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  wonder--she gave no details--no names?"

  "No. She went on boasting and shouting

  a bit and being angry because most of the

  other girls were laughing at her. The

  mothers, I think, and the older people, were rather cross with her. But the girls

  and the younger boys just laughed at her!

  They said things like 'Go on, Joyce, when

  was this? Why did you never tell us about

  it?' And Joyce said, 'I'd forgotten all about

  it, it was so long ago'."

  "Aha! Did she say how long ago?"

  "Tears ago,' she said. You know, in

  rather a would-be grown-up way."

  "'Why didn't you go and tell the police

  then?' one of the girls said. Arm, I think, or Beatrice. Rather a smug, superior girl."

  "Aha, and what did she say to that?"

  "She said: 'Because I didn't know at the

  time it was a murder.'"

  "A very interesting remark," said

  43

  Poirot, sitting up rather straighter in his

  chair.

  "She'd got a bit mixed up by then, I

  think," said Mrs. Oliver. "You know, trying to explain herself and getting angry

  because they were all teasing her.

  "They kept asking her why she hadn't

  gone to the police, and she kept on saying 'Because I didn't know then that it was a

  murder. It wasn't until afterwards that it

  came to me quite suddenly that that was

  what I had seen.'"

  "But nobody showed any signs of

  believing her--and you yourself did not

  believe her--but when you came across

  her dead you suddenly felt that she might

  have been speaking the truth?"

  "Yes, just that. I didn't know what I

  ought to do, or what I could do. But then, later, I thought of you."

  Poirot bowed his head gravely in acknowledgment.

  He was silent for a moment

  or two, then he said:

  "I must pose to you a serious question, and reflect before you answer it. Do you

  think that this girl had really seen a

  murder? Or do you think that she merely believed that she had seen a murder?"

  44

  "The first, I think," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "I didn't at the time. I just thought that

  she was vaguely remembering something

  she had once seen and was working it up

  to make it sound important and exciting.

  She became very vehement, saying, (I did see it, I tell you. I did see it happen."

  "And so."

  "And so I've come along to you," said

  Mrs. Oliver, "because the only way her

  death makes sense is that there really was

  a murder and that she was witness to it."

  "That would involve certain things. It

  would involve that one of the people who

  were at the party committed the murder, and that that same person must also have

  been there earlier that day and have heard

  what Joyce said."

  "You don't think I'm just imagining

  things, do you?" said Mrs. Oliver. "Do

  you think that it is all just my very farfetched

  imagination?"

  "A girl was murdered," said Poirot. "Murdered by someone who had strength

  enough to hold her head down in a bucket

  of water. An ugly murder and a murder

  that was committed with what we might Gall, no time to lose. Somebody was

  II 45

  threatened, and whoever it was struck as

  soon as it was humanly possible."

  "Joyce could not have known who it was

  who did the murder she saw," said Mrs.

  Oliver. "I mean she wouldn't have said

  what she did if there was someone actually

  in the room who was concerned."

  "No," said Poirot, "I think you are

  right there. She saw a murder, but she did

  not see the murderer's face. We have to go

  beyond that."

  "I don't understand exactly what you

  mean."

  "It could be that someone who was I'll there earlier in the day and heard Joyce's

  accusation knew about the murder, knew

  who committed the murder, perhaps was

  closely involved with that person. It may

  have been that that someone thought he

  was the only person who knew what his

  wife had done, or his mother or his

  daughter or his son. Or it might have been

  a woman who knew what her husband or

  mother or daughter or son had done.

  Someone who thought that no-one else

  knew. And then Joyce began talking ..."

  "And so--"

  "Joyce had to die?"

  46

  "Yes. What are you going to do?"

  "I have just remembered," said Hercule

  Poirot, "why the name of Woodleigh

  Common was familiar to me."

  47

  5

  HERCULE POIROT looked over

  the small gate which gave admission

  to Pine Crest. It was a modern, perky little house, nicely built.

  Hercule Poirot was slightly out of breath.

  The small, neat house in front of him was

  very suitably named. It was on a hill top, and the hill top was planted with a few

  sparse pines. It had a small neat garden

  and a large elderly man was trundling

  along a path a big tin galvanised waterer.

  Superintendent Spence's hair was now

  grey all over instead of having a neat touch

  of grey hair at the temples. He had not

  shrunk much in girth. He stopped trundling

  his can and look at the visitor at the

  gate. Hercule Poirot stood there without

  moving.

