Hallowe'en Party

"It would be more difficult, but I'd rather have it that way because I don't like hurting things. I'd use a sort of drug that gives people euthanasia. They would go to sleep and have beautiful dreams and they just wouldn't wake up." She lifted some tea cups and the bread and butter plate.

"I'll wash up. Mummy," she said, "if you like to take Monsieur Poirot to look at the garden. There are still some Queen Elizabeth roses at the back of the border."

She went out of the room carefully carrying the tea-tray.

"She's an astonishing child, Miranda," said Mrs. Oliver.

"You have a very beautiful daughter, Madame," said Poirot.

"Yes, I think she is beautiful now. One doesn't know what they will look like by the time they grow up. They acquire puppy fat and look like well-fattened pigs sometimes. But now-now she is like a wood-nymph."

"One does not wonder that she is fond of the Quarry Garden which adjoins your house."

"I wish she wasn't so fond of it sometimes.

One gets nervous about people wandering about in isolated places, even if they are quite near people or a village.

One's-oh, one's frightened all the time nowadays. That's why-why you've got to find out why this awful thing happened to Joyce, Monsieur Poirot. Because until we know who that was, we shan't feel safe for a minute about our children, I mean.

Take Monsieur Poirot out in the garden, will you, Ariadne? I'll join you in a minute VYJ.J.J. J\fU.y or two."

She took the remaining two cups and a plate and went into the kitchen.

Poirot and Mrs. Oliver went out through the french window. The small garden was like most autumn gardens. It retained a few candles of golden rod and michaelmas daisies in a border, and some Queen Elizabeth roses held their pink statuesque heads up high.

Mrs. Oliver walked rapidly down to where there was a stone bench, sat down, and motioned Poirot to sit down beside her.

"You said you thought Miranda was like a wood-nymph," she said.

"What do you think of Judith?"

"I think Judith's name ought to be Undine," said Poirot.

"A water-spirit, yes. Yes, she does look as though she'd just come out of the Rhine or the sea or a forest pool or something.

Her hair looks as though it had been dipped in water. Yet there's nothing untidy or scatty about her, is there?"

"She, too, is a very lovely woman," said Poirot.

"What do you think about her?"

"I have not had time to think as yet. I just think that she is beautiful and attractive and that something is giving her very great concern."

"Well, of course, wouldn't it?"

"What I would like, Madame, is for you to tell me what you know or think about her."

"Well, I got to know her very well on the cruise. You know, one does make quite intimate friends. Just one or two people. The rest of them, I mean, they like each other and all that, but you don't really go to any trouble to see them again.

But one or two you do. Well, Judith was one of the ones I did want to see again."

"You did not know her before the cruise?"

"No."

"But you know something about her?"

"Well, just ordinary things. She's a widow," said Mrs. Oliver.

"Her husband died a good many years ago he was an air pilot. He was killed in a car accident.

One of those pile-up things, I think it was, coming off the M what-is-it that runs near here on to the ordinary road one evening, or something of that kind. He left her rather badly off, I imagine. She was very broken up about it, I think. She doesn't like talking about him."

"Is Miranda her only child?"

"Yes. Judith does some part-time secretarial work in the neighbourhood, but she hasn't got a fixed job."

"Did she know the people who lived at the Quarry House?"

"You mean old Colonel and Mrs.

Weston?"

"I mean the former owner, Mrs.

Llewellyn-Smythe, wasn't it?"

"I think so. I think I've heard that name mentioned. But she died two or three years ago, so of course one doesn't hear about her much.

Aren't the people who are alive enough for you?" demanded Mrs. Oliver with some irritation.

"Certainly not," said Poirot.

"I have also to inquire into those who have died or disappeared from the scene."

"Who's disappeared?"

"An au pair girl," said Poirot.

"Oh well," said Mrs. Oliver, "they're always disappearing, aren't they? I mean, they come over here and get their fare paid and then they go straight into hospital because they're pregnant and have a baby, and call it Auguste, or Hans or Boris, or some name like that. Or they've come over to marry someone, or to follow up some young man they're in love with. You wouldn't believe the things friends tell me!

The thing about au pair girls seems to be either they're Heaven's gift to overworked mothers and you never want to part with them, or they pinch your stockings-or get themselves murdered-" She stopped.

"Oh!" she said.

"Calm yourself, Madame," said Poirot.

"There seems no reason to believe that an au pair girl has been murdered-quite the contrary."

"What do you mean by quite the contrary? It doesn't make sense."

"Probably not. All the same-" He took out his notebook and made an entry in it.