Hallowe'en Party (21 page)

I

M
rs. 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 birds today,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Go and call her or something. We want to get on.”

II

Elspeth McKay pricked some sausages with a fork, laid them on a baking dish, put it in the Frigidair 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 around 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.”

III

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 back yard 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.

“You do look funny.”

“Have a hearty laugh, there's nothing to stop you.”

The car started, went down the lane, turned right, turned left, turned right again and came out on a secondary road.

“We're all right for time,” said the grey-bearded man. “At the right moment you'll see the double axe as it ought to be seen. And Kilterbury Down, too. Wonderful view.”

A car dashed past them so closely that they were almost forced into the hedge.

“Young idiots,” said the grey-bearded man.

One of the young men had long hair reaching over his shoulders and large, owlish spectacles. The other one affected a more Spanish appearance with sideburns.

“You don't think Mummy will worry about me?” asked Miranda.

“She won't have time to worry about you. By the time she worries about you, you'll have got where you want to be.”

IV

In London, Hercule Poirot picked up the telephone. Mrs. Oliver's voice came over.

“We've lost Miranda.”

“What do you mean, lost her?”

“We had lunch at The Black Boy. She went to the loo. She didn't come back. Somebody said they saw her driving away with an elderly man. But it mightn't have been her. It might have been someone else. It—”

“Someone should have stayed with her. Neither of you ought to have let her out of your sight. I told you there was danger. Is Mrs. Butler very worried?”

“Of course she's worried. What do you think? She's frantic. She insists on ringing the police.”

“Yes, that would be the natural thing to do. I will ring them also.”

“But why should Miranda be in danger?”

“Don't you know? You ought to by now.” He added, “The body's been found. I've just heard—”

“What body?”

“A body in a well.”

“I
t's beautiful,” said Miranda, looking round her.

Kilterbury Ring was a local beauty spot though its remains were not particularly famous. They had been dismantled many hundreds of years ago. Yet here and there a tall megalithic stone still stood, upright, telling of a long past ritual worship. Miranda asked questions.

“Why did they have all these stones here?”

“For ritual. Ritual worship. Ritual sacrifice. You understand about sacrifice, don't you, Miranda?”

“I think so.”

“It has to be, you see. It's important.”

“You mean, it's
not
a sort of punishment? It's something else?”

“Yes, it's something else. You die so that others should live. You die so that beauty should live. Should come into being. That's the important thing.”

“I thought perhaps—”

“Yes, Miranda?”

“I thought perhaps you ought to die because what you've done has killed someone else.”

“What put that into your head?”

“I was thinking of Joyce. If I hadn't told her about something, she wouldn't have died, would she?”

“Perhaps not.”

“I've felt worried since Joyce died. I needn't have told her, need I? I told her because I wanted to have something worth while telling her. She'd been to India and she kept talking about it—about the tigers and about the elephants and their gold hangings and decorations and their trappings. And I think, too—suddenly I wanted somebody else to know, because you see I hadn't really thought about it before.” She added: “Was—was
that
a sacrifice, too?”

“In a way.”

Miranda remained contemplative, then she said, “Isn't it time yet?”

“The sun is not quite right yet. Another five minutes, perhaps, and then it will fall directly on the stone.”

Again they sat silent, beside the car.

“
Now,
I think,” said Miranda's companion, looking up at the sky where the sun was dipping towards the horizon. “Now is a wonderful moment. No one here. Nobody comes up at this time of day and walks up to the top of Kilterbury Down to see Kilterbury Ring. Too cold in November and the blackberries are over. I'll show you the double axe first. The double axe on the stone. Carved there when they came from Mycenae or from Crete hundreds of years ago. It's wonderful, Miranda, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's very wonderful,” said Miranda. “Show it me.”

They walked up to the topmost stone. Beside it lay a fallen one and a little farther down the slope a slightly inclined one leant as though bent with the weariness of years.

“Are you happy, Miranda?”

“Yes, I'm very happy.”

“There's the sign
here.
”

“Is that really the double axe?”

“Yes, it's worn with time but that's it. That's the symbol. Put your hand on it. And now—now we will drink to the past and the future and to beauty.”

“Oh, how lovely,” said Miranda.

A golden cup was put into her hand, and from a flask her companion poured a golden liquid into it.

“It tastes of fruit, of peaches. Drink it, Miranda, and you will be happier still.”

Miranda took the gilt cup. She sniffed at it.

“Yes. Yes, it does smell of peaches. Oh look, there's the sun. Really red gold—looking as though it was lying on the edge of the world.”

He turned her towards it.

“Hold the cup and
drink.
”

She turned obediently. One hand was still on the megalithic stone and its semierased sign. Her companion now was standing behind her. From below the inclined stone down the hill, two figures slipped out, bent half double. Those on the summit had their backs to them, and did not even notice them. Quickly but stealthily they ran up the hill.

“Drink to beauty, Miranda.”

“Like hell she does!”
said a voice behind them.

