Hallowe'en Party

  She considered a moment. Then the oracle spoke.

  “Kept very quiet about it, if so. Never any rumours about those two. There usually is in a place like this if there’s anything in it.”

  “Young Ferrier was tied up to a married woman. He might have warned the girl not to say anything about him to her employer.”

  “Likely enough. Mrs. Smythe would probably know that Lesley Ferrier was a bad character, and would warn the girl to have nothing to do with him.”

  Poirot folded up the letter and put it into his pocket.

  “I wish you’d let me get you a pot of tea.”

  “No, no—I must go back to my guest house and change my shoes. You do not know when your brother will be back?”

  “I’ve no idea. They didn’t say what they wanted him for.”

  Poirot walked along the road to his guest house. It was only a few hundred yards. As he walked up to the front door it was opened and his landlady, a cheerful lady of thirty odd, came out to him.

  “There’s a lady here to see you,” she said. “Been waiting some time. I told her I didn’t know where you’d gone exactly or when you’d be back, but she said she’d wait.” She added, “It’s Mrs. Drake. She’s in a state, I’d say. She’s usually so calm about everything, but really I think she’s had a shock of some kind. She’s in the sitting room. Shall I bring you in some tea and something?”

  “No,” said Poirot, “I think it will be better not. I will hear first what she has to say.”

  He opened the door and went into the sitting room. Rowena Drake had been standing by the window. It was not the window overlooking the front path so she had not seen his approach. She turned abruptly as she heard the sound of the door.

  “Monsieur Poirot. At last. It seemed so long.”

  “I am sorry, Madame. I have been in the Quarry Wood and also talking to my friend, Mrs. Oliver. And then I have been talking to two boys. To Nicholas and Desmond.”

  “Nicholas and Desmond? Yes, I know. I wonder—oh! one thinks all sorts of things.”

  “You are upset,” said Poirot gently.

  It was not a thing he thought he would ever see. Rowena Drake upset, no longer mistress of events, no longer arranging everything, and enforcing her decisions on others.

  “You’ve heard, haven’t you?” she asked. “Oh well, perhaps you haven’t.”

  “What should I have heard?”

  “Something dreadful. He’s—he’s dead. Somebody killed him.”

  “Who is dead, Madame?”

  “Then you haven’t really heard. And he’s only a child, too, and I thought—oh, what a fool I’ve been. I should have told you. I should have told you when you asked me. It makes me feel terrible—terribly guilty for thinking I knew best and thinking—but I did mean it for the best, Monsieur Poirot, indeed I did.”

  “Sit down, Madame, sit down. Calm yourself and tell me. There is a child dead—another child?”

  “Her brother,” said Mrs. Drake. “Leopold.”

  “Leopold Reynolds?”

  “Yes. They found his body on one of the field paths. He must have been coming back from school and gone out of his way to play in the brook near here. Somebody held him down in the brook—held his head under water.”

  “The same kind of thing as they did to the child Joyce?”

  “Yes, yes. I can see it must be—it must be madness of some kind. And one doesn’t know who, that’s what’s so awful. One hasn’t the least idea. And I thought I knew. I really thought—I suppose, yes, it was a very wicked thing.”

  “You must tell me, Madame.”

  “Yes, I want to tell you. I came here to tell you. Because, you see, you came to me after you’d talked to Elizabeth Whittaker. After she’d told you that something had startled me. That I’d seen something. Something in the hall of the house, my house. I said that I hadn’t seen anything and that nothing had startled me because, you see, I thought—” she stopped.

  “What did you see?”

  “I ought to have told you then. I saw the door of the library open, open rather carefully and—then he came out. At least, he didn’t come right out. He just stood in the doorway and then pulled the door back quickly and went back inside.”

  “Who was this?”

  “Leopold. Leopold, the child that’s been killed now. And you see, I thought I—oh, what a mistake, what an awful mistake. If I’d told you, perhaps—perhaps you’d have got at what was behind it.”

