Hallowe'en Party

by Agatha Christie

  “What more do you think he’ll be able to tell you?”

  “I want to meet his sister. She has lived here longer than he has. He came here to join her when her husband died. She will know, perhaps, the people here fairly well.”

  “Do you know what you sound like?” said Mrs. Oliver. “A computer. You know. You’re programming yourself. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? I mean you’re feeding all these things into yourself all day and then you’re going to see what comes out.”

  “It is certainly an idea you have there,” said Poirot, with some interest. “Yes, yes, I play the part of the computer. One feeds in the information—”

  “And supposing you come up with all the wrong answers?” said Mrs. Oliver.

  “That would be impossible,” said Hercule Poirot. “Computers do not do that sort of a thing.”

  “They’re not supposed to,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but you’d be surprised at the things that happen sometimes. My last electric light bill, for instance. I know there’s a proverb which says ‘To err is human,’ but a human error is nothing to what a computer can do if it tries. Come on in and meet Mrs. Drake.”

  Mrs. Drake was certainly something, Poirot thought. She was a tall, handsome woman of forty-odd, her golden hair was lightly tinged with grey, her eyes were brilliantly blue, she oozed competence from the fingertips downwards. Any party she had arranged would have been a successful one. In the drawing room a tray of morning coffee with two sugared biscuits was awaiting them.

  Apple Trees, he saw, was a most admirably kept house. It was well furnished, it had carpets of excellent quality, everything was scrupulously polished and cleaned, and the fact that it had hardly any outstanding object of interest in it was not readily noticeable. One would not have expected it. The colours of the curtains and the covers were pleasant but conventional. It could have been let furnished at any moment for a high rent to a desirable tenant, without having to put away any treasures or make any alterations to the arrangement of the furniture.

  Mrs. Drake greeted Mrs. Oliver and Poirot and concealed almost entirely what Poirot could not help suspecting was a feeling of vigorously suppressed annoyance at the position in which she found herself as the hostess at a social occasion at which something as antisocial as murder had occurred. As a prominent member of the community of Woodleigh Common, he suspected that she felt an unhappy sense of having herself in some way proved inadequate. What had occurred should not have occurred. To someone else in someone else’s house—yes. But at a party for children, arranged by her, given by her, organized by her, nothing like this ought to have happened. Somehow or other she ought to have seen to it that it did not happen. And Poirot also had a suspicion that she was seeking round irritably in the back of her mind for a reason. Not so much a reason for murder having taken place, but to find out and pin down some inadequacy on the part of someone who had been helping her and who had by some mismanagement or some lack of perception failed to realize that something like this could happen.

  “Monsieur Poirot,” said Mrs. Drake, in her fine speaking voice, which Poirot thought would come over excellently in a small lecture room or the village hall, “I am so pleased you could come down here. Mrs. Oliver has been telling me how invaluable your help will be to us in this terrible crisis.”

  “Rest assured, Madame, I shall do what I can, but as you no doubt realize from your experience of life, it is going to be a difficult business.”

  “Difficult?” said Mrs. Drake. “Of course it’s going to be difficult. It seems incredible, absolutely incredible, that such an awful thing should have happened. I suppose,” she added, “the police may know something? Inspector Raglan has a very good reputation locally, I believe. Whether or not they ought to call Scotland Yard in, I don’t know. The idea seems to be that this poor child’s death must have had a local significance. I needn’t tell you, Monsieur Poirot—after all, you read the papers as much as I do—that there have been very many sad fatalities with children all over the countryside. They seem to be getting more and more frequent. Mental instability seems to be on the increase, though I must say that mothers and families generally are not looking after their children properly, as they used to do. Children are sent home from school alone, on dark evenings, go alone on dark early mornings. And children, however much you warn them, are unfortunately very foolish when it comes to being offered a lift in a smart-looking car. They believe what they’re told. I suppose one cannot help that.”

  “But what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely different nature.”

  “Oh, I know—I know. That is why I used the term incredible. I still cannot quite believe it,” said Mrs. Drake. “Everything was entirely under control. All the arrangements were made. Everything was going perfectly, all according to plan. It just seems—seems incredible. Personally I consider myself that there must be what I call an outside significance to this. Someone walked into the house—not a difficult thing to do under the circumstances—someone of highly disturbed mentality, I suppose, the kind of people who are let out of mental homes simply because there is no room for them there, as far as I can see. Nowadays, room has to be made for fresh patients all the time. Anyone peeping in through a window could see a children’s party was going on, and this poor wretch—if one can really feel pity for these people, which I really must say I find it very hard to do myself sometimes—enticed this child away somehow and killed her. You can’t think such a thing could happen, but it did happen.”

  “Perhaps you would show me where—”

  “Of course. No more coffee?”

  “I thank you, no.”

  Mrs. Drake got up. “The police seem to think it took place while the Snapdragon was going on. That was taking place in the dining room.”

  She walked across the hall, opened the door and, rather in the manner of someone doing the honours of a stately home to a party of charabanc goers, indicated the large dining table and the heavy velvet curtains.

