Twenty-six

Once again four men sat looking at Poirot. Timothy Raglan, Superintend-ent Spence and the Chief Constable had the pleased expectant look of a catwho is counting on a saucer of cream to materialize at any moment. Thefourth man still had the expression of one who suspends belief.

“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said the Chief Constable, taking charge of theproceedings and leaving the D.P.P. man to hold a watching brief. “We’reall here—”

Poirot made a motion with his hand. Inspector Raglan left the room andreturned ushering in a woman of thirty odd, a girl, and two adolescentyoung men.

He introduced them to the Chief Constable. “Mrs. Butler, Miss MirandaButler, Mr. Nicholas Ransom and Mr. Desmond Holland.”

Poirot got up and took Miranda’s hand. “Sit here by your mother, Mir-anda—Mr. Richmond here who is what is called a Chief Constable, wantsto ask you some questions. He wants you to answer them. It concernssomething you saw—over a year ago now, nearer two years. You men-tioned this to one person, and, so I understand, to one person only. Is thatcorrect?”

“I told Joyce.”

“And what exactly did you tell Joyce?”

“That I’d seen a murder.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“No. But I think Leopold guessed. He listens, you know. At doors. Thatsort of thing. He likes knowing people’s secrets.”

“You have heard that Joyce Reynolds, on the afternoon before the Hal-lowe’en party, claimed that she herself had seen a murder committed.

Was that true?”

“No. She was just repeating what I’d told her—but pretending that it hadhappened to her.”

“Will you tell us now just what you did see.”

“I didn’t know at first that it was a murder. I thought there had been anaccident. I thought she’d fallen from up above somewhere.”

“Where was this?”

“In the Quarry Garden—in the hollow where the fountain used to be. Iwas up in the branches of a tree. I’d been looking at a squirrel and one hasto keep very quiet, or they rush away. Squirrels are very quick.”

“Tell us what you saw.”

“A man and a woman lifted her up and were carrying her up the path. Ithought they were taking her to a hospital or to the Quarry House. Thenthe woman stopped suddenly and said, ‘Someone is watching us,’ andstared at my tree. Somehow it made me feel frightened. I kept very still.

The man said ‘Nonsense,’ and they went on. I saw there was blood on ascarf and there was a knife with blood on that—and I thought perhapssomeone had tried to kill themselves—and I went on keeping very still.”

“Because you were frightened?”

“Yes, but I don’t know why.”

“You didn’t tell your mother?”

“No. I thought perhaps I oughtn’t to have been there watching. And thenthe next day nobody said anything about an accident, so I forgot about it. Inever thought about it again until—”

She stopped suddenly. The Chief Constable opened his mouth — thenshut it. He looked at Poirot and made a very slight gesture.

“Yes, Miranda,” said Poirot, “until what?”

“It was as though it was happening all over again. It was a green wood-pecker this time, and I was being very still, watching it from behind somebushes. And those two were sitting there talking — about an island — aGreek island. She said something like, ‘It’s all signed up. It’s ours, we cango to it whenever we like. But we’d better go slow still—not rush things.’

And then the woodpecker flew away, and I moved. And she said—‘Hush—be quiet—somebody’s watching us.’ It was just the way she’d said it be-fore, and she had just the same look on her face, and I was frightenedagain, and I remembered. And this time I knew. I knew it had been amurder I had seen and it had been a dead body they were carrying awayto hide somewhere. You see, I wasn’t a child any more. I knew—things andwhat they must mean—the blood and the knife and the dead body all limp—”

“When was this?” asked the Chief Constable. “How long ago?”

Miranda thought for a moment.

“Last March—just after Easter.”

“Can you say definitely who these people were, Miranda?”

“Of course I can.” Miranda looked bewildered.

“You saw their faces?”

“Of course.”

“Who were they?”

“Mrs. Drake and Michael….”

It was not a dramatic denunciation. Her voice was quiet, with some-thing in it like wonder, but it carried conviction.

The Chief Constable said, “You did not tell anyone. Why not?”

“I thought—I thought it might have been a sacrifice.”

“Who told you that?”

“Michael told me—he said sacrifices were necessary.”

Poirot said gently, “You loved Michael?”

“Oh yes,” said Miranda, “I loved him very much.”