said Mrs Drake, in her fine speaking voice, which Poirot thought would come over excellently in a small lecture room or the village hall,
‘I am so pleased you could come down here. Mrs Oliver has been telling me how invaluable your help will be to us in this terrible crisis.’
‘Rest assured, Madame, I shall do what I can, but as you no doubt realize from your experience of life, it is going to be a difficult business.’
‘Difficult?’ said Mrs Drake. ‘Of course it’s going to be difficult. It seems incredible, absolutely incredible, that such an awful thing should have happened. I suppose,’ she added, ‘the police may know something? Inspector Raglan has a very good reputation locally, I believe. Whether or not they ought to call Scotland Yard in, I don’t know. The idea seems to be that this poor child’s death must have had a local significance. I needn’t tell you, Monsieur Poirot—after all, you read the papers as much as I do—that there have been very many sad fatalities with children all over the countryside. They seem to be getting more and more frequent. Mental instability seems to be on the increase, though I must say that mothers and families generally are not looking after their children properly, as they used to do. Children are sent home from school alone, on dark evenings, go alone on dark early mornings. And children, however much you warn them, are unfortunately very foolish when it comes to being offered a lift in a smart-looking car. They believe what they’re told. I suppose one cannot help that.’
‘But what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely different nature.’
‘Oh, I know—I know. That is why I used the term incredible. I still cannot quite believe it,’ said Mrs Drake. ‘Everything was entirely under control. All the arrangements were made. Everything was going perfectly, all according to plan. It just seems—seems incredible. Personally I consider myself that there must be what I call an outside significance to this. Someone walked into the house—not a difficult thing to do under the circumstances—someone of highly disturbed mentality, I suppose, the kind of people who are let out of mental homes simply because there is no room for them there, as far as I can see. Nowadays, room has to be made for fresh patients all the time. Anyone peeping in through a window could see a children’s party was going on, and this poor wretch—if one can really feel pity for these people, which I really must say I find it very hard to do myself sometimes—enticed this child away somehow and killed her. You can’t think such a thing could happen, but it did happen.’
‘Perhaps you would show me where—’
‘Of course. No more coffee?’
‘I thank you, no.’
Mrs Drake got up. ‘The police seem to think it took place while the Snapdragon was going on. That was taking place in the dining-room.’
She walked across the hall, opened the door and, rather in the manner of someone doing the honours of a stately home to a party of charabanc goers, indicated the large dining-table and the heavy velvet curtains.
‘It was dark here, of course, except for the blazing dish. And now—’
She led them across the hall and opened the door of a small room with arm-chairs, sporting prints and bookshelves.
‘The library,’ said Mrs Drake, and shivered a little. ‘The bucket was here. On a plastic sheet, of course—’
Mrs Oliver had not accompanied them into the room. She was standing outside in the hall—
‘I can’t come in,’ she said to Poirot. ‘It makes me think of it too much.’
‘There’s nothing to see now,’ said Mrs Drake. ‘I mean, I’m just showing you where, as you asked.’
‘I suppose,’ said Poirot, ‘there was water—a good deal of water.’
‘There was water in the bucket, of course,’ said Mrs Drake.
She looked at Poirot as though she thought that he was not quite all there.
‘And there was water on the sheet. I mean, if the child’s head was pushed under water, there would be a lot of water splashed about.’
‘Oh yes. Even while the bobbing was going on, the bucket had to be filled up once or twice.’
‘So the person who did it? That person also would have got wet, one would think.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose so.’
‘That was not specially noticed?’
‘No, no, the Inspector asked me about that. You see, by the end of the evening nearly everyone was a bit dishevelled or damp or floury. There doesn’t seem to be any useful clues there at all. I mean, the police didn’t think so.’
‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘I suppose the only clue was the child herself. I hope you will tell me all you know about her.’
‘About Joyce?’
Mrs Drake looked slightly taken aback. It was as though Joyce in her mind had by now retreated so far out of things that she was quite surprised to be reminded of her.
‘The victim is always important,’ said Poirot. ‘The victim, you see, is so often the cause of the crime.’
‘Well, I suppose, yes, I see what you mean,’ said Mrs Drake, who quite plainly did not. ‘Shall we come back to the drawing-room?’
‘And then you will tell me about Joyce,’ said Poirot.
They settled themselves once more in the drawing-room.
Mrs Drake was looking uncomfortable.
‘I don’t know really what you expect me to say, Monsieur Poirot,’ she said. ‘Surely all information can be obtained quite easily from the police or from Joyce’s mother. Poor woman, it will be painful for her, no doubt, but—’
‘But what I want,’ said Poirot, ‘is not a mother’s estimate of a dead daughter. It is a clear, unbiased opinion from someone who has a good knowledge of human nature. I should say, Madame, that you yourself have been an active worker in many welfare and social fields here. Nobody, I am sure, could sum up more aptly the character and disposition of someone whom you know.’
‘Well—it is a little difficult. I mean, children of that age—she was thirteen, I think, twelve or thirteen—are very much alike at a certain age.’
‘Ah no, surely not,’ said Poirot. ‘There are very great differences in character, in disposition. Did you like her?’
Mrs Drake seemed to find the question embarrassing.
‘Well, of course I—I liked her. I mean, well, I like all children. Most people do.’
‘Ah, there I do not agree with you,’ said Poirot. ‘Some children I consider are most unattractive.’
‘Well, I agree, they’re not brought up very well nowadays. Everything seems left to the school, and of course they lead very permissive lives. Have their own choice of friends and—er—oh, really, Monsieur Poirot.’
‘Was she a nice child or not
