Hallowe'en Party

by Agatha Christie

  “I sometimes wondered why you did,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there’s no accounting for where people go to live. A friend of mine went to live in Moreton-in-the-Marsh the other day. I asked him why he wanted to go and live there. He said he’d always wanted to and thought about it. Whenever he retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn’t been to it myself but it sounded to me bound to be damp. What was it actually like? He said he didn’t know what it was like because he’d never been there himself. But he had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too.”

  “Did he go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he like it when he got there?”

  “Well, I haven’t heard that yet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But people are very odd, aren’t they? The things they want to do, the things they simply have to do…” She went to the garden and called, “Miranda, we’re going to London.”

  Miranda came slowly towards them.

  “Going to London?”

  “Ariadne’s going to drive us there,” said her mother. “We’ll go and see a theatre there. Mrs. Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet. Would you like to go to the ballet?”

  “I’d love it,” said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. “I must go and say goodbye to one of my friends first.”

  “We’re going practically at once.”

  “Oh, I shan’t be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things I promised to do.”

  She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate.

  “Who are Miranda’s friends?” asked Mrs. Oliver, with some curiosity.”

  “I never really know,” said Judith. “She never tells one things, you know. Sometimes I think that the only things that she really feels are her friends are the birds she looks at in the woods. Or squirrels or things like that. I think everybody likes her but I don’t know that she has any particular friends. I mean, she doesn’t bring back girls to tea and things like that. Not as much as other girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reynolds.” She added vaguely: “Joyce used to tell her fantastic things about elephants and tigers.” She roused herself. “Well, I must go up and pack, I suppose, as you insist. But I don’t want to leave here. There are lots of things I’m in the middle of doing, like this jelly and—”

  “You’ve got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. She was quite firm about it.

  Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Miranda ran in through the side door, somewhat out of breath.

  “Aren’t we going to have lunch first?” she demanded.

  In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child who liked her food.

  “We’ll stop for lunch on the way,” said Mrs. Oliver. “We’ll stop at The Black Boy at Haversham. That would be about right. It’s about three-quarters of an hour from here and they give you quite a good meal. Come on, Miranda, we’re going to start now.”

  “I shan’t have time to tell Cathie I can’t go to the pictures with her tomorrow. Oh, perhaps I could ring her up.”

  “Well, hurry up,” said her mother.

  Miranda ran into the sitting room where the telephone was situated. Judith and Mrs. Oliver put suitcases into the car. Miranda came out of the sitting room.

  “I left a message,” she said breathlessly. “That’s all right now.”

  “I think you’re mad, Ariadne,” said Judith, as they got into the car. “Quite mad. What’s it all about?”

  “We shall know in due course, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know if I’m mad or he is.”

  “He? Who?”

  “Hercule Poirot,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  III

  In London Hercule Poirot was sitting in a room with four other men. One was Inspector Timothy Raglan, looking respectful and poker-faced as was his invariable habit when in the presence of his superiors; the second was Superintendent Spence. The third was Alfred Richmond, Chief Constable of the County and the fourth was a man with a sharp, legal face from the Public Prosecutor’s office. They looked at Hercule Poirot with varying expressions, or what one might describe as nonexpressions.

  “You seem quite sure, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “I am quite sure,” said Hercule Poirot. “When a thing arranges itself so, one realizes that it must be so, one only looks for reasons why it should not be so. If one does not find the reasons why it should not be so, then one is strengthened in one’s opinion.”

  “The motives seem somewhat complex, if I may say so.”

  “No,” said Poirot, “not complex really. But so simple that they are very difficult to see clearly.”

  The legal gentleman looked sceptical.

  “We shall have one piece of definite evidence very soon now,” said Inspector Raglan. “Of course, if there has been a mistake on that point….”

  “Ding dong dell, no pussy in the well?” said Hercule Poirot. “That is what you mean?”

  “Well, you must agree it is only a surmise on your part.”

  “The evidence pointed to it all along. When a girl disappears, there are not many reasons. The first is that she has gone away with a man. The second is that she is dead. Anything else is very far-fetched and practically never happens.”

  “There are no special points that you can bring to our attention, Monsieur Poirot?”

  “Yes. I have been in touch with a well-known firm of estate agents. Friends of mine, who specialize in real estate in the West Indies, the Aegean, the Adriatic, the Mediterranean and other places. They specialize in sunshine and their clients are usually wealthy. Here is a recent purchase that might interest you.”

  He handed over a folded paper.

  “You think this ties up?”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “I thought the sale of islands was prohibited by that particular government?”

  “Money can usually find a way.”

  “There is nothing else that you would care to dwell upon?”

  “It is possible that within twenty-four hours I shall have for you something that will more or less clinch matters.”

  “And what is that?”

  “An eyewitness.”

  “You mean—”

  “An eyewitness to a crime.”

  The legal man looked at Poirot with mounting disbelief.

  “Where is this eyewitness now?”

