everything, and enforcing her decisions on
others.
"You've heard, haven't you?" she
asked. "Oh well, perhaps you haven't."
"What should I have heard?"
330
"Something dreadful. He's—he's dead.
Somebody killed him."
"Who is dead, Madame?"
"Then you haven't really heard. And
he's only a child, too, and I thought—oh,
what a fool I've been. I should have told
you. I should have told you when you
asked me. It makes me feel terrible—
terribly guilty for thinking I knew best and
thinking—but I did mean if for the best,
Monsieur Poirot, indeed I did."
"Sit down, Madame, sit down. Calm
yourself and tell me. There is a child dead
—another child?"
"Her brother," said Mrs. Drake.
"Leopold."
"Leopold Reynolds?"
"Yes. They found his body on one of
the field paths. He must have been coming
back from school and gone out of his way
to play in the brook near there. Somebody
held him down in the brook—held his
head under water."
"The same kind of thing as they did to
the child Joyce?"
"Yes, yes. I can see it must be—it must
be madness of some kind. And one doesn't
know who, that's what's so awful. One
331
hasn't the least idea. And I thought I
knew. I really thought—I suppose, yes, it
was a very wicked thing."
"You must tell me, Madame."
"Yes, I want to tell you. I came here to
tell you. Because, you see, you came to me
after you'd talked to Elizabeth Whittaker.
After she'd told you that something had
startled me. That I'd seen something.
Something in the hall of the house, my
house. I said that I hadn't seen anything
and that nothing had startled me because,
you see, I thought—" she stopped.
"What did you see?"
"I ought to have told you then. I saw
the door of the library open, open rather
carefully and—then he came out. At least,
he didn't come right out. He just stood in
the doorway and then pulled the door back
quickly and went back inside."
"Who was this?"
"Leopold. Leopold, the child that's
been killed now. And you see, I thought
I—oh, what a mistake, what an awful
mistake. If I'd told you, perhaps—perhaps
you'd have got at what was behind it."
"You thought?" Poirot said. "You
332
thought that Leopold had killed his sister.
Is that what you thought?"
"Yes, that's what I thought. Not then, of course, because I didn't know she was
dead. But he had a queer look on his face.
He's always been a queer child. In a way
you're a little afraid of him because you
feel he's not--not quite right. Very clever
and a high IQ, but all the same not all
there.
"And I thought 'Why is Leopold
coming out of there instead of being at the
Snapdragon?' and I thought 'What's he
been doing--he looks so queer?' And
then, well then I didn't think of it again
after that, but I suppose, the way he
looked upset me. And that's why I
dropped the vase. Elizabeth helped me to
pick up the glass pieces, and I went back
to the Snapdragon and I didn't think of it
again. Until we found Joyce. And that's
when I thought--"
"You thought that Leopold had done
it."
"Yes. Yes, I did think that. I thought it
explained the way he'd looked. I thought
I knew. I always think--I've thought too
much all my life that I know things, that
333 »,. i,
I'm right about things. And I can be very
wrong. Because, you see, his being killed
must mean something quite different. He
must have gone in there, and he must have
found her there—dead—and it gave him
a terrible shock and he was frightened.
And so he wanted to come out of the room
without anyone seeing him and I suppose
he looked up and saw me and he got back
into the room and shut the door and
waited until the hall was empty before
coming out. But not because he'd killed
her. No. Just the shock of finding her
dead."
"And yet you said nothing? You didn't
mention who it was you'd seen, even after
the death was discovered?"
"No. I—oh, I couldn't. He's—you see,
he's so young—was so young, I suppose I
ought to say now. Ten. Ten—eleven at
most and I mean—I felt he couldn't have
known what he was doing, it couldn't have
been his fault exactly. He must have been
morally not responsible. He's always been
rather queer, and I thought one could get
treatment for him. Not leave it all to the
police. Not send him to approved places. I
thought one could get special psychological
334
treatment for him, if necessary. I--I
meant well. You must believe that, I
meant well."
Such sad words, Poirot thought, some
of the saddest words in the world. Mrs.
Drake seemed to know what he was
thinking.
