Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  "You have checked it carefully?"

  "Yes, I've checked and re-checked, but it's been quite a job. Here are the eighteen names." List of people present during preparation for Hallowe'en Party Mrs Drake (owner of house)

  Mrs Butler

  Mrs Oliver

  Miss Whittaker (schoolteacher)

  Rev. Charles Cotterell (Vicar)

  Simon Lampton (Curate)

  Miss Lee (Dr Ferguson's dispenser)

  Ann Reynolds

  Joyce Reynolds

  Leopold Reynolds

  Nicholas Ransom

  Desmond Holland

  Beatrice Ardley

  Cathie Grant

  Diana Brent

  Mrs Garlton (household help)

  Mrs Minden (cleaning woman)

  Mrs Goodbody (helper)

  "You are sure these are all?"

  "No," said Spence. "I'm not sure. I can't really be sure. Nobody can. You see, odd people brought things. Somebody brought some coloured light bulbs. Somebody else supplied some mirrors. There were some extra plates. Someone lent a plastic pail. People brought things, exchanged a word or two and went away again. They didn't remain to help. Therefore such a person could have been overlooked and not remembered as being present. But that somebody, even if they had only just deposited a bucket in the hall, could have overheard what Joyce was saying in the sitting-room. She was shouting, you know. We can't really limit it to this list, but it's the best we can do. Here you are. Take a look at it. I've made a brief descriptive note against the names."

  "I thank you. Just one question. You must have interrogated some of these people, those for instance who were also at the party. Did anyone, anyone at all, mention what Joyce had said about seeing a murder?"

  "I think not. There is no record of it officially. The first I heard of it is what you told me."

  "Interesting," said Poirot. "One might also say remarkable."

  "Obviously no one took it seriously," said Spence.

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "I must go now to keep my appointment with Dr Ferguson, after his surgery," he said.

  He folded up Spence's list and put it in his pocket.

  Chapter 9

  Dr Ferguson was a man of sixty, of Scottish extraction with a brusque manner. He looked Poirot up and down, with shrewd eyes under bristling eyebrows, and said: "Well, what's all this about? Sit down. Mind that chair leg. The castor's loose."

  "I should perhaps explain," said Poirot.

  "You needn't explain," said Dr Ferguson. "Everybody knows everything in a place like this. That authoress woman brought you down here as God's greatest detective to puzzle police officers. That's more or less right, isn't it?"

  "In part," said Poirot. "I came here to visit an old friend, ex-Superintendent Spence, who lives with his sister here."

  "Spence? Hm. Good type, Spence. Bull-dog breed. Good honest police officer of the old type. No graft. No violence. Not stupid either. Straight as a die."

  "You appraise him correctly."

  "Well," said Ferguson, "what did you tell him and what did he tell you?"

  "Both he and Inspector Raglan have been exceedingly kind to me. I hope you will likewise."

  "I've nothing to be kind about," said Ferguson. "I don't know what happened. Child gets her head shoved in a bucket and is drowned in the middle of a party. Nasty business. Mind you, doing in a child isn't anything to be startled about nowadays. I've been called out to look at too many murdered children in the last seven to ten years - far too many. A lot of people who ought to be under mental restraint aren't under mental restraint. No room in the asylums. They go about, nicely spoken, nicely got up and looking like everybody else, looking for somebody they can do in. And enjoy themselves. Don't usually do it at a party, though. Too much chance of getting caught, I suppose, but novelty appeals even to a mentally disturbed killer."

  "Have you any idea who killed her?"

  "Do you really suppose that's a question I can answer just like that? I'd have to have some evidence, wouldn't I? I'd have to be sure."

  "You could guess," said Poirot.

  "Anyone can guess. If I'm called in to a case I have to guess whether the chap's going to have measles or whether it's a case of an allergy to shell-fish or to feather pillows. I have to ask questions to find out what they've been eating, or drinking, or sleeping on, or what other children they've been meeting. Whether they've been in a crowded bus with Mrs Smith's or Mrs Robinson's children who've all got the measles, and a few other things. Then I advance a tentative opinion as to which it is of the various possibilities, and that, let me tell you, is what's called diagnosis. You don't do it in a hurry and you make sure."

