“Overton is not, I think, many miles from here. Shall we run over there and have an interview with the niece of the dead woman?”
“Surely you will go first to the shop where the crime took place?”
“I prefer to do that later. I have a reason.”
He did not explain further, and a few minutes later we were driving on the London road in the direction of Overton.
The address which the inspector had given us was that of a good-sized house about a mile on the London side of the village.
Our ring at the bell was answered by a pretty dark-haired girl whose eyes were red with recent weeping.
Poirot said gently:
“Ah! I think it is you who are Miss Mary Drower, the parlour-maid here?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right. I’m Mary, sir.”
“Then perhaps I can talk to you for a few minutes if your mistress will not object. It is about your aunt, Mrs. Ascher.”
“The mistress is out, sir. She wouldn’t mind, I’m sure, if you came in here.”
She opened the door of a small morning room. We entered and Poirot, seating himself on a chair by the window, looked up keenly into the girl’s face.
“You have heard of your aunt’s death, of course?”
The girl nodded, tears coming once more into her eyes.
“This morning, sir. The police came over. Oh! it’s terrible! Poor auntie! Such a hard life as she’d had, too. And now this—it’s too awful.”
“The police did not suggest your returning to Andover?”
“They said I must come to the inquest—that’s on Monday, sir. But I’ve nowhere to go there—I couldn’t fancy being over the shop—now—and what with the housemaid being away, I didn’t want to put the mistress out more than may be.”
“You were fond of your aunt, Mary?” said Poirot gently.
“Indeed I was, sir. Very good she’s been to me always, auntie has. I went to her in London when I was eleven years old, after mother died. I started in service when I was sixteen, but I usually went along to auntie’s on my day out. A lot of trouble she went through with that German fellow. ‘My old devil,’ she used to call him. He’d never let her be in peace anywhere. Sponging, cadging old beast.”
The girl spoke with vehemence.
“Your aunt never thought of freeing herself by legal means from this persecution?”
“Well, you see, he was her husband, sir, you couldn’t get away from that.”
The girl spoke simply but with finality.
“Tell me, Mary, he threatened her, did he not?”
“Oh, yes, sir, it was awful the things he used to say. That he’d cut her throat, and such like. Cursing and swearing too—both in German and in English. And yet auntie says he was a fine handsome figure of a man when she married him. It’s dreadful to think, sir, what people come to.”
“Yes, indeed. And so, I suppose, Mary, having actually heard these threats, you were not so very surprised when you learnt what had happened?”
“Oh, but I was, sir. You see, sir, I never thought for one moment that he meant it. I thought it was just nasty talk and nothing more to it. And it isn’t as though auntie was afraid of him. Why, I’ve seen him slink away like a dog with its tail between its legs when she turned on him. He was afraid of her if you like.”
“And yet she gave him money?”
“Well, he was her husband, you see, sir.”
“Yes, so you said before.” He paused for a minute or two. Then he said: “Suppose that, after all, he did not kill her.”