"Judy," said Mrs Oliver, "go and pack a few things. I'm going back to London and you're coming with me, and Miranda, too."
"It's very nice of you, Ariadne, but I've got a lot of things on here. Anyway, you needn't rush away today, need you?"
"Yes, I need to, I've been told to," said Mrs Oliver. "Who's told you - your housekeeper?"
"No," said Mrs Oliver. "Somebody else. One of the few people I obey. Come on. Hurry up."
"I don't want to leave home just now. I can't."
"You've got to come," said Mrs Oliver. "The car is ready. I brought it round to the front door. We can go at once."
"I don't think I want to take Miranda. I could leave her here with someone, with the Reynolds or Rowena Drake."
"Miranda's coming, too," Mrs Oliver interrupted definitely. "Don't make difficulties, Judy. This is serious. I don't see how you can even consider leaving her with the Reynolds. Two of the Reynolds children have been killed, haven't they?"
"Yes, yes, that's true enough. You think there's something wrong with that house. I mean there's someone there who - oh, what do I mean?"
"We're talking too much," said Mrs Oliver.
"Anyway," she said, "if anyone is going to be killed, it seems to me that probably the most likely one would be Ann Reynolds."
"What's the matter with the family?
"Why should they all get killed, one after another? Oh, Ariadne, it's frightening!"
"Yes," said Mrs Oliver, "but there are times when it's quite right to be frightened. I've just had a telegram and I'm acting upon it."
"Oh, I didn't hear the telephone."
"It didn't come through the telephone. It came to the door."
She hesitated a moment, then she held it out to her friend.
"What's this mean? Operation?"
"Tonsils, probably," said Mrs Oliver. "Miranda had a bad throat last week, hadn't she? Well, what more likely than that she should be taken to consult a throat specialist in London?"
"Are you quite mad, Ariadne?"
"Probably," said Mrs Oliver, "raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoy being in London. You needn't worry. She's not going to have any operation. That's what's called 'cover' in spy stories. We'll take her to a theatre, or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole I think it would be best to take her to the ballet."
"I'm frightened," said Judith.
Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. She looked more than ever, Mrs Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked divorced from reality.
"Come on," said Mrs Oliver, "I promised Hercule Poirot I'd bring you when he gave me the word. Well, he's given me the word."
"What's going on in this place?" said Judith. "I can't think why I ever came here."
"I sometimes wondered why you did," said Mrs Oliver, "but there's no accounting for where people go to live. A friend of mine went to live in Moreton-in-the-Marsh the other day. I asked him why he wanted to go and live there. He said he'd always wanted to and thought about it. Whenever he retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn't been to it myself but it sounded to me bound to be damp. What was it actually like? He said he didn't know what it was like because he'd never been there himself. But he had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too."
"Did he go?"
"Yes."
"Did he like it when he got there?"
"Well, I haven't heard that yet," said Mrs Oliver. "But people are very odd, aren't they? The things they want to do, the things they simply have to do..."
She went to the garden and called, "Miranda, we're going to London."
Miranda came slowly towards them.
"Going to London?"
"Ariadne's going to drive us there," said her mother.
"We'll go and see a theatre there. Mrs Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet. Would you like to go to the ballet?"
"I'd love it," said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. "I must go and say goodbye to one of my friends first."
"We're going practically at once."
"Oh, I shan't be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things I promised to do."
She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate.
"Who are Miranda's friends?" asked Mrs Oliver, with some curiosity.
"I never really know," said Judith. "She never tells one things, you know. Sometimes I think that the only things that she really feels are her friends are the birds she looks at in the woods. Or squirrels or things like that. I think everybody likes her but I don't know that she has any particular friends. I mean, she doesn't bring back girls to tea and things like that. Not as much as other girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reynolds."
She added vaguely: "Joyce used to tell her fantastic things about elephants and tigers." She roused herself.
"Well, I must go up and pack, I suppose, as you insist. But I don't want to leave here. There are lots of things I'm in the middle of doing, like this jelly and -"
"You've got to come," said Mrs Oliver. She was quite firm about it.
Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Miranda ran in through the side door, somewhat out of breath.
"Aren't we going to have lunch first?" she demanded.
In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child who liked her food.
"We'll stop for lunch on the way," said Mrs Oliver.
"We'll stop at The Black Boy at Haversham. That would be about right. It's about three-quarters of an hour from here and they give you quite a good meal. Come on, Miranda, we're going to start now."
"I shan't have time to tell Cathie I can't go to the pictures with her tomorrow. Oh, perhaps I could ring her up."
"Well, hurry up," said her mother.
Miranda ran into the sitting-room where the telephone was situated. Judith and Mrs Oliver put suitcases into the car.
Miranda came out of the sitting-room.
"I left a message," she said breathlessly. "That's all right now."
"I think you're mad, Ariadne," said Judith, as they got into the car. "Quite mad. What's it all about?"
"We shall know in due course, I suppose," said Mrs Oliver. "I don't know if I'm mad or he is."
"He? Who?"
"Hercule Poirot," said Mrs Oliver.
In London Hercule Poirot was sitting in a room with four other men. One was Inspector Timothy Raglan, looking respectful and poker-faced as was his invariable habit when in the presence of his superiors, the second was Superintendent Spence. The third was Alfred Richmond, Chief Constable of the County and the fourth was a man with a sharp, legal face from the Public Prosecutor's office. They looked at Hercule Poirot with varying expressions, or what one might describe as non-expressions.
"You seem quite sure, Monsieur Poirot."
"I am quite sure," said Hercule Poirot. "When a thing arranges itself so, one realises that it must be so, one only looks for reasons why it should not be so. If one does not find the reasons why it should not be so, then one is strengthened in one's opinion."
