AgathaChristie-HalloweenParty Read online

  he said, as they walked down the path to

  the gate. "No atmosphere, no haunting

  sense of tragedy, no character worth

  murdering, though I couldn't help

  thinking that just occasionally someone might feel like murdering Mrs. Drake."

  "I know what you mean. She can be

  intensely irritating sometimes. So pleased

  with herself and so complacent."

  "What is her husband like?"

  "Oh, she's a widow. Her husband died

  a year or two ago. He got polio and had

  been a cripple for years. He was a banker

  86

  originally, I think. He was very keen on

  games and sport and hated having to give

  all that up and be an invalid."

  "Yes, indeed." He reverted to the

  subject of the child Joyce. "Just tell me

  this. Did anyone who was listening take

  this assertion of the child Joyce about

  murder seriously?"

  "I don't know. I shouldn't have thought

  anyone did."

  "The other children, for instance?"

  "Well, I was thinking really of them.

  No, I don't think they believed what Joyce

  was saying. They thought she was making

  up things."

  "Did you think that, too?"

  "Well, I did really," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "Of course," she added, "Mrs. Drake

  would like to believe that the murder

  never really happened, but she can't very

  well go as far as that, can she?"

  "I understand that this may be painful

  for her."

  "I suppose it is in a way," said Mrs.

  Oliver, "but I think that by now, you

  know, she is actually getting quite pleased

  to talk about it. I don't think she likes to

  have to bottle it up all the time."

  87

  "Do you like her?" asked Poirot. "Do

  you think she's a nice woman?"

  "You do ask the most difficult questions.

  Embarrassing ones," said Mrs.

  Oliver. "It seems the only thing you are

  interested in is whether people are nice or

  not. Rowena Drake is the bossy type--

  likes running things and people. She runs

  this whole place more or less, I should

  think. But runs it very efficiently. It

  depends if you like bossy women. I don't

  much--"

  "What about Joyce's mother whom we

  are on our way to see?"

  "She's quite a nice woman. Rather

  stupid, I should think. I'm sorry for her.

  It's pretty awful to have your daughter

  murdered, isn't it? And everyone here

  thinks it was a sex crime which makes it

  worse."

  "But there was no evidence of sexual

  assault, or so I understand?"

  "No, but people like to think these

  things happen. It makes it more exciting.

  You know what people are like."

  "One thinks one does--but sometimes

  --well--we do not really know at all."

  "Wouldn't it be better if my friend

  Judith Butler was to take you to see Mrs.

  Reynolds? She knows her quite well, and

  I'm a stranger to her."

  "We will do as planned."

  "The Computer Programme will go

  on," murmured Mrs. Oliver rebelliously.

  H07 89

  7

  "RS. REYNOLDS was a complete

  contrast to Mrs. Drake. -There was no air of poised

  competence about her, nor indeed was

  there ever likely to be.

  She was wearing conventional black, had a moist handkerchief clasped in her

  hand and was clearly prepared to dissolve

  into tears at any moment.

  "It's very kind of you, I'm sure," she

  said to Mrs. Oliver, "to bring a friend of

  yours down here to help us." She put a

  damp hand into Poirot's and looked at him

  doubtfully. "And if he can help in any way

  I'm sure I'll be very grateful, though I

  don't see what anyone can do. Nothing

  will bring her back, poor child. It's awful

  to think of. How anyone could deliberately

  kill anyone of that age. If she had only

  cried out--though I suppose he rammed

  her head underwater straight away and

  held it there. Oh, I can't bear to think of

  it. I really can't."

  90

  "Indeed, Madame, I do not want to

  distress you. Please do not think of it. I

  only want to ask you a few questions that might help--help, that is, to find your

  daughter's murderer. You've no idea yourself, I suppose, who it can possibly be?"

  "How could I have any idea? I shouldn't

  have thought there was anyone, anyone

  living here, I mean. This is such a nice

  place. And the people living here are such

  nice people. I suppose it was just someone

  --some awful man who came in through

  one of the windows. Perhaps he'd taken

  drugs or something. He saw the light and

  that it was a party, so he gatecrashed."

  "You are quite sure that the assailant

  was male?"

  "Oh, it must have been." Mrs. Reynolds

  sounded shocked. "I'm sure it was.

  It couldn't have been a woman, could it?"

  "A woman might have been strong

  enough."

  "Well, I suppose in a way I know what

  you mean. You mean women are much "lore athletic nowadays and all that. But ^ey wouldn't do a thing like this, I'm ^re. Joyce was only a child--thirteen

  years old."

  91

  "I don't want to distress you by staying

  here too long, Madame, or to ask you

  difficult questions. That already, I am

  sure, the police are doing elsewhere, and I

  don't want to upset you by dwelling on

  painful facts. It was just concerning a

  remark that your daughter made at the

  party. You were not there yourself, I

  think?"

