the ordeal which was about to descend
upon him.
"It is a pity," he murmured to himself,
"that she is so scatty. And yet, she had
originality of mind. It could be that I am
going to enjoy what she is coming to tell
me. It could be--" he reflected a minute
"--that it may take a great deal of the
evening and that it will all be excessively
28
foolish. Eh bien, one must take one's risks
in life."
A bell sounded. A bell on the outside
door of the flat this time. It was not a
single pressure of the button. It lasted for
a long time with a kind of steady action
that was very effective, the sheer making
of noise.
"Assuredly, she has excited herself,"
said Poirot.
He heard George go to the door, open
it, and before any decorous announcement
could be made the door of his sitting-room
opened and Ariadne Oliver charged
through it, with George in tow behind her,
hanging on to something which looked like
a fisherman's sou'wester and oilskins.
"What on earth are you wearing?" said
Hercule Poirot. "Let George take it from
you. It's very wet."
"Of course it's wet," said Mrs. Oliver.
"It's very wet out. I never thought about
water before. It's a terrible thing to think
of."
Poirot looked at her with interest.
"Will you have some lemon barley
water," he said, "or could I persuade you
to a small glass of eau de vie?"
29
"I hate water," said Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot looked surprised.
"I hate it. I've never thought about it
before. What it can do, and everything."
"My dear friend," said Hercule Poirot,
as George extricated her from the flapping
folds of watery oilskin. "Come and sit
down here. Let George finally relieve you
of—what is it you are wearing?"
"I got it in Cornwall," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Oilskins. A real, proper fisherman's
oilskin."
"Very useful to him, no doubt," said
Poirot, "but not, I think, so suitable for
you. Heavy to wear. But come—sit down
and tell me."
"I don't know how," said Mrs. Oliver,
sinking into a chair. "Sometimes, you
know, I can't feel it's really true. But it
happened. It really happened."
"Tell me," said Poirot.
"That's what I've come for. But now
I've got here, it's so difficult because I
don't know where to begin."
"At the beginning?" suggested Poirot,
"or is that too conventional a way of
acting?"
"I don't know when the beginning was.
30
Not really. It could have been a long time
ago, you know."
"Calm yourself," said Poirot. "Gather
together the various threads of this matter
in your mind and tell me. What is it that
has so upset you?"
"It would have upset you, too," said
Mrs. Oliver. "At least, I suppose it
would." She looked rather doubtful. "One
doesn't know, really, what does upset you.
You take so many things with a lot of.
calm."
"It is often the best way," said Poirot.
"All right," said Mrs. Oliver. "It began
with a party."
"Ah yes," said Poirot, relieved to have
something as ordinary and sane as a party
presented to him. "A party. You went to
a party and something happened."
"Do you know what a Hallowe'en party
is?" said Mrs. Oliver.
"I know what Hallowe'en is," said
Poirot. "The 31st of October." He
twinkled slightly as he said, "When
witches ride on broomsticks."
"There were broomsticks," said Mrs.
Oliver. "They gave prizes for them."
"Prizes?"
31
"Yes, for who brought the best decorated
ones."
Poirot looked at her rather doubtfully.
Originally relieved at the mention of a
party, he now again felt slightly doubtful.
Since he knew that Mrs. Oliver did not
partake of spirituous liquor, he could not
make one of the assumptions that he might
have made in any other case.
"A children's party," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Or rather, an eleven-plus party."
"Eleven-plus?"
"Well, that's what they used to call it, you know, in schools. I mean they see how
bright you are, and if you're bright enough
to pass your eleven-plus, you go on to a
grammar school or something. But if
you're not bright enough, you go to something
called a Secondary Modern. A silly
name. It doesn't seem to mean anything."
"I do not, I confess, really understand
what you are talking about," said Poirot.
They seemed to have got away from
parties and entered into the realms of
education.
Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath and
began again.
32
"It started really," she said, "with the
apples."
"Ah yes," said Poirot, "it would. It
always might with you, mightn't it?"
He was thinking to himself of a small
car on a hill and a large woman getting out
of it, and a bag of apples breaking, and
the apples running and cascading down the
hill.
"Yes," he said encouragingly, "apples."
"Bobbing for apples," said Mrs. Oliver.
