Hallowe'en Party

  “I hope not indeed,” said her mother.

  “And how would you dispose of your enemies, Miranda?” asked Poirot.

  “I should be very kind,” said Miranda in a gently contemplative tone. “It would be more difficult, but I’d rather have it that way because I don’t like hurting things. I’d use a sort of drug that gives people euthanasia. They would go to sleep and have beautiful dreams and they just wouldn’t wake up.” She lifted some tea cups and the bread and butter plate. “I’ll wash up, Mummy,” she said, “if you like to take Monsieur Poirot to look at the garden. There are still some Queen Elizabeth roses at the back of the border.”

  She went out of the room carefully carrying the tea tray.

  “She’s an astonishing child, Miranda,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  “You have a very beautiful daughter, Madame,” said Poirot.

  “Yes, I think she is beautiful now. One doesn’t know what they will look like by the time they grow up. They acquire puppy fat and look like well-fattened pigs sometimes. But now—now she is like a wood nymph.”

  “One does not wonder that she is fond of the Quarry Garden which adjoins your house.”

  “I wish she wasn’t so fond of it sometimes. One gets nervous about people wandering about in isolated places, even if they are quite near people or a village. One’s—oh, one’s very frightened all the time nowadays. That’s why—why you’ve got to find out why this awful thing happened to Joyce, Monsieur Poirot. Because until we know who that was, we shan’t feel safe for a minute—about our children, I mean. Take Monsieur Poirot out in the garden, will you, Ariadne? I’ll join you in a minute or two.”

  She took the remaining two cups and a plate and went into the kitchen. Poirot and Mrs. Oliver went out through the french window. The small garden was like most autumn gardens. It retained a few candles of golden rod and michaelmas daisies in a border, and some Queen Elizabeth roses held their pink statuesque heads up high. Mrs. Oliver walked rapidly down to where there was a stone bench, sat down, and motioned Poirot to sit down beside her.

  “You said you thought Miranda was like a wood nymph,” she said. “What do you think of Judith?”

  “I think Judith’s name ought to be Undine,” said Poirot.

  “A water spirit, yes. Yes, she does look as though she’d just come out of the Rhine or the sea or a forest pool or something. Her hair looks as though it had been dipped in water. Yet there’s nothing untidy or scatty about her, is there?”

  “She, too, is a very lovely woman,” said Poirot.

  “What do you think about her?”

  “I have not had time to think as yet. I just think that she is beautiful and attractive and that something is giving her great concern.”

  “Well, of course, wouldn’t it?”

  “What I would like, Madame, is for you to tell me what you know or think about her.”

  “Well, I got to know her very well on the cruise. You know, one does make quite intimate friends. Just one or two people. The rest of them, I mean, they like each other and all that, but you don’t really go to any trouble to see them again. But one or two you do. Well, Judith was one of the ones I did want to see again.”

  “You did not know her before the cruise?”

  “No.”

  “But you know something about her?”

  “Well, just ordinary things. She’s a widow,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Her husband died a good many years ago—he was an air pilot. He was killed in a car accident. One of those pileup things, I think it was, coming off the M what-is-it that runs near here on to the ordinary road one evening, or something of that kind. He left her rather badly off, I imagine. She was very broken up about it, I think. She doesn’t like talking about him.”

  “Is Miranda her only child?”

  “Yes. Judith does some part-time secretarial work in the neighbourhood, but she hasn’t got a fixed job.”

  “Did she know the people who lived at the Quarry House?”

  “You mean old Colonel and Mrs. Weston?”

  “I mean the former owner, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, wasn’t it?”

  “I think so. I think I’ve heard that name mentioned. But she died two or three years ago, so of course one doesn’t hear about her much. Aren’t the people who are alive enough for you?” demanded Mrs. Oliver with some irritation.

  “Certainly not,” said Poirot. “I have also to inquire into those who have died or disappeared from the scene.”

  “Who’s disappeared?”

  “An au pair girl,” said Poirot.

  “Oh well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “they’re always disappearing, aren’t they? I mean, they come over here and get their fare paid and then they go straight into hospital because they’re pregnant and have a baby, and call it Auguste, or Hans or Boris, or some name like that. Or they’ve come over to marry someone, or to follow up some young man they’re in love with. You wouldn’t believe the things friends tell me! The thing about au pair girls seems to be either they’re Heaven’s gift to overworked mothers and you never want to part with them, or they pinch your stockings—or get themselves murdered—” She stopped. “Oh!” she said.

  “Calm yourself, Madame,” said Poirot. “There seems no reason to believe that an au pair girl has been murdered—quite the contrary.”

  “What do you mean by quite the contrary? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Probably not. All the same—”

  He took out his notebook and made an entry in it.

  “What are you writing down there?”

  “Certain things that have occurred in the past.”

  “You seem to be very perturbed by the past altogether.”

  “The past is the father of the present,” said Poirot sententiously.

  He offered her the notebook.

  “Do you wish to see what I have written?”

  “Of course I do. I daresay it won’t mean anything to me. The things you think important to write down, I never do.”

  He held out the small black notebook.