"Yes," she said, <<
knows what is best to do for other people,
but one doesn't. Because, you see, the
reason he looked so taken aback must have
been that he either saw who the murderer
was, or saw something that would give a
clue to who the murderer might be. Something
that made the murderer feel that he
himself wasn't safe. And so--and so he's
waited until he got the boy alone and then
drowned him in the brook so that he
shouldn't speak, so that he shouldn't tell.
If I'd only spoken out, if I'd told you, or
told the police, or told someone, but I
thought I knew best."
"Only to-day," said Poirot, after he had
sat silent for a moment or two, watching
Mrs. Drake where she sat controlling her
sobs, "I was told that Leopold had been ^ry flush of money lately. Somebody
335
must have been paying him to keep
silent."
"But who—who?"
"We shall find out," said Poirot. "It will
not be long now."
336
22
IT was not very characteristic of
Hercule Poirot to ask the opinions of
others. He was usually quite satisfied
with his own opinions. Nevertheless, there
were times when he made exceptions. This
was one of them. He and Spence had had a
brief conversation together and then Poirot
had got in touch with a car hire service,
and after another short conversation with
his friend and with Inspector Raglan, he
drove off. He had
arranged with the car to
drive him back to London but he had
made one halt on the way there. He drove
to The Elms. He told the driver of the car
that he would not be long--a quarter of
an hour at most--and then he sought audience
with Miss Emiyn.
"I am sorry to disturb you at this hour.
It is no doubt the hour of your supper or
dinner."
"Well, I do you at least the compliment, Monsieur Poirot, to think you would not
disturb me at either supper or dinner
I 337
I I
L I
unless you have a valid reason for so
doing."
"You are very kind. To be frank, I want
your advice."
"Indeed?"
Miss Ernlyn looked slightly surprised.
She looked more than surprised, she
looked sceptical.
"That does not seem very characteristic
of you. Monsieur Poirot. Are you not
usually satisfied with your own opinions?"
"Yes, I am satisfied with my own
opinions, but it would give me solace and
support if someone whose opinion I
respected agreed with them."
She did not speak, merely looked at him
inquiringly.
"I know the killer of Joyce Reynolds,"
he said. "It is my belief that you know it
also."
"I have not said so," said Miss Emiyn."
"No. You have not said so. And that
might lead me to believe that it is on your
part an opinion only."
"A hunch?" inquired Miss Emiyn, and
her tone was colder than ever.
"I would prefer not to use that word. I
338
would prefer to say that you had a definite
opinion."
"Very well then. I will admit that I have
a definite opinion. That does not mean that
I shall repeat to you what my opinion is."
"What I should like to do. Mademoiselle, is to write down four words on
a piece of paper. I will ask you if you agree
with the four words I have written."
Miss Ernlyn rose. She crossed the room
to her desk, took a piece of writing paper
and came across to Poirot with it.
"You interest me," she said. "Four
words."
Poirot had taken a pen from his pocket.
He wrote on the paper, folded it and
handed it to her. She took it, straightened
out the paper and held it in her hand, looking at it.
"Well?" said Poirot.
"As to two of the words on that paper, I agree, yes. The other two, that is more
difficult. I have no evidence and, indeed, the idea had not entered my head."
"But in the case of the first two words,
you have definite evidence?"
"I consider so, yes."
^Water," said Poirot, thoughtfully. "As
339
soon as you heard that, you knew. As soon
as I heard that I knew. You are sure, and
I am sure. And now," said Poirot, "a boy
has been drowned in a brook. You have
heard that?"
"Yes. Someone rang me up on the telephone
and told me. Joyce's brother. How
was he concerned?"
"He wanted money," said Poirot. "He
got it. And so, at a suitable opportunity,
he was drowned in a brook."
His voice did not change. It had, if
anything, not a softened, but a harsher
note.
"The person who told me," he said,
"was riddled with compassion. Upset
emotionally. But I am not like that. He
was young, this second child who died, but his death was not an accident. It was, as so many things are in life, a result of
his actions. He wanted money and he took
a risk. He was clever enough, astute
enough to know he was taking a risk, but
he wanted the money. He was ten years
old but cause and effect is much the same
at that age as it would be at thirty or fifty
or ninety. Do you know what I think of
first in such a case?"
340
"I should say," said Miss Ernlyn, "that
you are more concerned with justice than
with compassion."
