AgathaChristie-HalloweenParty Read online

"Yes. Same ones."

  "And what happened to Lesley

  Ferrier?"

  "He was stabbed in the back. Not far

  from the Green Swan Pub. He was said to

  have been having an affair with the wife

  of the landlord. Harry Griffin. Handsome

  piece, she was, indeed still is. Getting

  perhaps a bit long in the tooth. Five or six

  116

  years older than he was, but she liked

  them young."

  "The weapon?"

  "The knife wasn't found. Les was said

  to have broken with her and taken up with

  some other girl, but what girl was never

  satisfactorily discovered.''

  "Ah. And who was suspected in this

  case? The landlord or the wife?"

  "Quite right," said Spence. "Might

  have been either. The wife seemed the

  more likely. She was half gypsy and a

  temperamental piece. But there were other

  possibilities. Our Lesley hadn't led a

  blameless life. Got into trouble in his early

  twenties, falsifying his accounts somewhere.

  With a spot of forgery. Was said

  to have come from a broken home and all

  the rest of it. Employers spoke up for him.

  He got a short sentence and was taken on

  by Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter

  when he came out of prison."

  "And after that he'd gone straight?"

  "Well, nothing proved. He appeared to

  do so as far as his employers were

  concerned, but he had been mixed up in

  a few questionable transactions with his

  117

  friends. He's what you might call a wrong

  'un but a careful one."

  "So the alternative was?"

  "That he might have been stabbed by

  one of his less reputable associates. When

  you're in with a nasty crowd you've got it

  coming to you with a knife if you let them

  down."

  "Anything else?"

  "Well, he had a good lot of money in

  his bank account. Paid in in cash, it had

  been. Nothing to show where it came

  from. That was suspicious in itself."

  "Possibly pinched from Fullerton,

  Harrison and Leadbetter?" suggested

  Poirot.

  "They say not. They had a chartered

  accountant to work on it and look into

  things."

  "And the police had no idea where else

  it might have come from?"

  "No."

  "Again," said Poirot, "not Joyce's

  murder, I should think."

  He read the last name, "Janet White."

  "Found strangled on a footpath which

  was a short cut from the schoolhouse

  to her home. She shared a flat there

  118

  with another teacher, Nora Ambrose.

  According to Nora Ambrose, Janet White

  had occasionally spoken of being nervous

  about some man with whom she'd broken

  off relations a year ago, but who had

  frequently sent her threatening letters.

  Nothing was ever found out about this

  man. Nora Ambrose didn't know his

  name, didn't know exactly where he

  lived."

  "Aha," said Poirot, "I like this better."

  He made a good, thick black tick against

  Janet White's name.

  "For what reason?" asked Spence.

  "It is a more likely murder for a girl of

  Joyce's age to have witnessed. She could

  have recognised the victim, a schoolteacher

  whom she knew and who perhaps

  taught her. Possibly she did not know the

  attacker. She might have seen a struggle, heard a quarrel between a girl whom she

  knew and a strange man. But thought no

  more of it than that at that time. When

  was Janet White killed?"

  "Two and a half years ago."

  "That again," said Poirot, "is about the

  right time. Both for not realising that the

  man she may have seen with his hands

  119

  round Janet White's neck was not merely

  necking her, but might have been killing

  her. But then as she grew more mature,

  the proper explanation came to her."

  He looked at Elspeth. "You agree with

  my reasoning?"

  "I see what you mean," said Elspeth.

  "But aren't you going at all this the wrong

  way round? Looking for a victim of a past

  murder instead of looking for a man who

  killed a child here in Woodleigh Common

  not more than three days ago?"

  "We go from the past to the future,"

  said Poirot. "We arrive, shall we say, from

  two and a half years ago to three days ago.

  And, therefore, we have to consider—

  what you, no doubt, have already

  considered—who was there in Woodleigh

  Common amongst the people who were at

  the party who might have been connected

  with an older crime?"

  "One can narrow it down a bit more

  than that now," said Spence. "That is if

  we are right in accepting your assumption

  that Joyce was killed because of what she

  claimed earlier in the day about seeing

  murder committed. She said those words

  during the time the preparations for the

  120

  party were going on. Mind you, we may

  be wrong in believing that that was the

  motive for killing, but I don't think we are

  wrong. So let us say she claimed to have

  seen murder, and someone who was

  present during the preparations for the

  party that afternoon could have heard her

  and acted as soon as possible."

  "Who was present?" said Poirot. "You

  know, I presume."

  "Yes, I have the list for you here."

  "You have checked it carefully?"

