AgathaChristie-HalloweenParty
Page 22
"I rang up Mr. Fullerton, the solicitor.
I will now tell you something. The codicil,
the forged codicil that was produced for
probate was not witnessed by Harriet
Leaman. It was witnessed by a Mary
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Doherty, deceased, who had been in
service with Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe but
had recently died. The other witness was
the James Jenkins, who, as your friend
Mrs. Leaman has told you, departed for
Australia."
"So there was a forged codicil," said
Mrs. Oliver. "And there seems to have
been a real codicil as well. Look here, Poirot, isn't this all getting a little too
complicated?"
"It is getting incredibly complicated,"
said Hercule Poirot. "There is, if I may
mention it, too much forgery about."
"Perhaps the real one is still in the
library at Quarry House, within the pages
of Enquire Within upon Everything."
"I understand all the effects of the house
were sold up at Mrs. LlewellynSmythe's
death, except for a few pieces of family
furniture and some family pictures."
"What we need," said Mrs. Oliver, "is
something like Enquire Within here now.
It's a lovely title, isn't it? I remember my
grandmother had one. You could, you
know, inquire within about everything, too. Legal information and cooking recipes
and how to take ink stains out of linen.
3^2
How to make home-made face powder that
would not damage the complexion. Oh--
and lots more. Yes, wouldn't you like to
have a book like that now?"
"Doubtless," said Hercule Poirot, "it
would give the recipe for treatment of tired
feet."
"Plenty of them, I should think. But
why don't you wear proper country
shoes?"
"Madame, I like to look soign6 in my
appearance."
"Well, then you'll have to go on wearing
things that are painful, and grin and bear
it," said Mrs. Oliver. "All the same, I
don't understand anything now. Was that
Leaman woman telling me a pack of lies
just now?"
"It is always possible."
"Did someone tell her to tell a pack of
lies?"
"That too is possible."
"Did someone pay her to tell me a pack
of lies?"
"Continue," said Poirot, "continue. You
are doing very nicely."
"I suppose," said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully, "that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, like
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many another rich woman, enjoyed
making Wills. I expect she made a good
many during her life. You know;
benefiting one person and then another.
Changing about. The Drakes were well
off, anyway. I expect she always left them
at least a handsome legacy, but I wonder
if she ever left anyone else as much as she
appears, according to Mrs. Leaman and
according to the forged Will as well, to
that girl Olga. I'd like to know a bit more
about that girl, I must say. She certainly
seems a very successful disappearess."
"I hope to know more about her
shortly," said Hercule Poirot.
"How?"
"Information that I shall receive
shortly."
"I know you've been asking for information
down here. "
"Not here only. I have an agent in
London who obtains information for me
both abroad and in this country. I should
have some news possibly soon from
Herzogovinia."
"Will you find out if she ever arrived
back there?"
"That might be one thing I should
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learn, but it seems more likely that I may
get information of a different kind—letters
perhaps written during her sojourn in this
country, mentioning friends she may have
made here, and become intimate with."
"What about the school-teacher?" said
Mrs. Oliver.
"Which one do you mean?"
"I mean the one who was strangled—
the one Elizabeth Whittaker told you
about?" She added, "I don't like Elizabeth
Whittaker much. Tiresome sort of woman,
but clever, I should think." She added
dreamily, "I wouldn't put it past her to
have thought up a murder."
"Strangle another teacher, do you
mean?"
"One has to exhaust all the
possibilities."
"I shall rely, as so often, on your
intuition, Madame."
Mrs. Oliver ate another date
thoughtfully.
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20
WHEN he left Mrs. Butler's
house, Poirot took the same way
as had been shown him by
Miranda. The aperture in the hedge, it
seemed to him, had been slightly enlarged
since last time. Somebody, perhaps, with
slightly more bulk than Miranda, had used
it also. He ascended the path in the
quarry, noticing once more the beauty of
the scene. A lovely spot, and yet in some
way, Poirot felt as he had felt before, that
it could be a haunted spot. There was a
kind of pagan ruthlessness about it. It
could be along these winding paths that
the fairies hunted their victims down or a
cold goddess decreed that sacrifices would
have to be offered.