A rose velvet coat shot over a head, a knife was knocked from the hand that was slowly rising. Nicholas Ransom caught hold of Miranda, clasping her tightly and dragging her away from the other two who were struggling.

“You bloody little idiot,” said Nicholas Ransom. “Coming up here with a barmy murderer. You should have known what you were doing.”

“I did in a way,” said Miranda. “I was going to be a sacrifice, I think, because you see it was all my fault. It was because of me that Joyce was killed. So it was right for me to be a sacrifice, wasn't it? It would be a kind of ritual killing.”

“Don't start talking nonsense about ritual killings. They've found that other girl. You know, the
au pair
girl who has been missing so long. A couple of years or something like that. They all thought she'd run away because she'd forged a Will. She hadn't run away. Her body was found in the well.”

“Oh!” Miranda gave a sudden cry of anguish. “Not in the wishing well? Not in the wishing well that I wanted to find so badly? Oh, I don't want her to be in the wishing well. Who—who put her there?”

“The same person who brought you here.”

O
nce again four men sat looking at Poirot. Timothy Raglan, Superintendent Spence and the Chief Constable had the pleased expectant look of a cat who is counting on a saucer of cream to materialize at any moment. The fourth man still had the expression of one who suspends belief.

“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said the Chief Constable, taking charge of the proceedings and leaving the D.P.P. man to hold a watching brief. “We're all here—”

Poirot made a motion with his hand. Inspector Raglan left the room and returned ushering in a woman of thirty odd, a girl, and two adolescent young men.

He introduced them to the Chief Constable. “Mrs. Butler, Miss Miranda Butler, Mr. Nicholas Ransom and Mr. Desmond Holland.”

Poirot got up and took Miranda's hand. “Sit here by your mother, Miranda—Mr. Richmond here who is what is called a
Chief Constable, wants to ask you some questions. He wants you to answer them. It concerns something you saw—over a year ago now, nearer two years. You mentioned this to one person, and, so I understand, to one person only. Is that correct?”

“I told Joyce.”

“And what exactly did you tell Joyce?”

“That I'd seen a murder.”

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“No. But I think Leopold guessed. He listens, you know. At doors. That sort of thing. He likes knowing people's secrets.”

“You have heard that Joyce Reynolds, on the afternoon before the Hallowe'en party, claimed that she herself had seen a murder committed. Was that true?”

“No. She was just repeating what I'd told her—but pretending that it had happened to her.”

“Will you tell us now just what you did see.”

“I didn't know at first that it was a murder. I thought there had been an accident. I thought she'd fallen from up above somewhere.”

“Where was this?”

“In the Quarry Garden—in the hollow where the fountain used to be. I was up in the branches of a tree. I'd been looking at a squirrel and one has to keep very quiet, or they rush away. Squirrels are very quick.”

“Tell us what you saw.”

“A man and a woman lifted her up and were carrying her up the path. I thought they were taking her to a hospital or to the Quarry House. Then the woman stopped suddenly and said, ‘Someone is watching us,' and stared at my tree. Somehow it made me feel frightened. I kept very still. The man said ‘Nonsense,' and
they went on. I saw there was blood on a scarf and there was a knife with blood on that—and I thought perhaps someone had tried to kill themselves—and I went on keeping very still.”

“Because you were frightened?”

“Yes, but I don't know why.”

“You didn't tell your mother?”

“No. I thought perhaps I oughtn't to have been there watching. And then the next day nobody said anything about an accident, so I forgot about it. I never thought about it again until—”

She stopped suddenly. The Chief Constable opened his mouth—then shut it. He looked at Poirot and made a very slight gesture.

“Yes, Miranda,” said Poirot, “until what?”

“It was as though it was happening all over again. It was a green woodpecker this time, and I was being very still, watching it from behind some bushes. And those two were sitting there talking—about an island—a Greek island. She said something like, ‘It's all signed up. It's ours, we can go to it whenever we like. But we'd better go slow still—not rush things.' And then the woodpecker flew away, and I moved. And she said—‘Hush—be quiet—somebody's watching us.' It was just the way she'd said it before, and she had just the same look on her face, and I was frightened again, and I remembered. And this time I
knew.
I knew it had been a murder I had seen and it had been a dead body they were carrying away to hide somewhere. You see, I wasn't a child any more. I
knew
—things and what they must mean—the blood and the knife and the dead body all limp—”

“When was this?” asked the Chief Constable. “How long ago?”

Miranda thought for a moment.

“Last March—just after Easter.”

“Can you say definitely who these people were, Miranda?”

“Of course I can.” Miranda looked bewildered.

“You saw their faces?”

“Of course.”

“Who were they?”

“
Mrs. Drake and Michael
….”

It was not a dramatic denunciation. Her voice was quiet, with something in it like wonder, but it carried conviction.

The Chief Constable said, “You did not tell anyone. Why not?”

“I thought—I thought it might have been a sacrifice.”

“Who told you that?”

“Michael told me—he said sacrifices were necessary.”

Poirot said gently, “You loved Michael?”

“Oh yes,” said Miranda, “I loved him very much.”