万圣节前夜的谋杀25

II

Ariadne Oliver smoothed out a telegram she had just taken as deliveredto her at the door. She was so used to getting telegrams through the tele-phone, making frenzied hunts for a pencil to take them down, insistingfirmly that she wanted a confirmatory copy sent to her, that she was quitestartled to receive what she called to herself a “real telegram” again.

“PLEASE BRING MRS BUTLER AND MIRANDA

TO YOUR FLAT AT ONCE. NO TIME TO LOSE.

IMPORTANT SEE DOCTOR FOR OPERATION.”

She went into the kitchen where Judith Butler was making quince jelly.

“Judy,” said Mrs. Oliver, “go and pack a few things, I’m going back toLondon and you’re coming with me and Miranda, too.”

“It’s very nice of you, Ariadne, but I’ve got a lot of things on here. Any-way, you needn’t rush away today, need you?”

“Yes, I need to, I’ve been told to,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Who’s told you—your housekeeper?”

“No,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Somebody else. One of the few people I obey.

Come on. Hurry up.”

“I don’t want to leave home just now. I can’t.”

“You’ve got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The car is ready. I brought itround to the front door. We can go at once.”

“I don’t think I want to take Miranda. I could leave her here withsomeone, with the Reynolds or Rowena Drake.”

“Miranda’s coming, too,” Mrs. Oliver interrupted definitely. “Don’t makedifficulties, Judy. This is serious. I don’t see how you can even considerleaving her with the Reynolds. Two of the Reynolds children have beenkilled, haven’t they?”

“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. You think there’s something wrong withthat house. I mean there’s someone there who—oh, what do I mean?”

“We’re talking too much,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Anyway,” she added, “ifanyone is going to be killed, it seems to me that probably the most likelyone would be Ann Reynolds.”

“What’s the matter with the family? Why should they all get killed, oneafter another? Oh, Ariadne, it’s frightening!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there are times when it’s quite right to befrightened. I’ve just had a telegram and I’m acting upon it.”

“Oh, I didn’t hear the telephone.”

“It didn’t come through the telephone. It came to the door.”

She hesitated a moment, then she held it out to her friend.

“What’s this mean? Operation?”

“Tonsils, probably,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Miranda had a bad throat lastweek, hadn’t she? Well, what more likely than that she should be taken toconsult a throat specialist in London?”

“Are you quite mad, Ariadne?”

“Probably,” said Mrs. Oliver, “raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoybeing in London. You needn’t worry. She’s not going to have any opera-tion. That’s what’s called ‘cover’ in spy stories. We’ll take her to a theatre,or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole Ithink it would be best to take her to the ballet.”

“I’m frightened,” said Judith.

Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. Shelooked more than ever, Mrs. Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked di-vorced from reality.

“Come on,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I promised Hercule Poirot I’d bring youwhen he gave me the word. Well, he’s given me the word.”

“What’s going on in this place?” said Judith. “I can’t think why I evercame here.”

“I sometimes wondered why you did,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there’s noaccounting for where people go to live. A friend of mine went to live inMoreton-in-the-Marsh the other day. I asked him why he wanted to go andlive there. He said he’d always wanted to and thought about it. Wheneverhe retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn’t been to it myself but itsounded to me bound to be damp. What was it actually like? He said hedidn’t know what it was like because he’d never been there himself. Buthe had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too.”

“Did he go?”

“Yes.”

“Did he like it when he got there?”

“Well, I haven’t heard that yet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But people are veryodd, aren’t they? The things they want to do, the things they simply have todo…” She went to the garden and called, “Miranda, we’re going to Lon-don.”

Miranda came slowly towards them.

“Going to London?”

“Ariadne’s going to drive us there,” said her mother. “We’ll go and see atheatre there. Mrs. Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet.

Would you like to go to the ballet?”

“I’d love it,” said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. “I must go and say good-bye to one of my friends first.”

“We’re going practically at once.”

“Oh, I shan’t be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things Ipromised to do.”

She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate.

“Who are Miranda’s friends?” asked Mrs. Oliver, with some curiosity.”

“I never really know,” said Judith. “She never tells one things, you know.

Sometimes I think that the only things that she really feels are her friendsare the birds she looks at in the woods. Or squirrels or things like that. Ithink everybody likes her but I don’t know that she has any particularfriends. I mean, she doesn’t bring back girls to tea and things like that. Notas much as other girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reyn-olds.” She added vaguely: “Joyce used to tell her fantastic things about ele-phants and tigers.” She roused herself. “Well, I must go up and pack, I sup-pose, as you insist. But I don’t want to leave here. There are lots of thingsI’m in the middle of doing, like this jelly and—”

“You’ve got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. She was quite firm about it.

Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Mirandaran in through the side door, somewhat out of breath.

“Aren’t we going to have lunch first?” she demanded.

In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child wholiked her food.

“We’ll stop for lunch on the way,” said Mrs. Oliver. “We’ll stop at TheBlack Boy at Haversham. That would be about right. It’s about three-quar-ters of an hour from here and they give you quite a good meal. Come on,Miranda, we’re going to start now.”

“I shan’t have time to tell Cathie I can’t go to the pictures with her to-morrow. Oh, perhaps I could ring her up.”

“Well, hurry up,” said her mother.

Miranda ran into the sitting room where the telephone was situated. Ju-dith and Mrs. Oliver put suitcases into the car. Miranda came out of thesitting room.

“I left a message,” she said breathlessly. “That’s all right now.”

“I think you’re mad, Ariadne,” said Judith, as they got into the car.

“Quite mad. What’s it all about?”

“We shall know in due course, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’tknow if I’m mad or he is.”

“He? Who?”

“Hercule Poirot,” said Mrs. Oliver.

 

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