  "Did you know this child?"

  "Of course. She was one of my patients. There are two of us here. Myself and Worrall. I happen to be the Reynolds' doctor. She was quite a healthy child, Joyce. Had the usual small childish ailments. Nothing peculiar or out of the way. Ate too much, talked too much. Talking too much hadn't done her any harm. Eating too much gave her what used to be called in the old days a bilious attack from time to time. She'd had mumps and chicken pox. Nothing else."

  "But she had perhaps talked too much on one occasion, as you suggest she might be liable to do."

  "So that's the tack you're on? I heard some rumour of that. On the lines of 'what the butler saw' - only tragedy instead of comedy. Is that it?"

  "It could form a motive, a reason."

  "Oh yes. Grant you that. But there are other reasons. Mentally disturbed seems the usual answer nowadays. At any rate, it does always in the Magistrates' courts. Nobody gained by her death, nobody hated her. But it seems to me with children nowadays you don't need to look for the reason. The reason's in another place. The reason's in the killer's mind. His disturbed mind or his evil mind or his kinky mind. Any kind of mind you like to call it. I'm not a psychiatrist. There are times when I get tired of hearing those words: 'Remanded for a psychiatrist's report,' after a lad has broken in somewhere, smashed the looking-glasses, pinched bottles of whisky, stolen the silver and knocked an old woman on the head. Doesn't much matter what it is now. Remand them for the psychiatrists report." "And who would you favour, in this case, to remand for a psychiatrist's report?"

  "You mean of those there at the party the other night?"

  "Yes."

  "The murderer would have had to be there, wouldn't he? Otherwise there wouldn't have been a murder. Right? He was among the guests, he was among the helpers or he walked in through the window with malice aforethought. Probably he knew the fastenings of that house. Might have been in there before, looking round. Take your man or boy. He wants to kill someone. Not at all unusual. Over in Medchester we had a case of that. Came to light after about six or seven years. Boy of thirteen. Wanted to kill someone, so he killed a child of nine, pinched a car, drove it seven or eight miles into a copse, burned her there, went away, and as far as we know led a blameless life until he was twenty-one or two. Mind you, we have only his word for that, he may have gone on doing it. Probably did. Found he liked killing people. Don't suppose he's killed too many, or some police force would have been on to him before now. But every now and then he felt the urge. Psychiatrist's report. Committed murder while mentally disturbed. I'm trying to say myself that that's what happened here. That sort of thing, anyway. I'm not a psychiatrist myself, thank goodness. I have a few psychiatrist friends. Some of them are sensible chaps. Some of them - well, I'll go as far as saying they ought to be remanded for a psychiatrist's report themselves. This chap who killed Joyce probably had nice parents, ordinary manners, good appearance. Nobody'd dream anything was wrong with him. Ever had a bite at a nice red juicy apple and there, down by the core, something rather nasty rears itself up and wags its head at you? Plenty of human beings about like that. More than there used to be I'd say nowadays." "And you've no suspicion of your own?"

  "I can't stick my neck out and diagnose a murderer without some evidence."

  "Still, you ad
mit it must have been someone at the party. You cannot have a murder without a murderer."

  "You can easily in some detective stories that are written. Probably your pet authoress writes them like that. But in this case I agree. The murderer must have been there. A guest, a domestic help, someone who walked in through the window. Easily done if he'd studied the catch of the window beforehand. It might have struck some crazy brain that it would be a novel idea and a bit of fun to have a murder at a Hallowe'en party. That's all you've got to start off with, isn't it? Just someone who was at the party." Under bushy brows a pair of eyes twinkled at Poirot. "I was there myself," he said. "Came in late, just to see what was doing." He nodded his head vigorously. "Yes, that's the problem, isn't it? Like a social announcement in the papers: "Amongst those present was 'A Murderer'?"