  “It was dark here, of course, except for the blazing dish. And now—”

  She led them across the hall and opened the door of a small room with armchairs, sporting prints and bookshelves.

  “The library,” said Mrs. Drake, and shivered a little. “The bucket was here. On a plastic sheet, of course—”

  Mrs. Oliver had not accompanied them into the room. She was standing outside in the hall—

  “I can’t come in,” she said to Poirot. “It makes me think of it too much.”

  “There’s nothing to see now,” said Mrs. Drake. “I mean, I’m just showing you where, as you asked.”

  “I suppose,” said Poirot, “there was water—a good deal of water.”

  “There was water in the bucket, of course,” said Mrs. Drake.

  She looked at Poirot as though she thought that he was not quite all there.”

  “And there was water on the sheet. I mean, if the child’s head was pushed under water, there would be a lot of water splashed about.”

  “Oh yes. Even while the bobbing was going on, the bucket had to be filled up once or twice.”

  “So the person who did it? That person also would have got wet, one would think.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so.”

  “That was not specially noticed?”

  “No, no, the Inspector asked me about that. You see, by the end of the evening nearly everyone was a bit dishevelled or damp or floury. There doesn’t seem to be any useful clues there at all. I mean, the police didn’t think so.”

  “No,” said Poirot. “I suppose the only clue was the child herself. I hope you will tell me all you know about her.”

  “About Joyce?”

  Mrs. Drake looked slightly taken aback. It was as though Joyce in her mind had by now retreated so far out of things that she was quite surprised to be reminded of her.

  “The victim is always important,” said Poirot. “The victim, you see, is so often the cause of the crime.”

  “Well, I suppose, yes, I see
what you mean,” said Mrs. Drake, who quite plainly did not. “Shall we come back to the drawing room?”

  “And then you will tell me about Joyce,” said Poirot.

  They settled themselves once more in the drawing room.

  Mrs. Drake was looking uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know really what you expect me to say, Monsieur Poirot,” she said. “Surely all information can be obtained quite easily from the police or from Joyce’s mother. Poor woman, it will be painful for her, no doubt, but—”

  “But what I want,” said Poirot, “is not a mother’s estimate of a dead daughter. It is a clear, unbiased opinion from someone who has a good knowledge of human nature. I should say, Madame, that you yourself have been an active worker in many welfare and social fields here. Nobody, I am sure, could sum up more aptly the character and disposition of someone whom you know.”

  “Well—it is a little difficult. I mean, children of that age—she was thirteen, I think, twelve or thirteen—are very much alike at a certain age.”

  “Ah no, surely not,” said Poirot. “There are very great differences in character, in disposition. Did you like her?”

  Mrs. Drake seemed to find the question embarrassing.

  “Well, of course I—I liked her. I mean, well, I like all children. Most people do.”

  “Ah, there I do not agree with you,” said Poirot. “Some children I consider are most unattractive.”

  “Well, I agree, they’re not brought up very well nowadays. Everything seems left to the school, and of course they lead very permissive lives. Have their own choice of friends and—er—oh, really, Monsieur Poirot.”

  “Was she a nice child or not a nice child?” said Poirot insistently.

  Mrs. Drake looked at him and registered censure.

  “You must realize, Monsieur Poirot, that the poor child is dead.”

  “Dead or alive, it matters. Perhaps if she was a nice child, nobody would have wanted to kill her, but if she was not a nice child, somebody might have wanted to kill her, and did so—”

  “Well, I suppose—Surely it isn’t a question of niceness, is it?”

  “It could be. I also understand that she claimed to have seen a murder committed.”

  “Oh that,” said Mrs. Drake contemptuously.

  “You did not take that statement seriously?”

  “Well, of course I didn’t. It was a very silly thing to say.”

  “How did she come to say it?”

  “Well, I think really they were all rather excited about Mrs. Oliver being here. You are a very famous person, you must remember, dear,” said Mrs. Drake, addressing Mrs. Oliver.

  The word “dear” seemed included in her speech without any accompanying enthusiasm.

  “I don’t suppose the subject would ever have arisen otherwise, but the children were excited by meeting a famous authoress—”

  “So Joyce said that she had seen a murder committed,” said Poirot thoughtfully.

  “Yes, she said something of the kind. I wasn’t really listening.”

  “But you do remember that she said it?”

  “Oh yes, she said it. But I didn’t believe it,” said Mrs. Drake. “Her sister hushed her up at once, very properly.”

  “And she was annoyed about that, was she?”

  “Yes, she went on saying that it was true.”

  “In fact, she boasted about it.”

  “When you put it that way, yes.”

  “It might have been true, I suppose,” said Poirot.

  “Nonsense! I don’t believe it for one minute,” said Mrs. Drake. “It’s the sort of stupid thing Joyce would say.”

  “She was a stupid girl?”

  “Well, she was the kind, I think, who liked to show off,” said Mrs. Drake. “You know, she always wanted to have seen more or done more than other girls.”

  “Not a very lovable character,” said Poirot.

