Hallowe'en Party (14 page)

“Listen,” Mr. Fullerton had said, and he had spoken then with authority, “I am sorry for you. I will recommend you to a lawyer who will do his best for you. You can't hope to disappear. You are talking like a child.”

“I have got enough money. I have saved money.” And then she had said, “You have tried to be kind. Yes, I believe that. But
you will not do anything because it is all the law—the law. But someone will help me. Someone will. And I shall get away where nobody will ever find me.”

Nobody, Mr. Fullerton thought, had found her. He wondered—yes; he wondered very much—where she was or could be now.

I

A
dmitted to Apple Trees, Hercule Poirot was shown into the drawing room and told that Mrs. Drake would not be long.

In passing through the hall he heard the hum of female voices behind what he took to be the dining room door.

Poirot crossed to the drawing room window and surveyed the neat and pleasant garden. Well laid out, kept studiously in control. Rampant autumn michaelmas daisies still survived, tied up severely to sticks; chrysanthemums had not yet relinquished life. There were still a persistent rose or two scorning the approach of winter.

Poirot could discern no sign as yet of the preliminary activities of a landscape gardener. All was care and convention. He wondered if Mrs. Drake had been one too many for Michael Garfield. He had spread his lures in vain. It showed every sign of remaining a splendidly kept suburban garden.

The door opened.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Monsieur Poirot,” said Mrs. Drake.

Outside in the hall there was a diminishing hum of voices as various people took their leave and departed.

“It's our church Christmas fête,” explained Mrs. Drake. “A Committee Meeting for arrangements for it and all the rest of it. These things always go on much longer than they ought to, of course. Somebody always objects to something, or has a good idea—the good idea usually being a perfectly impossible one.”

There was a slight acerbity in her tone. Poirot could well imagine that Rowena Drake would put things down as quite absurd, firmly and definitely. He could understand well enough from remarks he had heard from Spence's sister, from hints of what other people had said and from various other sources, that Rowena Drake was that dominant type of personality whom everyone expects to run the show, and whom nobody has much affection for while she is doing it. He could imagine, too, that her conscientiousness had not been the kind to be appreciated by an elderly relative who was herself of the same type. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, he gathered, had come here to live so as to be near to her nephew and his wife, and that the wife had readily undertaken the supervision and care of her husband's aunt as far as she could do so without actually living in the house. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had probably acknowledged in her own mind that she owed a great deal to Rowena, and had at the same time resented what she had no doubt thought of as her bossy ways.

“Well, they've all gone now,” said Rowena Drake, hearing the final shutting of the hall door. “Now what can I do for you? Something more about that dreadful party? I wish I'd never had it here.
But no other house really seemed suitable. Is Mrs. Oliver still staying with Judith Butler?”

“Yes. She is, I believe, returning to London in a day or two. You had not met her before?”

“No. I love her books.”

“She is, I believe, considered a very good writer,” said Poirot.

“Oh well, she
is
a good writer. No doubt of that. She's a very amusing person too. Has she any ideas herself—I mean about who might have done this dreadful thing?”

“I think not. And you, Madame?”

“I've told you already. I've no idea whatever.”

“You would perhaps say so, and yet—you might, might you not, have, perhaps, what amounts to a very good idea, but only an idea. A half-formed idea. A
possible
idea.”

“Why should you think that?”

She looked at him curiously.

“You might have seen something—something quite small and unimportant but which on reflection might seem more significant to you, perhaps, than it had done at first.”

“You must have something in your mind, Monsieur Poirot, some definite incident.”

“Well, I admit it. It is because of what someone said to me.”

“Indeed! And who was that?”

“A Miss Whittaker. A schoolteacher.”

“Oh yes, of course. Elizabeth Whittaker. She's the mathematics mistress, isn't she, at The Elms? She
was
at the party, I remember. Did she see something?”

“It was not so much that she saw something as she had the idea that
you
might have seen something.”

Mrs. Drake looked surprised and shook her head.

