have noticed that could lead you to a
suspicion on perhaps purely psychological
grounds."
"Yes. I can see what you mean. There
might be something in that."
"Whittaker for my money," said Desmond,
breaking into Nicholas's absorption
in thought.
"The school-mistress?" asked Poirot.
"Yes. Real old spinster, you know. Sex
starved. And all that teaching, bottled up
among a lot of women. You remember,
one of the teachers got strangled a year or
two ago. She was a bit queer, they say."
"Lesbian?" asked Nicholas, in a man of
the world voice.
"I shouldn't wonder. D'you remember
Nora Ambrose, the girl she lived with?
She wasn't a bad looker. She had a boy
friend or two, so they said, and the girl
she lived with got mad with her about it.
Someone said she was an unmarried
mother. She was away for two terms with
some illness and then came back. They'd
say anything in this nest of gossip."
258
"Well, anyway, Whittaker was in the
drawing-room most of the morning. She
probably heard what Joyce said. Might
have put it into her head, mightn't it?"
"Look here," said Nicholas, "supposing
Whittaker—what age is she, do you think?
Forty odd? Getting on for fifty— Women
do go a bit queer at that age."
They both looked at Poirot with the air
of contented dogs who have retrieved
something useful which master has asked
for.
"I bet Miss Ernlyn knows if it is so.
There's not much she doesn't know, about
what goes on in her school."
"Wouldn't she say?"
"Perhaps she feels she has to be loyal
and shield her."
"Oh, I don't think she'd do that. If she
thought Elizabeth Whittaker was going off
her head, well then, I mean, a lot of the
pupils at the school might get done in."
"What about the curate?" said
Desmond hopefully. "He might be a bit
off his nut. You know, original sin
perhaps, and all that, and the water and
the apples and the things and then—look
here, I've got a good idea now. Suppose
259
he is a bit barmy. Not been here very
long. Nobody knows much about him.
Supposing it's the Snapdragon put it into
his head. Hell fire! All those flames going
up! Then, you see, he took hold of Joyce
and he said 'come along with me and I'll
show you something,' and he took her to
the apple room and he said 'kneel down'.
He said 'this is baptism,' and pushed her
head in. See? It would all fit. Adam and
Eve and the apple and hell fire and the
Snapdragon and being baptised again to
cure you of sin."
"Perhaps he exposed himself to her
first," said Nicholas hopefully. "I mean,
there's always got to be a sex background
to all these things."
They both looked with satisfied faces to
Poirot.
"Well," said Poirot, "you've certainly
given me something to think about."
260
16
HERCULE POIROT looked with
interest at Mrs. Goodbody's face.
It was indeed perfect as a model
for a witch. The fact that it almost undoubtedly
went with extreme amiability
of character did not dispel the illusion. She
talked with relish and pleasure.
"Yes, I was up there right enough, I
was. I always does the witches round here.
Vicar he complimented me last year and
he said as I'd done such a good job in the
pageant as he'd give me a new steeple hat.
A witch's hat wears out just like anything
else does. Yes, I was right up there that
day. I does the rhymes, you know. I mean
the rhymes for the girls, using their own
Christian name. One for Beatrice, one for Arm and all the rest of it. And I gives them
to whoever is doing the spirit voice and
they recite it out to the girl in the mirror, and the boys. Master Nicholas and young
Desmond, they send the phoney photographs
floating down. Make me die of
261
laughing, some of it does. See those boys
sticking hair all over their faces and photographing
each other. And what they dress
up in! I saw Master Desmond the other
day, and what he was wearing you'd
hardly believe. Rose-coloured coat and
fawn breeches. Beat the girls hollow, they
do. All the girls can think of is to push
their skirts higher and higher, and that's
not much good to them because they've
got to put on more underneath. I mean
what with the things they call body stockings
and tights, which used to be for
chorus girls in my day and none other--
they spend all their money on that. But
the boys--my word, they look like kingfishers
and peacocks or birds of paradise.
