every time. There were more tigers, if you
know what I mean. Far more tigers than
could possibly happen. And elephants,
too, for that matter. I'd known her before, too, telling tall stories."
"Always to get attention?"
"Aye, you're right there. She was a
great one for getting attention."
"Because a child told a tall story about
a travel trip she never took," said Superintendent
Spence, "you can't say that every
tall tale she told was a lie."
"It might not be," said Elspeth, "but
I'd say the likelihood was that it usually
would be."
"So you think that if Joyce Reynolds
came out with a tale that she'd seen a
murder committed, you'd say she was
102
probably lying and you wouldn't believe
the story was true?"
"That's what I'd think," said Mrs.
McKay.
"You might be wrong," said her
brother.
"Yes," said Mrs. McKay. "Anyone may
be wrong. It's like the old story of the boy
who cried 'Wolf, wolf,' and he cried it
once too often, when it was a real wolf,
and nobody believed him, and so the wolf
got him."
"So you'd sum it up—"
"I'd still say the probabilities are that
she wasn't speaking the truth. But I'm a
fair woman. She may have been. She may
have seen something. Not quite so much
as she said she saw, but something."
"And so she got herself killed," said
Superintendent Spence. "You've got to
mind that, Elspeth. She got herself
killed."
"That's true enough," said Mrs.
McKay. "And that's why I'm saying
maybe I've misjudged her. And if so, I'm
sorry. But ask anyone who knew her and
they'll tell you that lies came natural to
her. It was a party she was at, remember,
103
and she was excited. She'd want to make
an effect."
"Indeed, they didn't believe her," said
Poirot.
Elspeth McKay shook her head
doubtfully.
"Who could she have seen murdered?4'
asked Poirot.
He looked from brother to sister.
"Nobody," said Mrs. McKay with
decision.
"There must have been deaths here,
say, over the last three years."
"Oh that, naturally," said Spence. "Just
the usual—old folks or invalids or what
you'd expect—or maybe a hit-and-run
motorist—"
"No unusual or unexpected deaths?"
"Well—" Elspeth hesitated. "I
mean—"
Spence took over.
"I've jotted a few names down here."
He pushed the paper over to Poirot. "Save
you a bit of trouble, asking questions
around."
"Are these suggested victims?"
"Hardly as much as that. Say within the
range of possibility."
104
Poirot read aloud.
"Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe. Charlotte
Benfield. Janet White. Lesley Ferrier--"
He broke off, looked across the table
and repeated the first name. Mrs.
LlewellynSmythe.
"Could be," said Mrs. McKay. "Yes,
you might have something there." She
added a word that sounded like "opera".
"Opera?" Poirot looked puzzled. He
had heard of no opera.
"Went off one night, she did," said
Elspeth, "was never heard of again."
"Mrs. LlewellynSmythe?"
"No, no. The opera girl. She could have
put something in the medicine easily
enough. And she came into all the money, didn't she--or so she thought at the
time?"
Poirot looked at Spence for
enlightenment.
"And never been heard of since," said
Mrs. McKay. "These foreign girls are all
the same."
The significance of the word "opera"
came to Poirot.
"An au pair girl," he said.
"That's right. Lived with the old lady,
105
and a week or two after the old lady died, the au pair girl just disappeared."
"Went off with some man, I'd say," said
Spence.
"Well, nobody knew of him if so," said
Elspeth. "And there's usually plenty of
talk about here. Usually know just who's
going with who."
"Did anybody think there had been
anything wrong about Mrs. LlewellynSmythe's
death?" asked Poirot.
"No. She'd got heart trouble. Doctor
attended her regularly."
"But you headed your list of possible
victims with her, my friend?"
"Well, she was a rich woman, a very
rich woman. Her death was not unexpected
but it was sudden. I'd say offhand
that Dr. Ferguson was surprised, even if
only slightly surprised. I think he expected
her to live longer. But doctors do have
these surprises. She wasn't one to do as
the doctor ordered. She'd been told not to
overdo things, but she did exactly as she
liked. For one thing, she was a passionate
gardener, and that doesn't do heart cases
any good."
Elspeth McKay took up the tale.
106
"She came here when her health failed.