  “On the way to London, I hope and trust.”

  “You sound—disturbed.”

  “That is true. I have done what I can to take care of things, but I will admit to you that I am frightened. Yes, I am frightened in spite of the protective measure I have taken. Because, you see, we are—how shall I describe it?—we are up against ruthlessness, quick reactions, greed pushed beyond an expectable human limit and perhaps—I am not sure but I think it possible—a touch, shall we say, of madness? Not there originally, but cultivated. A seed that took root and grows fast. And now perhaps has taken charge, inspiring an inhuman rather than a human attitude to life.”

  “We’ll have to have a few extra opinions on this,” said the legal man. “We can’t rush into things. Of course, a lot depends on the—er—forestry business. If that’s positive, we’d have to think again.”

  Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.

  “I will take my leave. I have told you all that I know and all that I fear and envisage as possible. I shall remain in touch with you.”

  He shook hands all round with foreign precision, and went out.

  “The man’s a bit of a mountebank,” said the legal man. “You don’t think he’s a bit touched, do you? Touched in the head himself, I mean? Anyway, he’s a pretty good age. I don’t know that one can rely on the faculties of a man of that age.”

  “I think you can rely upon him,” said the Chief Constable. “At least, that is my impression. Spence, I’ve known you a good many years. You’re a friend of his. Do you think he’s become a little senile?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Superintendent Spence. “What’s you
r opinion, Raglan?”

  “I’ve only met him recently, sir. At first I thought his—well, his way of talking, his ideas, might be fantastic. But on the whole I’m converted. I think he’s going to be proved right.”

  Twenty-four

  I

  Mrs. Oliver had ensconced herself at a table in the window of The Black Boy. It was still fairly early, so the dining room was not very full. Presently, Judith Butler returned from powdering her nose and sat down opposite her and examined the menu.

  “What does Miranda like?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “We might as well order for her as well. I suppose she’ll be back in a minute.”

  “She likes roast chicken.”

  “Well, that’s easy then. What about you?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Three roast chickens,” Mrs. Oliver ordered.

  She leaned back, studying her friend.

  “Why are you staring at me in that way?”

  “I was thinking,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  “Thinking what?”

  “Thinking really how very little I knew about you.”

  “Well, that’s the same with everybody, isn’t it?”

  “You mean, one never knows all about anyone.”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  Both women were silent for some time.

  “They’re rather slow serving things here.”

  “It’s coming now, I think,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  A waitress arrived with a tray full of dishes.

  “Miranda’s a long time. Does she know where the dining room is?”

  “Yes, of course she does. We looked in on the way.” Judith got up impatiently. “I’ll have to go and fetch her.”

  “I wonder if perhaps she gets car sick.”

  “She used to when she was younger.”

  She returned some four or five minutes later.

  “She’s not in the Ladies’,” she said. “There’s a door outside it into the garden. Perhaps she went out that way to look at a bird or something. She’s like that.”

  “No time to look at birds today,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Go and call her or something. We want to get on.”

  II

  Elspeth McKay pricked some sausages with a fork, laid them on a baking dish, put it in the Frigidair and started to peel potatoes.

  The telephone rang.

  “Mrs. McKay? Sergeant Goodwin here. Is your brother there?”

  “No. He’s in London today.”

  “I’ve rung him there—he’s left. When he gets back, tell him we’ve had a positive result.”

  “You mean you’ve found a body in the well?”

  “Not much use clamming up about it. The word’s got around already.”

  “Who is it? The au pair girl?”

  “Seems like it.”

  “Poor girl,” said Elspeth. “Did she throw herself in—or what?”

  “It wasn’t suicide—she was knifed. It was murder all right.”

  III

  After her mother had left the Ladies’ Room, Miranda waited for a minute or two. Then she opened the door, cautiously peered out, opened the side door to the garden which was close at hand and ran down the garden path that led round to the back yard of what had once been a coaching inn and was now a garage. She went out at a small door that enabled pedestrians to get into a lane outside. A little farther down the lane a car was parked. A man with beetling grey eyebrows and a grey beard was sitting in it reading a newspaper. Miranda opened the door and climbed in beside the driving seat. She laughed.

  “You do look funny.”

  “Have a hearty laugh, there’s nothing to stop you.”

  The car started, went down the lane, turned right, turned left, turned right again and came out on a secondary road.

  “We’re all right for time,” said the grey-bearded man. “At the right moment you’ll see the double axe as it ought to be seen. And Kilterbury Down, too. Wonderful view.”

  A car dashed past them so closely that they were almost forced into the hedge.

  “Young idiots,” said the grey-bearded man.

  One of the young men had long hair reaching over his shoulders and large, owlish spectacles. The other one affected a more Spanish appearance with sideburns.

  “You don’t think Mummy will worry about me?” asked Miranda.

  “She won’t have time to worry about you. By the time she worries about you, you’ll have got where you want to be.”

