Her eyes, both observant and critical, passed lightly over the assembled people, registering, for Poirot frank astonishment (What on earth is this^) for Mrs. Oliver, mild curiosity; appraisement for the back of Dr. Stillingfleet’s red head, neighbourly recognition for Claudia to whom she vouchsafed a slight nod, and finally dawning sympathy for Andrew Restarick.
“You must be the girl’s father,” she said to him. “There’s not much point to condolences from a total stranger. They’re better left unsaid. It’s a sad world we live in nowadays — or so it seems to me. Girls study too hard in my opinion.” Then she turned her face composedly towards Neele.
“Yes?” “I would like you. Miss Jacobs, to tell me in your own words exactly what you saw and heard.” “I expect it will vary from what I said before,” said Miss Jacobs unexpectedly.
“Things do, you know. One tries to make one’s description as accurate as possible, and so one uses more words. I don’t think one is any more accurate, I think, unconsciously, one adds things that you think you may have seen or ought to have seen — or heard. But I will do my best.
“It started with screams. I was startled.
I thought someone must have been hurt.
So I was already coming to the door when someone began beating on it, and still screaming. I opened it and saw it was one of my next-door neighbours — the three girls who live in 67. I’m afraid I don’t know her name, though I know her by sight.” “Frances Cary,” said Claudia.
“She was quite incoherent, and stammered out something about someone being dead — someone she knew — David Someone — I didn’t catch his last name. She was sobbing and shaking all over. I brought her in, gave her some brandy, and went to see for myself.” Everyone felt that throughout life that would be what Miss Jacobs would invariably do.
“You know what I found. Need I describe it?” “Just briefly, perhaps.” “A young man, one of these modern young men — gaudy clothes and long hair.
He was lying on the floor and he was clearly dead. His shirt was stiff with blood.” Stillingfleet stirred. He turned his head and looked keenly at Miss Jacobs.
“Then I became aware that there was a girl in the room. She was holding a kitchen knife. She seemed quite calm and selfpossessed — really, most peculiar.” Stillingfleet said: “Did she say anything ?” “She said she had been into the bathroom to wash the blood off her hands — and then she said “But you can’t wash things like that off, can you?’ ” “Out, damned spot, in fact?” “I cannot say that she reminded me particularly of Lady Macbeth. She was — how shall I put it — perfectly composed.
She laid the knife down on the table and sat down on a chair.” “What else did she say?” asked Chief Inspector Neele, his eyes dropping to a scrawled note in front of him.
“Something about hate. That it wasn’t safe to hate anybody.” “She said something about ‘poor David’, didn’t she? Or so you told Sergeant Conoily.
And that she wanted to be free of him.” “I’d forgotten that. Yes. She said something about his making her come here — and something about Louise, too.” “What did she say about Louise?” It was Poirot who asked, leaning forward sharply.
Miss Jacobs looked at him doubtfully.
“Nothing, really, just mentioned the name. ^Like Louise9, she said, and then stopped. It was after she had said about its not being safe to hate people…” “And then?” “Then she told me, quite calmly, I had better ring up the police. Which I did. We just — sat there until they came… I did not think I ought to leave her. We did not say anything. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts, and I — well, frankly, I couldn’t think of anything to say.” “You could see, couldn’t you, that she was mentally unstable?” said Andrew Restarick. “You could see that she didn’t know what she had done or why, poor child?” He spoke pleadingly — hopefully.
“If it is a sign of mental instability to appear perfectly cool and collected after committing a murder, then I will agree with you.” Miss Jacobs spoke in the voice of one who quite decidedly did not agree.