  "Yes, I've checked and re-checked, but

  it's been quite a job. Here are the eighteen

  names."

  List of people present during preparation

  for Hallowe'en Party Mrs. Drake (owner of house)

  Mrs. Butler

  Mrs. Oliver

  Miss Whittaker (schoolteacher)

  Rev. Charles Cotterell (Vicar)

  Simon Lampton (Curate)

  Miss Lee (Dr. Ferguson's dispenser) Arm Reynolds

  Joyce Reynolds

  Leopold Reynolds

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  HP9

  Nicholas Ransom

  Desmond Holland

  Beatrice Ardley

  Cathie Grant

  Diana Brent

  Mrs. Garlton (household help)

  Mrs. Minden (cleaning woman)

  Mrs. Goodbody (helper)

  "You are sure these are all?"

  "No," said Spence. "I'm not sure. I

  can't really be sure. Nobody can. You see, odd people brought things. Somebody

  brought some coloured light bulbs. Somebody

  else supplied some mirrors. There

  were some extra plates. Someone lent a

  plastic pail. People brought things, exchanged a word or two and went away

  again. They didn't remain to help. Therefore

  such a person could have been overlooked

  and not remembered as being

  present. But that somebody, even if they

  had only just deposited a bucket in the
<
br />   hall, could have overheard what Joyce was

  saying in the sitting-room. She was

  shouting, you know. We can't really limit

  it to this list, but it's the best we can do.

  Here you are. Take a look at it. I've made

  122

  a brief descriptive note against the

  names."

  "I thank you. Just one question. You

  must have interrogated some of these

  people, those for instance who were also

  at the party. Did anyone, anyone at all,

  mention what Joyce had said about seeing

  a murder?"

  "I think not. There is no record of it

  officially. The first I heard of it is what

  you told me."

  "Interesting," said Poirot. "One might

  also say remarkable."

  "Obviously no-one took it seriously,"

  said Spence.

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  "I must go now to keep my appointment

  with Dr. Ferguson, after his surgery," he

  said.

  He folded up Spence's list and put it in

  his pocket.

  123

  9

  DR. FERGUSON was a man of

  sixty, of Scottish extraction with a

  brusque manner. He looked Poirot

  up and down, with shrewd eyes under

  bristling eyebrows, and said:

  "Well, what's all this about? Sit down.

  Mind that chair leg. The castor's loose."

  "I should perhaps explain—" said

  Poirot.

  "You needn't explain," said Dr.

  Ferguson. "Everybody knows everything

  in a place like this. That authoress woman

  brought you down here as God's greatest

  detective to puzzle police officers. That's

  more or less right, isn't it?"

  "In part," said Poirot. "I came here to

  visit an old friend, ex-Superintendent

  Spence, who lives with his sister here."

  "Spence? Hm. Good type, Spence.

  Bull-dog breed. Good honest police officer

  of the old type. No graft. No violence. Not

  stupid either. Straight as a die."

  "You appraise him correctly."

  124

  "Well," said Ferguson, "what did you

  tell him and what did he tell you?"

  "Both he and Inspector Raglan have

  been exceedingly kind to me. I hope you

  will likewise."

  "I've nothing to be kind about," said

  Ferguson. "I don't know what happened.

  Child gets her head shoved in a bucket and

  is drowned in the middle of a party. Nasty

  business. Mind you, doing in a child isn't

  anything to be startled about nowadays.

  I've been called out to look at too many

  murdered children in the last seven to ten

  years—far too many. A lot of people who

  ought to be under mental restraint aren't

  under mental restraint. No room in the

  asylums. They go about, nicely spoken,

  nicely got up and looking like everybody

  else, looking for somebody they can do in.

  And enjoy themselves. Don't usually do it

  at a party, though. Too much chance of

  getting caught, I suppose, but novelty

  appeals even to a mentally disturbed

  killer."

  "Have you any idea who killed her?"

  "Do you really suppose that's a question

  I can answer just like that? I'd have to

  125

  have some evidence, wouldn't I? I'd have

  to be sure."

  "You could guess," said Poirot.

  "Anyone can guess. If I'm called in to

  a case I have to guess whether the chap's

  going to have measles or whether it's a case

  of an allergy to shell-fish or to feather

  pillows. I have to ask questions to find out

  what they've been eating, or drinking, or

  sleeping on, or what other children they've

  been meeting. Whether they've been in a

  crowded bus with Mrs. Smith's or Mrs.

  Robinson's children who've all got the

  measles, and a few other things. Then I

  advance a tentative opinion as to which it

  is of the various possibilities, and that, let

  me tell you, is what's called diagnosis. You

  don't do it in a hurry and you make sure."

