wonder--she gave no details--no names?"
"No. She went on boasting and shouting
a bit and being angry because most of the
other girls were laughing at her. The
mothers, I think, and the older people, were rather cross with her. But the girls
and the younger boys just laughed at her!
They said things like 'Go on, Joyce, when
was this? Why did you never tell us about
it?' And Joyce said, 'I'd forgotten all about
it, it was so long ago'."
"Aha! Did she say how long ago?"
"Tears ago,' she said. You know, in
rather a would-be grown-up way."
"'Why didn't you go and tell the police
then?' one of the girls said. Arm, I think, or Beatrice. Rather a smug, superior girl."
"Aha, and what did she say to that?"
"She said: 'Because I didn't know at the
time it was a murder.'"
"A very interesting remark," said
43
Poirot, sitting up rather straighter in his
chair.
"She'd got a bit mixed up by then, I
think," said Mrs. Oliver. "You know, trying to explain herself and getting angry
because they were all teasing her.
"They kept asking her why she hadn't
gone to the police, and she kept on saying 'Because I didn't know then that it was a
murder. It wasn't until afterwards that it
came to me quite suddenly that that was
what I had seen.'"
"But nobody showed any signs of
believing her--and you yourself did not
believe her--but when you came across
her dead you suddenly felt that she might
have been speaking the truth?"
"Yes, just that. I didn't know what I
ought to do, or what I could do. But then, later, I thought of you."
Poirot bowed his head gravely in acknowledgment.
He was silent for a moment
or two, then he said:
"I must pose to you a serious question, and reflect before you answer it. Do you
think that this girl had really seen a
murder? Or do you think that she merely believed that she had seen a murder?"
44
"The first, I think," said Mrs. Oliver.
"I didn't at the time. I just thought that
she was vaguely remembering something
she had once seen and was working it up
to make it sound important and exciting.
She became very vehement, saying, (I did see it, I tell you. I did see it happen."
"And so."
"And so I've come along to you," said
Mrs. Oliver, "because the only way her
death makes sense is that there really was
a murder and that she was witness to it."
"That would involve certain things. It
would involve that one of the people who
were at the party committed the murder, and that that same person must also have
been there earlier that day and have heard
what Joyce said."
"You don't think I'm just imagining
things, do you?" said Mrs. Oliver. "Do
you think that it is all just my very farfetched
imagination?"
"A girl was murdered," said Poirot. "Murdered by someone who had strength
enough to hold her head down in a bucket
of water. An ugly murder and a murder
that was committed with what we might Gall, no time to lose. Somebody was
II 45
threatened, and whoever it was struck as
soon as it was humanly possible."
"Joyce could not have known who it was
who did the murder she saw," said Mrs.
Oliver. "I mean she wouldn't have said
what she did if there was someone actually
in the room who was concerned."
"No," said Poirot, "I think you are
right there. She saw a murder, but she did
not see the murderer's face. We have to go
beyond that."
"I don't understand exactly what you
mean."
"It could be that someone who was I'll there earlier in the day and heard Joyce's
accusation knew about the murder, knew
who committed the murder, perhaps was
closely involved with that person. It may
have been that that someone thought he
was the only person who knew what his
wife had done, or his mother or his
daughter or his son. Or it might have been
a woman who knew what her husband or
mother or daughter or son had done.
Someone who thought that no-one else
knew. And then Joyce began talking ..."
"And so--"
"Joyce had to die?"
46
"Yes. What are you going to do?"
"I have just remembered," said Hercule
Poirot, "why the name of Woodleigh
Common was familiar to me."
47
5
HERCULE POIROT looked over
the small gate which gave admission
to Pine Crest. It was a modern, perky little house, nicely built.
Hercule Poirot was slightly out of breath.
The small, neat house in front of him was
very suitably named. It was on a hill top, and the hill top was planted with a few
sparse pines. It had a small neat garden
and a large elderly man was trundling
along a path a big tin galvanised waterer.
Superintendent Spence's hair was now
grey all over instead of having a neat touch
of grey hair at the temples. He had not
shrunk much in girth. He stopped trundling
his can and look at the visitor at the
gate. Hercule Poirot stood there without
moving.
