Free The ABC Murders by Agatha Christie

she hadn’t,” said Mrs. Barnard tearfully. “Dad and I always go to bed early. Nine o’clock’s our time. We never knew Betty hadn’t come home till the police officer came and said—and said—”
    She broke down.
    â€œWas your daughter in the habit of—er—returning home late?”
    â€œYou know what girls are nowadays, inspector,” said Barnard. “Independent, that’s what they are. These summer evenings they’re not going to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in by eleven.”
    â€œHow did she get in? Was the door open?”
    â€œLeft the key under the mat—that’s what we always did.”
    â€œThere is some rumour, I believe, that your daughter was engaged to be married?”
    â€œThey don’t put it as formally as that nowadays,” said Mr. Barnard.
    â€œDonald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much,” said Mrs. Barnard. “Poor fellow, it’ll be trouble for him—this news. Does he know yet, I wonder?”
    â€œHe works in Court & Brunskill’s, I understand?”
    â€œYes, they’re the estate agents.”
    â€œWas he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after her work?”
    â€œNot every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer.”
    â€œDo you know if she was going to meet him yesterday?”
    â€œShe didn’t say. Betty never said much about what she wasdoing or where she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can’t believe—”
    Mrs. Barnard started sobbing again.
    â€œPull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, mother,” urged her husband. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.”
    â€œI’m sure Donald would never—would never—” sobbed Mrs. Barnard.
    â€œNow just you pull yourself together,” repeated Mr Barnard.
    â€œI wish to God I could give you some help—but the plain fact is I know nothing—nothing at all that can help you to find the dastardly scoundrel who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girl—with a decent young fellow that she was—well, we’d have called it walking out with in my young days. Why anyone should want to murder her simply beats me—it doesn’t make sense.”
    â€œYou’re very near the truth there, Mr. Barnard,” said Crome. “I tell you what I’d like to do—have a look over Miss Barnard’s room. There may be something—letters—or a diary.”
    â€œLook over it and welcome,” said Mr. Barnard, rising.
    He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I brought up the rear.
    I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelaces, and as I did so a taxi drew up outside and a girl jumped out of it. She paid the driver and hurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As she entered the door she saw me and stopped dead.
    There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me.
    â€œWho are you?” she said.
    I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply. Should I give my name? Or mention that I had come herewith the police? The girl, however, gave me no time to make a decision.
    â€œOh, well,” she said, “I can guess.”
    She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing and threw it on the ground. I could see her better now as she turned a little so that the light fell on her.
    My first impression was of the Dutch dolls that my sisters used to play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheek-bones were high and her whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow, unattractive. She was not good-looking—plain rather—but there was an intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quite impossible to overlook.
    â€œYou are Miss Barnard?” I asked.
    â€œI am Megan