AgathaChristie-HalloweenParty Read online

  the ordeal which was about to descend

  upon him.

  "It is a pity," he murmured to himself,

  "that she is so scatty. And yet, she had

  originality of mind. It could be that I am

  going to enjoy what she is coming to tell

  me. It could be--" he reflected a minute

  "--that it may take a great deal of the

  evening and that it will all be excessively

  28

  foolish. Eh bien, one must take one's risks

  in life."

  A bell sounded. A bell on the outside

  door of the flat this time. It was not a

  single pressure of the button. It lasted for

  a long time with a kind of steady action

  that was very effective, the sheer making

  of noise.

  "Assuredly, she has excited herself,"

  said Poirot.

  He heard George go to the door, open

  it, and before any decorous announcement

  could be made the door of his sitting-room

  opened and Ariadne Oliver charged

  through it, with George in tow behind her,

  hanging on to something which looked like

  a fisherman's sou'wester and oilskins.

  "What on earth are you wearing?" said

  Hercule Poirot. "Let George take it from

  you. It's very wet."

  "Of course it's wet," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "It's very wet out. I never thought about

  water before. It's a terrible thing to think

  of."

  Poirot looked at her with interest.

  "Will you have some lemon barley

  water," he said, "or could I persuade you

  to a small glass of eau de vie?"

  29

  "I hate water," said Mrs. Oliver.

  Poirot looked surprised.

  "I hate it. I've never thought about it

  before. What it can do, and everything."

  "My dear friend," said Hercule Poirot,

  as George extricated her from the flapping

  folds of watery oilskin. "Come and sit

  down here. Let George finally relieve you

  of—what is it you are wearing?"

  "I got it in Cornwall," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "Oilskins. A real, proper fisherman's

  oilskin."

  "Very useful to him, no doubt," said

  Poirot, "but not, I think, so suitable for

  you. Heavy to wear. But come—sit down

  and tell me."

  "I don't know how," said Mrs. Oliver,

  sinking into a chair. "Sometimes, you

  know, I can't feel it's really true. But it

  happened. It really happened."

  "Tell me," said Poirot.

  "That's what I've come for. But now

  I've got here, it's so difficult because I

  don't know where to begin."

  "At the beginning?" suggested Poirot,

  "or is that too conventional a way of

  acting?"

  "I don't know when the beginning was.

  30

  Not really. It could have been a long time

  ago, you know."

  "Calm yourself," said Poirot. "Gather

  together the various threads of this matter

  in your mind and tell me. What is it that

  has so upset you?"

  "It would have upset you, too," said

  Mrs. Oliver. "At least, I suppose it

  would." She looked rather doubtful. "One

  doesn't know, really, what does upset you.

  You take so many things with a lot of.

  calm."

  "It is often the best way," said Poirot.

  "All right," said Mrs. Oliver. "It began

  with a party."

  "Ah yes," said Poirot, relieved to have

  something as ordinary and sane as a party

  presented to him. "A party. You went to

  a party and something happened."

  "Do you know what a Hallowe'en party

  is?" said Mrs. Oliver.

  "I know what Hallowe'en is," said

  Poirot. "The 31st of October." He

  twinkled slightly as he said, "When

  witches ride on broomsticks."

  "There were broomsticks," said Mrs.

  Oliver. "They gave prizes for them."

  "Prizes?"

  31

  "Yes, for who brought the best decorated

  ones."

  Poirot looked at her rather doubtfully.

  Originally relieved at the mention of a

  party, he now again felt slightly doubtful.

  Since he knew that Mrs. Oliver did not

  partake of spirituous liquor, he could not

  make one of the assumptions that he might

  have made in any other case.

  "A children's party," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "Or rather, an eleven-plus party."

  "Eleven-plus?"

  "Well, that's what they used to call it, you know, in schools. I mean they see how

  bright you are, and if you're bright enough

  to pass your eleven-plus, you go on to a

  grammar school or something. But if

  you're not bright enough, you go to something

  called a Secondary Modern. A silly

  name. It doesn't seem to mean anything."

  "I do not, I confess, really understand

  what you are talking about," said Poirot.

  They seemed to have got away from

  parties and entered into the realms of

  education.

  Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath and

  began again.

  32

  "It started really," she said, "with the

  apples."

  "Ah yes," said Poirot, "it would. It

  always might with you, mightn't it?"

  He was thinking to himself of a small

  car on a hill and a large woman getting out

  of it, and a bag of apples breaking, and

  the apples running and cascading down the

  hill.

  "Yes," he said encouragingly, "apples."

