AgathaChristie-HalloweenParty Read online

Spence is making an appointment for me

  to talk with the local inspector at a suitable

  hour. I should also like a talk with the

  doctor here. And possibly the headmistress

  at the school. At six o'clock I

  drink tea and eat sausages with my friend

  Spence and his sister again in their house

  and we discuss."

  "What more do you think he'll be able

  to tell you?"

  "I want to meet his sister. She has lived

  here longer than he has. He came here to

  join her when her husband died. She will

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  know, perhaps, the people here fairly

  well."

  "Do you know what you sound like?"

  said Mrs. Oliver. "A computer. You

  know. You're programming yourself.

  That's what they call it, isn't it? I mean

  you're feeding all these things into yourself

  all day and then you're going to see what

  comes out."

  "It is certainly an idea you have there,"

  said Poirot, with some interest. "Yes, yes,

  I play the part of the computer. One feeds

  in the information—"

  "And supposing you come up with all

  the wrong answers?" said Mrs. Oliver.

  "That would be impossible," said

  Hercule Poirot. "Computers do not do

  that sort of a thing."

  "They're not supposed to," said Mrs.

  Oliver, "but you'd be surprised at the

  things that happen sometimes. My last

  electric light bill, for instance. I know

  there's a proverb which says To err is

  human,' but a human error is nothing to

  what a computer can do if it tries. Come

  on in and meet Mrs. Drake."

  Mrs. Drake was certainly something,

  Poirot thought. She was a tall, handsome

  HP6 73

  woman of forty-odd, her golden hair was

  lightly tinged with grey, her eyes were

  brilliantly blue, she oozed competence

  from the fingertips downwards. Any party

  she had arranged would have been a

  successful one. In the drawing-room a tray

  of morning coffee with two sugared biscuits

  was awaiting them.

  Apple Trees, he saw, was a most admirably

  kept house. It was well furnished, it

  had carpets of excellent quality, everything

  was scrupulously polished and cleaned,

  and the fact that it had hardly any

  outstanding object of interest in it was not

  readily noticeable. One would not have

  expected it. The colours of the curtains

  and the covers were pleasant but conventional.

  It could have been let furnished at

  any moment for a high rent to a desirable

  tenant, without having to put away any

  treasures or make any alterations to the

  arrangement of the furniture.

  Mrs. Drake greeted Mrs. Oliver and

  Poirot and concealed almost entirely what

  Poirot could not help suspecting was a

  feeling of vigorously suppressed annoyance

  at the position in which she found herself

  as the hostess at a social occasion at which

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  something as anti-social as murder had

  occurred. As a prominent member of the

  community of Woodleigh Common, he

  suspected that she felt an unhappy sense

  of having herself in some way proved

  inadequate. What had occurred should not have occurred. To someone else in

  someone else's house--yes. But at a party

  for children, arranged by her, given by

  her, organised by her, nothing like this

  ought to have happened. Somehow or

  other she ought to have seen to it that it

  did not happen. And Poirot also had a

  suspicion that she was seeking round irritably

  in the back of her mind for a reason.

  Not so much a reason for murder having

  taken place, but to find out and pin down

  some inadequacy on the part of someone

  who had been helping her and who had

  by some mismanagement or some lack of

  perception failed to realise that something

  like this could happen.

  "Monsieur Poirot," said Mrs. Drake, in

  her fine speaking voice, which Poirot thought would come over excellently in a

  small lecture room or the village hall, "I am so pleased you could come down here.

  Mrs. Oliver has been telling me how

  75

  invaluable your help will be to us in this

  terrible crisis."

  "Rest assured, Madame, I shall do what

  I can, but as you no doubt realise from

  your experience of life, it is going to be a

  difficult business."

  "Difficult?" said Mrs. Drake. "Of

  course it's going to be difficult. It seems

  incredible, absolutely incredible, that such

  an awful thing should have happened. I

  suppose," she added, "the police may

  know something? Inspector Raglan has a

  very good reputation locally, I believe.

  Whether or not they ought to call Scotland

  Yard in, I don't know. The idea seems to

  be that this poor child's death must have

  had a local significance. I needn't tell you,

  Monsieur Poirot—after all, you read the

  papers as much as I do—that there have

  been very many sad fatalities with children

  all over the countryside. They seem to be

  getting more and more frequent. Mental

  instability seems to be on the increase,

  though I must say that mothers and

  families generally are not looking after

  their children properly, as they used to do.

  Children are sent home from school alone,

  on dark evenings, go alone on dark early

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  mornings. And children, however much

  you warn them, are unfortunately very

  foolish when it comes to being offered a

  lift in a smart-looking car. They believe

  what they're told. I suppose one cannot

  help that."

