Satisfied with what he had achieved, Poirot took leave of his friend.
The information he wanted would be forthcoming—he had no doubt as to that. He had gotSpence interested. And Spence, once set upon a trail, was not one to relinquish1 it. His reputation asa retired2 high- ranking officer of the C.I.D. would have won him friends in the local policedepartments concerned.
And next—Poirot consulted his watch—he was to meet Mrs. Oliver in exactly ten minutes’ timeoutside a house called Apple Trees. Really, the name seemed uncannily appropriate.
Really, thought Poirot, one didn’t seem able to get away from apples. Nothing could be moreagreeable than a juicy English apple—And yet here were apples mixed up with broomsticks, andwitches, and old-fashioned folklore3, and a murdered child.
Following the route indicated to him, Poirot arrived to the minute outside a red brick Georgianstyle house with a neat beech4 hedge enclosing it, and a pleasant garden showing beyond.
He put his hand out, raised the latch5 and entered through the wrought6 iron gate which bore apainted board labelled “Apple Trees.” A path led up to the front door. Looking rather like one ofthose Swiss clocks where figures come out automatically of a door above the clock face, the frontdoor opened and Mrs. Oliver emerged on the steps.
“You’re absolutely punctual,” she said breathlessly. “I was watching for you from the window.”
Poirot turned and closed the gate carefully behind him. Practically on every occasion that he hadmet Mrs. Oliver, whether by appointment or by accident, a motif7 of apples seemed to beintroduced almost immediately. She was either eating an apple or had been eating an apple—witness an apple core nestling on her broad chest—or was carrying a bag of apples. But todaythere was no apple in evidence at all. Very correct, Poirot thought approvingly. It would have beenin very bad taste to be gnawing8 an apple here, on the scene of what had been not only a crime buta tragedy. For what else can it be but that? thought Poirot. The sudden death of a child of onlythirteen years old. He did not like to think of it, and because he did not like to think of it he was allthe more decided9 in his mind that that was exactly what he was going to think of until by somemeans or other, light should shine out of the darkness and he should see clearly what he had comehere to see.
“I can’t think why you wouldn’t come and stay with Judith Butler,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Insteadof going to a fifth-class guest house.”
“Because it is better that I should survey things with a certain degree of aloofness,” said Poirot.
“One must not get involved, you comprehend.”
“I don’t see how you can avoid getting involved,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve got to seeeveryone and talk to them, haven’t you?”
“That most decidedly,” said Poirot.
“Who have you seen so far?”
“My friend, Superintendent10 Spence.”
“What’s he like nowadays?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“A good deal older than he was,” said Poirot.
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Oliver, “what else would you expect? Is he deafer or blinder or fatter orthinner?”
Poirot considered.
“He has lost a little weight. He wears spectacles for reading the paper. I do not think he is deaf,not to any noticeable extent.”
“And what does he think about it all?”
“You go too quickly,” said Poirot.
“And what exactly are you and he going to do?”
“I have planned my programme,” said Poirot. “First I have seen and consulted with my oldfriend. I asked him to get me, perhaps, some information that would not be easy to get otherwise.”
“You mean the police here will be his buddies11 and he’ll get a lot of inside stuff from them?”
“Well, I should not put it exactly like that, but yes, those are the lines along which I have beenthinking.”
“And after that?”
“I come to meet you here, Madame. I have to see just where this thing happened.”
Mrs. Oliver turned her head and looked up at the house.
“It doesn’t look the sort of house there’d be a murder in, does it?” she said.
Poirot thought again: What an unerring instinct she has!
“No,” he said, “it does not look at all that sort of a house. After I have seen where, then I gowith you to see the mother of the dead child. I hear what she can tell me. This afternoon my friendSpence is making an appointment for me to talk with the local inspector13 at a suitable hour. Ishould also like a talk with the doctor here. And possibly the headmistress at the school. At sixo’clock I drink tea and eat sausages with my friend Spence and his sister again in their house andwe discuss.”
“What more do you think he’ll be able to tell you?”
“I want to meet his sister. She has lived here longer than he has. He came here to join her whenher husband died. She will know, perhaps, the people here fairly well.”
“Do you know what you sound like?” said Mrs. Oliver. “A computer. You know. You’reprogramming yourself. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? I mean you’re feeding all these things intoyourself all day and then you’re going to see what comes out.”
“It is certainly an idea you have there,” said Poirot, with some interest. “Yes, yes, I play the partof the computer. One feeds in the information—”
“And supposing you come up with all the wrong answers?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“That would be impossible,” said Hercule Poirot. “Computers do not do that sort of a thing.”