  "God bless my soul," said Superintendent

  Spence. "It must be. It can't be

  but it is. Yes, it must be. Hercule Poirot, as I live."

  48

  "Aha," said Hercule Poirot, "you know

  me. That is gratifying."

  "May your moustaches never grow

  less," said Spence.

  He abandoned the watering can and

  came down to the gate.

  "Diabolical weeds," he said. "And what

  brings you down here?"

  "What has brought me to many places

  in my time," said Hercule Poirot, "and

  what once a good many years ago brought

  you to see me. Murder."

  "I've done with murder," said Spence,

  "except in the case of weeds. That's what

  I'm doing now. Applying weed killer.

  Never so easy as you think, something's

  always wrong, usually the weather.

  Mustn't be too wet, mustn't be too dry

  and all the rest of it. How did you know

  where to find me?" he asked as he

  unlatched the gate and Poirot passed

  through.

  "You sent me a Christmas card. It had

  your new address notified on it."

  "Ah yes, so I did. I'm old-fashioned,

  you know. I like to send round cards at

  Christmas time to a few old friends."

  "I appreciate that," said Poirot.

  49

  Spence said, "I'm an old man now."

  "We are both old men."

  "Not much grey in your hair," said

  Spence.

  "I attend to that with a bottle," said

  Hercule Poirot. "There is no need to

  appear in public with grey hair unless you<
br />
  wish to do so."

  "Well, I don't think jet black would suit

  me," said Spence.

  "I agree," said Poirot. "You look most

  distinguished with grey hair."

  "I should never think of myself as a

  distinguished man."

  "I think of you as such. Why have you

  come to live in Woodleigh Common?"

  "As a matter of fact, I came here to join

  forces with a sister of mine. She lost her

  husband, her children are married and

  living abroad, one in Australia and the

  other in South Africa. So I moved in here.

  Pensions don't go far nowadays, but we do

  pretty comfortably living together. Come

  and sit down."

  He led the way on to the small glazed-in

  verandah where there were chairs and a

  table or two. The autumn sun fell

  pleasantly upon this retreat.

  50

  "What shall I get you?" said Spence.

  "No fancy stuff here, I'm afraid. No black

  currant or rose hip syrup or any of your

  patent things. Beer? Or shall I get Elspeth

  to make you a cup of tea? Or I can do you

  a shandy or Coca-Cola or some cocoa if

  you like it. My sister, Elspeth, is a cocoa

  drinker."

  "You are very kind. For me, I think a

  shandy. The ginger beer and the beer?

  That is right, is it not?"

  "Absolutely so."

  He went into the house and returned

  shortly afterwards carrying two large glass

  mugs. "I'm joining you," he said.

  He drew a chair up to the table and sat

  down, placing the two glasses in front of

  himself and Poirot.

  "What was it you said just now?" he

  said, raising his glass. "We won't say

  'Here's to crime.' I've done with crime,

  and if you mean the crime I think you do,

  in fact which I think you have to do,

  because I don't recall any other crime just

  lately, I don't like the particular form of

  murder we've just had."

  "No, I do not think you would do so."

  51

  "We are talking about the child who

  had her head shoved into a bucket?"

  "Yes," said Poirot, "that is what I am

  talking about."

  "I don't know why you come to me,"

  said Spence. "I'm nothing to do with the

  police nowadays. All that's over many

  years ago."

  "Once a policeman," said Hercule

  Poirot, "always a policeman. That is to

  say, there is always the point of view of

  the policeman behind the point of view of

  the ordinary man. I know, I who talk to

  you. I, too, started in the police force in

  my country."

  "Yes, so you did. I remember now your

  telling me. Well, I suppose one's outlook

  is a bit slanted, but it's a long time since

  I've had any active connection."

  "But you hear the gossip," said Poirot.

  "You have friends of your own trade. You

  will hear what they think or suspect or

  what they know."

  Spence sighed.

  "One knows too much," he said, "that

  is one of the troubles nowadays. There is

  a crime, a crime of which the pattern is

  familiar, and you know, that is to say the

  52

  active police officers know, pretty well

  who's probably done that crime. They

  don't tell the newspapers but they make

  their inquiries, and they know. But

  whether they're going to get any further

  than that—well, things have their

  difficulties."

  "You mean the wives and the girl

  friends and the rest of it?"

  "Partly that, yes. In the end, perhaps,

  one gets one's man. Sometimes a year or

  two passes. I'd say, you know, roughly,

  Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry

  wrong 'uns than they ever used to in my

  time."

  Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his

  moustaches.

