Hallowe'en Party

"Well, that's what they used to call it, you know, in schools. I mean they see how bright you are, and if you're bright enough to pass your eleven-plus, you go on to a grammar school or something. But if you're not bright enough, you go to something called a Secondary Modern. A silly name. It doesn't seem to mean anything."

"I do not, I confess, really understand what you are talking about," said Poirot.

They seemed to have got away from parties and entered into the realms of education.

Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath and began again.

"It started really," she said, "with the apples."

"Ah yes," said Poirot, "it would. It always might with you, mightn't it?"

He was thinking to himself of a small car on a hill and a large woman getting out of it, and a bag of apples breaking, and the apples running and cascading down the hill.

"Yes," he said encouragingly, "apples."

"Bobbing for apples," said Mrs. Oliver.

"That's one of the things you do at a Hallowe'en party."

"Ah yes, I think I have heard of that, yes."

"You see, all sorts of things were being done. There was bobbing for apples, and cutting sixpence off a tumblerful of flour, and looking in a looking-glass-" "To see your true love's face?" suggested Poirot knowledgeably.

"Ah," said Mrs. Oliver, "you're beginning to understand at last."

"A lot of old folklore, in fact," said Poirot, "and this all took place at your party."

"Yes, it was all a great success. It finished up with Snapdragon. You know, ss:v.. burning raisins in a great dish. I suppose " her voice faltered, " I suppose that must be the actual time when it was done."

"When what was done?"

"A murder. After the Snapdragon everyone went home," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"That, you see, was when they couldn't find her."

"Find whom?"

"A girl. A girl called Joyce. Everyone called her name and looked around and asked if she'd gone home with anyone else, and her mother got rather annoyed and said that Joyce must have felt tired or ill or something and gone off by herself, and that it was very thoughtless of her not to leave word. All the sort of things that mothers say when things like that happen.

But anyway, we couldn't find Joyce."

"And had she gone home by herself?"

"No," said Mrs. Oliver, "she hadn't gone home…" Her voice faltered.

"We found her in the end in the library.

That's where where someone did it, you know. Bobbing for apples. The bucket was there. A big, galvanised bucket. They wouldn't have the plastic one. Perhaps if they'd had the plastic one it wouldn't have happened. It wouldn't have been heavy enough. It might have tipped over-" "What happened?" said Poirot. His voice was sharp.

"That's where she was found," said Mrs. Oliver.

"Someone, you know, someone had shoved her head down into the water with the apples. Shoved her down and held her there so that she was dead, of course. Drowned. Drowned. Just in a galvanised iron bucket nearly full of water.

Kneeling there, sticking her head down to bob at an apple. I hate apples," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"I never want to see an apple again…"

Poirot looked at her. He stretched out a hand and filled a small glass with cognac.

"Drink this," he said.

"It will do you good."

MRS. OLIVER put down the glass and wiped her lips. "You were right," she said.

"That that helped. I was getting hysterical."

"You have had a great shock, I see now.

When did this happen?"

"Last night. Was it only last night? Yes, yes, of course."

"And you came to me."

It was not quite a question, but it displayed a desire for more information than Poirot had yet had.

"You came to me why?"

"I thought you could help," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"You see, it's it's not simple."

"It could be and it could not," said Poirot.

"A lot depends. You must tell me more, you know. The police, I presume, are in charge. A doctor was, no doubt, called. What did he say?"

"There's to be an inquest," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"Naturally."

"To-morrow or the next day."

"This girl, this Joyce, how old was she?"

"I don't know exactly. I should think perhaps twelve or thirteen."

"Small for her age?"

"No, no. I should think rather mature, perhaps. Lumpy," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"Well developed? You mean sexy looking "Yes, that is what I mean. But I don't think that was the kind of crime it was I mean that would have been more simple, wouldn't it?"

"It is the kind of crime," said Poirot, "of which one reads every day in the paper. A girl who is attacked, a school child who is assaulted yes, every day.

This happened in a private house which makes it different, but perhaps not so different as all that. But all the same, I'm not sure yet that you've told me everything."

"No, I don't suppose I have," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"I haven't told you the reason, I mean, why I came to you."

"You knew this Joyce, you knew her well?"

"I didn't know her at all. I'd better explain to you, I think, just how I came to be there."

"There is where?"

"Oh, a place called Woodleigh Common."

"Woodleigh Common," said Poirot thoughtfully.

"Now where lately " he broke off.