Five

Hercule Poirot looked over the small gate which gave admission to PineCrest. It was a modern, perky little house, nicely built. Hercule Poirot wasslightly out of breath. The small, neat house in front of him was very suit-ably named. It was on a hill top, and the hill top was planted with a fewsparse pines. It had a small neat garden and a large elderly man wastrundling along a path a big tin galvanized waterer.

Superintendent Spence’s hair was now grey all over instead of having aneat touch of grey hair at the temples. He had not shrunk much in girth.

He stopped trundling his can and looked at the visitor at the gate. HerculePoirot stood there without moving.

“God bless my soul,” said Superintendent Spence. “It must be. It can’t bebut it is. Yes, it must be. Hercule Poirot, as I live.”

“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 youthink, 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 findme?” 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 cardsat Christmas time to a few old friends.”

“I appreciate that,” said Poirot.

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 toappear 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 Com-mon?”

“As a matter of fact, I came here to join forces with a sister of mine. Shelost her husband, her children are married and living abroad, one in Aus-tralia and the other in South Africa. So I moved in here. Pensions don’t gofar nowadays, but we do pretty comfortably living together. Come and sitdown.”

He led the way on to the small glazed-in verandah where there werechairs and a table or two. The autumn sun fell pleasantly upon this re-treat.

“What shall I get you?” said Spence. “No fancy stuff here, I’m afraid. Noblackcurrant or rose hip syrup or any of your patent things. Beer? Or shallI 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 thebeer? That is right, is it not?”

“Absolutely so.”

He went into the house and returned shortly afterwards carrying twolarge glass mugs. “I’m joining you,” he said.

He drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing the two glasses infront of himself and Poirot.

“What was it you said just now?” he said, raising his glass. “We won’tsay ‘Here’s to crime.’ I’ve done with crime, and if you mean the crime Ithink you do, in fact which I think you have to do, because I don’t recallany other crime just lately. I don’t like the particular form of murderwe’ve just had.”

“No. I do not think you would do so.”

“We are talking about the child who had her head shoved into abucket?”

“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 dowith the police nowadays. All that’s over many years ago.”

“Once a policeman,” said Hercule Poirot, “always a policeman. That is tosay, there is always the point of view of the policeman behind the point ofview of the ordinary man. I know, I who talk to you. I, too, started in thepolice force in my country.”

“Yes, so you did. I remember now your telling me. Well, I suppose one’soutlook is a bit slanted, but it’s a long time since I’ve had any active con-nection.”

“But you hear the gossip,” said Poirot. “You have friends of your owntrade. 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 active police officers know, pretty well who’s probablydone that crime. They don’t tell the newspapers but they make their in-quiries, and they know. But whether they’re going to get any further thanthat—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 ayear or two passes. I’d say, you know, roughly, Poirot, that more girlsnowadays 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 havealways been partial to the bad lots, as you say, but in the past there weresafeguards.”

“That’s right. People were looking after them. Their mothers lookedafter them. Their aunts and their older sisters looked after them. Theiryounger sisters and brothers knew what was going on. Their fathers werenot averse to kicking the wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes,of course, the girls used to run away with one of the bad lots. Nowadaysthere’s no need even to do that. Mother doesn’t know who the girl’s outwith, father’s not told who the girl is out with, brothers know who the girlis out with but they think ‘more fool her.’ If the parents refuse consent, thecouple go before a magistrate and manage to get permission to marry, andthen when the young man who everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds toprove to everybody, including his wife, that he is a bad lot, the fat’s in thefire! But love’s love; the girl doesn’t want to think that her Henry has theserevolting habits, these criminal tendencies, and all the rest of it. She’ll liefor 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 werebetter in the old days. Perhaps we only thought so. Anyway, Poirot, howdid you get yourself mixed up in all this? This isn’t your part of the coun-try, is it? Always thought you lived in London. You used to when I knewyou.”

“I still live in London. I involved myself here at the request of a friend,Mrs. Oliver. You remember Mrs. Oliver?”

Spence raised his head, closed his eyes and appeared to reflect.

“Mrs. Oliver? Can’t say that I do.”

“She writes books. Detective stories. You met her, if you will throw yourmind back, during the time that you persuaded me to investigate themurder 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 medown.”

“I was honoured—flattered—that you should come to consult me,” saidPoirot. “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 ofstandard example of how not to do anything useful for himself.”

“Married that girl, didn’t he? The wet one. Not the bright one with theperoxide hair. Wonder how they got on together. Have you ever heardabout it?”

“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 innature that a man, however unattractive, will find that he is attractive—tosome woman. One can only say or hope that they married and lived hap-pily ever afterwards.”

