Spence is making an appointment for me
to talk with the local inspector at a suitable
hour. I should also like a talk with the
doctor here. And possibly the headmistress
at the school. At six o'clock I
drink tea and eat sausages with my friend
Spence and his sister again in their house
and we discuss."
"What more do you think he'll be able
to tell you?"
"I want to meet his sister. She has lived
here longer than he has. He came here to
join her when her husband died. She will
72
know, perhaps, the people here fairly
well."
"Do you know what you sound like?"
said Mrs. Oliver. "A computer. You
know. You're programming yourself.
That's what they call it, isn't it? I mean
you're feeding all these things into yourself
all day and then you're going to see what
comes out."
"It is certainly an idea you have there,"
said Poirot, with some interest. "Yes, yes,
I play the part of the computer. One feeds
in the information—"
"And supposing you come up with all
the wrong answers?" said Mrs. Oliver.
"That would be impossible," said
Hercule Poirot. "Computers do not do
that sort of a thing."
"They're not supposed to," said Mrs.
Oliver, "but you'd be surprised at the
things that happen sometimes. My last
electric light bill, for instance. I know
there's a proverb which says To err is
human,' but a human error is nothing to
what a computer can do if it tries. Come
on in and meet Mrs. Drake."
Mrs. Drake was certainly something,
Poirot thought. She was a tall, handsome
HP6 73
woman of forty-odd, her golden hair was
lightly tinged with grey, her eyes were
brilliantly blue, she oozed competence
from the fingertips downwards. Any party
she had arranged would have been a
successful one. In the drawing-room a tray
of morning coffee with two sugared biscuits
was awaiting them.
Apple Trees, he saw, was a most admirably
kept house. It was well furnished, it
had carpets of excellent quality, everything
was scrupulously polished and cleaned,
and the fact that it had hardly any
outstanding object of interest in it was not
readily noticeable. One would not have
expected it. The colours of the curtains
and the covers were pleasant but conventional.
It could have been let furnished at
any moment for a high rent to a desirable
tenant, without having to put away any
treasures or make any alterations to the
arrangement of the furniture.
Mrs. Drake greeted Mrs. Oliver and
Poirot and concealed almost entirely what
Poirot could not help suspecting was a
feeling of vigorously suppressed annoyance
at the position in which she found herself
as the hostess at a social occasion at which
74
something as anti-social as murder had
occurred. As a prominent member of the
community of Woodleigh Common, he
suspected that she felt an unhappy sense
of having herself in some way proved
inadequate. What had occurred should not have occurred. To someone else in
someone else's house--yes. But at a party
for children, arranged by her, given by
her, organised by her, nothing like this
ought to have happened. Somehow or
other she ought to have seen to it that it
did not happen. And Poirot also had a
suspicion that she was seeking round irritably
in the back of her mind for a reason.
Not so much a reason for murder having
taken place, but to find out and pin down
some inadequacy on the part of someone
who had been helping her and who had
by some mismanagement or some lack of
perception failed to realise that something
like this could happen.
"Monsieur Poirot," said Mrs. Drake, in
her fine speaking voice, which Poirot thought would come over excellently in a
small lecture room or the village hall, "I am so pleased you could come down here.
Mrs. Oliver has been telling me how
75
invaluable your help will be to us in this
"Rest assured, Madame, I shall do what
I can, but as you no doubt realise from
your experience of life, it is going to be a
difficult business."
"Difficult?" said Mrs. Drake. "Of
course it's going to be difficult. It seems
incredible, absolutely incredible, that such
an awful thing should have happened. I
suppose," she added, "the police may
know something? Inspector Raglan has a
very good reputation locally, I believe.
Whether or not they ought to call Scotland
Yard in, I don't know. The idea seems to
be that this poor child's death must have
had a local significance. I needn't tell you,
Monsieur Poirot—after all, you read the
papers as much as I do—that there have
been very many sad fatalities with children
all over the countryside. They seem to be
getting more and more frequent. Mental
instability seems to be on the increase,
though I must say that mothers and
families generally are not looking after
their children properly, as they used to do.
Children are sent home from school alone,
on dark evenings, go alone on dark early
76
mornings. And children, however much
you warn them, are unfortunately very
foolish when it comes to being offered a
lift in a smart-looking car. They believe
what they're told. I suppose one cannot
help that."
