Hallowe'en Party - Agatha Christie [88]
‘Water. I wanted someone who was at the party and who was wet, and who shouldn’t have been wet. Whoever killed Joyce Reynolds would necessarily have got wet. You hold down a vigorous child with its head in a full bucket of water, and there will be struggling and splashing and you are bound to be wet. So something has got to happen to provide an innocent explanation of how you got wet. When everyone crowded into the dining-room for the Snapdragon, Mrs Drake took Joyce with her to the library. If your hostess asks you to come with her, naturally you go. And certainly Joyce had no suspicion of Mrs Drake. All Miranda had told her was that she had once seen a murder committed. And so Joyce was killed and her murderer was fairly well soaked with water. There must be a reason for that and she set about creating a reason. She had to get a witness as to how she got wet. She waited on the landing with an enormous vase of flowers filled with water. In due course Miss Whittaker came out from the Snapdragon room—it was hot in there. Mrs Drake pretended to start nervously, and let the vase go, taking care that it flooded her person as it crashed down to the hall below. She ran down the stairs and she and Miss Whittaker picked up the pieces and the flowers while Mrs Drake complained at the loss of her beautiful vase. She managed to give Miss Whittaker the impression that she had seen something or someone coming out of the room where a murder had been committed. Miss Whittaker took the statement at its face value, but when she mentioned it to Miss Emlyn, Miss Emlyn realized the really interesting thing about it. And so she urged Miss Whittaker to tell me the story.
‘And so,’ said Poirot, twirling his moustaches, ‘I, too, knew who the murderer of Joyce was.’
‘And all the time Joyce had never seen any murder committed at all!’
‘Mrs Drake did not know that. But she had always suspected that someone had been there in the Quarry Wood when she and Michael Garfield had killed Olga Seminoff, and might have seen it happen.’
‘When did you know it had been Miranda and not Joyce?’
‘As soon as common sense forced me to accept the universal verdict that Joyce was a liar. Then Miranda was clearly indicated. She was frequently in the Quarry Wood, observing birds and squirrels. Joyce was, as Miranda told me, her best friend. She said: “We tell each other everything.” Miranda was not at the party, so the compulsive liar Joyce could use the story her friend had told her of having once seen a murder committed—probably in order to impress you, Madame, the well-known crime writer.’
‘That’s right, blame it all on me.’
‘No, no.’
‘Rowena Drake,’ mused Mrs Oliver. ‘I still can’t believe it of her.’
‘She had all the qualities necessary. I have always wondered,’ he added, ‘exactly what sort of woman Lady Macbeth was. What would she be like if you met her in real life? Well, I think I have met her.’
‘And Michael Garfield? They seem such an unlikely pair.’
‘Interesting—Lady Macbeth and Narcissus, an unusual combination.’
‘Lady Macbeth,’ Mrs Oliver murmured thoughtfully.
‘She was a handsome woman—efficient and competent—a born administrator—an unexpectedly good actress. You should have heard her lamenting over the death of the little boy Leopold and weeping large sobs into a dry handkerchief.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘You remember I asked you who, in your opinion, were or were not nice people.’
‘Was Michael Garfield in love with her?’
‘I doubt if Michael Garfield has ever loved anyone but himself. He wanted money—a lot of money. Perhaps he believed at first he could influence Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe to dote upon him to the extent of making a Will in his favour—but Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe was not that kind of woman.’
‘What about the forgery? I still don’t understand that. What was the point of it all?’
‘It was confusing at first. Too much forgery, one might say. But if one considered it, the purpose of it was clear. You had only to consider what actually happened.
‘Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe’s fortune all