  “Deaths: e.g. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe (Wealthy). Janet White (Schoolteacher). Lawyer’s clerk—Knifed, Former prosecution for forgery.”

  Below it was written “Opera girl disappears.”

  “What opera girl?”

  “It is the word my friend, Spence’s sister, uses for what you and I call an au pair girl.”

  “Why should she disappear?”

  “Because she was possibly about to get into some form of legal trouble.”

  Poirot’s finger went down to the next entry. The word was simply “Forgery,” with two question marks after it.

  “Forgery?” said Mrs. Oliver. “Why forgery?”

  “That is what I asked. Why forgery?”

  “What kind of forgery?”

  “A Will was forged, or rather a codicil to a Will. A codicil in the au pair girl’s favour.”

  “Undue influence?” suggested Mrs. Oliver.

  “Forgery is something rather more serious than undue influence,” said Poirot.

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with the murder of poor Joyce.”

  “Nor do I,” said Poirot. “But, therefore, it is interesting.”

  “What is the next word? I can’t read it.”

  “Elephants.”

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “It might have,” said Poirot, “believe me, it might have.”

  He rose.

  “I must leave you now,” he said. “Apologize, please, to my hostess for my not saying good-bye to her. I much enjoyed meeting her and her lovely and unusual daughter. Tell her to take care of that child.”

  “‘My mother said I never should, play with the children in the wood,’” quoted Mrs. Oliver. “Well, good-bye. If you like to be mysterious, I suppose you will go on being mysterious. You don’t even say what you’re going to do next.”

  “I have made an appointment for tomorrow morning with Messrs Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter in
Medchester.”

  “Why?”

  “To talk about forgery and other matters.”

  “And after that?”

  “I want to talk to certain people who were also present.”

  “At the party?”

  “No—at the preparation for the party.”

  Twelve

  The premises of Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter were typical of an old-fashioned firm of the utmost respectability. The hand of time had made itself felt. There were no more Harrisons and no more Leadbetters. There was a Mr. Atkinson and a young Mr. Cole, and there was still Mr. Jeremy Fullerton, senior partner.

  A lean, elderly man, Mr. Fullerton, with an impassive face, a dry, legal voice, and eyes that were unexpectedly shrewd. Beneath his hand rested a sheet of notepaper, the few words on which he had just read. He read them once again, assessing their meaning very exactly. Then he looked at the man whom the note introduced to him.

  “Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” He made his own assessment of the visitor. An elderly man, a foreigner, very dapper in his dress, unsuitably attired as to the feet in patent leather shoes which were, so Mr. Fullerton guessed shrewdly, too tight for him. Faint lines of pain were already etching themselves round the corners of his eyes. A dandy, a fop, a foreigner and recommended to him by, of all people, Inspector Henry Raglan, C.I.D., and also vouched for by Superintendent Spence (retired), formerly of Scotland Yard.

  “Superintendent Spence, eh?” said Mr. Fullerton.

  Fullerton knew Spence. A man who had done good work in his time, had been highly thought of by his superiors. Faint memories flashed across his mind. Rather a celebrated case, more celebrated actually than it had showed any signs of being, a case that had seemed cut and dried. Of course! It came to him that his nephew Robert had been connected with it, had been Junior Counsel. A psychopathic killer, it had seemed, a man who had hardly bothered to try and defend himself, a man whom you might have thought really wanted to be hanged (because it had meant hanging at that time). No fifteen years, or indefinite number of years in prison. No. You paid the full penalty—and more’s the pity they’ve given it up, so Mr. Fullerton thought in his dry mind. The young thugs nowadays thought they didn’t risk much by prolonging assault to the point where it became mortal. Once your man was dead, there’d be no witness to identify you.

  Spence had been in charge of the case, a quiet, dogged man who had insisted all along that they’d got the wrong man. And they had got the wrong man, and the person who found the evidence that they’d got the wrong man was some sort of an amateurish foreigner. Some retired detective chap from the Belgian police force. A good age then. And now—senile, probably, thought Mr. Fullerton, but all the same he himself would take the prudent course. Information, that’s what was wanted from him. Information which, after all, could not be a mistake to give, since he could not see that he was likely to have any information that could be useful in this particular matter. A case of child homicide.

  Mr. Fullerton might think he had a fairly shrewd idea of who had committed that homicide, but he was not so sure as he would like to be, because there were at least three claimants in the matter. Any one of three young ne’er-do-wells might have done it. Words floated through his head. Mentally retarded. Psychiatrist’s report. That’s how the whole matter would end, no doubt. All the same, to drown a child during a party—that was rather a different cup of tea from one of the innumerable school children who did not arrive home and who had accepted a lift in a car after having been repeatedly warned not to do so, and who had been found in a nearby copse or gravel pit. A gravel pit now. When was that? Many, many years ago now.

  All this took about four minutes’ time and Mr. Fullerton then cleared his throat in a slightly asthmatic fashion, and spoke.

  “Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” he said again. “What can I do for you? I suppose it’s the business of this young girl, Joyce Reynolds. Nasty business, very nasty business. I can’t see actually where I can assist you. I know very little about it all.”

