A smallish boy entered in some condition of shyness.
‘Mummy sent these mirrors to see if they’d do,’ he said in a slightly breathless voice.
Mrs Drake took them from him.
‘Thank you so much, Eddy,’ she said.
‘They’re just ordinary looking hand-mirrors,’ said the girl called Ann. ‘Shall we really see our future husbands’ faces in them?’
‘Some of you may and some may not,’ said Judith Butler.
‘Did you ever see your husband’s face when you went to a party—I mean this kind of a party?’
‘Of course she didn’t,’ said Joyce.
‘She might have,’ said the superior Beatrice. ‘E.S.P. they call it. Extra sensory perception,’ she added in the tone of one pleased with being thoroughly conversant with the terms of the times.
‘I read one of your books,’ said Ann to Mrs Oliver. ‘The Dying Goldfish. It was quite good,’ she said kindly.
‘I didn’t like that one,’ said Joyce. ‘There wasn’t enough blood in it. I like murders to have lots of blood.’
‘A bit messy,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘don’t you think?’
‘But exciting,’ said Joyce.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘I saw a murder once,’ said Joyce.
‘Don’t be silly, Joyce,’ said Miss Whittaker, the school-teacher.
‘I did,’ said Joyce.
‘Did you really?’ asked Cathie, gazing at Joyce with wide eyes, ‘really and truly see a murder?’
‘Of course she didn’t,’ said Mrs Drake. ‘Don’t say silly things, Joyce.’
‘I did see a murder,’ said Joyce. ‘I did. I did. I did.’
A seventeen-year-old boy poised on a ladder looked down interestedly.
‘What kind of a murder?’ he asked.
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Beatrice.
‘Of course not,’ said Cathie’s mother. ‘She’s just making it up.’
‘I’m not. I saw it.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police about it?’ asked Cathie.
‘Because I didn’t know it was a murder when I saw it. It wasn’t really till a long time afterwards, I mean, that I began to know that it was a murder. Something that somebody said only about a month or two ago suddenly made me think: Of course, that was a murder I saw.’
‘You see,’ said Ann, ‘she’s making it all up. It’s nonsense.’
‘When did it happen?’ asked Beatrice.
‘Years ago,’ said Joyce. ‘I was quite young at the time,’ she added.
‘Who murdered who?’ said Beatrice.
‘I shan’t tell any of you,’ said Joyce. ‘You’re all so horrid about it.’
Miss Lee came in with another kind of bucket. Conversation shifted to a comparison of buckets or plastic pails as most suitable for the sport of bobbing for apples. The majority of the helpers repaired to the library for an appraisal on the spot. Some of the younger members, it may be said, were anxious to demonstrate, by a rehearsal of the difficulties and their own accomplishment in the sport. Hair got wet, water got spilt, towels were sent for to mop it up. In the end it was decided that a galvanized bucket was preferable to the more meretricious charms of a plastic pail which overturned rather too easily.
Mrs Oliver, setting down a bowl of apples which she had carried in to replenish the store required for tomorrow, once more helped herself to one.
‘I read in the paper that you were fond of eating apples,’ the accusing voice of Ann or Susan—she was not quite sure which—spoke to her.
‘It’s my besetting sin,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘It would be more fun if it was melons,’ objected one of the boys. ‘They’re so juicy. Think of the mess it would make,’ he said, surveying the carpet with pleasurable anticipation.
Mrs Oliver, feeling a little guilty at the public arraignment of greediness, left the room in search of a particular apartment, the geography of which is usually fairly easily identified. She went up the staircase and, turning the corner on the half landing, cannoned into a pair, a girl and a boy, clasped in each other’s arms and leaning against the door which Mrs Oliver felt fairly certain was the door to the room to which she herself was anxious to gain access. The couple paid no attention to her. They sighed and they snuggled. Mrs Oliver wondered how old they were. The boy was fifteen, perhaps, the girl little more than twelve, although the development of her chest seemed certainly on the mature side.
Apple Trees was a house of fair size. It had, she thought, several agreeable nooks and corners. How selfish people are, thought Mrs Oliver. No consideration for others. That well-known tag from the past came into her mind. It had been said to her in succession by a nursemaid, a nanny, a governess, her grandmother, two great-aunts, her mother and a few others.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Oliver in a loud, clear voice.
The boy and the girl clung closer than ever, their lips fastened on each other’s.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Oliver again, ‘do you mind letting me pass? I want to get in at this door.’
Unwillingly the couple fell apart. They looked at her in an aggrieved fashion. Mrs Oliver went in, banged the door and shot the bolt.
It was not a very close fitting door. The faint sound of words came to her from outside.
‘Isn’t that like people?’ one voice said in a somewhat uncertain tenor. ‘They might see we didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘People are so selfish,’ piped a girl’s voice. ‘They never think of anyone but themselves.’
‘No consideration for others,’ said the boy’s voice.
Preparations for a children’s party usually give far more trouble to the organizers than an entertainment devised for those of adult years. Food of good quality and suitable alcoholic refreshment—with lemonade on the side, that, to the right people, is quite enough to make a party go. It may cost more but the trouble is infinitely less. So Ariadne Oliver and her friend Judith Butler agreed together.
‘What about teenage parties?’ said Judith.
‘I don’t know much about them,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘In one way,’ said Judith, ‘I think they’re probably least trouble of all. I mean, they just throw all of us adults out. And say they’ll do it all themselves.’
‘And do they?’
‘Well, not in our sense of the word,’ said Judith. ‘They forget to order some of the things, and order a lot of other things that nobody likes. Having turfed us out, then they say there were things we ought to have provided for them to find. They break a lot of glasses, and other things, and there’s always somebody undesirable or who brings an undesirable friend. You know the sort of thing. Peculiar drugs and—what do they call it?—Flower Pot or Purple Hemp or L.S.D., which I always have thought just meant money; but apparently it doesn’t.’
‘I suppose it costs it,’ suggested Ariadne Oliver.
‘It’s