has upset you?’
‘Yes. Of course I’m upset. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know—oh, I don’t know anything. What I feel is that I’ve got to come and tell you—tell you just what’s happened, for you’re the only person who might know what to do. Who might tell me what I ought to do. So can I come?’
‘But certainly, but certainly. I shall be delighted to receive you.’
The receiver was thrown down heavily at the other end and Poirot summoned George, reflected a few minutes, then ordered lemon barley water, bitter lemon and a glass of brandy for himself.
‘Mrs Oliver will be here in about ten minutes,’ he said.
George withdrew. He returned with the brandy for Poirot, who accepted it with a nod of satisfaction, and George then proceeded to provide the teetotal refreshment that was the only thing likely to appeal to Mrs Oliver. Poirot took a sip of brandy delicately, fortifying himself for the ordeal which was about to descend upon him.
‘It’s a pity,’ he murmured to himself, ‘that she is so scatty. And yet, she has originality of mind. It could be that I am going to enjoy what she is coming to tell me. It could be—’ he reflected a minute ‘—that it may take a great deal of the evening and that it will all be excessively foolish. Eh bien, one must take one’s risks in life.’
A bell sounded. A bell on the outside door of the flat this time. It was not a single pressure of the button. It lasted for a long time with a kind of steady action that was very effective, the sheer making of noise.
‘Assuredly, she has excited herself,’ said Poirot.
He heard George go to the door, open it, and before any decorous announcement could be made the door of his sitting-room opened and Ariadne Oliver charged through it, with George in tow behind her, hanging on to something that looked like a fisherman’s sou’wester and oilskins.
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘Let George take it from you. It’s very wet.’
‘Of course it’s wet,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s very wet out. I never thought about water before. It’s a terrible thing to think of.’
Poirot looked at her with interest.
‘Will you have some lemon barley water,’ he said, ‘or could I persuade you to a small glass of eau de vie?’
‘I hate water,’ said Mrs Oliver.
Poirot looked surprised.
‘I hate it. I’ve never thought about it before. What it can do, and everything.’
‘My dear friend,’ said Hercule Poirot, as George extricated her from the flapping folds of watery oilskin. ‘Come and sit down here. Let George finally relieve you of—what is it you are wearing?’
‘I got it in Cornwall,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Oilskins. A real, proper fisherman’s oilskin.’
‘Very useful to him, no doubt,’ said Poirot, ‘but not, I think, so suitable for you. Heavy to wear. But come—sit down and tell me.’
‘I don’t know how,’ said Mrs Oliver, sinking into a chair. ‘Sometimes, you know, I can’t feel it’s really true. But it happened. It really happened.’
‘Tell me,’ said Poirot.
‘That’s what I’ve come for. But now I’ve got here, it’s so difficult because I don’t know where to begin.’
‘At the beginning?’ suggested Poirot, ‘or is that too conventional a way of acting?’
‘I don’t know when the beginning was. Not really. It could have been a long time ago, you know.’
‘Calm yourself,’ said Poirot. ‘Gather together the various threads of this matter in your mind and tell me. What is it that has so upset you?’
‘It would have upset you, too,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘At least, I suppose it would.’ She looked rather doubtful. ‘One doesn’t know, really, what does upset you. You take so many things with a lot of calm.’
‘It is often the best way,’ said Poirot.
‘All right,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It began with a party.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Poirot, relieved to have something as ordinary and sane as a party presented to him. ‘A party. You went to a party and something happened.’
‘Do you know what a Hallowe’en party is?’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘I know what Hallowe’en is,’ said Poirot. ‘The 31st of October.’ He twinkled slightly as he said, ‘When witches ride on broomsticks.’
‘There were broomsticks,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘They gave prizes for them.’
‘Prizes?’
‘Yes, for who brought the best decorated ones.’
Poirot looked at her rather doubtfully. Originally relieved at the mention of a party, he now again felt slightly doubtful. Since he knew that Mrs Oliver did not partake of spirituous liquor, he could not make one of the assumptions that he might have made in any other case.
‘A children’s party,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Or rather, an eleven-plus party.’
‘Eleven-plus?’
‘Well, that’s what they used to call it, you know, in schools. I mean they see how bright you are, and if you’re bright enough to pass your eleven-plus, you go on to a grammar school or something. But if you’re not bright enough, you go to something called a Secondary Modern. A silly name. It doesn’t seem to mean anything.’
‘I do not, I confess, really understand what you are talking about,’ said Poirot. They seemed to have got away from parties and entered into the realms of education.
Mrs Oliver took a deep breath and began again.
‘It started really,’ she said, ‘with the apples.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Poirot, ‘it would. It always might with you, mightn’t it?’
He was thinking to himself of a small car on a hill and a large woman getting out of it, and a bag of apples breaking, and the apples running and cascading down the hill.
‘Yes,’ he said encouragingly, ‘apples.’
‘Bobbing for apples,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘That’s one of the things you do at a Hallowe’en party.’
‘Ah yes, I think I have heard of that, yes.’
‘You see, all sorts of things were being done. There was bobbing for apples, and cutting sixpence off a tumblerful of flour, and looking in a looking-glass—’
‘To see your true love’s face?’ suggested Poirot knowledgeably.