  “You thought?” Poirot said. “You thought that Leopold had killed his sister. Is that what you thought?”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought. Not then, of course, because I didn’t know she was dead. But he had a queer look on his face. He’s always been a queer child. In a way you’re a little afraid of him because you feel he’s not—not quite right. Very clever and a high I.Q., but all the same not all there.

  “And I thought ‘Why is Leopold coming out of there instead of being at the Snapdragon?’ and I thought ‘What’s he been doing—he looks so queer?’ And then, well then I didn’t think of it again after that, but I suppose, the way he looked upset me. And that’s why I dropped the vase. Elizabeth helped me to pick up the glass pieces, and I went back to the Snapdragon and I didn’t think of it again. Until we found Joyce. And that’s when I thought—”

  “You thought that Leopold had done it?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did think that. I thought it explained the way he’d looked. I thought I knew. I always think—I’ve thought too much all my life that I know things, that I’m right about things. And I can be very wrong. Because, you see, his being killed must mean something quite different. He must have gone in there, and he must have found her there—dead—and it gave him a terrible shock and he was frightened. And so he wanted to come out of the room without anyone seeing him and I suppose he looked up and saw me and he got back into the room and shut the door and waited until the hall was empty before coming out. But not because he’d killed her. No. Just the shock of finding her dead.”

  “And yet you said nothing? You didn’t mention who it was you’d seen, even after the death was discovered?”

  “No. I—oh, I couldn’t. He’s—you see, he’s so young—was so young, I suppose I ought to say now. Ten. Ten—eleven at most and I mean—I felt he couldn’t have known what he was doing, it couldn’t have been his fault exactly. He must have been morally not responsible. He’s always been rather queer, and I thought one could get treatment for him. Not leave it all to the police. Not send him to approved places. I thought one could get special psychological treatment for him, if necessary. I—I meant well. You must believe that, I meant well.”

  Such sad words, Poirot thought, some of the saddest words in the world. Mrs. Drake seemed to know what he was thinking.

  “Yes,” she said, “‘I did it for the best.’ ‘I meant well.’ One always thinks one knows what is best to do for other people, but one doesn’t. Because, you see, the reason he looked so taken aback must have been that he either saw who the murderer was, or saw something that would give a clue to who the murderer might be. Something that made the murderer feel that he himself wasn’t safe. And so—and so he’s waited until he got the boy alone and then drowned him in the brook so that he shouldn’t speak, so that he shouldn’t tell. If I’d only spoken out, if I’d told you, or told the police, or told someone, but I thought I knew best.”

  “Only today,” said Poirot, after he had sat silent for a moment or two, watching Mrs. Drake where she sat controlling her sobs, “I was told that Leopold had been very flush of money lately. Somebody must have been paying him to keep silent.”

  “But who—who?”

  “We shall find out,” said Poirot. “It will not be long now.”

  Twenty-two

  It was not very characteristic of Hercule Poirot to ask the opinions of others. He was usually quite satisfied with his own opinions. Nevertheless, there were times when he made exceptions. This was one of them. He and Spence had had a brief con
versation together and then Poirot had got in touch with a car hire service and after another short conversation with his friend and with Inspector Raglan, he drove off. He had arranged with the car to drive him back to London but he had made one halt on the way there. He drove to The Elms. He told the driver of the car that he would not be long—a quarter of an hour at most—and then he sought audience with Miss Emlyn.

  “I am sorry to disturb you at this hour. It is no doubt the hour of your supper or dinner.”

  “Well, I do you at least the compliment, Monsieur Poirot, to think you would not disturb me at either supper or dinner unless you have a valid reason for so doing.”

  “You are very kind. To be frank, I want your advice.”

  “Indeed?”

  Miss Emlyn looked slightly surprised. She looked more than surprised, she looked sceptical.