"God bless my soul," said Superintendent
Spence. "It must be. It can't be
but it is. Yes, it must be. Hercule Poirot, as I live."
48
"Aha," said Hercule Poirot, "you know
me. That is gratifying."
"May your moustaches never grow
less," said Spence.
He abandoned the watering can and
came down to the gate.
"Diabolical weeds," he said. "And what
brings you down here?"
"What has brought me to many places
in my time," said Hercule Poirot, "and
what once a good many years ago brought
you to see me. Murder."
"I've done with murder," said Spence,
"except in the case of weeds. That's what
I'm doing now. Applying weed killer.
Never so easy as you think, something's
always wrong, usually the weather.
Mustn't be too wet, mustn't be too dry
and all the rest of it. How did you know
where to find me?" he asked as he
unlatched the gate and Poirot passed
through.
"You sent me a Christmas card. It had
your new address notified on it."
"Ah yes, so I did. I'm old-fashioned,
you know. I like to send round cards at
Christmas time to a few old friends."
"I appreciate that," said Poirot.
49
Spence said, "I'm an old man now."
"We are both old men."
"Not much grey in your hair," said
Spence.
"I attend to that with a bottle," said
Hercule Poirot. "There is no need to
appear in public with grey hair unless you
wish to do so."
"Well, I don't think jet black would suit
me," said Spence.
"I agree," said Poirot. "You look most
distinguished with grey hair."
"I should never think of myself as a
distinguished man."
"I think of you as such. Why have you
come to live in Woodleigh Common?"
"As a matter of fact, I came here to join
forces with a sister of mine. She lost her
husband, her children are married and
living abroad, one in Australia and the
other in South Africa. So I moved in here.
Pensions don't go far nowadays, but we do
pretty comfortably living together. Come
and sit down."
He led the way on to the small glazed-in
verandah where there were chairs and a
table or two. The autumn sun fell
pleasantly upon this retreat.
50
"What shall I get you?" said Spence.
"No fancy stuff here, I'm afraid. No black
currant or rose hip syrup or any of your
patent things. Beer? Or shall I get Elspeth
to make you a cup of tea? Or I can do you
a shandy or Coca-Cola or some cocoa if
you like it. My sister, Elspeth, is a cocoa
drinker."
"You are very kind. For me, I think a
shandy. The ginger beer and the beer?
That is right, is it not?"
"Absolutely so."
He went into the house and returned
shortly afterwards carrying two large glass
mugs. "I'm joining you," he said.
He drew a chair up to the table and sat
down, placing the two glasses in front of
himself and Poirot.
"What was it you said just now?" he
said, raising his glass. "We won't say
'Here's to crime.' I've done with crime,
and if you mean the crime I think you do,
in fact which I think you have to do,
because I don't recall any other crime just
lately, I don't like the particular form of
murder we've just had."
"No, I do not think you would do so."
51
"We are talking about the child who
had her head shoved into a bucket?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "that is what I am
talking about."
"I don't know why you come to me,"
said Spence. "I'm nothing to do with the
police nowadays. All that's over many
years ago."
"Once a policeman," said Hercule
Poirot, "always a policeman. That is to
say, there is always the point of view of
the policeman behind the point of view of
the ordinary man. I know, I who talk to
you. I, too, started in the police force in
my country."
"Yes, so you did. I remember now your
telling me. Well, I suppose one's outlook
is a bit slanted, but it's a long time since
I've had any active connection."
"But you hear the gossip," said Poirot.
"You have friends of your own trade. You
will hear what they think or suspect or
what they know."
Spence sighed.
"One knows too much," he said, "that
is one of the troubles nowadays. There is
a crime, a crime of which the pattern is
familiar, and you know, that is to say the
52
active police officers know, pretty well
who's probably done that crime. They
don't tell the newspapers but they make
their inquiries, and they know. But
whether they're going to get any further
than that—well, things have their
difficulties."
"You mean the wives and the girl
friends and the rest of it?"
"Partly that, yes. In the end, perhaps,
one gets one's man. Sometimes a year or
two passes. I'd say, you know, roughly,
Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry
wrong 'uns than they ever used to in my
time."
Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his
moustaches.