Well, I like to see a bit of colour and I
always think it must have been fun in
those old historical days as you see on the
pictures. You know, everybody with lace
and curls and cavalier hats and all the rest
of it. Gave the girls something to look at, they did. And doublet and hose. All the
girls could think of in historical times, as
far as I can see, was to put great balloon
skirts on, crinolines they called them later, and great ruffles round their necks! My
262
grandmother, she used to tell me that her
young ladies—she was in service, you
know, in a good Victorian family—and her
young ladies (before the time of Victoria I
think it was)—it was the time the King
what had a head like a pear was on the
throne—Silly Billy, wasn't it, William
IVth—well then, her young ladies, I mean
my grandmother's young ladies, they used
to have muslin gowns very long down to
their ankles, very prim but they used to
damp their muslins with water so they
stuck to them. You know, stuck to them
so it showed everything there was to show.
Went about looking ever so modest, but it
tickled up the gentlemen, all right, it did.
"I lent Mrs. Drake my witch ball for
the party. Bought that witch ball at a
jumble sale somewhere. There it is
hanging up there now by the chimney, you
see? Nice bright dark blue. I keep it over
my door."
"Do you tell fortunes?"
"Mustn't say I do, must I?" she
chuckled. "The police don't like that. Not
that they mind the kind of fortunes I tell.
Nothing to it, as you might say. Place like
263
this you always know who's going with
who, and so that makes it easy."
"Can you look in your witch ball, look
in there, see who killed that little girl,
Joy
ce?"
"You got mixed up, you have," said
Mrs. Goodbody. "It's a crystal ball you
look in to see things, not a witch ball. If
I told you who I thought it was did it, you
wouldn't like it. Say it was against nature,
you would. But lots of things go on that
are against nature."
"You may have something there."
"This is a good place to live, on the
whole. I mean, people are decent, most
of them, but wherever you go, the devil's
always got some of his own. Born and bred
to it."
"You mean—black magic?"
"No, I don't mean that." Mrs. Goodbody
was scornful. "That's nonsense, that
is. That's for people who like to dress up
and do a lot of tomfoolery. Sex and all
that. No, I mean those that the devil has
touched with his hand. They're born that
way. The sons of Lucifer. They're born so
that killing don't mean nothing to them,
not if they profit by it. When they want a
264
thing, they want it. And they're ruthless
to get it. Beautiful as angels, they can look
like. Knew a little girl once. Seven years
old. Killed her little brother and sister.
Twins they were. Five or six months old,
no more. Stifled them in their prams."
"That took place here in Woodleigh
Common?"
"No, no, it wasn't in Woodleigh
Common. I came across that up in Yorkshire,
far as I remember. Nasty case.
Beautiful little creature she was, too. You
could have fastened a pair of wings on
her, let her go on a platform and sing
Christmas hymns, and she'd have looked
right for the part. But she wasn't. She was
rotten inside. You'll know what I mean.
You're not a young man. You know what
wickedness there is about in the world."
"Alas!" said Poirot. "You are right. I
do know only too well. If Joyce really saw
a murder committed—"
"Who says she did?" said Mrs.
Goodbody.
"She said so herself."
"That's no reason for believing. She's
always been a little liar." She gave him a
HP18
265
sharp glance. "You won't believe that, I
suppose?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "I do believe it. Too
many people have told me so, for me to
continue disbelieving it."
"Odd things crops up in families," said
Mrs. Goodbody. "You take the Reynolds, for example. There's Mr. Reynolds. In the
estate business he is. Never cut much ice
at it and never will. Never got on much, as you'd say. And Mrs. Reynolds, always
getting worried and upset about things.
None of their three children take after
their parents. There's Arm, now, she's got
brains. She's going to do well with her
schooling, she is. She'll go to college, I
shouldn't wonder, maybe get herself
trained as a teacher. Mind you, she's
pleased with herself. She's so pleased with
herself that nobody can stick her. None of
the boys look at her twice. And then there
was Joyce. She wasn't clever like Arm, nor
as clever as her little brother Leopold, either, but she wanted to be. She wanted
always to know more than other people
and to have done better than other people
and she'd say anything to make people sit
up and take notice. But don't you believe
266
any single word she ever said was true.
Because nine times out of ten it wasn't."
"And the boy?"
