him.
"I am delighted to meet you, Mr.
Poirot. I've heard about you."
"You are too kind," said Poirot.
"From a very old friend of mine. Miss
Bulstrode. Former head-mistress of
Meadowbank. You remember Miss Bulstrode,
perhaps?"
"One would not be likely to forget her.
A great personality."
"Yes," said Miss Emiyn. "She made
Meadowbank the school it is." She sighed
slightly and said, "It has changed a little
nowadays. Different aims, different
methods, but it still holds its own as a
school of distinction, of progress, and also
of tradition. Ah well, we must not live too
131
much in the past. You have come to see
me, no doubt, about the death of Joyce
Reynolds. I don't know if you have any
particular interest in her case. It's out of
your usual run of things, I imagine. You
knew her personally, or her family
perhaps?"
"No," said Poirot. "I came at the
request of an old friend, Mrs. Ariadne
Oliver, who was staying down here and
was present at the party."
"She writes delightful books," said Miss
Emiyn. "I have met her once or twice.
Well, that makes the whole thing easier, I
think, to discuss. So long as no personal
feelings are involved, one can go straight
ahead. It was a horrifying thing to happen.
If I may say so, it was an unlikely thing
to happen. The children involved seem
neither old enough nor young enough for
it to fall into any special class. A psychological
crime is indicated. Do you agree?"
"No," said Poirot. "I think it was a
murder, like most murders, committed for
a motive, possibly a sordid one."
"Indeed. And the reason?"
"The reason was a remark made by
Joyce; not actually at the party, I under132
stand, but earlier in the day when preparations
were being made by some of the
older children and other helpers. She
announced that she had once seen a
murder committed."
"Was she believed?"
"On the whole, I think she was not believed."
"That seems the most likely response.
Joyce--I speak plainly to you. Monsieur
Poirot, because we do not want unnecessary
sentiment to cloud mental faculties--she
was a rather mediocre child, neither stupid nor particularly intellectual.
She was, quite frankly, a compulsive liar.
And by that I do not mean that she was
specially deceitful. She was not trying to
avoid retribution or to avoid being found
out in some peccadillo. She boasted. She
boasted of things that had not happened, but that would impress her friends who
were listening to her. As a result, of
course, they inclined not to believe the tall
stories she told."
"You think that she boasted of having
seen a murder committed in order to make
herself important, to intrigue someone--?"
"Yes. And I would suggest that Ariadne
133
Oliver was doubtless the person whom she
wanted to impress ..."
"So you don't think Joyce saw a murder
committed at all?"
"I should doubt it very much."
"You are of the opinion that she made
the whole thing up?"
"I would not say that. She did witness, perhaps, a car accident, or someone perhaps who was hit with a ball on the
golf links and injured--something that she
could work up into an impressive happening
that might, just conceivably, pass
as an attempted murder."
"So the only assumption we can make
with any certainty is that there was a
murderer present at the Hallowe'en
party."
"Certainly," said Miss Ernlyn, without
turning a grey hair. "Certainly. That
follows on logically, does it not?"
"Would you have any idea who that
murderer might be?"
"That is certainly a sensible question,"
said Miss Emiyn. "After all, the majority
of the children at the party were aged
between nine and fifteen, and I suppose
nearly all of them had been or were pupils
134
at my school. I ought to know something
about them. Something, too, about their
families and their backgrounds."
"I believe that one of your own teachers, a year or two ago, was strangled by an
unknown killer."
"You are referring to Janet White?
About twenty-four years of age. An emotional girl. As far as is known, she was
out walking alone. She may, of course, have arranged to meet some young man.
She was a girl who was quite attractive to
men in a modest sort of way. Her killer
has not been discovered. The police questioned
various young men or asked them
to assist them in their inquiries, as the
technique goes, but they were not able to
find sufficient evidence to bring a case
against anyone. An unsatisfactory business
from their point of view. And, I may say, from mine."
"You and I have a principle in common.
We do not approve of murder."
Miss Ernlyn looked at him for a moment
or two. Her expression did not change, but
Poirot had an idea that he was being sized
up with a great deal of care.