"Compassion," said Poirot, "on my part
would do nothing to help Leopold. He is
beyond help. Justice, if we obtain justice,
you and I, for I think you are of my way
of thinking over this—justice, one could
say, will also not help Leopold. But it
might help some other Leopold, it might
help to keep some other child alive, if we
can reach justice soon enough. It is not a
safe thing, a killer who has killed more
than once, to whom killing has appealed
as a way of security. I am now on my way
to London where I am meeting with
certain people to discuss a way of
approach. To convert them, perhaps, to
my own certainty in this case."
"You may find that difficult," said Miss
Ernlyn.
"No, I do not think so. The ways and
means to it may be difficult but I think I
can convert them to my knowledge of what
has happened. Because they have minds
that understand the criminal mind. There
•
is one thing more I would ask you. I want
your opinion. Your opinion only this time,
341
not evidence. Your opinion of the
character of Nicholas Ransom and
Desmond Holland. Would you advise me
to trust them?"
"I should say that both of them were
thoroughly trustworthy. That is my
opinion. They are in many ways extremely
foolish, but that is only in the ephemeral
things of life. Fundamentally, they are
sound. Sound as an apple without maggots
• • ••
in it."
"One always comes back to apples,"
said Hercule Poirot sadly. "I must go now.
My car is waiting. I have one more call
still to pay."
342
23
"^T" TAVE you heard what's on at
| | Quarry Wood?" said Mrs. ^K. ^Cartwright, putting a packet of
Fluffy Flakelets and Wonder White into
her shopping bag.
"Quarry Wood?" said Elspeth McKay,
to whom she was talking. "No, I haven't
heard anything particular." She selected a
packet of cereal. The two women were in
the recently opened supermarket making
their morning purchases.
"They're saying the trees are dangerous
there. Couple of forestrymen arrived this
morning. It's there on the side of the hill
where there's a steep slope and a tree
leaning sideways. Could be, I suppose, that a tree could come down there. One of
them was struck by lightning last winter
but that was farther over, I think. Anyway, they're digging round the roots of
the trees a bit, and a bit farther down too. Pity. They'll make an awful mess of the
place."
343
"Oh well," said Elspeth McKay, "I
suppose they know what they're doing.
Somebody's called them in, I s
uppose."
"They've got a couple of the police
there, too, seeing that people don't come
near. Making sure they keep away from
things. They say something about finding
out which the diseased trees are first."
"I see," said Elspeth McKay.
Possibly she did. Not that anyone had
told her but then Elspeth never needed
telling.
Ariadne Oliver smoothed out a telegram
she had just taken as delivered to her at
the door. She was so used to getting telegrams
through the telephone, making frenzied
hunts for a pencil to take them down, insisting firmly that she wanted a confirmatory
copy sent to her, that she was
quite startled to receive what she called to
herself a "real telegram" again.
"PLEASE BRING MRS. BUTLER
AND MIRANDA TO YOUR FLAT
AT ONCE. NO TIME TO LOSE.
IMPORTANT SEE DOCTOR FOR
OPERATION."
344
She went into the kitchen where Judith
Butler was making quince jelly.
"Judy," said Mrs. Oliver, "go and pack
a few things. I'm going back to London
and you're coming with me, and Miranda,
too."
"It's very nice of you, Ariadne, but I've
got a lot of things on here. Anyway, you
needn't rush away to-day, need you?"
"Yes, I need to, I've been told to," said
Mrs. Oliver.
"Who's told you—your housekeeper?"
"No," said Mrs. Oliver. "Somebody
else. One of the few people I obey. Come
on. Hurry up."
"I don't want to leave home just now. I
can't."
"You've got to come," said Mrs. Oliver.
"The car is ready. I brought it round to
the front door. We can go at once."
"I don't think I want to take Miranda.
I could leave her here with someone, with
the Reynolds or Rowena Drake."
"Miranda's coming, too," Mrs. Oliver
interrupted definitely. "Don't make
difficulties, Judy. This is serious. I don't
see how you can even consider leaving her
Hpa 345
with the Reynolds. Two of the Reynolds
children have been killed, haven't they?"
"Yes, yes, that's true enough. You think
there's something wrong with that house.
I mean there's someone there who--oh, what do I mean?"
"We're talking too much," said Mrs.
Oliver. "Anyway," she said, "if anyone is
going to be killed, it seems to me that
probably the most likely one would be Arm Reynolds."
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