Nine
Dr. Ferguson was a man of sixty, of Scottish extraction with a brusque manner. He looked Poirotup and down with shrewd eyes under bristling¹ eyebrows², and said:
“Well, what’s all this about? Sit down. Mind that chair leg. The castor’s loose.
“I should perhaps explain,” said Dr. Ferguson. “Everybody knows everything in a place likethis. That authoress woman brought you down here as God’s greatest detective to puzzle policeofficers. That’s more or less right, isn’t it?”
“In part,” said Poirot. “I came here to visit an old friend ex-Superintendent Spence, who liveswith his sister here.”
“Spence? Hm. Good type, Spence. Bulldog breed. Good honest police officer of the old type.
No graft³. No violence. Not stupid either. Straight as a die.”
“You appraise⁴ him correctly.”
“Well,” said Ferguson, “what did you tell him and what did he tell you?”
“Both he and Inspector⁵ Raglan have been exceedingly kind to me. I hope you will likewise.”
“I’ve nothing to be kind about,” said Ferguson. “I don’t know what happened. Child gets herhead shoved in a bucket and is drowned in the middle of a party. Nasty business. Mind you, doingin a child isn’t anything to be startled about nowadays. I’ve been called out to look at too manymurdered children in the last seven to ten years—far too many. A lot of people who ought to beunder mental restraint aren’t under mental restraint. No room in the asylums⁶. They go about,nicely spoken, nicely got up and looking like everybody else, looking for somebody they can doin. And enjoy themselves. Don’t usually do it at a party, though. Too much chance of gettingcaught, I suppose, but novelty appeals even to a mentally disturbed killer⁷.”
“Have you any idea who killed her?”

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