Poirot turned to Thora Grey.
“Miss Grey?”
Thora Grey replied in her clear, positive voice:
“I did correspondence with Sir Carmichael in the morning—saw the housekeeper. I wrote letters and did needlework in the afternoon, I fancy. It is difficult to remember. It was quite an ordinary day. I went to bed early.”
Rather to my surprise, Poirot asked no further. He said:
“Miss Barnard—can you bring back your remembrances of the last time you saw your sister?”
“It would be about a fortnight before her death. I was down for Saturday and Sunday. It was fine weather. We went to Hastings to the swimming pool.”
“What did you talk about most of the time?”
“I gave her a piece of my mind,” said Megan.
“And what else? She conversed of what?”
The girl frowned in an effort of memory.
“She talked about being hard up—of a hat and a couple of summer frocks she’d just bought. And a little of Don…She also said she disliked Milly Higley—that’s the girl at the café—and we laughed about the Merrion woman who keeps the café…I don’t remember anything else….”
“She didn’t mention any man—forgive me, Mr. Fraser—she might be meeting?”
“She wouldn’t to me,” said Megan dryly.
Poirot turned to the red-haired young man with the square jaw.
“Mr. Fraser—I want you to cast your mind back. You went, you said, to the café on the fatal evening. Your first intention was to wait there and watch for Betty Barnard to come out. Can you remember anyone at all whom you noticed whilst you were waiting there?”
“There were a large number of people walking along the front. I can’t remember any of them.”
“Excuse me, but are you trying? However preoccupied the mind may be, the eye notices mechanically—unintelligently but accurately….”
The young man repeated doggedly:
“I don’t remember anybody.”
Poirot sighed and turned to Mary Drower.
“I suppose you got letters from your aunt?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“When was the last?”
Mary thought a minute.
“Two days before the murder, sir.”
“What did it say?”
“She said the old devil had been round and that she’d sent him off with a flea in the ear—excuse the expression, sir—said she expected me over on the Wednesday—that’s my day out, sir—and she said we’d go to the pictures. It was going to be my birthday, sir.”
Something—the thought of the little festivity perhaps—suddenly brought the tears to Mary’s eyes. She gulped down a sob. Then apologized for it.
“You must forgive me, sir. I don’t want to be silly. Crying’s no good. It was just the thought of her—and me—looking forward to our treat. It upset me somehow, sir.”