"That's one of the things you do at a
Hallowe'en party."
"Ah yes, I think I have heard of that, yes."
"You see, all sorts of things were being
done. There was bobbing for apples, and
cutting sixpence off a tumblerful of flour, and looking in a looking-glass--"
"To see your true love's face?"
suggested Poirot knowledgeably.
"Ah," said Mrs. Oliver, "you're beginning
to understand at last."
"A lot of old folklore, in fact," said
Poirot, "and this all took place at your
party."
"Yes, it was all a great success. It
finished up with Snapdragon. You know,
ss:v..
33
burning raisins in a great dish. I
suppose—" her voice faltered, "— I
suppose that must be the actual time when
it was done."
"When what was done?"
"A murder. After the Snapdragon
everyone went home," said Mrs. Oliver.
"That, you see, was when they couldn't
find her."
"Find whom?"
"A girl. A girl called Joyce. Everyone
called her name and looked around and
asked if she'd gone home with anyone else,
and her mother got rather annoyed and
said that Joyce must have felt tired or ill
or something and gone off by herself, and
that it was very thoughtless of her not to
leave word. All the sort of things that
mothers sa
y when things like that happen.
But anyway, we couldn't find Joyce."
"And had she gone home by herself?"
"No," said Mrs. Oliver, "she hadn't
gone home ..." Her voice faltered. "We
found her in the end—in the library.
That's where—where someone did it, you
know. Bobbing for apples. The bucket was
there. A big, galvanised bucket. They
wouldn't have the plastic one. Perhaps if
34
they'd had the plastic one it wouldn't have
happened. It wouldn't have been heavy
enough. It might have tipped over--"
"What happened?" said Poirot. His
voice was sharp.
"That's where she was found," said
Mrs. Oliver. "Someone, you know, someone
had shoved her head down into the
water with the apples. Shoved her down
and held her there so that she was dead, of
course. Drowned. Drowned. Just in a
galvanised iron bucket nearly full of water.
Kneeling there, sticking her head down to
bob at an apple. I hate apples," said Mrs.
Oliver. "I never want to see an apple
again ..."
Poirot looked at her. He stretched out a
hand and filled a small glass with cognac.
"Drink this," he said. "It will do you
good."
*.
35
4
"RS. OLIVER put down the glass
and wiped her lips.
. "You were right," she said.
"That—that helped. I was getting
hysterical."
"You have had a great shock, I see now.
When did this happen?"
"Last night. Was it only last night? Yes,
yes, of course."
"And you came to me."
It was not quite a question, but it
displayed a desire for more information
than Poirot had yet had.
"You came to me—why?"
"I thought you could help," said Mrs.
Oliver. "You see, it's—it's not simple."
"It could be and it could not," said
Poirot. "A lot depends. You must tell me
more, you know. The police, I presume,
are in charge. A doctor was, no doubt,
called. What did he say?"
"There's to be an inquest," said Mrs.
Oliver.
36
"Naturally."
"To-morrow or the next day."
"This girl, this Joyce, how old was
she?"
"I don't know exactly. I should think
perhaps twelve or thirteen."
"Small for her age?"
"No, no. I should think rather mature,
perhaps. Lumpy," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Well developed? You mean sexylooking?"
"Yes,
that is what I mean. But I don't
think that was the kind of crime it was—
I mean that would have been more simple,
wouldn't it?"
"It is the kind of crime," said Poirot,
"of which one reads every day in the
paper. A girl who is attacked, a school
child who is assaulted—yes, every day.
This happened in a private house which
makes it different, but perhaps not so
different as all that. But all the same, I'm
not sure yet that you've told me
everything."
"No, I don't suppose I have," said Mrs.
Oliver. "I haven't told you the reason, I
mean, why I came to you."
37
"You knew this Joyce, you knew her
well?"
"I didn't know her at all. I'd better
explain to you, I think, just how I came
to be there."
"There is where?"
"Oh, a place called Woodleigh
Common."
"Woodleigh Common," said Poirot
thoughtfully. "Now where lately—" he
broke off.
"It's not very far from London. About
—oh, thirty to forty miles, I think. It's
near Medchester. It's one of those places
where there are a few nice houses, but
where a certain amount of new building
has been done. Residential. A good school
nearby, and people can commute from
there to London or into Medchester. It's
quite an ordinary sort of place where
people with what you might call everyday
reasonable incomes live."
