Nine

Dr. Ferguson was a man of sixty, of Scottish extraction with a brusquemanner. He looked Poirot up and down with shrewd eyes under bristlingeyebrows, and said:

“Well, what’s all this about? Sit down. Mind that chair leg. The castor’sloose.

“I should perhaps explain,” said Dr. Ferguson. “Everybody knowseverything in a place like this. That authoress woman brought you downhere as God’s greatest detective to puzzle police officers. That’s more orless right, isn’t it?”

“In part,” said Poirot. “I came here to visit an old friend ex-Superintend-ent Spence, who lives with his sister here.”

“Spence? Hm. Good type, Spence. Bulldog breed. Good honest police of-ficer of the old type. No graft. No violence. Not stupid either. Straight as adie.”

“You appraise him correctly.”

“Well,” said Ferguson, “what did you tell him and what did he tell you?”

“Both he and Inspector Raglan have been exceedingly kind to me. I hopeyou will likewise.”

“I’ve nothing to be kind about,” said Ferguson. “I don’t know whathappened. Child gets her head shoved in a bucket and is drowned in themiddle of a party. Nasty business. Mind you, doing in a child isn’t anythingto be startled about nowadays. I’ve been called out to look at too manymurdered children in the last seven to ten years—far too many. A lot ofpeople who ought to be under mental restraint aren’t under mental re-straint. No room in the asylums. They go about, nicely spoken, nicely gotup and looking like everybody else, looking for somebody they can do in.

And enjoy themselves. Don’t usually do it at a party, though. Too muchchance of getting caught, I suppose, but novelty appeals even to a mentallydisturbed killer.”

“Have you any idea who killed her?”

“Do you really suppose that’s a question I can answer just like that? I’dhave to have some evidence, wouldn’t I? I’d have to be sure.”

“You could guess,” said Poirot.

“Anyone can guess. If I’m called in to a case I have to guess whether thechap’s going to have measles or whether it’s a case of an allergy to shell-fish or to feather pillows. I have to ask questions to find out what they’vebeen eating, or drinking, or sleeping on, or what other children they’vebeen meeting. Whether they’ve been in a crowded bus with Mrs. Smith’sor Mrs. Robinson’s children who’ve all got the measles, and a few otherthings. Then I advance a tentative opinion as to which it is of the variouspossibilities, and that, let me tell you, is what’s called diagnosis. You don’tdo it in a hurry and you make sure.”

“Did you know this child?”

“Of course. She was one of my patients. There are two of us here. Myselfand Worrall. I happen to be the Reynolds’ doctor. She was quite a healthychild, Joyce. Had the usual small childish ailments. Nothing peculiar or outof the way. Ate too much, talked too much. Talking too much hadn’t doneher any harm. Eating too much gave her what used to be called in the olddays a bilious attack from time to time. She’d had mumps and chickenpox. Nothing else.”

“But she had perhaps talked too much on one occasion, as you suggestshe might be able to do?”

“So that’s the tack you’re on? I heard some rumour of that. On the linesof ‘what the butler saw’—only tragedy instead of comedy. Is that it?”

“It could form a motive, a reason.”

“Oh yes. Grant you that. But there are other reasons. Mentally disturbedseems the usual answer nowadays. At any rate, it does always in the Ma-gistrates’ courts. Nobody gained by her death, nobody hated her. But itseems to me with children nowadays you don’t need to look for thereason. The reason’s in another place. The reason’s in the killer’s mind.

His disturbed mind or his evil mind or his kinky mind. Any kind of mindyou like to call it. I’m not a psychiatrist. There are times when I get tired ofhearing those words: ‘Remanded for a psychiatrist’s report,’ after a lad hasbroken in somewhere, smashed the looking glasses, pinched the bottles ofwhisky, stolen the silver, knocked an old woman on the head. Doesn’t mat-ter much what it is now. Remand them for the psychiatrist’s report.”

“And who would you favour, in this case, to remand for a psychiatrist’sreport?”

“You mean of those there at the ‘do’ the other night?”

“Yes.”

“The murderer would have had to be there, wouldn’t he? Otherwisethere wouldn’t have been a murder. Right? He was among the guests, hewas among the helpers or he walked in through the window with maliceaforethought. Probably he knew the fastenings of that house. Might havebeen in there before, looking round. Take your man or boy. He wants tokill someone. Not at all unusual. Over in Medchester we had a case of that.

Came to light after about six or seven years. Boy of thirteen. Wanted to killsomeone, so he killed a child of nine, pinched a car, drove it seven or eightmiles into a copse, burned her there, went away, and as far as we knowled a blameless life until he was twenty-one or two. Mind you, we haveonly his word for that, he may have gone on doing it. Probably did. Foundhe liked killing people. Don’t suppose he’s killed too many, or some policeforce would have been on to him before now. But every now and then hefelt the urge. Psychiatrist’s report. Committed murder while mentally dis-turbed. I’m trying to say myself that that’s what happened here. That sortof thing, anyway. I’m not a psychiatrist myself, thank goodness. I have afew psychiatrist friends. Some of them are sensible chaps. Some of them—well, I’ll go as far as saying they ought to be remanded for a psychiatrist’sreport themselves. This chap who killed Joyce probably had nice parents,ordinary manners, good appearance. Nobody’d dream anything waswrong with him. Ever had a bite at a nice red juicy apple and there, downby the core, something rather nasty rears itself up and wags its head atyou? Plenty of human beings about like that. More than there used to be,I’d say nowadays.”

“And you’ve no suspicion of your own?”

“I can’t stick my neck out and diagnose a murderer without some evid-ence.”

“Still, you admit it must have been someone at the party. You cannothave a murder without a murderer.”

“You can easily in some detective stories that are written. Probably yourpet authoress writes them like that. But in this case I agree. The murderermust have been there. A guest, a domestic help, someone who walked inthrough the window. Easily done if he’d studied the catch of the windowbeforehand. It might have struck some crazy brain that it would be anovel idea and a bit of fun to have a murder at a Hallowe’en party. That’sall you’ve got to start off with, isn’t it? Just someone who was at the party.”

Under bushy brows a pair of eyes twinkled at Poirot.

“I was there myself,” he said. “Came in late, just to see what was doing.”

He nodded his head vigorously.

“Yes, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Like a social announcement in the pa-pers:

‘Amongst those present was—

A Murderer.’”