  “No indeed,” said Mrs. Drake. “Really the kind that you have to be shutting up all the time.”

  “What did the other children who were here have to say about it? Were they impressed?”

  “They laughed at her,” said Mrs. Drake. “So, of course, that made her worse.”

  “Well,” said Poirot, as he rose, “I am glad to have your positive assurance on that point.” He bowed politely over her hand. “Goodbye, Madame, thank you so much for allowing me to view the scene of this very unpleasant occurrence. I hope it has not recalled unpleasant memories too definitely to you.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Drake, “it is very painful to recall anything of this kind. I had so hoped our little party would go off well. Indeed, it was going off well and everyone seemed to be enjoying it so much till this terrible thing happened. However, the only thing one can do is to try and forget it all. Of course, it’s very unfortunate that Joyce should have made this silly remark about seeing a murder.”

  “Have you ever had a murder in Woodleigh Common?”

  “Not that I can remember,” said Mrs. Drake firmly.

  “In this age of increased crime that we live in,” said Poirot, “that really seems somewhat unusual, does it not?”

  “Well, I think there was a lorry driver who killed a pal of his—something like that—and a little girl whom they found buried in a gravel pit about fifteen miles from here, but that was years ago. They were both rather sordid and uninteresting crimes. Mainly the result of drink, I think.”

  “In fact, the kind of murder unlikely to have been witnessed by a girl of twelve or thirteen.”

  “Most unlikely, I should say. And I can assure you, Monsieur Poirot, this statement that the girl made was solely in order to impress friends and perhaps interest a famous character.” She looked rather coldly across at Mrs. Oliver.

  “In fact,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s all my fault for being at the party, I suppose.”

  “Oh, of course not, my dear, of course I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Poirot sighed as he departed from the house with Mrs. Oliver by his side.

  “A very unsuitable place for a murder,” he said, as they walked down the path to the gate. “No atmosphere, no haunting sense of tragedy, no character worth murdering, though I couldn’t help thinking that just occasionally someone might feel like murdering Mrs. Drake.”

  “I know what you mean. She can be intensely irritating sometimes. So pleased with herself and so complacent.”

  “What is her husband like?”

  “Oh, she’s a widow. Her husband died a year or two ago. He got polio and had been a cripple for years. He was a banker originally, I think. He was very keen on games and sport and hated having to give all that up and be an invalid.”

  “Yes, indeed.” He reverted to the subject of the child Joyce. “Just tell me this. Did anyone who was listening take this assertion of the child Joyce about murder seriously?”

  “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have thought anyone did.”

  “The other children, for instance?”

  “Well, I was thinking really of them. No, I don’t think they believed what Joyce was saying. They thought she was making up things.”

  “Did you think that, too?”

  “Well, I did really,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Of course,” she added, “Mrs. Drake would like to believe that the murder never really happened, but she can’t very well go as far as that, can she?”

  “I understand that this may be painful for her.”

  “I suppose it is in a way,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I think that by now, you know, she is actually getting quite pleased to talk about it. I don’t think she likes to have to bottle it up all the time.”

  “Do you like her?” asked Poirot. “Do you think she’s a nice woman?”

  “You do ask the most difficult questions. Embarrassing ones,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems the only thing you are interested in is whether people are nice or not. Rowena Drake is the bossy type—likes running things and people. She runs this whole place more or less, I should thi
nk. But runs it very efficiently. It depends if you like bossy women. I don’t much—”

  “What about Joyce’s mother whom we are on our way to see?”

  “She’s quite a nice woman. Rather stupid, I should think. I’m sorry for her. It’s pretty awful to have your daughter murdered, isn’t it? And everyone here thinks it was a sex crime which makes it worse.”

  “But there was no evidence of sexual assault, or so I understand?”

  “No, but people like to think these things happen. It makes it more exciting. You know what people are like.”

  “One thinks one does—but sometimes—well—we do not really know at all.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if my friend Judith Butler was to take you to see Mrs. Reynolds? She knows her quite well, and I’m a stranger to her.”

  “We will do as planned.”

  “The Computer Programme will go on,” murmured Mrs. Oliver rebelliously.

  Seven

  Mrs. Reynolds was a complete contrast to Mrs. Drake. There was no air of poised competence about her, nor indeed was there ever likely to be.

  She was wearing conventional black, had a moist handkerchief clasped in her hand and was clearly prepared to dissolve into tears at any moment.

  “It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said to Mrs. Oliver, “to bring a friend of yours down here to help us.” She put a damp hand into Poirot’s and looked at him doubtfully. “And if he can help in any way I’m sure I’ll be very grateful, though I don’t see what anyone can do. Nothing will bring her back, poor child. It’s awful to think of. How anyone could deliberately kill anyone of that age. If she had only cried out—though I suppose he rammed her head under water straight away and held it there. Oh, I can’t bear to think of it. I really can’t.”

  “Indeed, Madame, I do not want to distress you. Please do not think of it. I only want to ask you a few questions that might help—help, that is, to find your daughter’s murderer. You’ve no idea yourself, I suppose, who it can possibly be?”