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--"
362
"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.
363
"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.
364
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 up 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
slowly rising. Nicholas Ransom caught
365
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."
"Oh!" Miranda gave a sudden cry of
anguish. "Not in the wishing well? Not in
the wishing well that I wanted to find so
badly? Oh, I don't want her to be in the
wishing well. Who—who put her there?"
"The same person who brought you
here."
366
26
O
NCE again four men sat looking
at Poirot. Timothy Raglan, Superintendent
Spence and the Chief
Constable had the pleased expectant look
of a cat who is counting on a saucer of
cream to materialise at any moment. The
fourth man still had the expression of one
who suspends belief.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot," said the Chief
Constable, taking charge of the proceedings
and leaving the DPP man to hold a
watching brief. "We're all here--"
Poirot made a motion with his hand.
Inspector Raglan left the room and
returned ushering in a woman of thirty
odd, a girl, and two adolescent young
men.
He introduced them to the Chief
Constable. "Mrs. Butler, Miss Miranda
Butler, Mr. Nicholas Ransom and Mr.
Desmond Holland."
Poirot got up and took Miranda's hand.
Sit here by your mother, Miranda-- Mr.
<(
367
Richmond here who is what is called a
Chief Constable, wants to ask you some
questions. He wants you to answer them.
It concerns something you saw--over a
year ago now, nearer two years. You
mention this to one person, and, so I
understand, to one person only. Is that
correct?"
"I told Joyce."
"And what exactly did you tell Joyce?"
"That I'd seen a murder."
"Did you tell anyone else?"
"No. But I think Leopold guessed. He
listens, you know. At doors. That sort of
thing. He likes knowing people's secrets."
"You have heard that Joyce Reynolds, on the afternoon before the Hallowe'en
party, claimed that she herself had seen a
murder committed. Was that true?"
"No. She was just repeating what I'd
told her--but pretending that it had
happened to her."
"Will you tell us now just what you did
see."
"I didn't know at first that it was a
murder. I thought there had been an accident.
I thought she'd fallen from up above
somewhere."
368
"Where was this?"
"In the Quarry Garden—in the hollow
where the fountain used to be. I was up
in the branches of a tree. I'd been looking
at a squirrel and one has to keep very
quiet, or they rush away. Squirrels are
very quick."
"Tell us what you saw."
"A man and a woman lifted her up and
were carrying her up the path. I thought
they were taking her to a hospital or to the
Quarry House. Then the woman stopped
suddenly and said, 'Someone is watching
us,' and stared at my tree. Somehow it
made me feel frightened. I kept very still.
The man said 'Nonsense,' and they went
on. I saw there was blood on a scarf and
there was a knife with blood on that—and
I thought perhaps someone had tried to
kill themselves—and I went on keeping
very still."
"Because you were frightened?"
"Yes, but I don't know why."
"You didn't tell your mother?"
"No. I thought perhaps I oughtn't to
have been there watching. And then the
next day nobody said anything about an
369
accident, so I forgot about it. I never
thought about it again until--"
She stopped suddenly. The Chief
Constable opened his mouth--then shut it.
He looked at Poirot and made a very slight
gesture.
"Yes, Miranda," said Poirot, "until
what?"
"It was as though it was happening all
over again. It was a green woodpecker this
time, and I was being very still, watching
it from behind some bushes. And those
two were sitting there talking--about an
island--a Greek island. She said something
like, 'It's all signed up. It's ours, we
can go to it whenever we like. But we'd
better go slow still--not rush things.' And
then the woodpecker flew away, and I
moved. And she said-- 'Hush--be quiet
--somebody's watching us.' It was just the
way she'd said it before, and she had just
the same look on her face, and I was
frightened again, and I remembered. And
this time I knew. I knew it had been a
murder I had seen and it had been a dead
body they were carrying away to hide
somewhere. You see, I wasn't a child any
more. I knew--things and what they must
370
mean—the blood and the knife and the
dead body all limp—"
"When was this?" asked the Chief
Constable. "How long ago?"
Miranda thought for a moment.
"Last March—just after Easter."
"Can you say definitely who these
people were, Miranda?"
"Of course I can." Miranda looked
bewildered.
"You saw their faces?"
"Of course."
"Who were they?"
"Mrs. Drake and Michael ..."
It was not a dramatic denunciation. Her
voice was quiet, with something in it like
wonder, but it carried conviction.
The Chief Constable said, "You did not
tell anyone. Why not?"