“They’re not supposed to,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but you’d be surprised at the things that happensometimes. My last electric light bill, for instance. I know there’s a proverb which says ‘To err12 ishuman,’ but a human error is nothing to what a computer can do if it tries. Come on in and meetMrs. Drake.”
Mrs. Drake was certainly something, Poirot thought. She was a tall, handsome woman of forty-odd, her golden hair was lightly tinged14 with grey, her eyes were brilliantly blue, she oozedcompetence from the fingertips downwards15. Any party she had arranged would have been asuccessful one. In the drawing room a tray of morning coffee with two sugared biscuits wasawaiting them.
Apple Trees, he saw, was a most admirably kept house. It was well furnished, it had carpets ofexcellent quality, everything was scrupulously16 polished and cleaned, and the fact that it had hardlyany outstanding object of interest in it was not readily noticeable. One would not have expected it.
The colours of the curtains and the covers were pleasant but conventional. It could have been letfurnished at any moment for a high rent to a desirable tenant18, without having to put away anytreasures or make any alterations19 to the arrangement of the furniture.
Mrs. Drake greeted Mrs. Oliver and Poirot and concealed20 almost entirely21 what Poirot could nothelp suspecting was a feeling of vigorously suppressed annoyance22 at the position in which shefound herself as the hostess at a social occasion at which something as antisocial as murder hadoccurred. As a prominent member of the community of Woodleigh Common, he suspected thatshe felt an unhappy sense of having herself in some way proved inadequate23. What had occurredshould not have occurred. To someone else in someone else’s house—yes. But at a party forchildren, arranged by her, given by her, organized by her, nothing like this ought to havehappened. Somehow or other she ought to have seen to it that it did not happen. And Poirot alsohad a suspicion that she was seeking round irritably24 in the back of her mind for a reason. Not somuch a reason for murder having taken place, but to find out and pin down some inadequacy25 onthe part of someone who had been helping26 her and who had by some mismanagement or somelack of perception failed to realize that something like this could happen.
“Monsieur Poirot,” said Mrs. Drake, in her fine speaking voice, which Poirot thought wouldcome over excellently in a small lecture room or the village hall, “I am so pleased you could comedown here. Mrs. Oliver has been telling me how invaluable27 your help will be to us in this terriblecrisis.”
“Rest assured, Madame, I shall do what I can, but as you no doubt realize from your experienceof life, it is going to be a difficult business.”
“Difficult?” said Mrs. Drake. “Of course it’s going to be difficult. It seems incredible, absolutelyincredible, that such an awful thing should have happened. I suppose,” she added, “the police mayknow something? Inspector Raglan has a very good reputation locally, I believe. Whether or notthey ought to call Scotland Yard in, I don’t know. The idea seems to be that this poor child’s deathmust have had a local significance. I needn’t tell you, Monsieur Poirot—after all, you read thepapers as much as I do—that there have been very many sad fatalities28 with children all over thecountryside. They seem to be getting more and more frequent. Mental instability seems to be onthe increase, though I must say that mothers and families generally are not looking after theirchildren properly, as they used to do. Children are sent home from school alone, on dark evenings,go alone on dark early mornings. And children, however much you warn them, are unfortunatelyvery foolish when it comes to being offered a lift in a smart-looking car. They believe what they’retold. I suppose one cannot help that.”
“But what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely different nature.”
“Oh, I know—I know. That is why I used the term incredible. I still cannot quite believe it,”
said Mrs. Drake. “Everything was entirely under control. All the arrangements were made.
Everything was going perfectly29, all according to plan. It just seems—seems incredible. PersonallyI consider myself that there must be what I call an outside significance to this. Someone walkedinto the house—not a difficult thing to do under the circumstances—someone of highly disturbedmentality, I suppose, the kind of people who are let out of mental homes simply because there isno room for them there, as far as I can see. Nowadays, room has to be made for fresh patients allthe time. Anyone peeping in through a window could see a children’s party was going on, and thispoor wretch—if one can really feel pity for these people, which I really must say I find it very hardto do myself sometimes—enticed this child away somehow and killed her. You can’t think such athing could happen, but it did happen.”
“Perhaps you would show me where—”
“Of course. No more coffee?”
“I thank you, no.”
Mrs. Drake got up. “The police seem to think it took place while the Snapdragon was going on.
That was taking place in the dining room.”
She walked across the hall, opened the door and, rather in the manner of someone doing thehonours of a stately home to a party of charabanc goers, indicated the large dining table and theheavy velvet30 curtains.
“It was dark here, of course, except for the blazing dish. And now—”
She led them across the hall and opened the door of a small room with armchairs, sportingprints and bookshelves.
