Six

Satisfied with what he had achieved, Poirot took leave of his friend.

The information he wanted would be forthcoming—he had no doubt asto that. He had got Spence interested. And Spence, once set upon a trail,was not one to relinquish it. His reputation as a retired high-ranking of-ficer of the C.I.D. would have won him friends in the local police depart-ments concerned.

And next—Poirot consulted his watch—he was to meet Mrs. Oliver inexactly ten minutes’ time outside a house called Apple Trees. Really, thename seemed uncannily appropriate.

Really, thought Poirot, one didn’t seem able to get away from apples.

Nothing could be more agreeable than a juicy English apple—And yet herewere apples mixed up with broomsticks, and witches, and old-fashionedfolklore, and a murdered child.

Following the route indicated to him, Poirot arrived to the minute out-side a red brick Georgian style house with a neat beech hedge enclosing it,and a pleasant garden showing beyond.

He put his hand out, raised the latch and entered through the wroughtiron gate which bore a painted board labelled “Apple Trees.” A path led upto the front door. Looking rather like one of those Swiss clocks where fig-ures come out automatically of a door above the clock face, the front dooropened and Mrs. Oliver emerged on the steps.

“You’re absolutely punctual,” she said breathlessly. “I was watching foryou from the window.”

Poirot turned and closed the gate carefully behind him. Practically onevery occasion that he had met Mrs. Oliver, whether by appointment or byaccident, a motif of apples seemed to be introduced almost immediately.

She was either eating an apple or had been eating an apple—witness anapple core nestling on her broad chest—or was carrying a bag of apples.

But today there was no apple in evidence at all. Very correct, Poirotthought approvingly. It would have been in very bad taste to be gnawingan apple here, on the scene of what had been not only a crime but atragedy. For what else can it be but that? thought Poirot. The suddendeath of a child of only thirteen years old. He did not like to think of it,and because he did not like to think of it he was all the more decided in hismind that that was exactly what he was going to think of until by somemeans or other, light should shine out of the darkness and he should seeclearly what he had come here to see.

“I can’t think why you wouldn’t come and stay with Judith Butler,” saidMrs. Oliver. “Instead of going to a fifth-class guest house.”

“Because it is better that I should survey things with a certain degree ofaloofness,” said Poirot. “One must not get involved, you comprehend.”

“I don’t see how you can avoid getting involved,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“You’ve got to see everyone and talk to them, haven’t you?”

“That most decidedly,” said Poirot.

“Who have you seen so far?”

“My friend, Superintendent Spence.”

“What’s he like nowadays?” said Mrs. Oliver.

“A good deal older than he was,” said Poirot.

“Naturally,” said Mrs. Oliver, “what else would you expect? Is he deaferor blinder or fatter or thinner?”

Poirot considered.

“He has lost a little weight. He wears spectacles for reading the paper. Ido not think he is deaf, not to any noticeable extent.”

“And what does he think about it all?”

“You go too quickly,” said Poirot.

“And what exactly are you and he going to do?”

“I have planned my programme,” said Poirot. “First I have seen and con-sulted with my old friend. I asked him to get me, perhaps, some informa-tion that would not be easy to get otherwise.”

“You mean the police here will be his buddies and he’ll get a lot of insidestuff from them?”

“Well, I should not put it exactly like that, but yes, those are the linesalong which I have been thinking.”

“And after that?”

“I come to meet you here, Madame. I have to see just where this thinghappened.”

Mrs. Oliver turned her head and looked up at the house.

“It doesn’t look the sort of house there’d be a murder in, does it?” shesaid.

Poirot thought again: What an unerring instinct she has!

“No,” he said, “it does not look at all that sort of a house. After I haveseen where, then I go with you to see the mother of the dead child. I hearwhat she can tell me. This afternoon my friend Spence is making an ap-pointment for me to talk with the local inspector at a suitable hour. Ishould also like a talk with the doctor here. And possibly the headmistressat the school. At six o’clock I drink tea and eat sausages with my friendSpence 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. Hecame here to join her when her husband died. She will know, perhaps, thepeople here fairly well.”

“Do you know what you sound like?” said Mrs. Oliver. “A computer. Youknow. You’re programming yourself. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? Imean you’re feeding all these things into yourself all day and then you’regoing 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 dothat sort of a thing.”

“They’re not supposed to,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but you’d be surprised atthe things that happen sometimes. My last electric light bill, for instance. Iknow there’s a proverb which says ‘To err is human,’ but a human error isnothing 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 woman of forty-odd, her golden hair was lightly tinged withgrey, her eyes were brilliantly blue, she oozed competence from the fin-gertips downwards. Any party she had arranged would have been a suc-cessful one. In the drawing room a tray of morning coffee with twosugared biscuits was awaiting them.

Apple Trees, he saw, was a most admirably kept house. It was well fur-nished, it had carpets of excellent quality, everything was scrupulouslypolished and cleaned, and the fact that it had hardly any outstanding ob-ject of interest in it was not readily noticeable. One would not have expec-ted it. The colours of the curtains and the covers were pleasant but con-ventional. It could have been let furnished at any moment for a high rentto a desirable tenant, without having to put away any treasures or makeany alterations to the arrangement of the furniture.

