AgathaChristie-HalloweenParty
Page 7
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."
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"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."
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"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."
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"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
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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."
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"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
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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