  "But what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely different nature."

  "Oh, I know--I know. That is why I

  used the term incredible. I still cannot

  quite believe it," said Mrs. Drake.

  "Everything was entirely under control.

  All the arrangements were made. Everything

  was going perfectly, all according to

  plan. It just seems--seems incredible.

  Personally I consider myself that there must be what I call an outside significance

  to this. Someone walked into the house--

  not a difficult thing to do under the

  circumstances--someone of highly disturbed

  mentality, I suppose, the kind of

  people who are let out of mental homes

  simply because there is no room for them Acre, as far as I can see. Nowadays, room

  has to be made for fresh patients all the

  tune. Anyone peeping in through a

  window could see a children's party was

  going on, and this poor wretch--if one can

  77

  really feel pity for these people, which I

  really must say I find it very hard to do

  myself sometimes--enticed this child away

  somehow and killed her. You can't
think

  such a thing could happen, but it did happen."

  "Perhaps you would show me where--"

  "Of course. No more coffee?"

  "I thank you, no."

  Mrs. Drake got up. "The police seem

  to think it took place while the Snapdragon

  was going on. That was taking place in the

  dining-room."

  She walked across the hall, opened the

  door and, rather in the manner of someone

  doing the honours of a stately home to a

  party of charabanc goers, indicated the

  large dining-table and the heavy velvet

  curtains.

  "It was dark here, of course, except for

  the blazing dish. And now--"

  She led them across the hall and opened

  the door of a small room with armchairs, sporting prints and bookshelves.

  "The library," said Mrs. Drake, and

  shivered a little. "The bucket was here. On a plastic sheet, of course--"

  Mrs. Oliver had not accompanied them

  78

  into the room. She was standing outside in

  the hall—

  "I can't come in," she said to Poirot.

  "It makes me think of it too much."

  "There's nothing to see now," said Mrs.

  Drake. "I mean, I'm just showing you

  where, as you asked."

  "I suppose," said Poirot, "there was

  water—a good deal of water."

  "There was water in the bucket, of

  course," said Mrs. Drake.

  She looked at Poirot as though she

  thought that he was not quite all there.

  "And there was water on the sheet. I

  mean, if the child's head was pushed under

  water, there would be a lot of water

  splashed about."

  "Oh yes. Even while the bobbing was

  going on, the bucket had to be filled up

  once or twice."

  "So the person who did it? That person

  also would have got wet, one would

  think."

  "Yes, yes, I suppose so."

  "That was not specially noticed?"

  "No, no, the Inspector asked me about

  Aat. You see, by the end of the evening

  nearly everyone was a bit dishevelled or

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  damp or floury. Ther^ doesn't seem to be

  any useful clues there at all. I mean, the

  police didn't think so,"

  "No," said Poirot. "i suppose the only

  clue was the child herself. I hope you will

  tell me all you know about her."

  "About Joyce?"

  Mrs. Drake looked slightly taken aback.

  It was as though Joyc^ in her mind had by

  now retreated so far Out of things that she

  was quite surprised to be reminded of her.

  "The victim is always important," said

  Poirot. "The victim, you see, is so often

  the cause of the crim^."

  "Well, I suppose, yes, I see what you

  mean," said Mrs. Drake, who quite

  plainly did not. "Sh^n we come back to

  the drawing-room?"

  "And then you w^ll tell me all about

  Joyce," said Poirot.

  They settled themselves once more in

  the drawing-room.

  Mrs. Drake was locking uncomfortable.

  "I don't know really what you expect

  me to say. Monsieur Poirot," she said.

  "Surely all information can be obtained

  quite easily from the police or from Joyce's

  80

  mother. Poor woman, it will be painful for

  her, no doubt, but—"

  "But what I want," said Poirot, "is not

  a mother's estimate of a dead daughter. It

  is a clear, unbiased opinion from someone

  who has a good knowledge of human

  nature. I should say, Madame, that you

  yourself have been an active worker in

  many welfare and social fields here.

  Nobody, I am sure, could sum up more

  aptly the character and disposition of

  someone whom you know."

  "Well—it is a little difficult. I mean,

  children of that age—she was thirteen, I

  think, twelve or thirteen—are very much

  alike at a certain age."

  "Ah no, surely not," said Poirot.

  "There are very great differences in

  character, in disposition. Did you like

  her?"

  Mrs. Drake seemed to find the question

  embarrassing.

  "Well of course I—I liked her. I mean,

  well, I like all children. Most people do."