"The motives seem somewhat complex, if I may say so."
"No," said Poirot, "not complex really. But so simple that they are very difficult to see clearly."
The legal gentleman looked sceptical.
"We shall have one piece of definite evidence very soon now," said Inspector Raglan. "Of course, if there has been a mistake on that point..."
"Ding dong dell, no pussy in the well?" said Hercule Poirot. "That is what you mean?"
"Well, you must agree it is only a surmise on your part."
"The evidence pointed to it all along. When a girl disappears, there are not many reasons. The first is that she has gone away with a man. The second is that she is dead. Anything else is very far-fetched and practically never happens."
"There are no other special points that you can bring to our attention, Monsieur Poirot?"
"Yes. I have been in touch with a well known firm of estate agents. Friends of mine, who specialise in real estate in the West Indies, the Aegean, the Adriatic, the Mediterranean and other places. They specialise in sunshine and their clients are usually wealthy. Here is a recent purchase that might interest you."
He handed over a folded paper.
"You think this ties up?"
"I'm sure it does."
"I thought the sale of islands was prohibited by that particular government?"
"Money can usually find a way."
"There is nothing else that you would care to dwell upon?"
"It is possible that within twenty-four hours I shall have for you something that will more or less clinch matters."
"And what is that?"
"An eyewitness."
"You mean -?"
"An eyewitness to a crime."
The legal man looked at Poirot with mounting disbelief. "Where is this eyewitness now?"
"On the way to London, I hope and trust." "You sound disturbed."
"That is true. I have done what I can to take care of things, but I will admit to you that I am frightened. Yes, I am frightened in spite of the protective measures I have taken. Because, you see, we are - how shall I describe it? - we are up against ruthlessness, quick reactions, greed pushed beyond an expect able human limit and perhaps -1 am not sure but I think it possible - a touch, shall we say, of madness? Not there originally, but cultivated. A seed that took root and grows fast. And now perhaps has taken charge, inspiring an inhuman rather than a human attitude to life."
"We'll have to have a few extra opinions on this," said the legal man. "We can't rush into things. Of course, a lot depends on the - er - forgery business. If that's positive, we can go ahead, but if it's negative, we'd have to think again."
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.
"I will take my leave. I have told you all that I know and all that I fear and envisage as possible. I shall remain in touch with you."
He shook hands all round with foreign precision, and went out. "The man's a bit of a mountebank," said the legal man.
"You don't think he's a bit touched, do you? Touched in the head himself, I mean? Anyway, he's a pretty good age. I don't know that one can rely on the faculties of a man of that age."
"I think you can rely upon him," said the Chief Constable. "At least, that is my impression. Spence, I've known you a good many years. You're a friend of his. Do you think he's become a little senile?"
"No, I don't," said Superintendent Spence. "What's your opinion, Raglan?"
"I've only met him recently, sir. At first I thought his - well, his way of talking, his ideas, might be fantastic. But on the whole I'm converted. I think he's going to be proved right."
Chapter 24
Mrs Oliver had ensconced herself at a table in the window of The Black Boy. It was still fairly early, so the dining-room was not very full. Presently, Judith Butler returned from powdering her nose and sat down opposite her and examined the menu.
"What does Miranda like?" asked Mrs Oliver. "We might as well order for her as well. I suppose she'll be back in a minute."
"She likes roast chicken."
"Well, that's easy then. What about you?"
"I'll have the same."
"Three roast chickens," Mrs Oliver ordered. She leaned back, studying her friend.
"Why are you staring at me in that way?"
"I was thinking," said Mrs Oliver.
"Thinking what?"
"Thinking really how very little I knew about you."
"Well, that's the same with everybody, isn't it?"
"You mean, one never knows all about anyone."
"I shouldn't think so."
"Perhaps you're right," said Mrs Oliver.
Both women were silent for some time.
"They're rather slow serving things here."
"It's coming now, I think," said Mrs Oliver.
A waitress arrived with a tray full of dishes.
"Miranda's a long time. Does she know where the dining-room is?"
"Yes, of course she does. We looked in on the way." Judith got up impatiently. "I'll have to go and fetch her."
"I wonder if perhaps she gets car sick"
"She used to when she was younger."
She returned some four or five minutes later.
"She's not in the Ladies'," she said. "There's a door outside it into the garden. Perhaps she went out that way to look at a bird or something. She's like that."
"No time to look at bird's today," said Mrs Oliver. "Go and call her or something. We want to get on."
Elspeth McKay pricked some sausages with a fork, laid them on a baking dish, put it in the Frigidaire and started to peel potatoes.
The telephone rang.
"Mrs McKay? Sergeant Goodwin here. Is your brother there?"
"No. He's in London today."
"I've rung him there - he's left. When he gets back, tell him we've had a positive result."
"You mean you've found a body in the well?"
"Not much use clamming up about it. The word's got round already."
"Who is it? The au pair girl?"
"Seems like it."
"Poor girl," said Elspeth. "Did she throw herself in - or what?"
"It wasn't suicide - she was knifed. It was murder all right."
Ill
After her mother had left the Ladies' Room, Miranda waited for a minute or two. Then she opened the door, cautiously peered out, opened the side door to the garden which was close at hand and ran down the garden path that led round to the backyard of what had once been a coaching inn and was now a garage. She went out at a small door that enabled pedestrians to get into a lane outside. A little farther down the lane a car was parked. A man with beetling grey eyebrows and a grey beard was sitting in it reading a newspaper. Miranda opened the door and climbed in beside the driving-seat. She laughed.
