Ten

Poirot looked up at The Elms and approved of it.

He was admitted and taken promptly by what he judged to be a secret-ary to the headmistress’s study. Miss Emlyn rose from her desk to greethim.

“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Poirot. I’ve heard about you.”

“You are too kind,” said Poirot.

“From a very old friend of mine, Miss Bulstrode. Former headmistressof Meadowbank. You remember Miss Bulstrode, perhaps?”

“One would not be likely to forget her. A great personality.”

“Yes,” said Miss Emlyn. “She made Meadowbank the school it is.” Shesighed slightly and said, “It has changed a little nowadays. Different aims,different methods, but it still holds its own as a school of distinction, ofprogress, and also of tradition. Ah well, we must not live too much in thepast. You have come to see me, no doubt, about the death of Joyce Reyn-olds. I don’t know if you have any particular interest in her case. It’s out ofyour usual run of things, I imagine. You knew her personally, or her fam-ily perhaps?”

“No,” said Poirot. “I came at the request of an old friend, Mrs. AriadneOliver, who was staying down here and was present at the party.”

“She writes delightful books,” said Miss Emlyn. “I have met her once ortwice. Well, that makes the whole thing easier, I think, to discuss. So longas no personal feelings are involved, one can go straight ahead. It was ahorrifying thing to happen. If I may say so, it was an unlikely thing to hap-pen. The children involved seem neither old enough nor young enough forit to fall into any special class. A psychological crime is indicated. Do youagree?”

“No,” said Poirot. “I think it was a murder, like most murders, commit-ted for a motive, possibly a sordid one.”

“Indeed. And the reason?”

“The reason was a remark made by Joyce; not actually at the party, I un-derstand, but earlier in the day when preparations were being made bysome of the older children and other helpers. She announced that she hadonce seen a murder committed.”

“Was she believed?”

“On the whole, I think she was not believed.”

“That seems the most likely response. Joyce — I speak plainly to you,Monsieur Poirot, because we do not want unnecessary sentiment to cloudmental faculties—she was a rather mediocre child, neither stupid nor par-ticularly intellectual. She was, quite frankly, a compulsive liar. And bythat I do not mean that she was specially deceitful. She was not trying toavoid retribution or to avoid being found out in some peccadillo. She boas-ted. She boasted of things that had not happened, but that would impressher friends who were listening to her. As a result, of course, they inclinednot to believe the tall stories she told.”

“You think that she boasted of having seen a murder committed in orderto make herself important, to intrigue someone—?”

“Yes. And I would suggest that Ariadne Oliver was doubtless the personwhom she wanted to impress….”

“So you don’t think Joyce saw a murder committed at all?”

“I should doubt it very much.”

“You are of the opinion that she made the whole thing up?”

“I would not say that. She did witness, perhaps, a car accident, orsomeone perhaps who was hit with a ball on the golf links and injured—something that she could work up into an impressive happening thatmight, just conceivably, pass as an attempted murder.”

“So the only assumption we can make with any certainty is that therewas a murderer present at the Hallowe’en party.”

“Certainly,” said Miss Emlyn, without turning a grey hair. “Certainly.

That follows on logically, does it not?”

“Would you have any idea who that murderer might be?”

“That is certainly a sensible question,” said Miss Emlyn. “After all, themajority of the children at the party were aged between nine and fifteen,and I suppose nearly all of them had been or were pupils at my school. Iought to know something about them. Something, too, about their familiesand their backgrounds.”

“I believe that one of your own teachers, a year or two ago, wasstrangled by an unknown killer.”

“You are referring to Janet White? About twenty-four years of age. Anemotional girl. As far as is known, she was out walking alone. She may, ofcourse, have arranged to meet some young man. She was a girl who wasquite attractive to men in a modest sort of way. Her killer has not beendiscovered. The police questioned various young men or asked them to as-sist them in their inquiries, as the technique goes, but they were not ableto find sufficient evidence to bring a case against anyone. An unsatisfact-ory business from their point of view. And, I may say, from mine.”

“You and I have a principle in common. We do not approve of murder.”

Miss Emlyn looked at him for a moment or two. Her expression did notchange, but Poirot had an idea that he was being sized up with a greatdeal of care.

“I like the way you put it,” she said. “From what you read and hearnowadays, it seems that murder under certain aspects is slowly but surelybeing made acceptable to a large section of the community.”

She was silent for a few minutes, and Poirot also did not speak. She was,he thought, considering a plan of action.

She rose and touched a bell.

“I think,” she said, “that you had better talk to Miss Whittaker.”

Some five minutes passed after Miss Emlyn had left the room and thenthe door opened and a woman of about forty entered. She had russet-col-oured hair, cut short, and came in with a brisk step.

“Monsieur Poirot?” she said. “Can I help you? Miss Emlyn seems to thinkthat that might be so.”

“If Miss Emlyn thinks so, then it is almost a certainty that you can. Iwould take her word for it.”

“You know her?”

“I have only met her this afternoon.”