  "Ah, there I do not agree with you,"

  8aid Poirot. "Some children I consider are

  ^osr unattractive."

  "Well, I agree, they're not brought up

  . . 81

  very well nowadays. Everything seems left

  to the school, and of course they lead very

  permissive lives. Have their own choice

  of friends and--er--oh, really. Monsieur

  Poirot."

  "Was she a nice child or not a nice

  child?" said Poirot insistently.

  Mrs. Drake looked at him and registered

  censure.

  "You must realise. Monsieur Poirot, that the poor child is dead"

  "Dead or alive, it matters. Perhaps if

  she was a nice child, nobody would have

  wanted to kill her, but if she was not a

  nice child, somebody might have wanted

  to kill her, and did so--"

  "Well, I suppose-- Surely it isn't a

  question of niceness, is it?"

  "It could be. I also understand that

  she claimed to have seen a murder

  committed."

  "Oh that," said Mrs. Drake

  contemptuously.

  "You did not take that statement

  seriously?"

  "Well, of course I didn't. It was a very

  silly thing to say."

  "How did she come to say it?"

  82

  "Well, I think really they were all rather

  excited about Mrs. Oliver being here. You

  are a very famous person, you must

  remember, dear," said Mrs. Drake,

  addressing Mrs. Oliver.

  The word "dear" seemed included in

  her speech without any acompanying

  enthusiasm.

  "I don't suppose the subject would ever

  have arisen otherwise, but the children

  were excited by meeting a famous

  authoress—"

  "So Joyce said that she had seen a

  murder committed," said Poirot

  thoughtfully.

  "Yes, she said something of the kind. I

  wasn't really listening."

  "But you do remember that she said it?"

  "Oh yes, she said it. But I didn't believe

  it," said Mrs. Drake. "Her sister hushed

  her up at once, very properly."

  "And she was annoyed about that, was

  she?"

  "Yes, she went on saying that it was

  true."

  "In fact, she boasted about it."

  "When you put it that way, yes."

  83

  "It might have been tme, I suppose,"

  said Poirot.

  "Nonsense! I don't believe it for one

  minute," said Mrs. Drake. "It's the sort

  of stupid thing Joyce would say."

  "She was a stupid girl?"

  "Well, she was the kind, I think, who

  liked to show off," said Mrs. Drake. "You

  know, she always wanted
to have seen

  more or done more than other girls."

  "Not a very lovable character," said

  Poirot.

  "No indeed," said Mrs. Drake. "Really

  the kind that you have to be shutting up

  all the time."

  "What did the other children who were

  there have to say about it? Were they

  impressed?"

  "They laughed at her," said Mrs.

  Drake. "So, of course, that made her

  worse."

  "Well," said Poirot, as he rose, "I am

  glad to have your positive assurance on

  that point." He bowed politely over her

  hand. "Good-bye, Madame, thank you so

  much for allowing me to view the scene of

  this very unpleasant occurrence. I hope it

  84

  has not recalled unpleasant memories too

  definitely to you."

  "Of course," said Mrs. Drake, "it is very painful to recall anything of this kind.

  I had so hoped our little party would go

  off well. Indeed, it was going off well and

  everyone seemed to be enjoying it so much

  till this terrible thing happened. However, the only thing one can do is to try and

  forget it all. Of course, it's very unfortunate

  that Joyce should have made this silly

  remark abot seeing a murder."

  "Have you ever had a murder in Woodleigh

  Common?"

  "Not that I can remember," said Mrs.

  Drake firmly.

  "In this age of increased crime that we

  live in," said Poirot, "that really seems

  somewhat unusual, does it not?"

  "Well, I think there was a lorry driver

  who killed a pal of his--something like

  that--and a little girl whom they found

  buried in a gravel pit about fifteen miles

  / '-' A ^^

  from here, but that was years ago. They

  were both rather sordid and uninteresting

  crimes. Mainly the result of drink, I

  think."

  "In fact, the kind of murder unlikely to

  85

  have been witnessed by a girl of twelve or

  thirteen."

  "Most unlikely, I should say. And I can

  assure you. Monsieur Poirot, this statement

  that the girl made was solely in order

  to impress friends and perhaps interest a

  famous character." She looked rather

  coldly across at Mrs. Oliver.

  "In fact," said Mrs. Oliver, "it's all my

  fault for being at the party, I suppose."

  "Oh, of course not, my dear, of course

  I didn't mean it that way."

  Poirot sighed as he departed from the

  house with Mrs. Oliver by his side.

  "A very unsuitable place for a murder,"