Hallowe'en Party - Agatha Christie [32]
‘But you have made up your mind quickly about her.’
‘I hope you are going to tell me that I am right.’
Elizabeth Whittaker gave a short, quick sigh.
‘Oh, yes, you’re right. I presume that this is about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don’t know exactly how you come into it. Through the police?’ She shook her head slightly in a dissatisfied manner.
‘No, not through the police. Privately, through a friend.’
She took a chair, pushing it back a little so as to face him.
‘Yes. What do you want to know?’
‘I don’t think there is any need to tell you. No need to waste time asking questions that may be of no importance. Something happened that evening at the party which perhaps it is well that I should know about. Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were at the party?’
‘I was at the party.’ She reflected a minute or two. ‘It was a very good party. Well run. Well arranged. About thirty-odd people were there, that is, counting helpers of different kinds. Children—teenagers—grown-ups—and a few cleaning and domestic helpers in the background.’
‘Did you take part in the arrangements which were made, I believe, earlier that afternoon or that morning?’
‘There was nothing really to do. Mrs Drake was fully competent to deal with all the various preparations with a small number of people to help her. It was more domestic preparations that were needed.’
‘I see. But you came to the party as one of the guests?’
‘That is right.’
‘And what happened?’
‘The progress of the party, I have no doubt, you already know. You want to know if there is anything I can tell you that I specially noticed or that I thought might have a certain significance? I don’t want to waste your time unduly, you understand.’
‘I am sure you will not waste my time. Yes, Miss Whittaker, tell me quite simply.’
‘The various events happened in the way already arranged for. The last event was what was really more a Christmas festivity or associated with Christmas, than it would be with Hallowe’en. The Snapdragon, a burning dish of raisins with brandy poured over them, and those round snatch at the raisins—there are squeals of laughter and excitement. It became very hot, though, in the room, with the burning dish, and I left it and came out in the hall. It was then, as I stood there, that I saw Mrs Drake coming out of the lavatory on the first floor landing. She was carrying a large vase of mixed autumn leaves and flowers. She stood at the angle of the staircase, pausing for a moment before coming downstairs. She was looking down over the well of the staircase. Not in my direction. She was looking towards the other end of the hall where there is a door leading into the library. It is set just across the hall from the door into the dining-room. As I say, she was looking that way and pausing for a moment before coming downstairs. She was shifting slightly the angle of the vase as it was a rather awkward thing to carry, and weighty if it was, as I presumed, full of water. She was shifting the position of it rather carefully so that she could hold it to her with one arm, and put out the other arm to the rail of the staircase as she came round the slightly shaped corner stairway. She stood there for a moment or two, still not looking at what she was carrying, but towards the hall below. And suddenly she made a sudden movement—a start I would describe it as—yes, definitely something had startled her. So much so that she relinquished her hold of the vase and it fell, reversing itself as it did so so that the water streamed over her and the vase itself crashed down to the hall below, where it broke in smithereens on the hall floor.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot. He paused a minute or two, watching her. Her eyes, he noticed, were shrewd and knowledgeable. They were asking now his opinion of what she was telling him. ‘What did you think had happened to startle her?’
‘On reflection, afterwards, I thought she had seen something.’
‘You thought she had seen something,’ repeated Poirot, thoughtfully. ‘Such as?’
‘The direction