“I can't think of anything I can possibly have seen,” said Rowena Drake, “but one never knows.”

“It had to do with a vase,” said Poirot. “A vase of flowers.”

“A vase of flowers?” Rowena Drake looked puzzled. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, of course, I know. Yes, there was a big vase of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums on the table in the angle of the stairs. A very nice glass vase. One of my wedding presents. The leaves seemed to be drooping and so did one or two of the flowers. I remember noticing it as I passed through the hall—it was near the end of the party, I think, by then, but I'm not sure—I wondered why it looked like that, and I went up and dipped my fingers into it and found that some idiot must have forgotten to put any water into it after arranging it. It made me very angry. So I took it into the bathroom and filled it up. But what could I have seen in that bathroom? There was nobody in it. I am quite sure of that. I think one or two of the older girls and boys had done a little harmless, what the Americans call ‘necking,' there during the course of the party, but there was certainly nobody when I went into it with the vase.”

“No, no, I do not mean that,” said Poirot. “But I understood that there was an accident. That the vase slipped out of your hand and it fell to the hall below and was shattered to pieces.”

“Oh yes,” said Rowena. “Broken to smithereens. I
was
rather upset about it because as I've said, it had been one of our wedding presents, and it was really a perfect flower vase, heavy enough to hold big autumn bouquets and things like that. It was very stupid of me. My fingers just slipped. It went out of my hand and crashed on the hall floor below. Elizabeth Whittaker was standing there. She helped me to pick up the pieces and sweep some of the broken glass
out of the way in case someone stepped on it. We just swept it into a corner by the Grandfather clock to be cleared up later.”

She looked inquiringly at Poirot.

“Is that the incident you mean?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Poirot. “Miss Whittaker wondered, I think, how you had come to drop the vase. She thought that something perhaps had startled you.”

“Startled me?” Rowena Drake looked at him, then frowned as she tried to think again. “No, I don't think I was startled, anyway. It was just one of those ways things do slip out of your hands. Sometimes when you're washing up. I think, really, it's a result of being tired. I was pretty tired by that time, what with the preparations for the party and running the party and all the rest of it. It went very well, I must say. I think it was—oh, just one of those clumsy actions that you can't help when you're tired.”

“There was nothing—you are sure—that startled you? Something unexpected that you saw?”

“Saw? Where? In the hall below? I didn't see anything in the hall below. It was empty at the moment because everyone was in at the Snapdragon excepting, of course, for Miss Whittaker. And I don't think I even noticed her until she came forward to help when I ran down.”

“Did you see someone, perhaps, leaving the library door?”

“The library door…I see what you mean. Yes, I
could
have seen that.” She paused for quite a long time, then she looked at Poirot with a very straight, firm glance. “I didn't see
anyone
leave the library,” she said. “Nobody at all….”

He wondered. The way in which she said it was what aroused the belief in his mind that she was not speaking the truth, that
instead she
had
seen someone or something, perhaps the door just opening a little, a mere glance perhaps of a figure inside. But she was quite firm in her denial. Why, he wondered, had she been so firm? Because the person she had seen was a person she did not want to believe for one moment had had anything to do with the crime committed on the other side of the door? Someone she cared about, or someone—which seemed more likely, he thought—someone whom she wished to protect. Someone, perhaps, who had not long passed beyond childhood, someone whom she might feel was not truly conscious of the awful thing they had just done.

He thought her a hard creature but a person of integrity. He thought that she was, like many women of the same type, women who were often magistrates, or who ran councils or charities, or interested themselves in what used to be called “good works.” Women who had an inordinate belief in extenuating circumstances, who were ready, strangely enough, to make excuses for the young criminal. An adolescent boy, a mentally retarded girl. Someone perhaps who had already been—what is the phrase—“in care.” If that had been the type of person she had seen coming out of the library, then he thought it possible that Rowena Drake's protective instinct might have come into play. It was not unknown in the present age for children to commit crimes, quite young children. Children of seven, of nine and so on, and it was often difficult to know how to dispose of these natural, it seemed, young criminals who came before the juvenile courts. Excuses had to be brought for them. Broken homes. Negligent and unsuitable parents. But the people who spoke the most vehemently for them, the people who sought to bring forth every excuse for them, were usually the type of Rowena Drake. A stern and censorious woman, except in such cases.