"But what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely different nature."
"Oh, I know--I know. That is why I
used the term incredible. I still cannot
quite believe it," said Mrs. Drake.
"Everything was entirely under control.
All the arrangements were made. Everything
was going perfectly, all according to
plan. It just seems--seems incredible.
Personally I consider myself that there must be what I call an outside significance
to this. Someone walked into the house--
not a difficult thing to do under the
circumstances--someone of highly disturbed
mentality, I suppose, the kind of
people who are let out of mental homes
simply because there is no room for them Acre, as far as I can see. Nowadays, room
has to be made for fresh patients all the
tune. Anyone peeping in through a
window could see a children's party was
going on, and this poor wretch--if one can
77
really feel pity for these people, which I
really must say I find it very hard to do
myself sometimes--enticed this child away
somehow and killed her. You can't
think
such a thing could happen, but it did happen."
"Perhaps you would show me where--"
"Of course. No more coffee?"
"I thank you, no."
Mrs. Drake got up. "The police seem
to think it took place while the Snapdragon
was going on. That was taking place in the
dining-room."
She walked across the hall, opened the
door and, rather in the manner of someone
doing the honours of a stately home to a
party of charabanc goers, indicated the
large dining-table and the heavy velvet
curtains.
"It was dark here, of course, except for
the blazing dish. And now--"
She led them across the hall and opened
the door of a small room with armchairs, sporting prints and bookshelves.
"The library," said Mrs. Drake, and
shivered a little. "The bucket was here. On a plastic sheet, of course--"
Mrs. Oliver had not accompanied them
78
into the room. She was standing outside in
the hall—
"I can't come in," she said to Poirot.
"It makes me think of it too much."
"There's nothing to see now," said Mrs.
Drake. "I mean, I'm just showing you
where, as you asked."
"I suppose," said Poirot, "there was
water—a good deal of water."
"There was water in the bucket, of
course," said Mrs. Drake.
She looked at Poirot as though she
thought that he was not quite all there.
"And there was water on the sheet. I
mean, if the child's head was pushed under
water, there would be a lot of water
splashed about."
"Oh yes. Even while the bobbing was
once or twice."
"So the person who did it? That person
also would have got wet, one would
think."
"Yes, yes, I suppose so."
"That was not specially noticed?"
"No, no, the Inspector asked me about
Aat. You see, by the end of the evening
nearly everyone was a bit dishevelled or
79
damp or floury. Ther^ doesn't seem to be
any useful clues there at all. I mean, the
police didn't think so,"
"No," said Poirot. "i suppose the only
clue was the child herself. I hope you will
tell me all you know about her."
"About Joyce?"
Mrs. Drake looked slightly taken aback.
It was as though Joyc^ in her mind had by
now retreated so far Out of things that she
was quite surprised to be reminded of her.
"The victim is always important," said
Poirot. "The victim, you see, is so often
the cause of the crim^."
"Well, I suppose, yes, I see what you
mean," said Mrs. Drake, who quite
plainly did not. "Sh^n we come back to
the drawing-room?"
"And then you w^ll tell me all about
Joyce," said Poirot.
They settled themselves once more in
the drawing-room.
Mrs. Drake was locking uncomfortable.
"I don't know really what you expect
me to say. Monsieur Poirot," she said.
"Surely all information can be obtained
quite easily from the police or from Joyce's
80
mother. Poor woman, it will be painful for
her, no doubt, but—"
"But what I want," said Poirot, "is not
a mother's estimate of a dead daughter. It
is a clear, unbiased opinion from someone
who has a good knowledge of human
nature. I should say, Madame, that you
yourself have been an active worker in
many welfare and social fields here.
Nobody, I am sure, could sum up more
aptly the character and disposition of
someone whom you know."
"Well—it is a little difficult. I mean,
children of that age—she was thirteen, I
think, twelve or thirteen—are very much
alike at a certain age."
"Ah no, surely not," said Poirot.
"There are very great differences in
character, in disposition. Did you like
her?"
Mrs. Drake seemed to find the question
embarrassing.
"Well of course I—I liked her. I mean,
well, I like all children. Most people do."
