At the foot of the narrow flight of stairs a door gave admission to a large-sized living room—actually the converted stable. In this room, the walls of which were finished in a roughened plaster effect and on which hung etchings and woodcuts, two people were sitting.
One, in a chair near the fireplace, her hand stretched out to the blaze, was a dark efficient-looking young woman of twenty-seven or eight. The other, an elderly woman of ample proportions who carried a string bag, was panting and talking when the two men entered the room.
“—and as I said, Miss, such a turn it gave me I nearly dropped down where I stood. And to think that this morning of all mornings—”
The other cut her short.
“That will do, Mrs. Pierce. These gentlemen are police officers, I think.”
“Miss Plenderleith?” asked Japp, advancing.
The girl nodded.
“That is my name. This is Mrs. Pierce who comes in to work for us every day.”
The irrepressible Mrs. Pierce broke out again.
“A
nd as I was saying to Miss Plenderleith, to think that this morning of all mornings, my sister’s Louisa Maud should have been took with a fit and me the only one handy and as I say flesh and blood is flesh and blood, and I didn’t think Mrs. Allen would mind, though I never likes to disappoint my ladies—”
Japp broke in with some dexterity.
“Quite so, Mrs. Pierce. Now perhaps you would take Inspector Jameson into the kitchen and give him a brief statement.”
Having then got rid of the voluble Mrs. Pierce, who departed with Jameson talking thirteen to the dozen, Japp turned his attention once more to the girl.
“I am Chief Inspector Japp. Now, Miss Plenderleith, I should like to know all you can tell me about this business.”
“Certainly. Where shall I begin?”
Her self-possession was admirable. There were no signs of grief or shock save for an almost unnatural rigidity of manner.
“You arrived this morning at what time?”
“I think it was just before half past ten. Mrs. Pierce, the old liar, wasn’t here, I found—”
“Is that a frequent occurrence?”
Jane Plenderleith shrugged her shoulders.
“About twice a week she turns up at twelve—or not at all. She’s supposed to come at nine. Actually, as I say, twice a week she either ‘comes over queer,’ or else some member of her family is overtaken by sickness. All these daily women are like that—fail you now and again. She’s not bad as they go.”
“You’ve had her long?”
“Just over a month. Our last one pinched things.”
“Please go on, Miss Plenderleith.”
“I paid off the taxi, carried in my suitcase, looked round for Mrs. P., couldn’t see her and went upstairs to my room. I tidied up a bit then I went across to Barbara—Mrs. Allen—and found the door locked. I rattled the handle and knocked but could get no reply. I came downstairs and rang up the police station.”
“Pardon!” Poirot interposed a quick, deft question. “It did not occur to you to try and break down the door—with the help of one of the chauffeurs in the mews, say?”
Her eyes turned to him—cool, grey-green eyes. Her glance seemed to sweep over him quickly and appraisingly.
“No, I don’t think I thought of that. If anything was wrong, it seemed to me that the police were the people to send for.”
“Then you thought—pardon, mademoiselle—that there was something wrong?”