  "Yes," he said, "I can see that that

  might be so. I suspect that girls have

  always been partial to the bad lots, as you

  say, but in the past there were

  safeguards."

  "That's right. People were looking after

  them. Their mothers looked after them.

  Their aunts and their older sisters looked

  after them. Their younger sisters and

  brothers knew what was going on. Their

  fathers were not averse to kicking the

  53

  wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes, of course, the girls used to run away

  with one of the bad lots. Nowadays there's

  no need even to do that. Mother doesn't

  know who the girl's out with, father's not

  told who the girl is out with, brothers

  know who the girl is out with but they

  think "more fool her'. If the parents refuse

  consent, the couple go before a magistrate

  and manage to get permission to marry, and then when the young man who

  everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds to

  prove to everybody, including his wife, that he is a bad lot, the fat's in the fire!

  But love's love; the girl doesn't want to

  think that her Henry has these revolting

  habits, these criminal tendencies, and all

  the rest of it. She'll lie for him, swear

  black's white for him and everything else.

  Yes, it's difficult. Difficult for us, I mean.

  Well, there's no good going on saying

  things were better in the old days. Perhaps

  we only thought so. Anyway, Poirot, how

  did you get yourself mixed up in all this?

  This isn't your part of the country, is it?

  Always thought you lived in London. You

  used to when I knew you."

  "I still live in London. I involved myself

  54

  here at the request of a friend, Mrs.

  Oliver. You remember Mrs. Oliver?"

  Spence raised his head, closed his eyes

  and apeared to reflect.

  "Mrs. Oliver? Can't say that I do."

  "She writes books. Detective stories.

  You met her, if you will throw your mind

  back, during the time that you persuaded

  me to investigate the murder of Mrs.

  McGinty. You will not have forgotten

  Mrs. McGinty?"

  "Good lord, no. But it was a long time

  ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot,

  a very good turn. I went to you for help

  and you didn't let me down."

  "I was honoured—flattered—that you

  should come to consult me," said Poirot.

  "I must say that I despaired once or twice.

  The man we had to save—to save his neck

  in those days I believe, it is long ago

  enough for that—was a man who was

  excessively difficult to do anything for.

  The kind of standard example of how not

  to do anything useful for himself."

  "Married that girl, didn't he? The wet

  one. Not the bright one with the peroxide

  hair. Wonder how they got on together.

  Have you ever heard about it?"

  55

  "No," said Poirot
. "I presume all goes

  well with them."

  "Can't see what she saw in him."

  "It is difficult," said Poirot, "but it is

  one of the great consolations in nature that

  a man, however unattractive, will find that

  he is attractive--even what appears to be

  madly attractive--to some woman. One

  can only say or hope that they married and

  lived happily ever afterwards."

  "Shouldn't think they lived happily ever

  afterwards if they had to have Mother to

  live with them."

  "No, indeed," said Poirot. "Or Stepfather,"

  he added.

  "Well," said Spence, "here we are

  talking of old days again. All that's over.

  I always thought that man, can't

  remember his name now, ought to have

  run an undertaking parlour. Had just the

  face and manner for it. Perhaps he did.

  The girl had some money, didn't she? Yes, he'd have made a very good undertaker. I

  can see him, all in black, calling for orders

  for the funeral. Perhaps he can even have

  been enthusiastic over the right kind of

  elm or teak or whatever they use for

  coffins. But he'd never have made good

  56

  selling insurance or real estate. Anyway, don't let's harp back." Then he said

  suddenly, "Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Apples. Is that how she's got herself mixed

  up in this? That poor child got her head

  shoved under water in a bucket of floating

  apples, didn't she, at a party? Is that what

  interested Mrs. Oliver?"

  "I don't think she was particularly

  attracted because of the apples," said

  Poirot, "but she was at the party."

  "Do you say she lived here?"

  "No, she does not live here. She was

  staying with a friend, a Mrs. Butler."

  "Butler? Yes, I know her. Lives down

  not far from the church. Widow. Husband

  was an airline pilot. Has a daughter.

  Rather nice-looking girl. Pretty manners.

  Mrs. Butler's rather an attractive woman, don't you think so?"

  "I have as yet barely met her, but, yes, I thought she was very attractive."

  "And how does this concern you, Poirot? You weren't here when it

  happened?"

  "No. Mrs. Oliver came to me in

  London. She was upset, very upset. She

  wanted me to do something."

  HP5

  57

  A faint smile showed on Superintendent

  Spence's face.

  "I see. Same old story. I came up to

  you, too, because I wanted you to do