Mrs. Drake greeted Mrs. Oliver and Poirot and concealed almost entirelywhat Poirot could not help suspecting was a feeling of vigorously sup-pressed annoyance at the position in which she found herself as the host-ess at a social occasion at which something as antisocial as murder had oc-curred. As a prominent member of the community of Woodleigh Common,he suspected that she felt an unhappy sense of having herself in some wayproved inadequate. What had occurred should not have occurred. Tosomeone else in someone else’s house—yes. But at a party for children, ar-ranged by her, given by her, organized by her, nothing like this ought tohave happened. Somehow or other she ought to have seen to it that it didnot happen. And Poirot also had a suspicion that she was seeking round ir-ritably in the back of her mind for a reason. Not so much a reason formurder having taken place, but to find out and pin down some inad-equacy on the part of someone who had been helping her and who had bysome mismanagement or some lack of perception failed to realize thatsomething like this could happen.

“Monsieur Poirot,” said Mrs. Drake, in her fine speaking voice, whichPoirot thought would come over excellently in a small lecture room or thevillage hall, “I am so pleased you could come down here. Mrs. Oliver hasbeen telling me how invaluable your help will be to us in this terriblecrisis.”

“Rest assured, Madame, I shall do what I can, but as you no doubt real-ize 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 seemsincredible, absolutely incredible, that such an awful thing should havehappened. I suppose,” she added, “the police may know something? In-spector Raglan has a very good reputation locally, I believe. Whether ornot they ought to call Scotland Yard in, I don’t know. The idea seems to bethat this poor child’s death must have had a local significance. I needn’ttell 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 thecountryside. They seem to be getting more and more frequent. Mental in-stability seems to be on the increase, though I must say that mothers andfamilies generally are not looking after their children properly, as theyused to do. Children are sent home from school alone, on dark evenings,go alone on dark early mornings. And children, however much you warnthem, are unfortunately very foolish when it comes to being offered a liftin a smart-looking car. They believe what they’re told. I suppose one can-not help that.”

“But what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely differentnature.”

“Oh, I know—I know. That is why I used the term incredible. I still can-not quite believe it,” said Mrs. Drake. “Everything was entirely under con-trol. All the arrangements were made. Everything was going perfectly, allaccording to plan. It just seems—seems incredible. Personally I considermyself 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 cir-cumstances—someone of highly disturbed mentality, I suppose, the kindof people who are let out of mental homes simply because there is noroom for them there, as far as I can see. Nowadays, room has to be madefor fresh patients all the time. Anyone peeping in through a window couldsee a children’s party was going on, and this poor wretch — if one canreally feel pity for these people, which I really must say I find it very hardto 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 theSnapdragon was going on. That was taking place in the dining room.”

She walked across the hall, opened the door and, rather in the mannerof someone doing the honours of a stately home to a party of charabancgoers, 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 witharmchairs, sporting prints and bookshelves.

“The library,” said Mrs. Drake, and shivered a little. “The bucket washere. On a plastic sheet, of course—”

Mrs. Oliver had not accompanied them into the room. She was standingoutside 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 showingyou 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 allthere.”

“And there was water on the sheet. I mean, if the child’s head waspushed under water, there would be a lot of water splashed about.”

“Oh yes. Even while the bobbing was going on, the bucket had to befilled up once or twice.”

“So the person who did it? That person also would have got wet, onewould think.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

“That was not specially noticed?”

“No, no, the Inspector asked me about that. You see, by the end of theevening nearly everyone was a bit dishevelled or damp or floury. Theredoesn’t seem to be any useful clues there at all. I mean, the police didn’tthink so.”

“No,” said Poirot. “I suppose the only clue was the child herself. I hopeyou will tell me all you know about her.”

“About Joyce?”

Mrs. Drake looked slightly taken aback. It was as though Joyce in hermind had by now retreated so far out of things that she was quite sur-prised to be reminded of her.

“The victim is always important,” said Poirot. “The victim, you see, is sooften the cause of the crime.”

“Well, I suppose, yes, I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Drake, who quiteplainly did not. “Shall we come back to the drawing room?”

“And then you will tell me about Joyce,” said Poirot.

They settled themselves once more in the drawing room.

Mrs. Drake was looking uncomfortable.

“I don’t know really what you expect me to say, Monsieur Poirot,” shesaid. “Surely all information can be obtained quite easily from the policeor from Joyce’s 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 deaddaughter. It is a clear, unbiased opinion from someone who has a goodknowledge of human nature. I should say, Madame, that you yourselfhave been an active worker in many welfare and social fields here.

Nobody, I am sure, could sum up more aptly the character and dispositionof someone whom you know.”

“Well—it is a little difficult. I mean, children of that age—she was thir-teen, I think, twelve or thirteen—are very much alike at a certain age.”