"Woodleigh Common," said Poirot
again, thoughtfully.
"I was staying with a friend there.
Judith Butler. She's a widow. I went on a
Hellenic cruise this year and Judith was on
the cruise and we became friends. She's
38
got a daughter, a girl called Miranda who
is twelve or thirteen. Anyway, she asked
me to come and stay and she said friends
of hers were giving this party for children,
and it was to be a Hallowe'en party. She
said perhaps I had some interesting ideas."
"Ah," said Poirot, "she did not suggest
this time that you should arrange a murder
hunt or anything of that kind?"
"Good gracious, no," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Do you think I should ever consider such
a thing again?"
"I should think it unlikely."
"But it happened, that's what is so
awful," said Mrs. Oliver. "I mean, it
couldn't have happened just because I was
there, could it?"
"I do not think so. At least— Did any
of the people at the party know who you
were?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Oliver. "One of the
children said something about my writing
books and that they liked murders. That's
how it—well—that's what led to the thing
—I mean to the thing that made me come
to you."
"Which you still haven't told me."
"Well, you see, at first I didn't think of
39
it. Not straight away. I mean, children do
queer things sometimes. I mean there are
queer children about, children who--well, once I suppose they would have been in
mental homes and things, but they send
them home now and tell them to lead ordinary
lives or something, and then they go
and do something like this."
"There were some young adolescents
there?"
"There were two boys, or youths as they
always seem to call them in police reports.
About sixteen to eighteen."
"I suppose one of them might have done
it. Is that what the police think?"
"They don't say what they think," said
Mrs. Oliver, "but they looked as though
they might think so."
"Was this Joyce an attractive girl?"
"I don't think so," said Mrs. Oliver.
"You mean attractive to boys, do you?"
"No," said Poirot, "I think I meant--
well, just the plain simple meaning of the
word."
"I don't think she was a very nice girl,"
said Mrs. Oliver, "not one you'd want to
talk to much. She was the sort of girl who
shows off and boasts. It's a rather tiresome
40
age, I think. It sounds unkind what I'm
saying, but—"
"It is not unk
ind in murder to say what
the victim was like," said Poirot. "It is
very, very necessary. The personality of
the victim is the cause of many a murder.
How many people were there in the house
at the time?"
"You mean for the party and so on?
Well, I suppose there were five or six
women, some mothers, a schoolteacher, a
doctor's wife, or sister, I think, a couple
of middle-aged married people, the two
boys of sixteen to eighteen, a girl of
fifteen, two or three of eleven or twelve—
well that sort of thing. About twenty-five
or thirty in all, perhaps."
"Any strangers?"
"They all knew each other, I think.
Some better than others. I think the girls
were mostly in the same school. There
were a couple of women who had come in
to help with the food and the supper and
things like that. When the party ended,
most of the mothers went home with their
children. I stayed behind with Judith and
a couple of others to help Rowena Drake,
the woman who gave the party, to clear up
41
a bit, so the cleaning women who came in
the morning wouldn't have so much mess
to deal with. You know, there was a lot of
flour about, and paper caps out of crackers
and different things. So we swept up a bit, and we got to the library last of all. And
that's when--when we found her. And
then I remembered what she'd said."
"What who had said?"
"Joyce."
"What did she say? We are coming to it
now, are we not? We are coming to the
reason why you are here?"
"Yes. I thought it wouldn't mean
anything to--oh, to a doctor or the police
or anyone, but I thought it might mean
something to you."
"£A bi'en," said Poirot, "tell me. Was
this something Joyce said at the party?"
"No--earlier in the day. That afternoon
when we were fixing things up. It was after
they'd talked about my writing murder
stories and Joyce said 'J saw a murder
once' and her mother or somebody said 'Don't be silly, Joyce, saying things like
that' and one of the older girls said 'You're
just making it up' and Joyce said
42
a murder," but no one believed her. They
just laughed and she got very angry."
"Did you believe her?"
"No, of course not."
"I see," said Poirot, "yes, I see." He
was silent for some moments, tapping a
finger on the table. Then he said: "I
AgathaChristie-HalloweenParty Page 3