"Leopold? Well, he's only nine or ten, I think, but he's clever all right. Clever
with his fingers and other ways, too. He
wants to study things like physics. He's
good at mathematics, too. Quite surprised
about it they were, in school. Yes, he's
clever. He'll be one of these scientists, I
expect. If you ask me, the things he does
when he's a scientist and the things he'll
think of--they'll be nasty, like atom
bombs! He's one of the kind that studies
and are ever so clever and think up something
that'll destroy half the globe, and all
us poor folk with it. You beware of
Leopold. He plays tricks on people, you
know, and eavesdrops. Finds out all their
secrets. Where he gets all his pocket
money from I'd like to know. It isn't from
his mother or his father. They can't afford
to give him much. He's got lots of money
always. Keeps it in a drawer under his
socks. He buys things. Quite a lot of
expensive gadgets. Where does he get the
money from? That's what I'd like to know.
Finds people's secrets out, I'd say, and
267
makes them pay him for holding his
tongue."
She paused for breath.
"Well, I can't help you, I'm afraid, in
anyway."
"You have helped me a great deal," said
Poirot. "What happened to the foreign girl
who is said to have run away?"
"Didn't go far, in my opinion. 'Ding
dong dell, pussy's in the well.9 That's what
I've always thought, anyway."
268
17
"T—^ XCUSE me, Ma'am, I wonder if
r"^ I might speak to you a minute."
* J Mrs. Oliver, who was standing
on the verandah of her friend's house
looking out to see if there were any signs
of Hercule Poirot approaching—he had
notified her by telephone that he would be
coming round to see her about now—
looked round.
A neatly attired woman of middle age
was standing, twisting her hands nervously
in their neat cotton gloves.
"Yes?" said Mrs. Oliver, adding an
interrogation point by her intonation.
"I'm sorry to trouble you, I'm sure,
Madam, but I thought—well, I
thought ..."
Mrs. Oliver listened but did not attempt
to prompt her. She wondered what was
worrying the woman so much.
"I take it rightly as you're the lady who
writes stories, don't I? Stories about
269
crimes and murders and things of that
kind."
"Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "I'm the one."
Her curiosity was now aroused. Was this
a preface for a demand for an autograph
or even a signed photograph? One
never knew. The most unlikely things
happened.
"I thought as you'd be the right one to
tell me," said the woman.
"You'd better sit down," said Mrs.
Oliver.
She foresaw that Mrs. Whoever-it-was
—she was wearing a wedding ring so she
was a Mrs.—was the type who takes some
time in getting to the point. The woman
sat down and went on twisting her hands
in their gloves.
"Something you're worried about?" said
Mrs. Oliver, doing her best to start the
flow.
/> "Well, I'd like advice, and it's true. It's
about something that happened a good
while ago and I Wasn't really worried at
the time. But you know how it is. You
think things over and you wish you knew
someone you could go and ask about it."
"I see," said Mrs. Oliver, hoping to
270
inspire confidence by this entirely meretricious
statement.
"Seeing the things what have happened
lately, you never do know, do you?"
"You mean--?"
"I mean what happened at the
Hallowe'en party, or whatever they called
it. I mean it shows you there's people who
aren't dependable here, doesn't it? And it
shows you things before that weren't as
you thought they were. I mean, they
mightn't have been what you thought they
were, if you understand what I mean."
"Yes?" said Mrs. Oliver, adding an even
greater tinge of interrogation to the monosyllable.
"I don't think I know your
name," she added.
"Leaman. Mrs. Leaman. I go out and
do cleaning to oblige ladies here. Ever since
my husband died, and that was five years
ago. I used to work for Mrs. LlewellynSmythe, the lady who lived up at the
Quarry House, before Colonel and Mrs.
Weston came. I don't know if you ever
knew her."
"No," said Mrs. Oliver, "I never knew
her. This is the first time I have been
down to Woodleigh Common."
271
"I see. Well, you wouldn't know much
about what was going on perhaps at that
time, and what was said at that time."
"I've heard a certain amount about it
since I've been down here this time," said
Mrs. Oliver.
"You see, I don't know anything about
the law, and I'm worried always when it's
a question of law. Lawyers, I mean. They
might tangle it up and I wouldn't like to
go to the police. It wouldn't be anything
to do with the police, being a legal matter,
would it?"
"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Oliver,
cautiously.
"You know perhaps what they said at
the time about the codi—I don't know,
some word like codi. Like the fish I
mean."
"A codicil to the Will?" suggested Mrs.
Oliver.
"Yes, that's right. That's what I'm
meaning. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, you
see, made one of these cod—codicils and
she left all her money to the foreign girl
what looked after her. And it was a
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