“The library,” said Mrs. Drake, and shivered a little. “The bucket was here. On a plastic sheet,of course—”
Mrs. Oliver had not accompanied them into the room. She was standing17 outside in the hall—“I can’t come in,” she said to Poirot. “It makes me think of it too much.”
“There’s nothing to see now,” said Mrs. Drake. “I mean, I’m just showing you where, as youasked.”
“I suppose,” said Poirot, “there was water—a good deal of water.”
“There was water in the bucket, of course,” said Mrs. Drake.
She looked at Poirot as though she thought that he was not quite all there.”
“And there was water on the sheet. I mean, if the child’s head was pushed under water, therewould be a lot of water splashed about.”
“Oh yes. Even while the bobbing was going on, the bucket had to be filled up once or twice.”
“So the person who did it? That person also would have got wet, one would think.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”
“That was not specially31 noticed?”
“No, no, the Inspector asked me about that. You see, by the end of the evening nearly everyonewas a bit dishevelled or damp or floury. There doesn’t seem to be any useful clues there at all. Imean, the police didn’t think so.”
“No,” said Poirot. “I suppose the only clue was the child herself. I hope you will tell me all youknow about her.”
“About Joyce?”
Mrs. Drake looked slightly taken aback. It was as though Joyce in her mind had by nowretreated so far out of things that she was quite surprised to be reminded of her.
“The victim is always important,” said Poirot. “The victim, you see, is so often the cause of thecrime.”
“Well, I suppose, yes, I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Drake, who quite plainly did not. “Shallwe come back to the drawing room?”
“And then you will tell me about Joyce,” said Poirot.
They settled themselves once more in the drawing room.
Mrs. Drake was looking uncomfortable.
“I don’t know really what you expect me to say, Monsieur Poirot,” she said. “Surely allinformation can be obtained quite easily from the police or from Joyce’s mother. Poor woman, itwill be painful for her, no doubt, but—”
“But what I want,” said Poirot, “is not a mother’s estimate of a dead daughter. It is a clear,unbiased opinion from someone who has a good knowledge of human nature. I should say,Madame, that you yourself have been an active worker in many welfare and social fields here.
Nobody, I am sure, could sum up more aptly the character and disposition32 of someone whom youknow.”
“Well—it is a little difficult. I mean, children of that age—she was thirteen, I think, twelve orthirteen—are very much alike at a certain age.”
“Ah no, surely not,” said Poirot. “There are very great differences in character, in disposition.
Did you like her?”
Mrs. Drake seemed to find the question embarrassing.
“Well, of course I—I liked her. I mean, well, I like all children. Most people do.”
“Ah, there I do not agree with you,” said Poirot. “Some children I consider are mostunattractive.”
“Well, I agree, they’re not brought up very well nowadays. Everything seems left to the school,and of course they lead very permissive lives. Have their own choice of friends and—er—oh,really, Monsieur Poirot.”
“Was she a nice child or not a nice child?” said Poirot insistently33.
Mrs. Drake looked at him and registered censure34.
“You must realize, Monsieur Poirot, that the poor child is dead.”
“Dead or alive, it matters. Perhaps if she was a nice child, nobody would have wanted to killher, but if she was not a nice child, somebody might have wanted to kill her, and did so—”
“Well, I suppose—Surely it isn’t a question of niceness, is it?”
“It could be. I also understand that she claimed to have seen a murder committed.”
“Oh that,” said Mrs. Drake contemptuously.
“You did not take that statement seriously?”
“Well, of course I didn’t. It was a very silly thing to say.”
“How did she come to say it?”
“Well, I think really they were all rather excited about Mrs. Oliver being here. You are a veryfamous person, you must remember, dear,” said Mrs. Drake, addressing Mrs. Oliver.
The word “dear” seemed included in her speech without any accompanying enthusiasm.
“I don’t suppose the subject would ever have arisen otherwise, but the children were excited bymeeting a famous authoress—”
“So Joyce said that she had seen a murder committed,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“Yes, she said something of the kind. I wasn’t really listening.”
“But you do remember that she said it?”
“Oh yes, she said it. But I didn’t believe it,” said Mrs. Drake. “Her sister hushed her up at once,very properly.”
“And she was annoyed about that, was she?”
“Yes, she went on saying that it was true.”
“In fact, she boasted about it.”
“When you put it that way, yes.”
“It might have been true, I suppose,” said Poirot.
“Nonsense! I don’t believe it for one minute,” said Mrs. Drake. “It’s the sort of stupid thingJoyce would say.”
“She was a stupid girl?”
“Well, she was the kind, I think, who liked to show off,” said Mrs. Drake. “You know, shealways wanted to have seen more or done more than other girls.”
“Not a very lovable character,” said Poirot.