  Chapter 10

  Poirot looked up at The Elms and approved of it. He was admitted and taken promptly by what he judged to be a secretary to the head-mistress's study. Miss Emlyn rose from her desk to greet him.

  "I am delighted to meet you, Mr Poirot. I've heard about you."

  "You are too kind," said Poirot.

  "From a very old friend of mine, Miss Bulstrode. Former head-mistress of Meadowbank. You remember Miss Bulstrode, perhaps?"

  "One would not be likely to forget her. A great personality."

  "Yes," said Miss Emlyn. "She made Meadowbank the school it is." She sighed slightly and said, "It has changed a little nowadays. Different aims, different methods, but it still holds its own as a school of distinction, of progress, and also of tradition. Ah well, we must not live too much in the past. You have come to see me, no doubt, about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don't know if you have any particular interest in her case. It's out of your usual run of things, I imagine. You knew her personally, or her family perhaps?"

  "No," said Poirot. "I came at the request of an old friend, Mrs Ariadne Oliver, who was staying down here and was present at the party."

  "She writes delightful books," said Miss Emlyn. "I have met her once or twice. Well, that makes the whole thing easier, I think, to discuss. So long as no personal feelings are involved, one can go straight ahead. It was a horrifying thing to happen. If I may say so, it was an unlikely thing to happen. The children involved seem neither old enough nor young enough for it to fall into any special class. A psychological crime is indicated. Do you agree?"

  "No," said Poirot. "I think it was a murder, like most murders, committed for a motive, possibly a sordid one."

  "Indeed. And the reason?"

  "The reason was a remark made by Joyce; not actually at the party, I understand, but earlier in the day when preparations were being made by some of the older children and other helpers. She announced that she had once seen a murder committed."

  "Was she believed?"

  "On the whole, I think she was not believed."

  "That seems the most likely response. Joyce - I speak plainly to you, Monsieur Poirot, because we do not want unnecessary sentiment to cloud mental faculties - she was a rather mediocre child, neither stupid nor particularly intellectual. She was, quite frankly, a compulsive liar. And by that I do not mean that she was specially deceitful. She was not trying to avoid retribution or to avoid being found out in some peccadillo. She boasted. She boasted of things that had not happened, but that would impress her friends who were listening to her. As a result, of course, they inclined not to believe the tall stories she told."

  "You think that she boasted of having seen a murder committed in order to make herself important, to intrigue someone -?"

  "Yes. And I would suggest that Ariadne Oliver was doubtless the person whom she wanted to impress..."

  "So you don't think Joyce saw a murder committed at all?"

  "I should doubt it very much."

  "You are of the opinion that she made the whole thing up?"

  "I would not say that. She did witness, perhaps, a car accident, or someone perhaps who was hit with a ball on the golf links and injured - something that she could work up into an impressive happening that might, just conceivably, pass as an attempted murder."

  "So the only assumption we can make with any certainty is that there was a murderer present at the Hallowe'en party."

  "Certainly," said Miss Emlyn, without turning a grey hair. "Certainly. That follows on logically, does it not?"

  "Would you have any idea who that murderer might be?"

  "That is certainly a sensible question," said Miss Emlyn. "After all, the majority of the children at the party were aged between nine and fifteen, and I suppose nearly all of them had been or were pupils at my school. I ought to know something about them. Something, too, about their families and their backgrounds."

  "I believe that one of your own teachers, a year or two ago, was strangled by an unknown killer."

  "You are referring to Janet White? About twenty-four years of age. An emotional girl. As far as is known, she was out walking alone. She may, of course, have arranged to meet some young man. She was a girl who was quite attractive to men in a modest sort of way. Her killer has not been discovered. The police questioned various young men or asked them to assist them in their inquiries, as the technique goes, but they were not able to find sufficient evidence to bring a case against anyone. An unsatisfactory business from their point of view. And, I may say, from mine."

