Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  "And then," said Poirot, "what did you do? It seems to me that you must in some way between you -"

  "Yes. She died, you know. She died within about ten minutes of those last words, and I helped him. I helped him to hide her body. It was a place a little farther along the cliff. We carried her there and there were rocks and boulders and stones, and we covered her body as best we could. There was no path to it, really, or no way. You had to scramble. We put her there. All Alistair said again and again' was - 'I promised her. I must keep my word. I don't know how to do it. I don't know how anyone can save her. I don't know. But -' Well, we did do it. Dolly was in the house. She was frightened, desperate with fright, but at the same time she showed a horrible kind of satisfaction. She said, 'I always knew. I've known for years that Molly was really evil. She took you away from me, Alistair. You belonged to me - but she took you away from me and made you marry her and I always knew one day I should get even with her. I always knew.

  Now I'm frightened. What'll they do to me - what'll they say? I can't be shut up again. I can't, I can't. I shall go mad. You won't let me be shut up. They'll take me away and they'll say I'm guilty of murder. It wasn't murder. I just had to do it. Sometimes I do have to do things. I wanted to see the blood, you know. I couldn't wait to see Molly die, though. I ran away. But I knew she would die. I just hoped you wouldn't find her. She just fell over the cliff. People would say it was an accident.'"

  "It's a horrible story," said Desmond.

  "Yes," said Celia, "it's a horrible story, but it's better to know. It's better to know, isn't it? I can't even feel sorry for her. I mean for my mother. I know she was sweet. I know there was never any trace of evil in her - she was good all through - and I know, I can understand, why my father didn't want to marry Dolly. He wanted to marry my mother because he loved her and he had found out by then that there was something wrong with Dolly. Something bad and twisted. But how - how did you do it all?"

  "We told a good many lies," said Zélie. "We hoped the body would not be found so that later perhaps it might be removed in the night or something like that to somewhere where it could look as though she'd fallen down into the sea. But then we thought of the sleep-walking story. What we had to do was really quite simple. Alistair said, 'It's frightening, you know. But I promised - I swore to Molly when she was dying. I swore I'd do as she asked. There's a way, a possible way to save Dolly, if only Dolly can do her part. I don't know if she's capable of it.' I said, 'Do what?' And Alistair said, 'Pretend she's Molly and that it's Dorothea who walked in her sleep and fell to her death.'

  "We managed it. Took Dolly to an empty cottage we knew of and I stayed with her there for some days. Alistair said Molly had been taken to hospital suffering from shock after the discovery that her sister had fallen over the cliff while walking in her sleep at night. Then we brought Dolly back - brought her back as Molly - wearing Molly's clothes and Molly's wig. I got extra wigs - the kind with curls, which really did disguise her. The dear old housekeeper, Janet, couldn't see very well. Dolly and Molly were really very much alike, you know, and their voices were alike. Everyone accepted quite easily that it was Molly, behaving rather peculiarly now and then because of still suffering from shock. It all seemed quite natural. That was the horrible part of it"

  "But how could she keep it up?" asked Celia. "It must have been dreadfully difficult."

  "No - she did not find it difficult. She had got, you see, what she wanted - what she had always wanted. She had got Alistair -"

  "But Alistair - how could he bear it?"

  "He told me why and how - on the day he had arranged for me to go back to Switzerland. He told me what I had to do and then he told me what he was going to do. "He said: "There is only one thing for me to do. I promised Margaret that I wouldn't hand Dolly over to the police, that it should never be known that she was a murderess, that the children were never to know that they had a murderess for an aunt. No one need ever know that Dolly committed murder. She walked in her sleep and fell over the cliff - a sad accident and she will be buried here in the church, and under her own name.' How can you let that be done?' I asked. I couldn't bear it. "He said: 'Because of what I am going to do - you have got to know about it.'