He could understand why it had not
become a picnic spot. One would not want
for some reason to bring your hard-boiled
eggs and your lettuce and your oranges
and sit down here and crack jokes and
have a jollification. It was different, quite
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different. It would have been better, perhaps, he thought suddenly, if Mrs.
Llewellyn- Smythe had not wanted this
fairy-like transformation. Quite a modest
sunk garden could have been made out of
a quarry without the atmosphere, but she
had been an ambitious woman, ambitious
and a very rich woman. He thought for a
moment or two about Wills, the kind of
Wills made by rich women, the kind of
lies told about Wills made by rich women, the places in which the Wills of rich
widows were sometimes hidden, and he
tried to put himself back into the mind of
a forger. Undoubtedly the Will offered for
probate had been a forgery. Mr. Fullerton
was a careful and competent lawyer. He
was sure of that. The kind of lawyer, too,
who would never advise a client to bring
a case or to take legal proceedings unless
there was very good evidence and
justification for so doing.
He turned a corner of the pathway
feeling for the moment that his feet were
much more important than his speculations.
Was he taking a short cut to
Superintendent Spence's dwelling or was
he not? As the crow flies, perhaps, but the
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main road might have been more good to
his feet. This path was not a grassy or
mossy one, it had the quarry hardness of
stone. Then he paused.
In front of him were two figures. Sitting
on an outcrop of rock was Michael
Garfield. He had a sketching block on his
knees and he was drawing, his attention
fully on what he was doing. A little way
away from him, standing close beside a
minute but musical stream that flowed
down from above, Miranda Butler was
standing. Hercule Poirot forgot his feet,
forgot the pains and ills of the human
body, and concentrated again on the
beauty that human beings could attain.
There was no doubt that Michael Garfield
was a very beautiful young man. He found
it difficult to know whether he himself
liked Michael Garfield or not. It is always
difficult to know if you like anyone
beautiful. You like beauty to look at, at
the same time you dislike beauty almost
on principle. Women could be beautiful,
but Hercule Poirot was not at all sure that
he liked beauty in men. He would not have
liked to be a beautiful young man himself,
not that there had ever been the least
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chance of that. There was only one thing
about his own appearance which really
pleased Hercule Poirot, and that was the
profusion of his moustaches, and the way
they responded to grooming and treatment
and trimming. They were magnificent. He
knew of nobody else who had any
moustache half as good. He had never
been handsome or good-looking. Certainly
never beautiful.
And Miranda? He thought again, as he
had thought before, that it was her gravity
that was so attractive. He wondered what
passed through her mind. It was the sort
of thing one would never know. She would
not say what she was thinking easily. He
doubted if she would tell you what she was
thinking, if you asked her. She had an
original mind, he thought, a reflective
mind. He thought too she was vulnerable.
Very vulnerable. There were other things
about her that he knew, or thought he
knew. It was only thinking so far, but yet
he was almost sure.
Michael Garfield looked up and said.
"Ha! Senor Moustachios. A very good
afternoon to you, sir."
"Can I look at what you are doing or
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would it incommode you? I do not want
to be intrusive."
"You can look," said Michael Garfield,
"it makes no difference to me." He added
gently, "I'm enjoying myself very much."
Poirot came to stand behind his
shoulder. He nodded. It was a very
delicate pencil drawing, the lines almost
invisible. The man could draw, Poirot
thought. Not only design gardens. He
said, almost under his breath:
"Exquisite!"
"I think so too," said Michael Garfield.
He let it be left doubtful whether he
referred to the drawing he was making, or
to the sitter.
"Why? asked Poirot.
"Why am I doing it? Do you think I
have a reason?"
"You might have."
"You're quite right. If I go away from
here, there are one or two things I want
to remember. Miranda is one of them."
"Would you forget her easily?"
"Very easily. I am like that. But to have
forgotten something or someone, to be
unable to bring a face, a turn of a
shoulder, a gesture, a tree, a flower, a
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contour of landscape, to know what it was
like to see it but not to be able to bring
that image in front of one's eyes, that
sometimes causes--what shall I say?--
almost agony. You see, you record--and
it all passes away."
"Not the Quarry Garden or park. That
has not passed away."