"Ah, there I do not agree with you,"
8aid Poirot. "Some children I consider are
^osr unattractive."
"Well, I agree, they're not brought up
. . 81
very well nowadays. Everything seems left
to the school, and of course they lead very
permissive lives. Have their own choice
of friends and--er--oh, really. Monsieur
Poirot."
"Was she a nice child or not a nice
child?" said Poirot insistently.
Mrs. Drake looked at him and registered
censure.
"You must realise. Monsieur Poirot, that the poor child is dead"
"Dead or alive, it matters. Perhaps if
she was a nice child, nobody would have
wanted to kill her, but if she was not a
nice child, somebody might have wanted
to kill her, and did so--"
"Well, I suppose-- Surely it isn't a
question of niceness, is it?"
"It could be. I also understand that
she claimed to have seen a murder
committed."
"Oh that," said Mrs. Drake
contemptuously.
"You did not take that statement
seriously?"
"Well, of course I didn't. It was a very
silly thing to say."
"How did she come to say it?"
82
"Well, I think really they were all rather
excited about Mrs. Oliver being here. You
are a very famous person, you must
remember, dear," said Mrs. Drake,
addressing Mrs. Oliver.
The word "dear" seemed included in
her speech without any acompanying
enthusiasm.
"I don't suppose the subject would ever
have arisen otherwise, but the children
were excited by meeting a famous
authoress—"
"So Joyce said that she had seen a
murder committed," said Poirot
thoughtfully.
"Yes, she said something of the kind. I
wasn't really listening."
"But you do remember that she said it?"
"Oh yes, she said it. But I didn't believe
it," said Mrs. Drake. "Her sister hushed
her up at once, very properly."
"And she was annoyed about that, was
she?"
"Yes, she went on saying that it was
true."
"In fact, she boasted about it."
"When you put it that way, yes."
83
"It might have been tme, I suppose,"
said Poirot.
"Nonsense! I don't believe it for one
minute," said Mrs. Drake. "It's the sort
of stupid thing Joyce would say."
"She was a stupid girl?"
"Well, she was the kind, I think, who
liked to show off," said Mrs. Drake. "You
know, she always wanted
to have seen
more or done more than other girls."
"Not a very lovable character," said
Poirot.
"No indeed," said Mrs. Drake. "Really
the kind that you have to be shutting up
all the time."
"What did the other children who were
there have to say about it? Were they
impressed?"
"They laughed at her," said Mrs.
Drake. "So, of course, that made her
worse."
"Well," said Poirot, as he rose, "I am
glad to have your positive assurance on
that point." He bowed politely over her
hand. "Good-bye, Madame, thank you so
much for allowing me to view the scene of
this very unpleasant occurrence. I hope it
84
has not recalled unpleasant memories too
definitely to you."
"Of course," said Mrs. Drake, "it is very painful to recall anything of this kind.
I had so hoped our little party would go
off well. Indeed, it was going off well and
everyone seemed to be enjoying it so much
till this terrible thing happened. However, the only thing one can do is to try and
forget it all. Of course, it's very unfortunate
that Joyce should have made this silly
remark abot seeing a murder."
"Have you ever had a murder in Woodleigh
Common?"
"Not that I can remember," said Mrs.
Drake firmly.
"In this age of increased crime that we
live in," said Poirot, "that really seems
somewhat unusual, does it not?"
"Well, I think there was a lorry driver
who killed a pal of his--something like
that--and a little girl whom they found
buried in a gravel pit about fifteen miles
/ '-' A ^^
from here, but that was years ago. They
were both rather sordid and uninteresting
crimes. Mainly the result of drink, I
think."
"In fact, the kind of murder unlikely to
85
have been witnessed by a girl of twelve or
thirteen."
"Most unlikely, I should say. And I can
assure you. Monsieur Poirot, this statement
that the girl made was solely in order
to impress friends and perhaps interest a
famous character." She looked rather
coldly across at Mrs. Oliver.
"In fact," said Mrs. Oliver, "it's all my
fault for being at the party, I suppose."
"Oh, of course not, my dear, of course
I didn't mean it that way."
Poirot sighed as he departed from the
house with Mrs. Oliver by his side.
"A very unsuitable place for a murder,"