  “That does not seem very characteristic of you, Monsieur Poirot. Are you not usually satisfied with your own opinions?”

  “Yes, I am satisfied with my own opinions, but it would give me solace and support if someone whose opinion I respected agreed with them.”

  She did not speak, merely looked at him inquiringly.

  “I know the killer of Joyce Reynolds,” he said. “It is my belief that you know it also.”

  “I have not said so,” said Miss Emlyn.

  “No. You have not said so. And that might lead me to believe that it is on your part an opinion only.”

  “A hunch?” inquired Miss Emlyn, and her tone was colder than ever.

  “I would prefer not to use that word. I would prefer to say that you had a definite opinion.”

  “Very well then. I will admit that I have a definite opinion. That does not mean that I shall repeat to you what my opinion is.”

  “What I should like to do, Mademoiselle, is to write down four words on a piece of paper. I will ask you if you agree with the four words I have written.”

  Miss Emlyn rose. She crossed the room to her desk, took a piece of writing paper and came across to Poirot with it.

  “You interest me,” she said. “Four words.”

  Poirot had taken a pen from his pocket. He wrote on the paper, folded it and handed it to her. She took it, straightened out the paper and held it in her hand, looking at it.

  “Well?” said Poirot.

  “As to two of the words on that paper, I agree, yes. The other two, that is more difficult. I have no evidence and, indeed, the ideas had not entered my head.”

  “But in the case of the first two words, you have definite evidence?”

  “I consider so, yes.”

  “Water,” said Poirot, thoughtfully. “As soon as you heard that, you knew. As soon as I heard that I knew. You are sure, and I am sure. And now,” said Poirot, “a boy has been drowned in a brook. You have heard that?”

  “Yes. Someone rang me up on the telephone and told me. Joyce’s brother. How was he concerned?”

  “He wanted money,” said Poirot. “He got it. And so, at a suitable opportunity, he was drowned in a brook.”

  His voice did not change. It had, if anything, not a softened, but a harsher note,

  “The person who told me,” he said, “was riddled with compassion. Upset emotionally. But I am not like that. He was young, this second child who died, but his death was not an accident. It was, as so many things in life, a result of his actions. He wanted money and he took a risk. He was clever enough, astute enough to know he was taking a risk, but he wanted the money. He was ten years old but cause and effect is much the same at that age as it would be at thirty or fifty or ninety. Do you know what I think of first in such a case?”

  “I should say,” said Miss Emlyn, “that you are more concerned with justice than with compassion.”

  “Compassion,” said Poirot, “on my part would do nothing to help Leopold. He is beyond help. Justice, if we obtain justice, you and I, for I think you are of my way of thinking over this—justice, one could say, will also not help Leopold. But it might help some other Leopold, it might help to keep some other child alive, if we can reach justice soon enough. It is not a safe thing, a killer who has killed more than once, to whom killing has appealed as a way of security. I am now on my way to London where I am meeting with certain people to discuss a way of approach. To convert them, perhaps, to my own certainty in this case.”

  “You may find that difficult,” said Miss Emlyn.

  “No, I do not think so. The ways and means to it may be difficult but I think I can convert them to my knowledge of what has happened. Because they have minds that understand the criminal mind. There is one thing more I would ask you. I want your opinion. Your opinion only this time, not evidence. Your opinion of the character of Nicholas Ransom and Desmond Holland. Would you advise me to trust them?”

  “I should say that both of them were thoroughly trustworthy. That is my opinion. They are in many ways extremely foolish, but that is only in the ephemeral things of life. Fundamentally, they are sound. Sound as an apple without maggots in it.”

  “One always comes back to apples,” said Hercule Poirot sadly. “I must go now. My car is waiting. I have one more call still to pay.”

  Twenty-three

  I

  “Have you heard what’s on at Quarry Wood?” said Mrs. Cartwright, putting a packet of Fluffy Flakelets and Wonder White into her shopping bag.