  "Did you know this child?"

  "Of course. She was one of my patients.

  There are two of us here. Myself and

  Worrall. I happen to be the Reynolds'

  doctor. She was quite a healthy child,

  Joyce. Had the usual small childish

  ailments. Nothing peculiar or out of the

  way. Ate too much, talked too much.

  Talking too much hadn't done her any

  harm. Eating too much gave her what used

  126

  to be called in the old days a bilious attack

  from time to time. She'd had mumps and

  chicken pox. Nothing else."

  "But she had perhaps talked too much

  on one occasion, as you suggest she might

  be liable to do."

  "So that's the tack you're on? I heard

  some rumour of that. On the lines of 'what

  the butler saw'--only tragedy instead of

  comedy. Is that it?"

  "It could form a motive, a reason."

  "Oh yes. Grant you that. But there are other reasons. Mentally disturbed seems

  the usual answer nowadays. At any rate, it does always in the Magistrates' courts.

  Nobody gained by her death, nobody

  hated her. But it seems to me with children

  nowadays you don't need to look for

  the reason. The reason's in another place.

  The reason's in the killer's mind. His

  disturbed mind or his evil mind or his

  kinky mind. Any kind of mind you like to

  call it. I'm not a psychiatrist. There are

  times when I get tired of hearing those

  words: 'Remanded for a psychiatrist's

  report,' after a lad has broken in somewhere, smashed the looking-glasses, pinched bottles of whisky, stolen the

  127

  silver 5 knocked an old woman on the head.

  Doesn't much matter what it is now.

  Remand them for the psychiatrists

  report."

  "And who would you favour, in this

  case, to remand for a psychiatrist's

  report?"

  "You mean of those there at the ^o' the

  other night?"

  "Yes."

  "The murderer would have had to be

  there, wouldn't he? Otherwise there

  wouldn't have been a murder. Right? He

  was among the guests, he was among the

  helpers or he walked in through the

  window with malice aforethought. Probably

  he knew the fastenings of that house.

  Might have been in there before, looking

  round. Take your man or boy. He wants

  to kill someone. Not at all unusual. Over

  in Medchester we had a case of that. Came

  to light after about six or seven years. Boy

  of thirteen. Wanted to kill someone, so he

  killed a child of nine, pinched a car, drove

  it seven or eight miles into a copse, burned

  her there, went away, and as far as we

  know led a blameless life until he was

  twenty-one or two. Mind you, we have

  128

  only his word for th
at, he may have gone

  on doing it. Probably did. Found he liked

  killing people. Don't suppose he's killed

  too many, or some police force would have

  been on to him before now. But every now

  and then he felt the urge. Psychiatrist's

  report. Committed murder while mentally

  disturbed. I'm trying to say myself that

  that's what happened here. That sort of

  thing, anyway. I'm not a psychiatrist

  myself, thank goodness. I have a few

  psychiatrist friends. Some of them are

  sensible chaps. Some of them--well, I'll

  go as far as saying they ought to be

  remanded for a psychiatrist's report themselves.

  This chap who killed Joyce probably

  had nice parents, ordinary manners, good appearance. Nobody'd dream anything

  was wrong with him. Ever had a

  bite at a nice red juicy apple and there,

  down by the core, something rather nasty

  rears itself up and wags its head at you?

  Plenty of human beings about like that.

  More than there used to be I'd say

  nowadays."

  "And you've no suspicion of your

  own?"

  129

  "I can't stick my neck out and diagnose

  a murderer without some evidence."

  "Still, you admit it must have been

  someone at the party. You cannot have a

  murder without a murderer."

  "You can easily in some detective stories

  that are written. Probably your pet

  authoress writes them like that. But in this

  case I agree. The murderer must have

  been there. A guest, a domestic help,

  someone who walked in through the

  window. Easily done if he'd studied the

  catch of the window beforehand. It might

  have struck some crazy brain that it would

  be a novel idea and a bit of fun to have a

  murder at a Hallowe'en party. That's all

  you've got to start off with, isn't it? Just

  someone who was at the party."

  Under bushy brows a pair of eyes

  twinkled at Poirot.

  "I was there myself," he said. "Came in

  late, just to see what was doing."

  He nodded his head vigorously.

  "Yes, that's the problem, isn't it? Like

  a social announcement in the papers:

  'Amongst those present was—

  A Murderer.9"

  130

  10

  POIROT looked up at The Elms and

  approved of it.

  He was admitted and taken

  promptly by what he judged to be a

  secretary to the head-mistress's study.

  Miss Ernlyn rose from her desk to greet