  "Well, no, I wasn't. I haven't been very

  well lately and children's parties can be

  very tiring. I drove them there, and then

  later I came back to fetch them. The three

  children went together, you know. Arm, that's the older one, she is sixteen, and

  Leopold who is nearly eleven. What was it

  Joyce said that you wanted to know

  about?"

  "Mrs. Oliver, who was there, will tell

  you what your daughter's words were

  exactly. She said, I believe, that she had

  once seen a murder committed."

  "Joyce? Oh, she couldn't have said a

  thing like that. What murder could she

  possibly have seen committed?"

  "Well, everyone seems to think it was

  rather unlikely," said Poirot. "I just

  92

  wondered if you thought it likely. Did she

  ever speak to you about such a thing?"

  "Seeing a murder? Joyce?"

  "You must remember," said Poirot,

  "that the term murder might have been

  used by someone of Joyce's age in a rather

  loose way. It might have been just a question

  of somebody being run over by a car, or of children fighting together perhaps

  and one pushing another into a stream or

  over a bridge. Something that
was not meant seriously, but which had an unfortunate

  result."

  "Well, I can't think of anything like that

  happening here that Joyce could have

  seen, and she certainly never said anything

  about it to me. She must have been

  joking."

  "She was very positive," said Mrs.

  Oliver. "She kept on saying that it was

  true and that she'd seen it."

  "Did anyone believe her?" asked Mrs.

  Reynolds.

  "I don't know," said Poirot.

  "I don't think they did," said Mrs.

  Oliver, "or perhaps they didn't want to --er--.well, encourage her by saying they

  believed it."

  93

  "They were inclined to jeer at her and

  say she was making it all up," said Poirot, less kind-hearted than Mrs. Oliver.

  "Well, that wasn't very nice of them,"

  said Mrs. Reynolds. "As though Joyce

  would tell a lot of lies about things like

  that." She looked flushed and indignant.

  "I know. It seems unlikely," said

  Poirot. "It was more possible, was it not, that she might have made a mistake, that

  she might have seen something she did think could have been described as a

  murder. Some accident, perhaps."

  "She'd have said something about it to

  me if so, wouldn't she?" said Mrs. Reynolds, still indignant.

  "One would think so," said Poirot. "She

  did not say so at any time in the past?

  You might have forgotten. Especially if it

  wasn't really important."

  "When do you mean?"

  "We don't know," said Poirot. "That is

  one of the difficulties. It might have been

  three weeks ago--or three years. She said

  she had been "quite young' at the time.

  What does a thirteen-year-old consider

  quite young? There was no sensational

  94

  happening round here that you can

  recall?"

  "Oh, I don't think so. I mean, you do

  hear of things. Or read about them in the

  papers. You know, I mean women being

  attacked, or a girl and her young man, or

  things like that. But nothing important

  that I can remember, nothing that Joyce

  took an interest in or anything of that

  kind."

  "But if Joyce said positively she saw a

  murder, would you think she really

  thought so?"

  "She wouldn't say so unless she really

  did think so, would she?" said Mrs. Reynolds.

  "I think she must have got something

  mixed up really."

  "Yes, it seems possible. I wonder," he

  asked, "if I might speak to your two children

  who were also at the party?"

  "Well, of course, though I don't know

  what you can expect them to tell you.

  Ann's doing her work for her 'A' levels

  upstairs and Leopold's in the garden

  assembling a model aeroplane."

  Leopold was a solid, pudgy faced boy

  entirely absorbed, it seemed, in mechani- ^ construction. It was some few

  95

  mornei^ before he could pay attention to

  ^^^stions he was being asked. y ° were there, weren't you, Leopold?

  ou ^ard what your sister said. What did

  she sa^,,

  «0h*

  , you mean about the murder?" He

  ^Vbored.

  «oi, that's what I mean," said Poirot.

  ne ^aid she saw a murder once. Did she really ^ee such a thing?"

  , of course she didn't," said

  Leopc^ «^^ ^ ^.^ ^^^ ^ ^

  ^"^ed? It was just like Joyce, that."

  , y,^w do you mean, it was just like

  Sowing off," said Leopold, winding

  rOUnd r -i i- r r

  r „ a piece of wire and breathing force- u^ Wough his nose as he concentrated.

  , e ^vas an awfully stupid sort of girl," e W. "She'd say anything, you know,

  ^"^ke people sit up and take notice."

  , ^ you really think she invented the wh01^ thing?"

  ^^pold shifted his gaze to Mrs. Oliver.

