"ShAn we come back to the drawing-room?"

"And then you wAll tell me all about Joyce," said Poirot.

They settled themselves once more in the drawing-room.

Mrs. Drake was locking 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," 8aid Poirot.

"Some children I consider are ^osr unattractive."

"Well, I agree, they're not brought up 81 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 a nice child?" said Poirot insistently.

Mrs. Drake looked at him and registered censure.

"You must realise. Monsieur Poirot, that the poor child is dead" "Dead or alive, it matters. Perhaps if she was a nice child, nobody would have wanted to kill her, but if she was not a nice child, somebody might have wanted to kill her, and did so-" "Well, I suppose-Surely it isn't a question of niceness, is it?"

"It could be. I also understand that she claimed to have seen a murder committed."

"Oh that," said Mrs. Drake contemptuously.

"You did not take that statement seriously?"

"Well, of course I didn't. It was a very silly thing to say."

"How did she come to say it?"

"Well, I think really they were all rather excited about Mrs. Oliver being here. You are a very famous person, you must remember, dear," said Mrs. Drake, addressing Mrs. Oliver.

The word "dear" seemed included in her speech without any acompanying enthusiasm.

"I don't suppose the subject would ever have arisen otherwise, but the children were excited by meeting a famous authoress " "So Joyce said that she had seen a murder committed," said Poirot thoughtfully.

"Yes, she said something of the kind. I wasn't really listening."

"But you do remember that she said it?"

"Oh yes, she said it. But I didn't believe it," said Mrs. Drake.

"Her sister hushed her up at once, very properly."

"And she was annoyed about that, was she?"

"Yes, she went on saying that it was true."

"In fact, she boasted about it."

"When you put it that way, yes."

"It might have been tme, I suppose," said Poirot.

"Nonsense! I don't believe it for one minute," said Mrs. Drake.

"It's the sort of stupid thing Joyce would say."

"She was a stupid girl?"

"Well, she was the kind, I think, who liked to show off," said Mrs.

Drake.

"You know, she always wanted to have seen more or done more than other girls."

"Not a very lovable character," said Poirot.

"No indeed," said Mrs. Drake.

"Really the kind that you have to be shutting up all the time."

"What did the other children who were there have to say about it? Were they impressed?"

"They laughed at her," said Mrs.

Drake.

"So, of course, that made her worse."

"Well," said Poirot, as he rose, "I am glad to have your positive assurance on that point." He bowed politely over her hand.

"Good-bye, Madame, thank you so much for allowing me to view the scene of this very unpleasant occurrence. I hope it has not recalled unpleasant memories too definitely to you."

"Of course," said Mrs. Drake, "it is very painful to recall anything of this kind.

I had so hoped our little party would go off well. Indeed, it was going off well and everyone seemed to be enjoying it so much till this terrible thing happened. However, the only thing one can do is to try and forget it all. Of course, it's very unfortunate that Joyce should have made this silly remark abot seeing a murder."

"Have you ever had a murder in Woodleigh Common?"

"Not that I can remember," said Mrs.

Drake firmly.

"In this age of increased crime that we live in," said Poirot, "that really seems somewhat unusual, does it not?"

"Well, I think there was a lorry driver who killed a pal of his-something like that-and a little girl whom they found buried in a gravel pit about fifteen miles / '-' A ^^ from here, but that was years ago. They were both rather sordid and uninteresting crimes. Mainly the result of drink, I think."

"In fact, the kind of murder unlikely to have been witnessed by a girl of twelve or thirteen."

"Most unlikely, I should say. And I can assure you. Monsieur Poirot, this statement that the girl made was solely in order to impress friends and perhaps interest a famous character." She looked rather coldly across at Mrs. Oliver.

"In fact," said Mrs. Oliver, "it's all my fault for being at the party, I suppose."

"Oh, of course not, my dear, of course I didn't mean it that way."

Poirot sighed as he departed from the house with Mrs. Oliver by his side.

"A very unsuitable place for a murder," he said, as they walked down the path to the gate.

"No atmosphere, no haunting sense of tragedy, no character worth murdering, though I couldn't help thinking that just occasionally someone might feel like murdering Mrs. Drake."

"I know what you mean. She can be intensely irritating sometimes. So pleased with herself and so complacent."

"What is her husband like?"

"Oh, she's a widow. Her husband died a year or two ago. He got polio and had been a cripple for years. He was a banker originally, I think. He was very keen on games and sport and hated having to give all that up and be an invalid."

"Yes, indeed." He reverted to the subject of the child Joyce.

"Just tell me this. Did anyone who was listening take this assertion of the child Joyce about murder seriously?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't have thought anyone did."

"The other children, for instance?"

"Well, I was thinking really of them.

No, I don't think they believed what Joyce was saying. They thought she was making up things."

"Did you think that, too?"

"Well, I did really," said Mrs. Oliver.

"Of course," she added, "Mrs. Drake would like to believe that the murder never really happened, but she can't very well go as far as that, can she?"

"I understand that this may be painful for her."

"I suppose it is in a way," said Mrs.

Oliver, "but I think that by now, you know, she is actually getting quite pleased to talk about it. I don't think she likes to have to bottle it up all the time."

"Do you like her?" asked Poirot.

"Do you think she's a nice woman?"

"You do ask the most difficult questions.

Embarrassing ones," said Mrs.

Oliver.

"It seems the only thing you are interested in is whether people are nice or not. Rowena Drake is the bossy type-likes running things and people. She runs this whole place more or less, I should think. But runs it very efficiently. It depends if you like bossy women. I don't much-" "What about Joyce's mother whom we are on our way to see?"

"She's quite a nice woman. Rather stupid, I should think. I'm sorry for her.