question.

‘When did you light the fire, mademoiselle?’

‘The fire?’ Her voice sounded vague and rather absent-minded. ‘Oh, as soon as I arrived this morning.’

‘Before you went upstairs or afterwards?’

‘Before.’

‘I see. Yes, naturally…And it was already laid—or did you have to lay it?’

‘It was laid. I only had to put a match to it.’

There was a slight impatience in her voice. Clearly she suspected him of making conversation. Possibly that was what he was doing. At any rate he went on in quiet conversational tones.

‘But your friend—in her room I noticed there was a gas fire only?’

Jane Plenderleith answered mechanically.

‘This is the only coal fire we have—the others are all gas fires.’

‘And you cook with gas, too?’

‘I think everyone does nowadays.’

‘True. It is much labour saving.’

The little interchange died down. Jane Plenderleith tapped on the ground with her shoe. Then she said abruptly:

‘That man—Chief Inspector Japp—is he considered clever?’

‘He is very sound. Yes, he is well thought of. He works hard and painstakingly and very little escapes him.’

‘I wonder—’ muttered the girl.

Poirot watched her. His eyes looked very green in the firelight. He asked quietly:

‘It was a great shock to you, your friend’s death?’

‘Terrible.’

She spoke with abrupt sincerity.

‘You did not expect it—no?’

‘Of course not.’

‘So that it seemed to you at first, perhaps, that it was impossible—that it could not be?’

The quiet sympathy of his tone seemed to break down Jane Plenderleith’s defences. She replied eagerly, naturally, without stiffness.

‘That’s just it. Even if Barbara did kill herself, I can’t imagine her killing herself that way.’

‘Yet she had a pistol?’

Jane Plenderleith made an impatient gesture.

‘Yes, but that pistol was a—oh! a hang over. She’d been in out-of-the-way places. She kept it out of habit—not with any other idea. I’m sure of that.’

‘Ah! and why are you sure of that?’

‘Oh, because of the things she said.’

‘Such as—?’

His voice was very gentle and friendly. It led her on subtly.

‘Well, for instance, we were discussing suicide once and she said much the easiest way would be to turn the gas on and stuff up all the cracks and just go to bed. I said I thought that would be impossible—to lie there waiting. I said I’d far rather shoot myself. And she said no, she could never shoot herself. She’d be too frightened in case it didn’t come off and anyway she said she’d hate the bang.’