"I like the way you put it," she said.
135
"From what you read and hear nowadays,
it seems that murder under certain aspects
is slowly but surely being made acceptable
to a large section of the community."
She was silent for a few minutes, and
Poirot also did not speak. She was, he
thought, considering a plan of action.
She rose and touched a bell.
"I think," she said, "that you had better
talk to Miss Whittaker."
Some five minutes passed after Miss
Ernlyn had left the room and then the door
opened and a woman of about forty
entered. She had russet-coloured hair, cut
short, and came in with a brisk step.
"Monsieur Poirot?" she said. "Can I
help you? Miss Ernlyn seems to think that
that might be so."
"If Miss Ernlyn thinks so, then it is
almost a certainty that you can. I would
take her word for it."
"You know her?"
"I have only met her this afternoon."
"But you have made up your mind
quickly about her."
"I hope you are going to tell me that I
am right."
136
Elizabeth Whittaker gave a short, quick
sigh.
"Oh yes, you're right. I presume that
this is about the death of Joyce Reynolds.
I don't know exactly how you come into it.
Through the police?" She shook her head
slightly in a dissatisfied manner.
"No, not through the police. Privately,
through a friend."
S
he took a chair, pushing it back a little
so as to face him.
"Yes. What do you want to know?"
"I don't think there is any need to tell
you. No need to waste time asking questions
that may be of no importance. Something
happened that evening at the party
which perhaps it is well that I should know
about. Is that it?"
"Yes."
"You were at the party?"
"I was at the party." She reflected a
minute or two. "It was a very good party.
Well run. Well arranged. About thirty-odd
people were there, that is, counting
helpers of different kinds. Children--teenagers--grownups--and
a few cleaning
and domestic helpers in the background."
"Did you take part in the arrangements
HP10
137
which were made, I believe, earlier that
afternoon or that morning?"
"There was nothing really to do. Mrs.
Drake was fully competent to deal with
all the various preparations with a small
number of people to help her. It was more
domestic preparations that were needed."
"I see. But you came to the party as one
of the guests?"
"That is right."
"And what happened?"
"The progress of the party, I have no
doubt, you already know. You want to
know if there is anything I can tell you
that I specially noticed or that I thought
might have a certain significance? I don't
want to waste your time unduly, you
understand."
"I am sure you will not waste my time.
Yes, Miss Whittaker, tell me quite
simply."
"The various events happened in the
way already arranged for. The last event
was what was really more a Christmas
festivity or associated with Christmas, than
it would be with Hallowe'en. The Snapdragon,
a burning dish of raisins with
brandy poured over them, and those round
138
snatch at the raisins--there are squeals of
laughter and excitement. It became very
hot, though, in the room, with the burning
dish, and I left it and came out in the hall.
It was then, as I stood there, that I saw
Mrs. Drake coming out of the lavatory on
the first floor landing. She was carrying
a large vase of mixed autumn leaves and
flowers. She stood at the angle of the staircase, pausing for a moment before coming
downstairs. She was looking down over the
well of the staircase. Not in my direction.
She was looking towards the other end of
the hall where there is a door leading into
the library. It is set just across the hall
from the door into the dining-room. As I
say, she was looking that way and pausing
for a moment before coming downstairs.
She was shifting slightly the angle of the
vase as it was a rather awkward thing to
carry, and weighty if it was, as I
presumed, full of water. She was shifting
the position of it rather carefully so that
she could hold it to her with one arm, and
put out the other arm to the rail of the
staircase as she came round the slightly
shaped corner stairway. She stood there
for a moment or two, still not looking at
139
what she was carrying, but towards the
hall below. And suddenly she made a
sudden movement--a start I would
describe it as--yes, definitely something
had startled her. So much so that she relinquished
her hold of the vase and it fell, reversing itself as it did so so that the
water streamed over her and the vase itself
crashed down to the hall below, where it
broke in smithereens on the hall floor."
"I see," said Poirot. He paused a minute
or two, watching her. Her eyes, he
noticed, were shrewd and knowledgeable.
They were asking now his opinion of what
she was telling him. "What did you think
had happened to startle her?"