  "'You see,' he said, 'Dolly has to be stopped from living. If she's near children, she'll take more lives - poor soul; she's not fit to live. But you must understand, Zélie, that because of what I am going to do, I must pay with my own life, too. I shall live here quietly for a few weeks with Dolly playing the part of my wife - and then there will be another tragedy'

  "I didn't understand what he meant. I said, 'Another accident? Sleepwalking again?' And he said, 'No - what will be known to the world is that I and Molly have both committed suicide. I don't suppose the reason will ever be known. They may think it's because she was convinced she had cancer - or that I thought so - all sorts of things may be suggested. But you see - you must help me, Zélie. You are the only person who really loves me and loves Molly and loves the children.

  If Dolly has got to die, I am the only person who must do it. She won't be unhappy or frightened. I shall shoot her and then myself. Her fingerprints will show on the revolver because she handled it not long ago, and mine will be there too. Justice has to be done and I have to be the executioner. The thing I want you to know is that I did - that I still do - love them both. Molly more than my life. Dolly because I pity her so much for what she was born to be.' He said, 'Always remember that" Zélie rose and came towards Celia. "Now you know the truth," she said. "I promised your father that you should never know. I have broken my word. I never meant to reveal it to you or to anyone else. Monsieur Poirot made me feel differently. But - it's such a horrible story"

  "I understand how you felt," said Celia. "Perhaps you were right from your point of view, but I - I am glad to know, because now a great burden seems to have been lifted off me"

  "Because now," said Desmond, "we both know. And it's something we'll never mind about knowing. It was a tragedy. As Monsieur Poirot here has said, it was a real tragedy of two people who loved each other. But they didn't kill each other, because they loved each other. One was murdered and the other executed a murderer for the sake of humanity so that more children shouldn't suffer. One can forgive him if he was wrong, but I don't think it was wrong, really."

  "She was a frightening woman always," said Celia. "Even when I was a child I was frightened of her, but I didn't know why. But I do know why now. I think my father was a brave man to do what he did. He did what my mother asked him to do, begged him to do with her dying breath. He saved her twin sister, whom I think she'd always loved very dearly. I like to think - oh, it seems a silly thing for me to say -" she looked doubtfully at Hercule Poirot. "Perhaps you won't think so. I expect you're a Catholic, but it's what's written on their tombstone. 'In death they were not divided.' It doesn't mean that they died together, but I think they are together. I think they came together afterwards. Two people who loved each other very much, and my poor aunt whom I'll try to feel more kindly about than I ever did - my poor aunt didn't have to suffer for what she couldn't perhaps help herself doing. Mind you," said Celia, suddenly breaking into her ordinary everyday voice, "she wasn't a nice person. You can't help not liking people if they're not nice people. Perhaps she could have been different if she tried, but perhaps she couldn't. And if so, one has to think of her as someone who was very ill - like somebody, for instance, who had plague in a village and they wouldn't let her go out or feed her and she couldn't go among other people because the whole village would have died. Something like that. But I'll try and be sorry for her. And my mother and father - I don't worry about them anymore.

  They loved each other so much, and loved poor, unhappy, hating Dolly."

  "I think, Celia," said Desmond, "we'd better get married now as soon as possible. I can tell you one thing. My mother is never going to hear anything about this. She's not my own mother and she's not a person I can trust with this sort of secret."
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  "Your adopted mother, Desmond," said Poirot, "I have good reason to believe was anxious to come between you and Celia and tried to influence you in the idea that from her mother and father she might have inherited some terrible characteristic. But you know, or you may not know and I see no reason why I should not tell you, you will inherit from the woman who was your real mother and who died not very long ago leaving all her money to you. You will inherit a very large sum when you reach the age of twenty-five."

  "If I marry Celia, of course we shall need the money to live on," said Desmond.

  "I quite understand, I know my adopted mother is very keen on money and I often lend her money even now. She suggested my seeing a lawyer the other day because she said it was very dangerous now that I was over twenty-one, not leaving a will behind me. I suppose she thought she'd get the money. I had thought of probably leaving nearly all the money to her. But of course now Celia and I are getting married I shall leave it to Celia - and I didn't like the way my mother tried to put me against Celia."