  ,. „ expect she wanted to impress you a 1 5, lie said. "You write detective stories, on you? I think she was just putting it

  96

  on so that you should take more notice of

  her than you did of the others."

  "That would also be rather like her, would it?" said Poirot.

  "Oh, she'd say anything," said Leopold. "I bet nobody believed her though."

  "Were you listening? Do you think

  anyone believed it?"

  "Well, I heard her say it, but I didn't

  really listen. Beatrice laughed at her and

  so did Cathie. They said ^at's a tall

  story', or something."

  There seemed little more to be got out

  of Leopold. They went upstairs to where Arm , looking rather more than her sixteen

  years, was bending over a table with

  various study books spread round her.

  "Yes, I was at the party," she said.

  "You heard your sister say something

  about having seen a murder?"

  "Oh yes, I heard her. I didn't take any

  notice, though."

  "You didn't think it was true?"

  "Of course it wasn't true. There haven't been any murders here for ages. I don't Aink there's been a proper murder for

  years."

  "Then why do you think she said so?"

  97

  "Oh, she likes showing off. I mean she

  used to like showing off. She had a

  wonderful story once about having travelled

  to India. My uncle had been on a

  voyage there and she pretended she went

  with him. Lots of girls at school actually believed her."

  "So you don't remember any what you

  call murders taking place here in the last

  three or four years?"

  "No, only the usual kind," said Arm. "I

  mean, the ones you read every day in the newspaper. And they weren't actually here in Woodleigh Common. They were mostly

  in Medchester, I think."

  "Who do you think killed your sister, Arm ? You must have known her friends, you would know any people who didn't

  like her."

  "I can't imagine who'd want to kill her.

  I suppose someone who was just batty.

  Nobody else would, would they?"

  "There was no-one who had--quarrelled

  with her or who did not get on with

  her?"

  "You mean, did she have an enemy? I

  think that's silly. People don't have

  98

  enemies really. There are just people you

  don't like."

  As they departed from the room, Arm

  said:

  "I don't want to be nasty about Joyce,

  because she's dead, and it wouldn't be

  kind, but she really was the most awful

  liar, you know. I mean, I'm sorry to say

  things about my sister, but it's quite true."

  "Are we making any progress?" said

  Mrs. Oliver as they left the house.

  "None whatever," said Hercule Poirot.

  "That is interesting," he said thoughtfully.

  Mrs. Oliver looked as though she didn't

  agree with him.

  99

  I

  T was six o'clock at Pine Crest.

  Hercule Poirot put a piece of sausage

  into his mouth and followed it up with

  a sip of tea. T
he tea was strong and to

  Poirot singularly unpalatable. The sausage, on the other hand, was delicious. Cooked

  to perfection. He looked with appreciation

  across the table to where Mrs. McKay

  presided over the large brown teapot.

  Elspeth McKay was as unlike her

  brother. Superintendent Spence, as she

  could be in every way. Where he was

  broad, she was angular. Her sharp, thin

  face looked out on the world with shrewd

  appraisal. She was thin as a thread, yet

  there was a certain likeness between them.

  Mainly the eyes and the strongly marked

  line of the jaw. Either of them, Poirot

  thought, could be relied upon for judgment

  and good sense. They would express

  themselves differently, but that was all.

  Superintendent Spence would express

  himself slowly and carefully as the result

  100

  oj^due thought and deliberation. Mrs.

  McKay would pounce, quick and sharp,

  liike a cat upon a mouse.

  "A lot depends," said Poirot, "upon the

  character of this child. Joyce^ Reynolds.

  That is what puzzles me most." He looked inquiringly at Spence. "You can't go by me," said Spence,

  "I've not lived here long enough. Better

  askElspeth."

  Poirot looked across the table, his

  eyebrows raised inquiringly. Mrs. McKay

  was sharp as usual in response.

  "I'd say she was a proper little liar," she

  said. ,, ,

  "Not a girl whom you'd trust and

  believe what she said?"

  Elspeth shook her head decidedly.

  "No, indeed. Tell a tall tale, she would,

  and tell it well, mind you. But I'd never

  believe her."

  "Tell it with the object of showing off?

  "That's right. They told you the Indian

  stW, didn't they? There's many as

  believed that, you know. Been away for

  the holidays, the family had. Gone abroad

  saPiewhere. I don't know if it was her

  father and mother or her uncle and aunt,

  101

  but they went to India and she came back

  from those holidays with tall tales of how

  she'd been taken there with them. Made a

  good story of it, she did. A Maharajah and

  a tiger shoot and elephants--ah, it was fine

  hearing and a lot of those around her here

  believed it. But I said straight along, she's

  telling more than ever happened. Could

  be, I thought at first, she was just

  exaggerating. But the story got added to