Hallowe'en Party

by Agatha Christie

  “And who would you favour, in this case, to remand for a psychiatrist’s report?”

  “You mean of those there at the ‘do’ 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 admit 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.’”

  Ten

  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 headmistress’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 headmistress 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 wa
s 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—grown-ups—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. “What did you think had happened to startle her?”

  “On reflection, afterwards, I thought she had seen something.”

  “You thought she had seen something,” repeated Poirot, thoughtfully. “Such as?”

  “The direction of her eyes, as I have told you, was towards the door of the library. It seems to me possible that she may have seen that door open or the handle turn, or indeed she might have seen something slightly more than that. She might have seen somebody who was opening that door and preparing to come out of it. She may have seen someone she did not expect to see.”

  “Were you looking at the door yourself?”

  “No. I was looking in the opposite direction up the stairs towards Mrs. Drake.”

  “And you think definitely that she saw something that startled her?”

  “Yes. No more than that, perhaps. A door opening. A person, just possibly an unlikely person, emerging. Just sufficient to make her relinquish her grasp on the very heavy vase full of water and flowers, so that she dropped it.”

  “Did you see anyone come out of that door?”

  “No. I was not looking that way. I do not think anyone actually did come out into the hall. Presumably whoever it was drew back into the room.”

  “What did Mrs. Drake do next?”

  “She made a sharp exclamation of vexation, came down the stairs and said to me, ‘Look what I’ve done now! What a mess!’ She kicked some of the broken glass away. I helped her sweep it in a broken pile into a corner. It wasn’t practicable to clear it all up at that moment. The children were beginning to come out of the Snapdragon room. I fetched a glass cloth and mopped her up a bit, and shortly after that the party came to an end.”

  “Mrs. Drake did not say anything about having been startled or make any reference as to what might have startled her?”

  “No. Nothing of the kind.”

  “But you think she was startled.”

  “Possibly, Monsieur Poirot, you think that I am making a rather unnecessary fuss about something of no importance whatever?”

  “No,” said Poirot, “I do not think that at all. I have only met Mrs. Drake once,” he added thoughtfully, “when I went to her house with my friend, Mrs. Oliver, to visit—as one might say, if one wishes to be melodramatic—the scene of the crime. It did not strike me during the brief period I had for observation that Mrs. Drake could be a woman who is easily startled. Do you agree with my view?”

  “Certainly. That is why I, myself, since have wondered.”

  “You asked no special questions at the time?”

  “I had no earthly reason to do so. If your hostess has been unfortunate to drop one of her best glass vases, and it has smashed to smithereens, it is hardly the part of a guest to say ‘What on earth made you do that?’; thereby accusing her of a clumsiness which I can assure you is not one of Mrs. Drake’s characteristics.”

  “And after that, as you have said, the party came to an end. The children and their mothers or friends left, and Joyce could not be found. We know now that Joyce was behind the library door and that Joyce was dead. So who could it have been who was about to come out of the library door, a little while earlier, shall we say, and then hearing voices in the hall shut the door again and made an exit later when there were people milling about in the hall making their farewells, putting on their coats and all the rest of it? It was not until after the body had been found, I presume, Miss Whittaker, that you had time to reflect on what you had seen?�
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  “That is so.” Miss Whittaker rose to her feet. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else that I can tell you. Even this may be a very foolish little matter.”

  “But noticeable. Everything noticeable is worth remembering. By the way, there is one question I should like to ask you. Two, as a matter of fact.”

  Elizabeth Whittaker sat down again. “Go on,” she said, “ask anything you like.”

  “Can you remember exactly the order in which the various events occurred at the party?”

  “I think so.” Elizabeth Whittaker reflected for a moment or two. “It started with a broomstick competition. Decorated broomsticks. There were three or four different small prizes for that. Then there was a kind of contest with balloons, punching them and batting them about. A sort of mild horseplay to get the children warmed up. There was a looking glass business where the girls went into a small room and held a mirror where a boy’s or young man’s face reflected in it.”

  “How was that managed?”

  “Oh, very simply. The transom of the door had been removed, and so different faces looked through and were reflected in the mirror a girl was holding.”

  “Did the girls know who it was they saw reflected in the glass?”

  “I presume some of them did and some of them didn’t. A little makeup was employed on the male half of the arrangement. You know, a mask or a wig, sideburns, a beard, some greasepaint effects. Most of the boys were probably known to the girls already and one or two strangers might have been included. Anyway, there was a lot of quite happy giggling,” said Miss Whittaker, showing for a moment or two a kind of academic contempt for this kind of fun. “After that there was an obstacle race and then there was flour packed into a glass tumbler and reversed, sixpence laid on top and everyone took a slice off. When the flour collapsed that person was out of the competition and the others remained until the last one claimed the sixpence. After that there was dancing, and then there was supper. After that, as a final climax, came the Snapdragon.”