"On reflection, afterwards, I thought
she had seen something."
"You thought she had seen something,"
repeated Poirot, thoughtfully. "Such as?"
"The direction of her eyes, as I have
told you, was towards the door of the
library. It seems to me possible that she
may have seen that door open or the
handle turn, or indeed she might have seen
something slightly more than that. She
might have seen somebody who was
opening that door and preparing to come
140
out of it. She may have seen someone she
did not expect to see."
"Were you looking at the door
yourself?"
"No. I was looking in the opposite
direction up the stairs towards Mrs.
Drake."
"And you think definitely that she saw
something that startled her?"
"Yes. No more than that, perhaps. A
door opening. A person, just possibly an
unlikely person, emerging. Just sufficient
to make her relinquish her grasp on the
very heavy vase full of water and flowers,
so that she dropped it."
"Did you see anyone come out of that
door?"
"No. I was not looking that way. I do
not think anyone actually did come out
into the hall. Presumably whoever it was
drew back into the room."
"What did Mrs. Drake do next?"
vexation, came down the stairs and said to
me, "Look what I've done now! What a
mess!' She kicked some of the broken glass
away. I helped her sweep it in a broken
pile into a corner. It wasn't practicable to
141
clear it all up ai that moment. The children
were begiixning to come out of the
Snapdragon roor-n. I fetched a glass cloth
and mopped her up a bit, and shortly after
that the party came to an end."
"Mrs. Drake did not say anything about
having been startled or make any reference
as to what might have startled her?"
"No. Nothing- of the kind."
"But you think she was startled."
"Possibly, Monsieur Poirot, you think
that I am making a rather unnecessary fuss
about something of no importance
whatever?"
"No," said Poirot, "I do not think that
at all. I have only met Mrs. Drake once,"
he added thoughtfully? "when I went to
her house with my friend, Mrs. Oliver, to visit--as one might say, if one wishes
to be melodramatic--the scene of the
crime. It did not strike me during the brief
period I had for observation that Mrs.
Drake could be; a ^oman who is easily
startled. Do you. agr^e with my view?"
"Certainly. Ttiat is why I, myself, since
have wondered.^'
"You asked no special questions at the
time?"
142
"I had no earthly reason
to do so. If
your hostess has been unfortunate enough
to drop one of her best glass vases, and it
has smashed to smithereens, it is hardly
the part of a guest to say 'What on earth
made you do that?'; thereby accusing her
of a clumsiness which I can assure you is
not one of Mrs. Drake's characteristics."
"And after that, as you have said, the
party came to an end. The children and
their mothers or friends left, and Joyce
could not be found. We know now that
Joyce was behind the library door and that
Joyce was dead. So who could it have been
who was about to come out of the library
door, a little while earlier, shall we say,
and then hearing voices in the hall shut
the door again and made an exit later when
there were people milling about in the hall
making their farewells, putting on their
coats and all the rest of it? It was not until
after the body had been found, I presume,
Miss Whittaker, that you had time to
reflect on what you had seen?"
"That is so." Miss Whittaker rose to her
feet. "I'm afraid there's nothing else that
I can tell you. Even this may be a very
foolish little matter."
143
"But noticeable. Everything noticeable
is worth remembering. By the way, there
is one question I should like to ask you.
Two, as a matter of fact."
Elizabeth Whittaker sat down again.
"Go on," she said, "ask anything you
like."
"Can you remember exactly the order in
which the various events occurred at the
party?"
"I think so." Elizabeth Whittaker reflected
for a moment or two. "It started
with a broomstick competition. Decorated
broomsticks. There were three or four
different small prizes for that. Then there
was a kind of contest with balloons, punching them and batting them about. A
sort of mild horse-play to get the children
warmed up. There was a looking-glass
business where the girls went into a small
room and held a mirror where a boy's or
young man's face reflected in it."
"How was that managed?"
"Oh, very simply. The transom of the
door had been removed, and so different
faces looked through and were reflected in
the mirror a girl was holding."
144
"Did the girls know who it was they saw
reflected in the glass?"
"I presume some of them did and some