“But you have made up your mind quickly about her.”

“I hope you are going to tell me that I am right.”

Elizabeth Whittaker gave a short, quick sigh.

“Oh, yes, you’re right. I presume that this is about the death of JoyceReynolds. I don’t know exactly how you come into it. Through the police?”

She shook her head slightly in a dissatisfied manner.

“No, not through the police. Privately, through a friend.”

She took a chair, pushing it back a little so as to face him.

“Yes. What do you want to know?”

“I don’t think there is any need to tell you. No need to waste time askingquestions that may be of no importance. Something happened that even-ing at the party which perhaps it is well that I should know about. Is thatit?”

“Yes.”

“You were at the party?”

“I was at the party.” She reflected a minute or two. “It was a very goodparty. Well-run. Well-arranged. About thirty-odd people were there, thatis, counting helpers of different kinds. Children—teenagers—grown-ups—and a few cleaning and domestic helpers in the background.”

“Did you take part in the arrangements which were made, I believe,earlier that afternoon or that morning?”

“There was nothing really to do. Mrs. Drake was fully competent to dealwith all the various preparations with a small number of people to helpher. It was more domestic preparations that were needed.”

“I see. But you came to the party as one of the guests?”

“That is right.”

“And what happened?”

“The progress of the party, I have no doubt, you already know. You wantto know if there is anything I can tell you that I specially noticed or that Ithought might have a certain significance? I don’t want to waste your timeunduly, you understand.”

“I am sure you will not waste my time. Yes, Miss Whittaker, tell me quitesimply.”

“The various events happened in the way already arranged for. The lastevent was what was really more a Christmas festivity or associated withChristmas, than it would be with Hallowe’en. The Snapdragon, a burningdish of raisins with brandy poured over them, and those round snatch atthe raisins—there are squeals of laughter and excitement. It became veryhot, though, in the room, with the burning dish, and I left it and came outin the hall. It was then, as I stood there, that I saw Mrs. Drake coming outof the lavatory on the first floor landing. She was carrying a large vase ofmixed autumn leaves and flowers. She stood at the angle of the staircase,pausing for a moment before coming downstairs. She was looking downover the well of the staircase. Not in my direction. She was looking to-wards the other end of the hall where there is a door leading into the lib-rary. It is set just across the hall from the door into the dining room. As Isay, she was looking that way and pausing for a moment before comingdownstairs. She was shifting slightly the angle of the vase as it was arather awkward thing to carry, and weighty if it was, as I presumed, full ofwater. She was shifting the position of it rather carefully so that she couldhold it to her with one arm, and put out the other arm to the rail of thestaircase as she came round the slightly shaped corner stairway. She stoodthere for a moment or two, still not looking at what she was carrying, buttowards the hall below. And suddenly she made a sudden movement—astart I would describe it as—yes, definitely something had startled her. Somuch so that she relinquished her hold of the vase and it fell, reversing it-self as it did so so that the water streamed over her and the vase itselfcrashed down to the hall below, where it broke in smithereens on the hallfloor.”

“I see,” said Poirot. He paused a minute or two, watching her. Her eyes,he noticed, were shrewd and knowledgeable. They were asking now hisopinion of what she was telling him. “What did you think had happened tostartle her?”

“On reflection, afterwards, I thought she had seen something.”

“You thought she had seen something,” repeated Poirot, thoughtfully.

“Such as?”

“The direction of her eyes, as I have told you, was towards the door ofthe library. It seems to me possible that she may have seen that door openor the handle turn, or indeed she might have seen something slightly morethan that. She might have seen somebody who was opening that door andpreparing to come out of it. She may have seen someone she did not ex-pect to see.”

“Were you looking at the door yourself?”

“No. I was looking in the opposite direction up the stairs towards Mrs.

Drake.”

“And you think definitely that she saw something that startled her?”

“Yes. No more than that, perhaps. A door opening. A person, just pos-sibly an unlikely person, emerging. Just sufficient to make her relinquishher grasp on the very heavy vase full of water and flowers, so that shedropped it.”

“Did you see anyone come out of that door?”

“No. I was not looking that way. I do not think anyone actually did comeout into the hall. Presumably whoever it was drew back into the room.”

“What did Mrs. Drake do next?”

“She made a sharp exclamation of vexation, came down the stairs andsaid to me, ‘Look what I’ve done now! What a mess!’ She kicked some ofthe broken glass away. I helped her sweep it in a broken pile into acorner. It wasn’t practicable to clear it all up at that moment. The childrenwere beginning to come out of the Snapdragon room. I fetched a glasscloth and mopped her up a bit, and shortly after that the party came to anend.”

“Mrs. Drake did not say anything about having been startled or makeany reference as to what might have startled her?”

“No. Nothing of the kind.”

“But you think she was startled.”

“Possibly, Monsieur Poirot, you think that I am making a rather unne-cessary fuss about something of no importance whatever?”