  IV

  In London, Hercule Poirot picked up the telephone. Mrs. Oliver’s voice came over.

  “We’ve lost Miranda.”

  “What do you mean, lost her?”

  “We had lunch at The Black Boy. She went to the loo. She didn’t come back. Somebody said they saw her driving away with an elderly man. But it mightn’t have been her. It might have been someone else. It—”

  “Someone should have stayed with her. Neither of you ought to have let her out of your sight. I told you there was danger. Is Mrs. Butler very worried?”

  “Of course she’s worried. What do you think? She’s frantic. She insists on ringing the police.”

  “Yes, that would be the natural thing to do. I will ring them also.”

  “But why should Miranda be in danger?”

  “Don’t you know? You ought to by now.” He added, “The body’s been found. I’ve just heard—”

  “What body?”

  “A body in a well.”

  Twenty-five

  “It’s beautiful,” said Miranda, looking round her.

  Kilterbury Ring was a local beauty spot though its remains were not particularly famous. They had been dismantled many hundreds of years ago. Yet here and there a tall megalithic stone still stood, upright, telling of a long past ritual worship. Miranda asked questions.

  “Why did they have all these stones here?”

  “For ritual. Ritual worship. Ritual sacrifice. You understand about sacrifice, don’t you, Miranda?”

  “I think so.”

  “It has to be, you see. It’s important.”

  “You mean, it’s not a sort of punishment? It’s something else?”

  “Yes, it’s something else. You die so that others should live. You die so that beauty should live. Should come into being. That’s the important thing.”

  “I thought perhaps—”

  “Yes, Miranda?”

  “I thought perhaps you ought to die because what you’ve done has killed someone else.”

  “What put that into your head?”

  “I was thinking of Joyce. If I hadn’t told her about something, she wouldn’t have died, would she?”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “I’ve felt worried since Joyce died. I needn’t have told her, need I? I told her because I wanted to have something worth while telling her. She’d been to India and she kept talking about it—about the tigers and about the elephants and their gold hangings and decorations and their trappings. And I think, too—suddenly I wanted somebody else to know, because you see I hadn’t really thought about it before.” She added: “Was—was that a sacrifice, too?”

  “In a way.”

  Miranda remained contemplative, then she said, “Isn’t it time yet?”

  “The sun is not quite right yet. Another five minutes, perhaps, and then it will fall directly on the stone.”

  Again they sat silent, beside the car.

  “Now, I think,” said Miranda’s companion, looking up at the sky where the sun was dipping towards the horizon. “Now is a wonderful moment. No one here. Nobody comes up at this time of day and walks up to the top of Kilterbury Down to see Kilterbury Ring. Too cold in November and the blackberries are over. I’ll show you the double axe first. The double axe on the stone. Carved there when they came from Mycenae or from Crete hundreds of years ago. It’s wonderful, Miranda, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s very wonderful,” said Miranda. “Show it me.�
��

  They walked up to the topmost stone. Beside it lay a fallen one and a little farther down the slope a slightly inclined one leant as though bent with the weariness of years.

  “Are you happy, Miranda?”

  “Yes, I’m very happy.”

  “There’s the sign here.”

  “Is that really the double axe?”

  “Yes, it’s worn with time but that’s it. That’s the symbol. Put your hand on it. And now—now we will drink to the past and the future and to beauty.”

  “Oh, how lovely,” said Miranda.

  A golden cup was put into her hand, and from a flask her companion poured a golden liquid into it.

  “It tastes of fruit, of peaches. Drink it, Miranda, and you will be happier still.”

  Miranda took the gilt cup. She sniffed at it.

  “Yes. Yes, it does smell of peaches. Oh look, there’s the sun. Really red gold—looking as though it was lying on the edge of the world.”

  He turned her towards it.

  “Hold the cup and drink.”

  She turned obediently. One hand was still on the megalithic stone and its semierased sign. Her companion now was standing behind her. From below the inclined stone down the hill, two figures slipped out, bent half double. Those on the summit had their backs to them, and did not even notice them. Quickly but stealthily they ran up the hill.

  “Drink to beauty, Miranda.”

  “Like hell she does!” said a voice behind them.

  A rose velvet coat shot over a head, a knife was knocked from the hand that was slowly rising. Nicholas Ransom caught hold of Miranda, clasping her tightly and dragging her away from the other two who were struggling.

  “You bloody little idiot,” said Nicholas Ransom. “Coming up here with a barmy murderer. You should have known what you were doing.”

  “I did in a way,” said Miranda. “I was going to be a sacrifice, I think, because you see it was all my fault. It was because of me that Joyce was killed. So it was right for me to be a sacrifice, wasn’t it? It would be a kind of ritual killing.”

  “Don’t start talking nonsense about ritual killings. They’ve found that other girl. You know, the au pair girl who has been missing so long. A couple of years or something like that. They all thought she’d run away because she’d forged a Will. She hadn’t run away. Her body was found in the well.”