“Ah no, surely not,” said Poirot. “There are very great differences incharacter, 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. Mostpeople do.”

“Ah, there I do not agree with you,” said Poirot. “Some children I con-sider are most unattractive.”

“Well, I agree, they’re not brought up very well nowadays. Everythingseems 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 realize, Monsieur Poirot, that the poor child is dead.”

“Dead or alive, it matters. Perhaps if she was a nice child, nobody wouldhave wanted to kill her, but if she was not a nice child, somebody mighthave 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 murdercommitted.”

“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?”

“Well, I think really they were all rather excited about Mrs. Oliver beinghere. 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 accompa-nying enthusiasm.

“I don’t suppose the subject would ever have arisen otherwise, but thechildren were excited by meeting a famous authoress—”

“So Joyce said that she had seen a murder committed,” said Poirotthoughtfully.

“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 sisterhushed 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.”

“It might have been true, I suppose,” said Poirot.

“Nonsense! I don’t believe it for one minute,” said Mrs. Drake. “It’s thesort 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 thanother girls.”

“Not a very lovable character,” said Poirot.

“No indeed,” said Mrs. Drake. “Really the kind that you have to be shut-ting up all the time.”

“What did the other children who were here have to say about it? Werethey impressed?”

“They laughed at her,” said Mrs. Drake. “So, of course, that made herworse.”

“Well,” said Poirot, as he rose, “I am glad to have your positive assur-ance on that point.” He bowed politely over her hand. “Goodbye, Madame,thank you so much for allowing me to view the scene of this very unpleas-ant occurrence. I hope it has not recalled unpleasant memories too defin-itely to you.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Drake, “it is very painful to recall anything of thiskind. I had so hoped our little party would go off well. Indeed, it was goingoff well and everyone seemed to be enjoying it so much till this terriblething happened. However, the only thing one can do is to try and forget itall. Of course, it’s very unfortunate that Joyce should have made this sillyremark about 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 reallyseems somewhat unusual, does it not?”

“Well, I think there was a lorry driver who killed a pal of his—some-thing like that—and a little girl whom they found buried in a gravel pitabout fifteen miles from here, but that was years ago. They were bothrather sordid and uninteresting crimes. Mainly the result of drink, Ithink.”

“In fact, the kind of murder unlikely to have been witnessed by a girl oftwelve or thirteen.”

“Most unlikely, I should say. And I can assure you, Monsieur Poirot, thisstatement that the girl made was solely in order to impress friends andperhaps interest a famous character.” She looked rather coldly across atMrs. Oliver.

“In fact,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s all my fault for being at the party, I sup-pose.”

“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 hisside.

“A very unsuitable place for a murder,” he said, as they walked downthe path to the gate. “No atmosphere, no haunting sense of tragedy, nocharacter worth murdering, though I couldn’t help thinking that just occa-sionally someone might feel like murdering Mrs. Drake.”

“I know what you mean. She can be intensely irritating sometimes. Sopleased with herself and so complacent.”

“What is her husband like?”

“Oh, she’s a widow. Her husband died a year or two ago. He got polioand had been a cripple for years. He was a banker originally, I think. Hewas very keen on games and sport and hated having to give all that upand be an invalid.”

“Yes, indeed.” He reverted to the subject of the child Joyce. “Just tell methis. Did anyone who was listening take this assertion of the child Joyceabout murder seriously?”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have thought anyone did.”

“The other children, for instance?”

“Well, I was thinking really of them. No, I don’t think they believed whatJoyce was saying. They thought she was making up things.”

“Did you think that, too?”

“Well, I did really,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Of course,” she added, “Mrs. Drakewould like to believe that the murder never really happened, but she can’tvery well go as far as that, can she?”

“I understand that this may be painful for her.”

“I suppose it is in a way,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I think that by now, youknow, she is actually getting quite pleased to talk about it. I don’t think shelikes to have to bottle it up all the time.”

“Do you like her?” asked Poirot. “Do you think she’s a nice woman?”

“You do ask the most difficult questions. Embarrassing ones,” said Mrs.

Oliver. “It seems the only thing you are interested in is whether people arenice or not. Rowena Drake is the bossy type—likes running things andpeople. She runs this whole place more or less, I should think. But runs itvery efficiently. It depends if you like bossy women. I don’t much—”

“What about Joyce’s mother whom we are on our way to see?”

“She’s quite a nice woman. Rather stupid, I should think. I’m sorry forher. It’s pretty awful to have your daughter murdered, isn’t it? And every-one here thinks it was a sex crime which makes it worse.”

“But there was no evidence of sexual assault, or so I understand?”

“No, but people like to think these things happen. It makes it more excit-ing. You know what people are like.”

“One thinks one does—but sometimes—well—we do not really know atall.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if my friend Judith Butler was to take you to seeMrs. Reynolds? She knows her quite well, and I’m a stranger to her.”

“We will do as planned.”

“The Computer Programme will go on,” murmured Mrs. Oliver rebelli-ously.