‘Joyce could not have known who it was who did the murder she saw,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I mean she wouldn’t have said what she did if there was someone actually in the room who was concerned.’
‘No,’ said Poirot, ‘I think you are right there. She saw a murder, but she did not see the murderer’s face. We have to go beyond that.’
‘I don’t understand exactly what you mean.’
‘It could be that someone who was there earlier in the day and heard Joyce’s accusation knew about the murder, knew who committed the murder, perhaps was closely involved with that person. It may have been that someone thought he was the only person who knew what his wife had done, or his mother or his daughter or his son. Or it might have been a woman who knew what her husband or mother or daughter or son had done. Someone who thought that no one else knew. And then Joyce began talking…’
‘And so—’
‘Joyce had to die?’
‘Yes. What are you going to do?’
‘I have just remembered,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘why the name of Woodleigh Common was familiar to me.’
CHAPTER 5
Hercule Poirot looked over the small gate which gave admission to Pine Crest. It was a modern, perky little house, nicely built. Hercule Poirot was slightly out of breath. the small, neat house in front of him was very suitably named. It was on a hill top, and the hill top was planted with a few sparse pines. It had a small neat garden and a large elderly man was trundling along a path a big tin galvanized waterer[41].
Superintendent[42] Spence’s hair was now grey all over instead of having a neat touch of grey hair at the temples. He had not shrunk much in girth. He stopped trundling his can and looked at the visitor at the gate. Hercule Poirot stood there without moving.
‘God bless my soul,’ said Superintendent Spence. ‘It must be. It can’t be but it is. Yes, it must be. Hercule Poirot, as I live.’
‘Aha,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘you know me. That is gratifying.’
‘May your moustaches never grow less,’ said Spence.
He abandoned the watering can and came down to the gate.
‘Diabolical weeds,’ he said. ‘And what brings you down here?’
‘What has brought me to many places in my time,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘and what once a good many years ago brought you to see me. Murder.’
‘I’ve done with murder,’ said Spence, ‘except in the case of weeds. That’s what I’m doing now. Applying weed killer. Never so easy as you think, something’s always wrong, usually the weather. Mustn’t be too wet, mustn’t be too dry and all the rest of it. How did you know where to find me?’ he asked as he unlatched the gate and Poirot passed through.
‘You sent me a Christmas card. It had your new address notified on it.’
‘Ah yes, so I did. I’m old-fashioned, you know. I like to send round cards at Christmas time to a few old friends.’
‘I appreciate that,’ said Poirot.
Spence said, ‘I’m an old man now.’
‘We are both old men.’
‘Not much grey in your hair,’ said Spence.
‘I attend to that with a bottle,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘There is no need to appear in public with grey hair unless you wish to do so.’
‘Well, I don’t think jet black[43] would suit me,’ said Spence.
‘I agree,’ said Poirot. ‘You look most distinguished with grey hair.’
‘I should never think of myself as a distinguished man.’
‘I think of you as such. Why have you come to live in Woodleigh Common?’
‘As a matter of fact, I came here to join forces with a sister of mine. She lost her husband, her children are married and living abroad, one in Australia and the other in South Africa. So I moved in here. Pensions don’t go far nowadays[44], but we do pretty comfortably living together. Come and sit down.’
He led the way on to the small glazed-in verandah where there were chairs and a table or two. The autumn sun fell pleasantly upon this retreat.
‘What shall I get you?’ said Spence. ‘No fancy stuff here, I’m afraid. No blackcurrant or rose hip syrup or any of your patent things. Beer? Or shall I get Elspeth to make you a cup of tea? or I can do you a shandy[45] or Coca-Cola or some cocoa if you like it. My sister, Elspeth, is a cocoa drinker.’
‘You are very kind. For me, I think a shandy. The ginger beer and the beer? That is right, is it not?’
‘Absolutely so.’
He went into the house and returned shortly afterwards carrying two large glass mugs. ‘I’m joining you,’ he said.
He drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing the two glasses in front of himself and Poirot.
‘What was it you said just now?’ he said, raising his glass. ‘We won’t say “Here’s to crime.” I’ve done with crime, and if you mean the crime I think you do, in fact which I think you have to do, because I don’t recall any other crime just lately, I don’t like the particular form of murder we’ve just had.’
‘No. I do not think you would do so.’
‘We are talking about the child who had her head shoved into a bucket?’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘that is what I am talking about.’
‘I don’t know why you come to me,’ said Spence. ‘I’m nothing to do with the police nowadays. All that’s over many years ago.’
‘Once a policeman,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘always a policeman. That is to say, there is always the point of view of the policeman behind the point of view of the ordinary man. I know, I who talk to you. I, too, started in the police force in my country.’
‘Yes, so you did. I remember now your telling me. Well, I suppose one’s outlook is a bit slanted, but it’s a long time since I’ve had any active connection.’
‘But you hear the gossip,’ said Poirot. ‘You have friends of your own trade. You will hear what they think or suspect or what they know.’
Spence sighed.
‘One knows too much,’ he said, ‘that is one of the troubles nowadays. There is a crime, a crime of which the pattern is familiar, and you know, that is to say the active police officers know, pretty well who’s probably done that crime. They don’t tell the newspapers but they make their inquiries, and they know. But whether they’re going to get any further than that—well, things have their difficulties.’
‘You mean the wives and the girl friends and the rest of it?’
‘Partly that, yes. In the end, perhaps, one gets one’s man. Sometimes a year or two passes. I’d say, you know, roughly, Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry wrong ’uns[46] than they ever used to in my time.’
Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his moustaches.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see that that might be so. I suspect that girls have always been partial