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By Root 455 0

Take your man or boy. He wants to kill someone. Not at all unusual. Over in Medchester we had a case of that. Came to light after about six or seven years. Boy of thirteen. Wanted to kill someone, so he killed a child of nine, pinched a car, drove it seven or eight miles into a copse, burned her there, went away, and as far as we know led a blameless life until he was twenty-one or two. Mind you, we have only his word for that, he may have gone on doing it. Probably did. Found he liked killing people. Don’t suppose he’s killed too many, or some police force would have been on to him before now. But every now and then he felt the urge. Psychiatrist’s report. Committed murder while mentally disturbed. I’m trying to say myself that that’s what happened here. That sort of thing, anyway. I’m not a psychiatrist myself, thank goodness. I have a few psychiatrist friends. Some of them are sensible chaps. Some of them—well, I’ll go as far as saying they ought to be remanded for a psychiatrist’s report themselves. This chap who killed Joyce probably had nice parents, ordinary manners, good appearance. Nobody’d dream anything was wrong with him. Ever had a bite at a nice red juicy apple and there, down by the core, something rather nasty rears itself up and wags its head at you? Plenty of human beings about like that. More than there used to be, I’d say nowadays.’

‘And you’ve no suspicion of your own?’

‘I can’t stick my neck out and diagnose a murderer without some evidence.’

‘Still, you admit it must have been someone at the party. You cannot have a murder without a murderer.’

‘You can easily in some detective stories that are written. Probably your pet authoress writes them like that. But in this case I agree. The murderer must have been there. A guest, a domestic help, someone who walked in through the window. Easily done if he’d studied the catch of the window beforehand. It might have struck some crazy brain that it would be a novel idea and a bit of fun to have a murder at a Hallowe’en party. That’s all you’ve got to start off with, isn’t it? Just someone who was at the party.’

Under bushy brows a pair of eyes twinkled at Poirot.

‘I was there myself,’ he said. ‘Came in late, just to see what was doing.’

He nodded his head vigorously.

‘Yes, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Like a social announcement in the papers:

“Amongst those present was–

A Murderer”.’

Chapter 10

Poirot looked up at The Elms and approved of it.

He was admitted and taken promptly by what he judged to be a secretary to the head-mistress’s study. Miss Emlyn rose from her desk to greet him.

‘I am delighted to meet you, Mr Poirot. I’ve heard about you.’

‘You are too kind,’ said Poirot.

‘From a very old friend of mine, Miss Bulstrode. Former head-mistress of Meadowbank. You remember Miss Bulstrode, perhaps?’

‘One would not be likely to forget her. A great personality.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Emlyn. ‘She made Meadowbank the school it is.’ She sighed slightly and said, ‘It has changed a little nowadays. Different aims, different methods, but it still holds its own as a school of distinction, of progress, and also of tradition. Ah well, we must not live too much in the past. You have come to see me, no doubt, about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don’t know if you have any particular interest in her case. It’s out of your usual run of things, I imagine. You knew her personally, or her family perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘I came at the request of an old friend, Mrs Ariadne Oliver, who was staying down here and was present at the party.’

‘She writes delightful books,’ said Miss Emlyn. ‘I have met her once or twice. Well, that makes the whole thing easier, I think, to discuss. So long as no personal feelings are involved, one can go straight ahead. It was a horrifying thing to happen. If I may say so, it was an unlikely thing to happen. The children involved seem neither old enough nor young enough for it to fall into any special class. A psychological crime is indicated. Do you agree?’

‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘I think