‘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 think. 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.
CHAPTER 7
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 Oli ver, ‘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?’
‘How could I have any idea? I shouldn’t have thought there was anyone, anyone living here, I mean. This is such a nice place. And the people living here are such nice people. I suppose it was just someone—some awful man who came in through one of the windows. Perhaps he’d taken drugs or something. He saw the light and that it was a party, so he gate-crashed.’
‘You are quite sure that the assailant was male?’
‘Oh, it must have been.’ Mrs Reynolds sounded shocked. ‘I’m sure it was. It couldn’t have been a woman, could it?’
‘A woman might have been strong enough.’
‘Well, I suppose in a way I know what you mean. You mean women are much more athletic nowadays and all that. But they wouldn’t do a thing like this, I’m sure. Joyce was only a child—thirteen years old.’
‘I don’t want to distress you by staying here too long, Madame, or to ask you difficult questions. That already, I am sure, the police are doing elsewhere, and I don’t want to upset you by dwelling on painful facts. It was just concerning a remark that your daughter made at the party. You were not there yourself, I think?’
‘Well, no, I wasn’t. I haven’t been very well lately and children’s parties can be very tiring. I drove them there, and then later I came back to fetch them. The three children went together, you know. Ann, that’s the older one, she is sixteen, and Leopold who is nearly eleven. What was it Joyce said that you wanted to know about?’
‘Mrs Oliver, who was there, will tell you what your daughter’s words were exactly. She said, I believe, that she had once seen a murder committed.’
‘Joyce? Oh, she couldn’t have said a thing like that. What murder could she possibly have seen committed?’
‘Well, everyone seems to think it was rather unlikely,’ said Poirot. ‘I just wondered if you thought it likely. Did she ever speak to you about such a thing?’
‘Seeing a murder? Joyce?’
‘You must remember,’ said Poirot, ‘that the term murder might have been used by someone of Joyce’s age in a rather loose way. It might have been just a question of somebody being run over by a car, or of children fighting together perhaps and one pushing another into a stream or over a bridge. Something that was not meant seriously, but which had an unfortunate result.’
‘Well, I can’t think of anything like that happening here that Joyce could have seen, and she certainly never said anything about it to me. She must have been joking.’
‘She was very positive,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘She kept on saying that it was true and that she’d seen it.’
‘Did anyone believe her?’ asked Mrs Reynolds.
‘I don’t know,’ said Poirot.
‘I don’t think they did,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘or perhaps they didn’t want to—er—well, encourage her by saying they believed it.’
‘They were inclined to jeer at her and say she was making it all up,’ said Poirot, less kind-hearted than Mrs Oliver.
‘Well, that wasn’t very nice of them,’ said Mrs Reynolds. ‘As though Joyce would tell a lot of lies about things like that.’ She looked flushed and indignant.