  “But you are, I believe, the legal adviser to the Drake family?”

  “Oh yes, yes. Hugo Drake, poor chap. Very nice fellow. I’ve known them for years, ever since they bought Apple Trees and came here to live. Sad thing, polio—he contracted it when they were holidaying abroad one year. Mentally, of course, his health was quite unimpaired. It’s sad when it happens to a man who has been a good athlete all his life, a sportsman, good at games and all the rest of it. Yes. Sad business to know you’re a cripple for life.”

  “You were also, I believe, in charge of the legal affairs of Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe?”

  “The aunt, yes. Remarkable woman really. She came here to live after her health broke down, so as to be near her nephew and his wife. Bought that white elephant of a place, Quarry House. Paid far more than it was worth—but money was no object to her. She was very well off. She could have found a more attractive house, but it was the quarry itself that fascinated her. Got a landscape gardener on to it, fellow quite high up in his profession, I believe. One of those handsome, long-haired chaps, but he had ability all right. He did well for himself in this quarry garden work. Got himself quite a reputation over it, illustrated in Homes and Gardens and all the rest of it. Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe knew how to pick people. It wasn’t just a question of a handsome young man as a protégé. Some elderly women are foolish that way, but this chap had brains and was at the top of his profession. But I’m wandering on a bit. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died nearly two years ago.”

  “Quite suddenly.”

  Fullerton looked at Poirot sharply.

  “Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. She had a heart condition and doctors tried to keep her from doing too much, but she was the sort of woman that you couldn’t dictate to. She wasn’t a hypochondriac type.” He coughed and said, “But I expect we are getting away from the subject about which you came to talk to me.”

  “Not really,” said Poirot, “although I would like, if I may, to ask you a few questions on a completely different matter. Some information about one of your employees, by name Lesley Ferrier.”

  Mr. Fullerton looked somewhat surprised. “Lesley Ferrier?” he said. “Lesley Ferrier. Let me see. Really you know, I’d nearly forgotten his name. Yes, yes, of course. Got himself knifed, didn’t he?”

  “That is the man I mean.”

  “Well, I don’t really know that I can tell you much about him. It took place some years ago. Knifed near the Green Swan one night. No arrest was ever made. I daresay the police had some idea who was responsible, but it was mainly, I think, a matter of getting evidence.”

  “The motive was emotional?” inquired Poirot.

  “Oh yes, I should think certainly so. Jealousy, you know. He’d been going steady with a married woman. Her husband had a pub. The Green Swan at Woodleigh Common. Unpretentious place. Then it seems young Lesley started playing around with another young woman—or more than one, it was said. Quite a one for the girls, he was. There was a bit of trouble once or twice.”

  “You were satisfied with him as an employee?”

  “I would rather describe it as not dissatisfied. He had his points. He handled clients well and was studying for his articles, and if only he’d paid more attention to his position and keeping up a good standard of behaviour, it would have been better instead of mixing himself up with one girl after another, most of whom I am apt in my old-fashioned way to consider as considerably beneath him in station. There was a row one night at the Green Swan, and Lesley Ferrier was knifed on his way home.”

  “Was one of the girls responsible, or would it be Mrs. Green Swan, do you think?”

  “Really, it is not a case of knowing anything definite. I believe the police considered it was a case of jealousy—but—” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “But you are not sure?”

  “Oh, it happens,” said Mr. Fullerton. “‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ That is always being quoted in Court. Sometimes it’s true.”


  “But I think I discern that you yourself are not at all sure that that was the case here.”

  “Well, I should have preferred rather more evidence, shall we say. The police would have preferred rather more evidence, too. Public prosecutor threw it out, I believe.”

  “It could have been something quite different?”

  “Oh yes. One could propound several theories. Not a very stable character, young Ferrier. Well brought up. Nice mother—a widow. Father not so satisfactory. Got himself out of several scrapes by the skin of his teeth. Hard luck on his wife. Our young man in some ways resembled his father. He was associated once or twice with rather a doubtful crowd. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was still young. But I warned him that he was getting himself mixed up with the wrong lot. Too closely connected with fiddling transactions outside the law. Frankly, but for his mother, I wouldn’t have kept him. He was young, and he had ability; I gave him a warning or two which I hoped might do the trick. But there’s a lot of corruption about these days. It’s been on the increase for the last ten years.”

  “Someone might have had it in for him, you think?”

  “Quite possible. These associations—gangs is a rather melodramatic word—but you run a certain danger when you get tangled up with them. Any idea that you may split on them, and a knife between your shoulder blades isn’t an uncommon thing to happen.”

  “Nobody saw it happen?”

  “No. Nobody saw it happen. They wouldn’t, of course. Whoever took the job on would have all the arrangements nicely made. Alibi at the proper place and time, and so on and so on.”

  “Yet somebody might have seen it happen. Somebody quite unlikely. A child, for instance.”

  “Late at night? In the neighbourhood of the Green Swan? Hardly a very credible idea, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “A child,” persisted Poirot, “who might remember. A child coming home from a friend’s house. At some short distance, perhaps, from her own home. She might have been coming by a footpath or seen something from behind a hedge.”