Four
Mrs. Oliver put down the glass and wiped her lips.
“You were right,” she said. “That—that helped. I was getting hysterical¹.”
“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 yethad.
“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 presume², are in charge. A doctor was, no doubt, called. What did he say?”
“There’s to be an inquest,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Naturally.”
“Tomorrow or the next day.”
“This girl, 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 thatwould 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 isattacked, a school child who is assaulted—yes, every day. This happened in a private house whichmakes it different, but perhaps not so different as all that. But all the same, I’m not sure yet thatyou’ve told me everything.”
“No, I don’t suppose I have,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I haven’t told you the reason, I mean, why Icame 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 thoughtfully⁴. “Now where lately—” he broke off.
“It’s not very far from London. About—oh, thirty to forty miles, I think. It’s near Medchester.

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