‘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[64], 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 arm-chairs, 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[65].
‘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 your self 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 embar rassing.
‘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