  "Bobbing for apples," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "That's one of the things you do at a

  Hallowe'en party."

  "Ah yes, I think I have heard of that, yes."

  "You see, all sorts of things were being

  done. There was bobbing for apples, and

  cutting sixpence off a tumblerful of flour, and looking in a looking-glass--"

  "To see your true love's face?"

  suggested Poirot knowledgeably.

  "Ah," said Mrs. Oliver, "you're beginning

  to understand at last."

  "A lot of old folklore, in fact," said

  Poirot, "and this all took place at your

  party."

  "Yes, it was all a great success. It

  finished up with Snapdragon. You know,

  ss:v..

  33

  burning raisins in a great dish. I

  suppose—" her voice faltered, "— I

  suppose that must be the actual time when

  it was done."

  "When what was done?"

  "A murder. After the Snapdragon

  everyone went home," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "That, you see, was when they couldn't

  find her."

  "Find whom?"

  "A girl. A girl called Joyce. Everyone

  called her name and looked around and

  asked if she'd gone home with anyone else,

  and her mother got rather annoyed and

  said that Joyce must have felt tired or ill

  or something and gone off by herself, and

  that it was very thoughtless of her not to

  leave word. All the sort of things that

  mothers sa
y when things like that happen.

  But anyway, we couldn't find Joyce."

  "And had she gone home by herself?"

  "No," said Mrs. Oliver, "she hadn't

  gone home ..." Her voice faltered. "We

  found her in the end—in the library.

  That's where—where someone did it, you

  know. Bobbing for apples. The bucket was

  there. A big, galvanised bucket. They

  wouldn't have the plastic one. Perhaps if

  34

  they'd had the plastic one it wouldn't have

  happened. It wouldn't have been heavy

  enough. It might have tipped over--"

  "What happened?" said Poirot. His

  voice was sharp.

  "That's where she was found," said

  Mrs. Oliver. "Someone, you know, someone

  had shoved her head down into the

  water with the apples. Shoved her down

  and held her there so that she was dead, of

  course. Drowned. Drowned. Just in a

  galvanised iron bucket nearly full of water.

  Kneeling there, sticking her head down to

  bob at an apple. I hate apples," said Mrs.

  Oliver. "I never want to see an apple

  again ..."

  Poirot looked at her. He stretched out a

  hand and filled a small glass with cognac.

  "Drink this," he said. "It will do you

  good."

  *.

  35

  4

  "RS. OLIVER put down the glass

  and wiped her lips.

  . "You were right," she said.

  "That—that helped. I was getting

  hysterical."

  "You have had a great shock, I see now.

  When did this happen?"

  "Last night. Was it only last night? Yes,

  yes, of course."

  "And you came to me."

  It was not quite a question, but it

  displayed a desire for more information

  than Poirot had yet had.

  "You came to me—why?"

  "I thought you could help," said Mrs.

  Oliver. "You see, it's—it's not simple."

  "It could be and it could not," said

  Poirot. "A lot depends. You must tell me

  more, you know. The police, I presume,

  are in charge. A doctor was, no doubt,

  called. What did he say?"

  "There's to be an inquest," said Mrs.

  Oliver.

  36

  "Naturally."

  "To-morrow or the next day."

  "This girl, this Joyce, how old was

  she?"

  "I don't know exactly. I should think

  perhaps twelve or thirteen."

  "Small for her age?"

  "No, no. I should think rather mature,

  perhaps. Lumpy," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "Well developed? You mean sexylooking?"

  "Yes,

  that is what I mean. But I don't

  think that was the kind of crime it was—

  I mean that would have been more simple,

  wouldn't it?"

  "It is the kind of crime," said Poirot,

  "of which one reads every day in the

  paper. A girl who is attacked, a school

  child who is assaulted—yes, every day.

  This happened in a private house which

  makes it different, but perhaps not so

  different as all that. But all the same, I'm

  not sure yet that you've told me

  everything."

  "No, I don't suppose I have," said Mrs.

  Oliver. "I haven't told you the reason, I

  mean, why I came to you."

  37

  "You knew this Joyce, you knew her

  well?"

  "I didn't know her at all. I'd better

  explain to you, I think, just how I came

  to be there."

  "There is where?"

  "Oh, a place called Woodleigh

  Common."

  "Woodleigh Common," said Poirot

  thoughtfully. "Now where lately—" he

  broke off.