“No indeed,” said Mrs. Drake. “Really the kind that you have to be shutting up all the time.”
“What did the other children who were here have to say about it? Were they impressed?”
“They laughed at her,” said Mrs. Drake. “So, of course, that made her worse.”
“Well,” said Poirot, as he rose, “I am glad to have your positive assurance on that point.” Hebowed politely over her hand. “Goodbye, Madame, thank you so much for allowing me to viewthe scene of this very unpleasant occurrence. I hope it has not recalled unpleasant memories toodefinitely to you.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Drake, “it is very painful to recall anything of this kind. I had so hopedour little party would go off well. Indeed, it was going off well and everyone seemed to beenjoying it so much till this terrible thing happened. However, the only thing one can do is to tryand forget it all. Of course, it’s very unfortunate that Joyce should have made this silly remarkabout seeing a murder.”
“Have you ever had a murder in Woodleigh Common?”
“Not that I can remember,” said Mrs. Drake firmly.
“In this age of increased crime that we live in,” said Poirot, “that really seems somewhatunusual, does it not?”
“Well, I think there was a lorry driver who killed a pal35 of his—something like that—and a littlegirl whom they found buried in a gravel36 pit about fifteen miles from here, but that was years ago.
They were both rather sordid37 and uninteresting crimes. Mainly the result of drink, I think.”
“In fact, the kind of murder unlikely to have been witnessed by a girl of twelve or thirteen.”
“Most unlikely, I should say. And I can assure you, Monsieur Poirot, this statement that the girlmade was solely38 in order to impress friends and perhaps interest a famous character.” She lookedrather coldly across at Mrs. Oliver.
“In fact,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s all my fault for being at the party, I suppose.”
“Oh, of course not, my dear, of course I didn’t mean it that way.”
Poirot sighed as he departed from the house with Mrs. Oliver by his side.
“A very unsuitable place for a murder,” he said, as they walked down the path to the gate. “Noatmosphere, no haunting sense of tragedy, no character worth murdering, though I couldn’t helpthinking that just occasionally someone might feel like murdering Mrs. Drake.”
“I know what you mean. She can be intensely irritating sometimes. So pleased with herself andso complacent39.”
“What is her husband like?”
“Oh, she’s a widow. Her husband died a year or two ago. He got polio and had been a cripplefor years. He was a banker originally, I think. He was very keen on games and sport and hatedhaving to give all that up and be an invalid40.”
“Yes, indeed.” He reverted41 to the subject of the child Joyce. “Just tell me this. Did anyone whowas listening take this assertion of the child Joyce about murder seriously?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have thought anyone did.”
“The other children, for instance?”
“Well, I was thinking really of them. No, I don’t think they believed what Joyce was saying.
They thought she was making up things.”
“Did you think that, too?”
“Well, I did really,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Of course,” she added, “Mrs. Drake would like tobelieve that the murder never really happened, but she can’t very well go as far as that, can she?”
“I understand that this may be painful for her.”
“I suppose it is in a way,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I think that by now, you know, she is actuallygetting quite pleased to talk about it. I don’t think she likes to have to bottle it up all the time.”
“Do you like her?” asked Poirot. “Do you think she’s a nice woman?”
“You do ask the most difficult questions. Embarrassing ones,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems theonly thing you are interested in is whether people are nice or not. Rowena Drake is the bossy42 type—likes running things and people. She runs this whole place more or less, I should think. But runsit very efficiently43. It depends if you like bossy women. I don’t much—”
“What about Joyce’s mother whom we are on our way to see?”
“She’s quite a nice woman. Rather stupid, I should think. I’m sorry for her. It’s pretty awful tohave your daughter murdered, isn’t it? And everyone here thinks it was a sex crime which makes itworse.”
“But there was no evidence of sexual assault, or so I understand?”
“No, but people like to think these things happen. It makes it more exciting. You know whatpeople are like.”
“One thinks one does—but sometimes—well—we do not really know at all.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if my friend Judith Butler was to take you to see Mrs. Reynolds? Sheknows her quite well, and I’m a stranger to her.”
“We will do as planned.”
“The Computer Programme will go on,” murmured Mrs. Oliver rebelliously44.
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1
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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buddies
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| n.密友( buddy的名词复数 )；同伴；弟兄；（用于称呼男子，常带怒气）家伙v.（如密友、战友、伙伴、弟兄般）交往( buddy的第三人称单数 )；做朋友；亲近（…）；伴护艾滋病人 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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fatalities
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| n.恶性事故( fatality的名词复数 )；死亡；致命性；命运 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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insistently
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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bossy
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| adj.爱发号施令的，作威作福的 | |
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efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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