  "I think your suspicions are entirely correct," said Poirot. "I dare say she could tell herself that she meant it all for the best, that Celia's origin is something that you ought to know if there is a risk for you to take, but"

  "All right," said Desmond, "but - I know I'm being unkind. After all, she adopted me and brought me up and all the rest of it, and I dare say if there's enough money I can settle some of it on her. Celia and I will have the rest and we're going to be happy together. After all, there are things that'll make us feel sad from time to time, but we shan't worry any more, shall we, Celia?"

  "No," said Celia, "we'll never worry again. I think they were rather splendid people, my mother and father. Mother tried to look after her sister all her life, but I suppose if was a bit too hopeless. You can't stop people from being like they are."

  "Ah, dear children," said Zélie. "Forgive me for calling you children, because you are not. You are a grown man and woman. I know that. I am so pleased to have seen you again and to know I have not done any harm in what I did."

  "You haven't done any harm at all and it's lovely seeing you, dear Zélie." Celia went to her and hugged her.

  "I've always been terribly fond of you," she said.

  "And I was very fond of you, too, when I knew you," said Desmond. "When I lived next door. You had lovely games you played with us."

  The two young people turned.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Oliver," said Desmond. "You've been very kind and you've put in a lot of work. I can see that. Thank you, Monsieur Poirot."

  "Yes, thank you," said Celia. "I'm very grateful."

  They walked away and the others looked after them.

  "Well," said Zélie, "I must leave now."

  She said to Poirot, "What about you? Will you have to tell anyone about this?"

  "There is one person I might tell in confidence. A retired police force officer. He is no longer actively in the Service now. He is completely retired. I think he would not feel it is his duty to interfere with what time has now wiped out. If he was still in active service, it might be different."

  "It's a terrible story," said Mrs. Oliver, "terrible. And all those people I talked to - yes, I can see now, they all remembered something. Something that was useful in showing us what the truth was, although it was difficult to put together. Except for Monsieur Poirot, who can always put things together out of the most extraordinary things. Like wigs and twins."

  Poirot walked across to where Zélie was standing looking out over the view. "You do not blame me," he said, "for coming to you, persuading you to do what you have done?"

  "No. I am glad. You have been right. They are very charming, those two, and they are well suited, I think. They will be happy. We are standing here where two lovers once lived. Where two lovers died, and I don't blame him for what he did. It may have been wrong, I suppose it was wrong, but I can't blame him. I think it was a brave act even if it was a wrong one."

  "You loved him too, did you not?" said Hercule Poirot.

  "Yes. Always. As soon as I came to the house. I loved him dearly. I don't think he knew it. There was never anything, what you call, between us. He trusted me and was fond of me. I loved them both. Both he and Margaret."

  "There is something I would like to ask you. He loved Dolly as well as Molly, didn't he?"

  "Right up to the end. He loved them both. And that's why he was willing to save Dolly. Why Molly wanted him to. Which did he love the best of those sisters? I wonder. That is a thing I shall perhaps never know," said Zélie. "I never did - perhaps I never shall."

  Poirot looked at her for a moment, then turned away. He rejoined Mrs. Oliver. "We will drive back to London. We must return to everyday life, forget tragedies and love affairs."

  "Elephants can remember," said Mrs. Oliver, "but we are human beings, and mercifully human beings can forget."

  Halloween Party

  BY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  To P.G. Wodehouse, whose books and stories have brightened my life for many years. Also to show my pleasure in his having been kind enough to tell me that he enjoys my books.