“Shouldn’t think they lived happily ever afterwards if they had to haveMother 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’sover. I always thought that man, can’t remember his name now, ought tohave 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 madea very good undertaker. I can see him, all in black, calling for orders forthe funeral. Perhaps he can even have been enthusiastic over the rightkind of elm or teak or whatever they use for coffins. But he’d never havemade good selling insurance or real estate. Anyway, don’t let’s harp back.”

Then he said suddenly, “Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Apples. Is that howshe’s got herself mixed up in this? That poor child got her head shoved un-der water in a bucket of floating apples, didn’t she, at a party? Is that whatinterested Mrs. Oliver?”

“I don’t think she was particularly attracted because of the apples,” saidPoirot, “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. But-ler.”

“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 thinkso?”

“I have as yet barely met her, but, yes, I thought she was very attract-ive.”

“And how does this concern you, Poirot? You weren’t here when ithappened?”

“No. Mrs. Oliver came to me in London. She was upset, very upset. Shewanted me to do something.”

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 dosomething.”

“And I have carried things one step further,” said Poirot. “I have come toyou.”

“Because you want me to do something? I tell you, there’s nothing I cando.”

“Oh yes there is. You can tell me all about the people. The people wholive here. The people who went to that party. The fathers and mothers ofthe children who were at the party. The school, the teachers, the lawyers,the doctors. Somebody, during a party, induced a child to kneel down, andperhaps, laughing, saying: ‘I’ll show you the best way to get hold of anapple with your teeth. I know the trick of it.’ And then he or she—whoeverit was—put a hand on that girl’s head. There wouldn’t have been muchstruggle or noise or anything of that kind.”

“A nasty business,” said Spence. “I thought so when I heard about it.

What do you want to know? I’ve been here a year. My sister’s been herelonger—two or three years. It’s not a big community. It’s not a particularlysettled one either. People come and go. The husband has a job in eitherMedchester or Great Canning, or one of the other places round about.

Their children go to school here. Then perhaps the husband changes hisjob and they go somewhere else. It’s not a fixed community. Some of thepeople have been here a long time, Miss Emlyn, the schoolmistress, has,Dr. Ferguson has. But on the whole, it fluctuates a bit.”

“One supposes,” said Hercule Poirot, “that having agreed with you thatthis was a nasty business, I might hope that you would know who are thenasty people here.”

“Yes,” said Spence. “It’s the first thing one looks for, isn’t it? And the nextthing one looks for is a nasty adolescent in a thing of this kind. Who wantsto strangle or drown or get rid of a lump of a girl of thirteen? Theredoesn’t seem to have been any evidence of a sexual assault or anything ofthat kind, which would be the first thing one looks for. Plenty of that sortof thing in every small town or village nowadays. There again, I thinkthere’s more of it than there used to be in my young day. We had our men-tally disturbed, or whatever they call them, but not so many as we havenow. I expect there are more of them let out of the place they ought to bekept safe in. All our mental homes are too full; overcrowded, so doctorssay ‘Let him or her lead a normal life. Go back and live with his relatives,’

etc. And then the nasty bit of goods, or the poor afflicted fellow, whicheverway you like to look at it, gets the urge again and another young womangoes out walking and is found in a gravel pit, or is silly enough to take liftsin a car. Children don’t come home from school because they’ve accepteda lift from a stranger, although they’ve been warned not to. Yes, there’s alot of that nowadays.”

“Does that quite fit the pattern we have here?”

“Well, it’s the first thing one thinks of,” said Spence. “Somebody was atthe party who had the urge, shall we say. Perhaps he’d done it before, per-haps he’d only wanted to do it. I’d say roughly that there might be somepast history of assaulting a child somewhere. As far as I know, nobody’scome up with anything of that kind. Not officially, I mean. There were twoin the right age group at the party. Nicholas Ransom, nice looking lad, sev-enteen or eighteen. He’d be the right age. Comes from the East Coast orsomewhere like that, I think. Seems all right. Looks normal enough, butwho knows? And there’s Desmond, remanded once for a psychiatric re-port, but I wouldn’t say there was much to it. It’s got to be someone at theparty, though of course I suppose anyone could have come in from out-side. A house isn’t usually locked up during a party. There’s a side dooropen, or a side window. One of our half-baked people, I suppose couldhave come along to see what was on and sneaked in. A pretty big risk totake. Would a child agree, a child who’d gone to a party, to go playingapple games with anyone she didn’t know? Anyway, you haven’t ex-plained yet, Poirot, what brings you into it. You said it was Mrs. Oliver.

Some wild idea of hers?”

“Not exactly a wild idea,” said Poirot. “It is true that writers are prone towild ideas. Ideas, perhaps, which are on the far side of probability. Butthis was simply something that she heard the girl say.”

“What, the child Joyce?”

“Yes.”

Spence leant forward and looked at Poirot inquiringly.

“I will tell you,” said Poirot.