"Yes," he said, "I can see that that
might be so. I suspect that girls have
always been partial to the bad lots, as you
say, but in the past there were
safeguards."
"That's right. People were looking after
them. Their mothers looked after them.
Their aunts and their older sisters looked
after them. Their younger sisters and
brothers knew what was going on. Their
fathers were not averse to kicking the
53
wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes, of course, the girls used to run away
with one of the bad lots. Nowadays there's
no need even to do that. Mother doesn't
know who the girl's out with, father's not
told who the girl is out with, brothers
know who the girl is out with but they
think "more fool her'. If the parents refuse
consent, the couple go before a magistrate
and manage to get permission to marry, and then when the young man who
everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds to
prove to everybody, including his wife, that he is a bad lot, the fat's in the fire!
But love's love; the girl doesn't want to
think that her Henry has these revolting
habits, these criminal tendencies, and all
the rest of it. She'll lie for him, swear
black's white for him and everything else.
Yes, it's difficult. Difficult for us, I mean.
Well, there's no good going on saying
things were better in the old days. Perhaps
did you get yourself mixed up in all this?
This isn't your part of the country, is it?
Always thought you lived in London. You
used to when I knew you."
"I still live in London. I involved myself
54
here at the request of a friend, Mrs.
Oliver. You remember Mrs. Oliver?"
Spence raised his head, closed his eyes
and apeared to reflect.
"Mrs. Oliver? Can't say that I do."
"She writes books. Detective stories.
You met her, if you will throw your mind
back, during the time that you persuaded
me to investigate the murder of Mrs.
McGinty. You will not have forgotten
Mrs. McGinty?"
"Good lord, no. But it was a long time
ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot,
a very good turn. I went to you for help
and you didn't let me down."
"I was honoured—flattered—that you
should come to consult me," said Poirot.
"I must say that I despaired once or twice.
The man we had to save—to save his neck
in those days I believe, it is long ago
enough for that—was a man who was
excessively difficult to do anything for.
The kind of standard example of how not
to do anything useful for himself."
"Married that girl, didn't he? The wet
one. Not the bright one with the peroxide
hair. Wonder how they got on together.
Have you ever heard about it?"
55
"No," said Poirot
. "I presume all goes
well with them."
"Can't see what she saw in him."
"It is difficult," said Poirot, "but it is
one of the great consolations in nature that
a man, however unattractive, will find that
he is attractive--even what appears to be
madly attractive--to some woman. One
can only say or hope that they married and
lived happily ever afterwards."
"Shouldn't think they lived happily ever
afterwards if they had to have Mother to
live with them."
"No, indeed," said Poirot. "Or Stepfather,"
he added.
"Well," said Spence, "here we are
talking of old days again. All that's over.
I always thought that man, can't
remember his name now, ought to have
run an undertaking parlour. Had just the
face and manner for it. Perhaps he did.
The girl had some money, didn't she? Yes, he'd have made a very good undertaker. I
can see him, all in black, calling for orders
for the funeral. Perhaps he can even have
been enthusiastic over the right kind of
elm or teak or whatever they use for
coffins. But he'd never have made good
56
selling insurance or real estate. Anyway, don't let's harp back." Then he said
suddenly, "Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Apples. Is that how she's got herself mixed
up in this? That poor child got her head
shoved under water in a bucket of floating
apples, didn't she, at a party? Is that what
interested Mrs. Oliver?"
"I don't think she was particularly
attracted because of the apples," said
Poirot, "but she was at the party."
"Do you say she lived here?"
"No, she does not live here. She was
staying with a friend, a Mrs. Butler."
"Butler? Yes, I know her. Lives down
not far from the church. Widow. Husband
was an airline pilot. Has a daughter.
Rather nice-looking girl. Pretty manners.
Mrs. Butler's rather an attractive woman, don't you think so?"
"I have as yet barely met her, but, yes, I thought she was very attractive."
"And how does this concern you, Poirot? You weren't here when it
happened?"
"No. Mrs. Oliver came to me in
London. She was upset, very upset. She
wanted me to do something."
HP5
57
A faint smile showed on Superintendent
Spence's face.
"I see. Same old story. I came up to
you, too, because I wanted you to do