Chapter 17 In Wandsworth

Mr Henry Mitchell was just sitting down to a supper of sausage and mash¹ when a visitor called to see him.
Somewhat to the steward²'s astonishment³, the visitor in question was the full-mustachioed gentleman who had been one of the passengers on the fatal plane.
M. Poirot was very affable, very agreeable in his manner. He insisted on Mr Mitchell's getting on with his supper, paid a graceful⁴ compliment to Mrs Mitchell, who was standing⁵ staring at him open-mouthed.
He accepted a chair, remarked that it was very warm for the time of year and then gently came round to the purpose of his call.
"Scotland Yard, I fear, is not making much progress with the case," he said.
Mitchell shook his head.
"It was an amazing business, sir - amazing. I don't see what they've got to go on. Why, if none of the people on the plane saw anything, it's going to be difficult for anyone afterwards."
"Truly, as you say."
"Terribly worried. Henry's been, over it," put in his wife. "Not able to sleep of nights."
The steward explained:
"It's lain on my mind, sir, something terrible. The company had been very fair about it. I must say I was afraid at first I might lose my job."
"Henry, they couldn't. It would have been cruelly unfair."
His wife sounded highly indignant. She was a buxom⁶ highly complexioned⁷ woman with snapping dark eyes.
"Things don't always happen fairly, Ruth. Still, it turned out better than I thought. They absolved⁸ me from blame. But I felt it, if you understand me. I was in charge, as it were."
"I understand your feelings," said Poirot sympathetically. "But I assure you that you are overconscientious. Nothing that happened was your fault."

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