“No,” said Poirot, “I do not think that at all. I have only met Mrs. Drakeonce,” he added thoughtfully, “when I went to her house with my friend,Mrs. Oliver, to visit—as one might say, if one wishes to be melodramatic—the scene of the crime. It did not strike me during the brief period I hadfor observation that Mrs. Drake could be a woman who is easily startled.

Do you agree with my view?”

“Certainly. That is why I, myself, since have wondered.”

“You asked no special questions at the time?”

“I had no earthly reason to do so. If your hostess has been unfortunateto drop one of her best glass vases, and it has smashed to smithereens, it ishardly the part of a guest to say ‘What on earth made you do that?’;thereby accusing her of a clumsiness which I can assure you is not one ofMrs. Drake’s characteristics.”

“And after that, as you have said, the party came to an end. The childrenand their mothers or friends left, and Joyce could not be found. We knownow that Joyce was behind the library door and that Joyce was dead. Sowho could it have been who was about to come out of the library door, alittle while earlier, shall we say, and then hearing voices in the hall shutthe door again and made an exit later when there were people millingabout in the hall making their farewells, putting on their coats and all therest of it? It was not until after the body had been found, I presume, MissWhittaker, that you had time to reflect on what you had seen?”

“That is so.” Miss Whittaker rose to her feet. “I’m afraid there’s nothingelse that I can tell you. Even this may be a very foolish little matter.”

“But noticeable. Everything noticeable is worth remembering. By theway, there is one question I should like to ask you. Two, as a matter offact.”

Elizabeth Whittaker sat down again. “Go on,” she said, “ask anythingyou like.”

“Can you remember exactly the order in which the various events oc-curred at the party?”

“I think so.” Elizabeth Whittaker reflected for a moment or two. “It star-ted with a broomstick competition. Decorated broomsticks. There werethree or four different small prizes for that. Then there was a kind of con-test with balloons, punching them and batting them about. A sort of mildhorseplay to get the children warmed up. There was a looking glass busi-ness where the girls went into a small room and held a mirror where aboy’s or young man’s face reflected in it.”

“How was that managed?”

“Oh, very simply. The transom of the door had been removed, and sodifferent faces looked through and were reflected in the mirror a girl washolding.”

“Did the girls know who it was they saw reflected in the glass?”

“I presume some of them did and some of them didn’t. A little makeupwas employed on the male half of the arrangement. You know, a mask ora wig, sideburns, a beard, some greasepaint effects. Most of the boys wereprobably known to the girls already and one or two strangers might havebeen included. Anyway, there was a lot of quite happy giggling,” said MissWhittaker, showing for a moment or two a kind of academic contempt forthis kind of fun. “After that there was an obstacle race and then there wasflour packed into a glass tumbler and reversed, sixpence laid on top andeveryone took a slice off. When the flour collapsed that person was out ofthe competition and the others remained until the last one claimed the six-pence. After that there was dancing, and then there was supper. Afterthat, as a final climax, came the Snapdragon.”

“When did you yourself see the girl Joyce last?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Elizabeth Whittaker. “I don’t know her very well.

She’s not in my class. She wasn’t a very interesting girl so I wouldn’t havebeen watching her. I do remember I saw her cutting the flour because shewas so clumsy that she capsized it almost at once. So she was alive then—but that was quite early on.”

“You did not see her go into the library with anyone?”

“Certainly not. I should have mentioned it before if I had. That at leastmight have been significant and important.”

“And now,” said Poirot, “for my second question or questions. How longhave you been at the school here?”

“Six years this next autumn.”

“And you teach—?”

“Mathematics and Latin.”

“Do you remember a girl who was teaching here two years ago—JanetWhite by name?”

Elizabeth Whittaker stiffened. She half rose from her chair, then satdown again.

“But that—that has nothing to do with all this, surely?”

“It could have,” said Poirot.

“But how? In what way?”

Scholastic circles were less well- informed than village gossip, Poirotthought.

“Joyce claimed before witnesses to have seen a murder done some yearsago. Could that possibly have been the murder of Janet White, do youthink? How did Janet White die?”

“She was strangled, walking home from school one night.”

“Alone?”

“Probably not alone.”

“But not with Nora Ambrose?”

“What do you know about Nora Ambrose?”

“Nothing as yet,” said Poirot, “but I should like to. What were they like,Janet White and Nora Ambrose?”

“Oversexed,” said Elizabeth Whittaker, “but in different ways. Howcould Joyce have seen anything of the kind or know anything about it? Ittook place in a lane near Quarry Wood. She wouldn’t have been morethan ten or eleven years old.”

“Which one had the boyfriend?” asked Poirot. “Nora or Janet?”

“All this is past history.”

“Old sins have long shadows,” quoted Poirot. “As we advance through life,we learn the truth of that saying. Where is Nora Ambrose now?”

“She left the school and took another post in the North of England—shewas, naturally, very upset. They were—great friends.”

“The police never solved the case?”

Miss Whittaker shook her head. She got up and looked at her watch.

“I must go now.”

“Thank you for what you have told me.”