She was living abroad before. She came
here to be near her nephew and niece, Mr.
and Mrs. Drake, and she bought the
Quarry House. A big Victorian house
which included a disused quarry which
attracted her as having possibilities. She
spent thousands of pounds on turning that
quarry into a sunk garden or whatever
they call the thing. Had a landscape
gardener down from Wisley or one of these
places to design it. Oh, I can tell you, it's
something to look at."
"I shall go and look at it," said Poirot.
"Who knows—it might give me ideas."
"Yes, I would go if I were you. It's well
worth seeing."
"And she was rich, you say?" said
Poirot.
"Widow of a big shipbuilder. She had
packets of money."
"Her death was not unexpected because
she had a heart condition, but it was
sudden," said Spence. "No doubts arose
that it was due to anything but natural
causes. Cardiac failure, or whatever the
longer name is that doctors use. Coronary
something."
107
"No question of an inquest ever arose?"
Spence shook his head.
"It has happened before," said Poirot.
"An elderly woman told to be careful, not
to run up and down stairs, not to do any
intensive gardening, and so on and so on.
But if you get an energetic woman who's
been an enthusiastic gardener all her life
and done as she liked in most ways, then
she doesn't always treat these recommendations
with due respect."
"That's true enough. Mrs. LlewellynSmythe
made a wo
nderful thing of the
quarry--or rather, the landscape artist
did. Three or four years they worked at
it, he and his employer. She'd seen some
garden, in Ireland I think it was, when
she went on a National Trust tour visiting
gardens. With that in her mind, they fairly
transformed the place. Oh yes, it has to be
seen to be believed."
"Here is a natural death, then," said
Poirot, "certified as such by the local
doctor. Is that the same doctor who is here
now? And whom I am shortly going to
see?"
"Dr. Ferguson--yes. He's a man of
108
about sixty, good at his job and well liked
here."
"But you suspect that her death might
have been murder? For any other reasons
than those that you've already given me?"
"The opera girl, for one thing," said
Elspeth.
"Why?"
"Well, she must have forged the Will.
Who forged the Will if she didn't?"
"You must have more to tell me," said
Poirot. "What is all this about a forged
Will?"
"Well, there was a bit of fuss when it
came to probating, or whatever you call it,
the old lady's Will."
"Was it a new Will?"
"It was what they call—something that
sounds like fish—a codi-a codicil."
Elspeth looked at Poirot, who nodded.
"She'd made Wills before," said
Spence. "All much the same. Bequests to
charities, legacies to old servants, but the
bulk of her fortune always went to her
nephew and his wife, who were her near
relatives."
"And this particular codicil?"
"Left everything to the opera girl," said
109
Elspeth, "because of her devoted care and
kindness. Something like that."
'Tell me, then, more about the au pair girl."
"She came from some country in the
middle of Europe. Some long name."
"How long had she been with the old
lady?"
"Just over a year."
"You call her the old lady always. How
old was she?"
"Well in the sixties. Sixty-five or six, say."
"That is not so very old," said Poirot
feelingly.
"Made several Wills, she had, by all
accounts," said Elspeth. "As Bert has told
you, all of them much the same. Leaving
money to one or two charities and then
perhaps she'd change the charities and
some different souvenirs to old servants
and all that. But the bulk of the money
always went to her nephew and his wife, and I think some other old cousin who was
dead, though, by the time she died. She
left the bungalow she'd built to the landscape
man, for him to live in as long as he
liked, and some kind of income for which
110
he was to keep up the quarry gardem and
let it be walked in by the public. Something
like that."
"I suppose the family claimed thiaat the
balance of her mind had been distuirbed, that there had been undue influence?'"
"I think probably it might have come to
that," said Spence. "But the lawyers*, as I
say, got on to the forgery sharply. Kt was
not a very convincing forgery, apparently.
They spotted it almost at once."
"Things came to light to show tbiaat the
opera girl could have done it quite eaasily,"
said Elspeth. "You see, she wrote a great
many of Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe's lietters
for her and it seems Mrs. LlewcellynSmythe
had a great dislike of typed Idetters
being sent to friends or anything like; that.
If it wasn't a business letter, she'd ailways
say 'write it in handwriting and makee it as
much like mine as you can and sign itt with
my name'. Mrs. Minden, the clesaning
woman, heard her say that one day, sand I
suppose the girl got used to doing itit and
copying her employer's handwriting^ and
then it came to her suddenly that she c could
do this and get away with it. And t that's
111
how it all came about. But as I say, the
lawyers were too sharp and spotted it."
"Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe's own
lawyers?"
"Yes. Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter.
Very respectable firm in Medchester.
They'd always done all her legal
business for her. Anyway, they got experts
on to it and questions were asked and the
girl was asked questions and got the wind
up. Just walked out one day leaving half
her things behind her. They were
preparing to take proceedings against her, but she didn't wait for that. She just got
out. It's not so difficult, really, to get out
of this country, if you do it in time. Why,
you can go on day trips on the Continent
without a passport, and if you've got a
little arrangement with someone on the
other side, things can be arranged long
before there is any real hue and cry. She's
probably gone back to her own country or
changed her name or gone to friends."
"But everyone thought that Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe died a natural death?"
asked Poirot.
"Yes, I don't think there was ever any
question of that. I only say it's possible
because, as I say, these things have
happened before where the doctor has no
suspicion. Supposing that girl Joyce had
heard something, had heard the au pair girl giving medicines to Mrs. LlewellynSmythe, and the old lady saying 'this
medicine tastes different to the usual one'.
Or "this has got a bitter taste' or "it's
peculiar'."
"Anyone would think you'd been there
listening to things yourself, Elspeth," said
Superintendent Spence. "This is all your
imagination."
"When did she die?" said Poirot.
"Morning, evening, indoors, out of doors, at home or away from home?"
"Oh, at home. She'd come up from
doing things in the garden one day, breathing rather heavily. She said she was
very tired and she went to lie down on her
bed. And to put it in one sentence, she
never woke up. Which is all very natural, it seems, medically speaking."
Poirot took out a little notebook. The page was already headed "Victims".
Under, he wrote. "No. 1. suggested, Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe." On the next pages of
his book he wrote down the other names
113
that Spence had given him. He said, inquiringly:
"Charlotte Benfield?"
Spence replied promptly. "Sixteenyear-old
shop assistant. Multiple head
injuries. Found on a footpath near the
Quarry Wood. Two young men came
under suspicion. Both had walked out with
her from time to time. No evidence."
"They assisted the police in their
inquiries?" asked Poirot.
"As you say. It's the usual ph
rase. They
didn't assist much. They were frightened.
Told a few lies, contradicted themselves.
They didn't carry conviction as likely
murderers. But either of them might have
been."
"What were they like?"
"Peter Gordon, twenty-one. Unemployed.
Had had one or two jobs but never
kept them. Lazy. Quite good-looking. Had
been on probation once or twice for minor
pilferings, things of that kind. No record
before of violence. Was in with a rather
nasty lot of likely young criminals, but
usually managed to keep out of serious
trouble."
"And the other one?"
114
"Thomas Hudd. Twenty. Stammered.
Shy. Neurotic. Wanted to be a teacher,
but couldn't make the grade. Mother a
widow. The doting mother type. Didn't
encourage girl friends. Kept him as close
to her apron-strings as she could. He had
a job in a stationer's. Nothing criminal
known against him, but a possibility
psychologically, so it seems. The girl
played him up a good deal. Jealousy a
possible motive, but no evidence that we
could prosecute on. Both of them had
alibis. Hudd's was his mother's. She
would have sworn to kingdom come that
he was indoors with her all that evening,
and nobody can say he wasn't or had seen
him elsewhere or in the neighbourhood of
the murder. Young Gordon was given an
alibi by some of his less reputable friends.
Not worth much, but you couldn't
disprove it."
"This happened when?"
"Eighteen months ago."
"And where?"
"In a footpath in a field not far from
Woodleigh Common."
"Three quarters of a mile," said
Elspeth.
115
"Near Joyce's house--the Reynolds' house?"
"No, it was on the other side of the
village."
"It seems unlikely to have been the
murder Joyce was talking about," said
Poirot thoughtfully. "If you see a girl
being bashed on the head by a young man
you'd be likely to think of murder straight
away. Not to wait for a year before you
began to think it was murder."
Poirot read another name.
"Lesley Ferrier."
Spence spoke again. "Lawyer's clerk, twenty-eight, employed by Messrs.
Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter of
Market Street, Medchester."
"Those were Mrs. LlewellynSmythe's
solicitors, I think you said."