"I thought—I thought it might have
been a sacrifice."
"Who told you that?"
"Michael told me—He said sacrifices
were necessary."
Poirot said gently, "You loved
Michael?"
"Oh yes," said Miranda, "I loved him
very much."
371
I
27
"1LTOW I've got you here at last,"
|^U said Mrs. Oliver, "I want to
-L ^1 know all about everything."
She looked at Poirot with determination
and asked severely:
"Why haven't you come sooner?"
"My excuses, Madame, I have been
much occupied assisting the police with
their inquiries."
"It's criminals who do that. What on
earth made you think of Rowena Drake
being mixed up in a murder? Nobody else
would have dreamed of it?"
"It was simple as soon as I got the vital
clue."
"What do you call the vital clue?"
"Water. I wanted someone who was at
the party and who was wet, and who
shouldn't have been wet. Whoever killed
Joyce Reynolds would necessarily have got
wet. You hold down a vigorous child with
its head in a full bucket of water, and there
will be struggling and splashing and you
372
are bound to be wet. So something has got
to happen to provide an innocent explanation
of how you got wet. When everyone
crowded into the dining-room for the
Snapdragon, Mrs. Drake took Joyce with
her to the library. If your hostess asks you
to come with her, naturally you go. And certainly Joyce had no suspicion of Mrs.
Drake. All Miranda had told her was that
she had once seen a murder committed.
And so Joyce was killed and her murderer
was fairly well soaked with water. There
must be a reason for that and she set about
creating a reason. She had to get a witness
as to how she got wet. She waited on the
landing with an enormous vase of flowers
filled with water. In due course Miss Whittaker
came out from the Snapdragon room
--it was hot in there. Mrs. Drake pretended
to start nervously, and let the vase
go, taking care that it flooded her person
as it crashed down to the hall below. She
ran down the stairs and she and Miss
Whittaker picked up the pieces and the
flowers while Mrs. Drake complained at
the loss of her beautiful vase. She managed
to give Miss Whittaker the impression that
she had seen something or someone
373
coming out of the room where a murder
had been committed. Miss Whittaker took
the statement at its face value, but when
she mentioned it to Miss Ernlyn, Miss
Ernlyn realised the really interesting thing
about it. And so she urged Miss Whittaker
to tell me the story.
"And so," said Poirot, twirling his
moustaches, "I, too, knew who the
murderer of Joyce was."
"And all the time Joyce had never seen
any murder committed at all!"
"Mrs. Drake did not know that. But
she
had always suspected that someone had
been there in the Quarry Wood when she
and Michael Garfield had killed Olga
Seminoff, and might have seen it happen."
"When did you know it had been
Miranda and not Joyce?"
"As soon as common sense forced me to
accept the universal verdict that Joyce was
a liar. Then Miranda was clearly indicated.
She was frequently in the Quarry Wood,
observing birds and squirrels. Joyce was,
as Miranda told me, her best friend. She
said: 'We tell each other everything.'
Miranda was not at the party, so the
compulsive liar Joyce could use the story
374
her friend her told her of having once seen
a murder committed--probably in order
to impress you, Madame, the well-known
crime writer."
"That's right, blame it all on me."
"No, no."
"Rowena Drake," mused Mrs. Oliver. <<I still can't believe it of her."
"She had all the qualities necessary.
I have always wondered," he added,
"exactly what sort of a woman Lady
MacBeth was. What would she be like if
you met her in real life? Well, I think I have met her."
"And Michael Garfield? They seem such
an unlikely pair."
"Interesting--Lady Macbeth and
Narcissus, an unusual combination."
"Lady Macbeth," Mrs. Oliver murmured
thoughtfully.
"She was a handsome woman--efficient
and competent--a born administrator--an
unexpectedly good actress. You should
have heard her lamenting over the death
of the little boy Leopold and weeping large
sobs into a dry handkerchief."
"Disgusting."
"You remember I asked you who, in
375
your opinion, were or were not nice
people."
"Was Michael Garfield in love with
her?"
"I doubt if Michael Garfield has ever
loved anyone but himself. He wanted
money--a lot of money. Perhaps he
believed at first he could influence Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe to dote upon him to the
extent of making a Will in his favour--but
Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was not that kind
of woman."
"What about the forgery? I still don't
understand that. What was the point of it
all?"
"It was confusing at first. Too much
forgery, one might say. But if one considered
it, the purpose of it was clear.
You had only to consider what actually
happened.
"Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe's fortune all