  "It's not very far from London. About

  —oh, thirty to forty miles, I think. It's

  near Medchester. It's one of those places

  where there are a few nice houses, but

  where a certain amount of new building

  has been done. Residential. A good school

  nearby, and people can commute from

  there to London or into Medchester. It's

  quite an ordinary sort of place where

  people with what you might call everyday

  reasonable incomes live."

  "Woodleigh Common," said Poirot

  again, thoughtfully.

  "I was staying with a friend there.

  Judith Butler. She's a widow. I went on a

  Hellenic cruise this year and Judith was on

  the cruise and we became friends. She's

  38

  got a daughter, a girl called Miranda who

  is twelve or thirteen. Anyway, she asked

  me to come and stay and she said friends

  of hers were giving this party for children,

  and it was to be a Hallowe'en party. She

  said perhaps I had some interesting ideas."

  "Ah," said Poirot, "she did not suggest

  this time that you should arrange a murder

  hunt or anything of that kind?"

  "Good gracious, no," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "Do you think I should ever consider such

  a thing again?"

  "I should think it unlikely."

  "But it happened, that's what is so

  awful," said Mrs. Oliver. "I mean, it

  couldn't have happened just because I was

  there, could it?"

  "I do not think so. At least— Did any

  of the people at the party know who you

  were?"

  "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver. "One of the

  children said something about my writing

  books and that they liked murders. That's

  how it—well—that's what led to the thing

  —I mean to the thing that made me come

  to you."

  "Which you still haven't told me."

  "Well, you see, at first I didn't think of

  39

  it. Not straight away. I mean, children do

  queer things sometimes. I mean there are

  queer children about, children who--well, once I suppose they would have been in

  mental homes and things, but they send

  them home now and tell them to lead ordinary

  lives or something, and then they go

  and do something like this."

  "There were some young adolescents

  there?"

  "There were two boys, or youths as they

  always seem to call them in police reports.

  About sixteen to eighteen."

  "I suppose one of them might have done

  it. Is that what the police think?"

  "They don't say what they think," said

  Mrs. Oliver, "but they looked as though

  they might think so."

  "Was this Joyce an attractive girl?"

  "I don't think so," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "You mean attractive to boys, do you?"

  "No," said Poirot, "I think I meant--

  well, just the plain simple meaning of the

  word."

  "I don't think she was a very nice girl,"

  said Mrs. Oliver, "not one you'd want to

  talk to much. She was the sort of girl who

  shows off and boasts. It's a rather tiresome

  40

  age, I think. It sounds unkind what I'm

  saying, but—"

  "It is not unk
ind in murder to say what

  the victim was like," said Poirot. "It is

  very, very necessary. The personality of

  the victim is the cause of many a murder.

  How many people were there in the house

  at the time?"

  "You mean for the party and so on?

  Well, I suppose there were five or six

  women, some mothers, a schoolteacher, a

  doctor's wife, or sister, I think, a couple

  of middle-aged married people, the two

  boys of sixteen to eighteen, a girl of

  fifteen, two or three of eleven or twelve—

  well that sort of thing. About twenty-five

  or thirty in all, perhaps."

  "Any strangers?"

  "They all knew each other, I think.

  Some better than others. I think the girls

  were mostly in the same school. There

  were a couple of women who had come in

  to help with the food and the supper and

  things like that. When the party ended,

  most of the mothers went home with their

  children. I stayed behind with Judith and

  a couple of others to help Rowena Drake,

  the woman who gave the party, to clear up

  41

  a bit, so the cleaning women who came in

  the morning wouldn't have so much mess

  to deal with. You know, there was a lot of

  flour about, and paper caps out of crackers

  and different things. So we swept up a bit, and we got to the library last of all. And

  that's when--when we found her. And

  then I remembered what she'd said."

  "What who had said?"

  "Joyce."

  "What did she say? We are coming to it

  now, are we not? We are coming to the

  reason why you are here?"

  "Yes. I thought it wouldn't mean

  anything to--oh, to a doctor or the police

  or anyone, but I thought it might mean

  something to you."

  "£A bi'en," said Poirot, "tell me. Was

  this something Joyce said at the party?"

  "No--earlier in the day. That afternoon

  when we were fixing things up. It was after

  they'd talked about my writing murder

  stories and Joyce said 'J saw a murder

  once' and her mother or somebody said 'Don't be silly, Joyce, saying things like

  that' and one of the older girls said 'You're

  just making it up' and Joyce said
  42

  a murder," but no one believed her. They

  just laughed and she got very angry."

  "Did you believe her?"

  "No, of course not."

  "I see," said Poirot, "yes, I see." He

  was silent for some moments, tapping a

  finger on the table. Then he said: "I