Quietly and succinctly he recounted the story as Mrs. Oliver had told itto him.

“I see,” said Spence. He rubbed his moustache. “The girl said that, didshe? Said she’d seen a murder committed. Did she say when or how?”

“No,” said Poirot.

“What led up to it?”

“Some remark, I think, about the murders in Mrs. Oliver’s books. Some-body said something about it to Mrs. Oliver. One of the children, I think, tothe effect that there wasn’t enough blood in her books or enough bodies.

And then Joyce spoke up and said she’d seen a murder once.”

“Boasted of it? That’s the impression you’re giving me.”

“That’s the impression Mrs. Oliver got. Yes, she boasted of it.”

“It mightn’t have been true.”

“No, it might not have been true at all,” said Poirot.

“Children often make these extravagant statements when they wish tocall attention to themselves or to make an effect. On the other hand, itmight have been true. Is that what you think?”

“I do not know,” said Poirot. “A child boasts of having witnessed amurder. Only a few hours later, that child is dead. You must admit thatthere are grounds for believing that it might—it’s a far-fetched idea per-haps—but it might have been cause and effect. If so, somebody lost notime.”

“Definitely,” said Spence. “How many were present at the time the girlmade her statement re murder, do you know exactly?”

“All that Mrs. Oliver said was that she thought there were about four-teen or fifteen people, perhaps more. Five or six children, five or sixgrown-ups who were running the show. But for exact information I mustrely on you.”

“Well, that will be easy enough,” said Spence. “I don’t say I know off-hand at the moment, but it’s easily obtained from the locals. As to theparty itself, I know pretty well already. A preponderance of women, onthe whole. Fathers don’t turn up much at children’s parties. But they lookin, sometimes, or come to take their children home. Dr. Ferguson wasthere, the vicar was there. Otherwise, mothers, aunts, social workers, twoteachers from the school. Oh, I can give you a list—and roughly aboutfourteen children. The youngest not more than ten—running on into teen-agers.”

“And I suppose you would know the list of probables amongst them?”

said Poirot.

“Well, it won’t be so easy now if what you think is true.”

“You mean you are no longer looking for a sexually disturbed personal-ity. You are looking instead for somebody who has committed a murderand got away with it, someone who never expected it to be found out andwho suddenly got a nasty shock.”

“Blest if I can think who it could have been, all the same,” said Spence. “Ishouldn’t have said we had any likely murderers round here. And cer-tainly nothing spectacular in the way of murders.”

“One can have likely murderers anywhere,” said Poirot, “or shall I sayunlikely murderers, but nevertheless murderers. Because unlikely mur-derers are not so prone to be suspected. There is probably not very muchevidence against them, and it would be a rude shock to such a murderer tofind that there had actually been an eyewitness to his or her crime.”

“Why didn’t Joyce say anything at the time? That’s what I’d like to know.

Was she bribed to silence by someone, do you think? Too risky surely.”

“No,” said Poirot. “I gather from what Mrs. Oliver mentioned that shedidn’t recognize that it was a murder she was looking at at the time.”

“Oh, surely that’s most unlikely,” said Spence.

“Not necessarily,” said Poirot. “A child of thirteen was speaking. She wasremembering something she’d seen in the past. We don’t know exactlywhen. It might have been three or even four years previously. She sawsomething but she didn’t realize its true significance. That might apply to alot of things you know, mon cher. Some rather peculiar car accident. A carwhere it appeared that the driver drove straight at the person who was in-jured or perhaps killed. A child might not realize it was deliberate at thetime. But something someone said, or something she saw or heard a yearor two later might awaken her memory and she’d think perhaps: ‘A or Bor X did it on purpose.’ ‘Perhaps it was really a murder, not just an acci-dent.’ And there are plenty of other possibilities. Some of them I will admitsuggested by my friend, Mrs. Oliver, who can easily come up with abouttwelve different solutions to everything, most of them not very probablebut all of them faintly possible. Tablets added to a cup of tea administeredto someone. Roughly that sort of thing. A push perhaps on a dangerousspot. You have no cliffs here, which is rather a pity from the point of viewof likely theories. Yes, I think there could be plenty of possibilities. Per-haps it is some murder story that the girl reads which recalls to her an in-cident. It may have been an incident that puzzled her at the time, and shemight, when she reads the story, say: ‘Well, that might have been so-and-so and so-and-so. I wonder if he or she did it on purpose?’ Yes, there are alot of possibilities.”

“And you have come here to inquire into them?”

“It would be in the public interest, I think, don’t you?” said Poirot.

“Ah, we’re to be public spirited, are we, you and I?”

“You can at least give me information,” said Poirot. “You know thepeople here.”

“I’ll do what I can,” said Spence. “And I’ll rope in Elspeth. There’s notmuch about people she doesn’t know.”