  "You and I have a principle in common. We do not approve of murder."

  Miss Emlyn looked at him for a moment or two. Her expression did not change, but Poirot had an idea that he was being sized up with a great deal of care.

  "I like the way you put it," she said. "From what you read and hear nowadays, it seems that murder under certain aspects is slowly but surely being made acceptable to a large section of the community."

  She was silent for a few minutes, and Poirot also did not speak. She was, he thought, considering a plan of action. She rose and touched a bell. "I think," she said, "that you had better talk to Miss Whittaker." Some five minutes passed after Miss Emlyn had left the room and then the door opened and a woman of about forty entered. She had russet-coloured hair, cut short, and came in with a brisk step.

  "Monsieur Poirot?" she said. "Can I help you? Miss Emlyn seems to think that that might be so."

  "If Miss Emlyn thinks so, then it is almost a certainty that you can. I would take her word for it."

  "You know her?"

  "I have only met her this afternoon."

  "But you have made up your mind quickly about her."

  "I hope you are going to tell me that I am right."

  Elizabeth Whittaker gave a short, quick sigh. "Oh yes, you're right. I presume that this is about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don't know exactly how you come into it. Through the police?" She shook her head slightly in a dissatisfied manner. "No, not through the police. Privately, through a friend." She took a chair, pushing it back a little so as to face him. "Yes. What do you want to know?"

  "I don't think there is any need to tell you. No need to waste time asking questions that may be of no importance. Something happened that evening at the party which perhaps it is well that I should know about. Is that it?"

  "Yes."

  "You were at the party?"

  "I was at the party." She reflected a minute or two. "It was a very good party. Well run. Well arranged. About thirty-odd people were there, that is, counting helpers of different kinds. Children - teenagers - grownups - and a few cleaning and domestic helpers in the background."

  "Did you take part in the arrangements which were made, I believe, earlier that afternoon or that morning?"

  "There was nothing really to do. Mrs Drake was fully competent to deal with all the various preparations with a small number of people to help her. It was more domestic preparations that were needed."

  "I see. But you came to the party as one of the guests?"

  "That is right."

  "And what happened?"

  "The progress of the party, I have no doubt, you already
know. You want to know if there is anything I can tell you that I specially noticed or that I thought might have a certain significance? I don't want to waste your time unduly, you understand."

  "I am sure you will not waste my time. Yes, Miss Whittaker, tell me quite simply."

  "The various events happened in the way already arranged for. The last event was what was really more a Christmas festivity or associated with Christmas, than it would be with Hallowe'en. The Snapdragon, a burning dish of raisins with brandy poured over them, and those round snatch at the raisins - there are squeals of laughter and excitement. It became very hot, though, in the room, with the burning dish, and I left it and came out in the hall. It was then, as I stood there, that I saw Mrs Drake coming out of the lavatory on the first floor landing. She was carrying a large vase of mixed autumn leaves and flowers. She stood at the angle of the staircase, pausing for a moment before coming downstairs. She was looking down over the well of the staircase. Not in my direction. She was looking towards the other end of the hall where there is a door leading into the library. It is set just across the hall from the door into the dining-room. As I say, she was looking that way and pausing for a moment before coming downstairs. She was shifting slightly the angle of the vase as it was a rather awkward thing to carry, and weighty if it was, as I presumed, full of water. She was shifting the position of it rather carefully so that she could hold it to her with one arm, and put out the other arm to the rail of the staircase as she came round the slightly shaped corner stairway. She stood there for a moment or two, still not looking at what she was carrying, but towards the hall below. And suddenly she made a sudden movement - a start I would describe it as - yes, definitely something had startled her. So much so that she relinquished her hold of the vase and it fell, reversing itself as it did so - so that the water streamed over her and the vase itself crashed down to the hall below, where it broke in smithereens on the hall floor."

  "I see," said Poirot. He paused a minute or two, watching her. Her eyes, he noticed, were shrewd and knowledgeable. They were asking now his opinion of what she was telling him.