"Don't you think so? It soon will. It
soon will if no-one is here. Nature takes
over, you know. It needs love and attention
and care and skill. If a Council takes it
over--and that's what happens very often
nowadays--then it will be what they call "kept up'. The latest sort of shrubs may be
put in, extra paths will be made, seats will
be put at certain distances. Litter bins
even may be erected. Oh, they are so
careful, so kind at preserving. You can't
preserve this. It's wild. To keep something
wild is far more difficult than to preserve
it."
"Monsieur Poirot." Miranda's voice
came across the stream.
Poirot moved forward, so that he came
within earshot of her.
"So I find you here. So you came to sit
for your portrait, did you?"
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She shook her head.
"I didn't come for that. That just
happened."
"Yes," said Michael Garfield, "yes, it
just happened. A piece of luck sometimes
comes one's way."
"You were just walking in your
favourite garden?"
"I was looking for the well, really," said
Miranda.
"A well?"
"There was a wishing well once in this
wood."
"In a former quarry? I didn't know they
kept wells in quarries."
"There was always a wood round the
quarry. Well there were always trees here.
Michael knows where the well is but he
won't tell me."
"It will be much more fun for you,"
said Michael Gal-field, "to go on looking
for it. Especially when you're not at all
sure it really exists."
"Old Mrs. Goodbody knows all about
it."
And added:
"She's a witch."
"Quite right," said Michael. "She's the
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local witch, Monsieur Poirot. There's
always a local witch, you know, in most
places. They don't always call themselves
witches, but everyone knows. They tell a
fortune or put a spell on your begonias or
shrivel up your peonies or stop a farmer's
cow from giving milk and probably give
love potions as well."
"It was a wishing well," said Miranda.
"People used to come here and wish. They
had to go round it three times backwards
and it was on the side of the hill, so it
wasn't always very easy to do." She looked
past Poirot at Michael Garfield. "I shall
find it one day," she said, "even if you
won't tell me. It's here somewhere, but it
was sealed up, Mrs. Goodbody said. Oh!
years ago. Sealed up because it was said to
be dangerous. A child fell into it years ago
— Kitty Somebody. Someone else might
have fallen into it."
"Well, go on thinking so," said Michael
Garfield. "It's a good local story, but there
is a wishing well over at Little Belling."
&
nbsp; "Of course," said Miranda, "I know all
about that one. It's a very common one,"
she said. "Everybody knows about it, and
it's very silly. People throw pennies into it
and there's not any water in it any more
so there's not even a splash."
"Well, I'm sorry."
"I'll tell you when I find it," said
Miranda.
"You mustn't always believe everything
a witch says. I don't believe any child ever
fell into it. I expect a cat fell into it once
and got drowned."
"Ding dong dell, pussy's in the well,"
said Miranda. She got up. "I must go
now," she said. "Mummy will be
expecting me."
She moved carefully from the knob of
rock, smiled at both the men and went off
down an even more intransigent path that
ran the other side of the water.
"'Ding dong dell'," said Poirot,
thoughtfully. "One believes what one
wants to believe, Michael Garfield. Was
she right or was she not right?"
Michael Garfield looked at him thoughtfully, then he smiled.
"She is quite right," he said. "There is
a well, and it is as she says sealed up.
I suppose it may have been dangerous. I
don't think it was ever a wishing well. I
think that's Mrs. Goodbody's own bit of
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fancy talk. There's a wishing tree, or there
was once. A beech tree half-way up the
hillside that I believe people did go round
three times backwards and wished."
"What's happened to that? Don't they
go round it any more?"
"No. I believe it was struck by lightning
about six years ago. Split in two. So that
pretty story's gone west."
"Have you told Miranda about that?"
"No. I thought I'd rather leave her with
her well. A blasted beech wouldn't be
much fun for her, would it?"
"I must go on my way," said Poirot.
"Going back to your police friend?"
"Yes."
"You look tired."
"I am tired," said Hercule Poirot. "I am
extremely tired."
"You'd be more comfortable in canvas
shoes or sandals."
"Ah, ga, con."
"I see. You are sartorially ambitious."
He looked at Poirot. "The tout ensemble;
it is very good and especially, if I may
mention it, your superb moustache."
"I am gratified," said Poirot, "that you
have noticed it."
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"The point is rather, could anyone not
notice it?"
Poirot put his head on one side. Then