  “Quarry Wood?” said Elspeth McKay, to whom she was talking. “No, I haven’t heard anything particular.” She selected a packet of cereal. The two women were in the recently opened supermarket making their morning purchases.

  “They’re saying the trees are dangerous there. Couple of forestry men arrived this morning. It’s there on the side of the hill where there’s a steep slope and a tree leaning sideways. Could be I suppose, that a tree could come down there. One of them was struck by lightning last winter but that was farther over, I think. Anyway, they’re digging round the roots of the trees a bit, and a bit farther down too. Pity. They’ll make an awful mess of the place.”

  “Oh well,” said Elspeth McKay, “I suppose they know what they’re doing. Somebody’s called them in, I suppose.”

  “They’ve got a couple of the police there, too, seeing that people don’t come near. Making sure they keep away from things. They say something about finding out which the diseased trees are first.”

  “I see,” said Elspeth McKay.

  Possibly she did. Not that anyone had told her but then Elspeth never needed telling.

  II

  Ariadne Oliver smoothed out a telegram she had just taken as delivered to her at the door. She was so used to getting telegrams through the telephone, making frenzied hunts for a pencil to take them down, insisting firmly that she wanted a confirmatory copy sent to her, that she was quite startled to receive what she called to herself a “real telegram” again.

  “PLEASE BRING MRS BUTLER AND MIRANDA

  TO YOUR FLAT AT ONCE. NO TIME TO LOSE.

  IMPORTANT SEE DOCTOR FOR OPERATION.”

  She went into the kitchen where Judith Butler was making quince jelly.

  “Judy,” said Mrs. Oliver, “go and pack a few things, I’m going back to London and you’re coming with me and Miranda, too.”

  “It’s very nice of you, Ariadne, but I’ve got a lot of things on here. Anyway, you needn’t rush away today, need you?”

  “Yes, I need to, I’ve been told to,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  “Who’s told you—your housekeeper?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Somebody else. One of the few people I obey. Come on. Hurry up.”

  “I don’t want to leave home just now. I can’t.”

  “You’ve got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The car is ready. I brought it round to the front door. We can go at once.”

  “I don’t think I want to take Miranda. I could leave her here with someone, with the Reynolds or Rowena Drake.”

  “Miranda’s coming, too,” Mrs. Oliver interrupted definitely. “Don’t make diffic
ulties, Judy. This is serious. I don’t see how you can even consider leaving her with the Reynolds. Two of the Reynolds children have been killed, haven’t they?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s true enough. You think there’s something wrong with that house. I mean there’s someone there who—oh, what do I mean?”

  “We’re talking too much,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Anyway,” she added, “if anyone is going to be killed, it seems to me that probably the most likely one would be Ann Reynolds.”

  “What’s the matter with the family? Why should they all get killed, one after another? Oh, Ariadne, it’s frightening!”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there are times when it’s quite right to be frightened. I’ve just had a telegram and I’m acting upon it.”

  “Oh, I didn’t hear the telephone.”

  “It didn’t come through the telephone. It came to the door.”

  She hesitated a moment, then she held it out to her friend.

  “What’s this mean? Operation?”

  “Tonsils, probably,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Miranda had a bad throat last week, hadn’t she? Well, what more likely than that she should be taken to consult a throat specialist in London?”

  “Are you quite mad, Ariadne?”

  “Probably,” said Mrs. Oliver, “raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoy being in London. You needn’t worry. She’s not going to have any operation. That’s what’s called ‘cover’ in spy stories. We’ll take her to a theatre, or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole I think it would be best to take her to the ballet.”

  “I’m frightened,” said Judith.

  Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. She looked more than ever, Mrs. Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked divorced from reality.

  “Come on,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I promised Hercule Poirot I’d bring you when he gave me the word. Well, he’s given me the word.”

  “What’s going on in this place?” said Judith. “I can’t think why I ever came here.”