“This is a new place, isn’t it? Where did you live before?”
“I was in the ironmongery business in Kennington. Retired two years ago. Always meant to live near the sea.”
“You have two daughters?”
“Yes. My elder daughter works in an office in London.”
“Weren’t you alarmed when your daughter didn’t come home last night?”
“We didn’t know she hadn’t,” said Mrs. Barnard tearfully. “Dad and I always go to bed early. Nine o’clock’s our time. We never knew Betty hadn’t come home till the police officer came and said—and said—”
She broke down.
“Was your daughter in the habit of—er—returning home late?”
“You know what girls are nowadays, inspector,” said Barnard. “Independent, that’s what they are. These summer evenings they’re not going to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in by eleven.”
“How did she get in? Was the door open?”
“Left the key under the mat—that’s what we always did.”
“There is some rumour, I believe, that your daughter was engaged to be married?”
“They don’t put it as formally as that nowadays,” said Mr. Barnard.
“Donald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much,” said Mrs. Barnard. “Poor fellow, it’ll be trouble for him—this news. Does he know yet, I wonder?”
“He works in Court & Brunskill’s, I understand?”
“Yes, they’re the estate agents.”
“Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after her work?”
“Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer.”
“Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday?”
“She didn’t say. Betty never said much about what she was doing or where she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can’t believe—”
Mrs. Barnard started sobbing again.
“Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, mother,” urged her husband. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.”
“I’m sure Donald would never—would never—” sobbed Mrs. Barnard.
“Now just you pull yourself together,” repeated Mr Barnard.
“I wish to God I could give you some help—but the plain fact is I know nothing—nothing at all that can help you to find the dastardly scoundrel who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girl—with a decent young fellow that she was—well, we’d have called it walking out with in my young days. Why anyone should want to murder her simply beats me—it doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re very near the truth there, Mr. Barnard,” said Crome. “I tell you what I’d like to do—have a look over Miss Barnard’s room. There may be something—letters—or a diary.”
“Look over it and welcome,” said Mr. Barnard, rising.
He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I brought up the rear.
I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelaces, and as I did so a taxi drew up outside and a girl jumped out of it. She paid the driver and hurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As she entered the door she saw me and stopped dead.
There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me.