  Chapter 1

  Mrs Ariadne Oliver had gone with the friend with whom she was staying, Judith Butler, to help with the preparations for a children's party which was to take place that same evening. At the moment it was a scene of chaotic activity. Energetic women came in and out of doors moving chairs, small tables, flower vases, and carrying large quantities of yellow pumpkins which they disposed strategically in selected spots. It was to be a Hallowe'en party for invited guests of an age group between ten and seventeen years old. Mrs Oliver, removing herself from the main group, leant against a vacant background of wall and held up a large yellow pumpkin, looking at it critically.

  "The last time I saw one of these," she said, sweeping back her grey hair from her prominent forehead, "was in the United States last year - hundreds of them, all over the house. I've never seen so many pumpkins. As a matter of fact," she added thoughtfully, "I've never really known the difference between a pumpkin and a vegetable marrow. What's this one?"

  "Sorry, dear," said Mrs Butler, as she fell over her friend's feet.

  Mrs Oliver pressed herself closer against the wall.

  "My fault," she said. "I'm standing about and getting in the way. But it was rather remarkable, seeing so many pumpkins or vegetable marrows, whatever they are. They were everywhere, in the shops, and in people's houses, with candles or night lights inside them or strung up, very interesting really. But it wasn't for a Hallowe'en party, it was Thanksgiving. Now I've always associated pumpkins with Hallowe'en and that's the end of October. Thanksgiving comes much later, doesn't it? Isn't it November, about the third week in November? Anyway, here, Hallowe'en is definitely the 31st of October, isn't it? First Hallowe'en and then, what comes next? All Souls' Day? That's when in Paris you go to cemeteries and put flowers on graves. Not a sad sort of feast. I mean, all the children go too, and enjoy themselves. You go to flower markets first and buy lots and lots of lovely flowers. Flowers never look so lovely as they do in Paris in the market there."

  A lot of busy women were falling over Mrs Oliver occasionally, but they were not listening to her. They were all too busy with what they were doing. They consisted for the most part of mothers, one or two competent spinsters; there were useful teenagers, boys of sixteen and seventeen climbing up ladders or standing on chairs to put decorations, pumpkins or vegetable marrows or brightly coloured witch balls at a suitable elevation; girls from eleven to fifteen hung about in groups and giggled. "And after All Souls' Day and cemeteries," went on Mrs Oliver, lowering her bulk on to the arm of a settee, "you have All Saints' Day. I think I'm right?"

  Nobody responded to this question. Mrs Drake, a handsome middle-aged woman who was giving the party, made a pronouncement. "I'm not calling this a Hallowe'en party, although of course it is one really. I'm calling it the Eleven Plus party. It's that sort of age group. Mostly people who ar
e leaving The Elms and going on to other schools."

  "But that's not very accurate, Rowena, is it?" said Miss Whittaker, resetting her pince-nez on her nose disapprovingly. Miss Whittaker as a local schoolteacher was always firm on accuracy.

  "Because we've abolished the eleven plus some time ago."

  Mrs Oliver rose from the settee apologetically.

  "I haven't been making myself useful. I've just been sitting here saying silly things about pumpkins and vegetable marrows -" And resting my feet, she thought, with a slight pang of conscience, but without sufficient feeling of guilt to say it aloud.

  "Now what can I do next?" she asked, and added, "What lovely apples!" Someone had just brought a large bowl of apples into the room. Mrs Oliver was partial to apples. "Lovely red ones," she added.

  "They're not really very good," said Rowena Drake. "But they look nice and partified. That's for bobbing for apples. They're rather soft apples, so people will be able to get their teeth into them better. Take them into the library, will you, Beatrice? Bobbing for apples always makes a mess with the water slopping over, but that doesn't matter with the library carpet, it's so old. Oh! thank you, Joyce."

  Joyce, a sturdy thirteen-year-old, seized the bowl of apples. Two rolled off it and stopped, as though arrested by a witch's wand, at Mrs Oliver's feet. "You like apples, don't you?" said Joyce. "I read you did, or perhaps I heard it on the telly. You're the one who writes murder stories, aren't you?"

  "Yes," said Mrs Oliver.