For himself, Poirot did not agree. He was a man who thought first always of justice. He was suspicious, had always been suspicious, of mercy—too much mercy, that is to say. Too much mercy, as he knew from former experience both in Belgium and this country, often resulted in further crimes which were fatal to innocent victims who need not have been victims if justice had been put first and mercy second.

“I see,” said Poirot. “I see.”

“You don't think it's possible that Miss Whittaker might have seen someone go into the library?” suggested Mrs. Drake.

Poirot was interested.

“Ah, you think that that might have been so?”

“It seemed to me merely a possibility. She might have caught sight of someone going in through the library, say, perhaps five minutes or so earlier, and then, when I dropped the vase it might have suggested to her that I could have caught a glimpse of the same person. That I might have seen who it was. Perhaps she doesn't like to say anything that might suggest, unfairly perhaps, some person whom she had perhaps only half glimpsed—not enough to be sure of. Some back view perhaps of a child, or a young boy.”

“You think, do you not, Madame, that it was—shall we say, a child—a boy or girl, a mere child, or a young adolescent? You think it was not any definite one of these but, shall we say, you think that that is the most likely type to have committed the crime we are discussing?”

She considered the point thoughtfully, turning it over in her mind.

“Yes,” she said at last, “I suppose I do. I haven't thought it out. It seems to me that crimes are so often associated nowadays with
the young. People who don't really know quite what they are doing, who want silly revenges, who have an instinct for destruction. Even the people who wreck telephone boxes, or who slash the tyres of cars, do all sorts of things just to hurt people, just because they hate—not anyone in particular, but the whole world. It's a sort of symptom of this age. So I suppose when one comes across something like a child drowned at a party for no reason really, one does assume that it's someone who is not yet fully responsible for their actions. Don't you agree with me that—that—well, that that is certainly the most likely possibility here?”

“The police, I think, share your point of view—or did share it.”

“Well, they should know. We have a very good class of policeman in this district. They've done well in several crimes. They are painstaking and they never give up. I think probably they will solve this murder, though I don't think it will happen very quickly. These things seem to take a long time. A long time of patient gathering of evidence.”

“The evidence in this case will not be very easy to gather, Madame.”

“No, I suppose it won't. When my husband was killed—He was a cripple, you know. He was crossing the road and a car ran over him and knocked him down. They never found the person who was responsible. As you know, my husband—or perhaps you don't know—my husband was a polio victim. He was partially paralyzed as a result of polio, six years ago. His condition had improved, but he was still crippled, and it would be difficult for him to get out of the way if a car bore down upon him quickly. I almost felt that I had been to blame, though he always insisted on going out without me
or without anyone with him, because he would have resented very much being in the care of a nurse, or a wife who took the part of a nurse, and he was always careful before crossing a road. Still, one does blame oneself when accidents happen.”

“That came on top of the death of your aunt?”

“No. She died not long afterwards. Everything seems to come at once, doesn't it?”

“That is very true,” said Hercule Poirot. He went on: “The police were not able to trace the car that ran down your husband?”

“It was a Grasshopper Mark 7, I believe. Every third car you notice on the road is a Grasshopper Mark 7—or was then. It's the most popular car on the market, they tell me. They believe it was pinched from the Market Place in Medchester. A car park there. It belonged to a Mr. Waterhouse, an elderly seed merchant in Medchester. Mr. Waterhouse was a slow and careful driver. It was certainly not he who caused the accident. It was clearly one of those cases where irresponsible young men help themselves to cars. Such careless, or should I say such callous young men, should be treated, one sometimes feels, more severely than they are now.”