NINE, TEN, A GOOD FAT HEN
I
As they came away from the inquest Japp said jubilantly to Poirot:
“A smart piece of work, that. Gave ’em a sensation!”
Poirot nodded.
“You tumbled to it first,” said Japp, “but, you know, I wasn’t happy about that body myself.
After all, you don’t go smashing a dead person’s face and head about for nothing. It’s messy,
unpleasant work, and it was pretty plain there must be some reason for it. And there’s only one
reason there could be—to confuse the identity.” He added generously: “But I shouldn’t have
tumbled so quickly to the fact that it actually was the other woman.”
Poirot said with a smile:
“And yet, my friend, the actual descriptions of the women were not unlike as regards
fundamentals. Mrs. Chapman was a smart, good-looking woman, well made up and fashionably
turned out. Miss Sainsbury Seale was dowdy¹ and innocent of lipstick² or rouge³. But the essentials
were the same. Both were women of forty odd. Both were roughly about the same height and
build. Both had hair turning grey which they touched up to make it appear golden.”
“Yes, of course, when you put it like that. One thing we’ve got to admit—the fair Mabelle put it
over on both of us, good and proper. I’d have sworn she was the genuine article.”
“But, my friend, she was the genuine article. We know all about her past life.”
“We didn’t know she was capable of murder—and that’s what it looks like now. Sylvia didn’t
murder Mabelle. Mabelle murdered Sylvia.”
Hercule Poirot shook his head in a worried fashion. He still found it difficult to reconcile
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale with murder. Yet in his ears he heard the small, ironic⁴ voice of Mr.
Barnes:
“Look among the respectable people….”
Mabelle Sainsbury Seale had been eminently⁵ respectable.
Japp said with emphasis:
“I’m going to get to the bottom of this case, Poirot. That woman isn’t going to put it over on
me.”

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