There seemed little more to be got out of Leopold. They went upstairs to where Arm, looking rather more than her sixteen years, was bending over a table with various study books spread round her.

"Yes, I was at the party," she said.

"You heard your sister say something about having seen a murder?"

"Oh yes, I heard her. I didn't take any notice, though."

"You didn't think it was true?"

"Of course it wasn't true. There haven't been any murders here for ages. I don't Aink there's been a proper murder for years."

"Then why do you think she said so?"

"Oh, she likes showing off. I mean she used to like showing off. She had a wonderful story once about having travelled to India. My uncle had been on a voyage there and she pretended she went with him. Lots of girls at school actually believed her."

"So you don't remember any what you call murders taking place here in the last three or four years?"

"No, only the usual kind," said Arm.

"I mean, the ones you read every day in the newspaper. And they weren't actually here in Woodleigh Common. They were mostly in Medchester, I think."

"Who do you think killed your sister, Arm? You must have known her friends, you would know any people who didn't like her."

"I can't imagine who'd want to kill her.

I suppose someone who was just batty.

Nobody else would, would they?"

"There was no-one who had-quarrelled with her or who did not get on with her?"

"You mean, did she have an enemy? I think that's silly. People don't have enemies really. There are just people you don't like."

As they departed from the room, Arm said:

"I don't want to be nasty about Joyce, because she's dead, and it wouldn't be kind, but she really was the most awful liar, you know. I mean, I'm sorry to say things about my sister, but it's quite true."

"Are we making any progress?" said Mrs. Oliver as they left the house.

"None whatever," said Hercule Poirot.

"That is interesting," he said thoughtfully.

Mrs. Oliver looked as though she didn't agree with him.

IT was six o'clock at Pine Crest.

Hercule Poirot put a piece of sausage into his mouth and followed it up with a sip of tea. The tea was strong and to Poirot singularly unpalatable. The sausage, on the other hand, was delicious. Cooked to perfection. He looked with appreciation across the table to where Mrs.

McKay presided over the large brown teapot.

Elspeth McKay was as unlike her brother. Superintendent Spence, as she could be in every way. Where he was broad, she was angular. Her sharp, thin face looked out on the world with shrewd appraisal. She was thin as a thread, yet there was a certain likeness between them.

Mainly the eyes and the strongly marked line of the jaw. Either of them, Poirot thought, could be relied upon for judgment and good sense.

They would express themselves differently, but that was all.

Superintendent Spence would express himself slowly and carefully as the result oj^due thought and deliberation. Mrs.

McKay would pounce, quick and sharp, like a cat upon a mouse.

"A lot depends," said Poirot, "upon the character of this child. Joyce^ Reynolds.

That is what puzzles me most." He looked inquiringly at Spence.

"You can't go by me," said Spence, "I've not lived here long enough.

Better askElspeth."

Poirot looked across the table, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. Mrs.

McKay was sharp as usual in response.

"I'd say she was a proper little liar," she said. ", "Not a girl whom you'd trust and believe what she said?"

Elspeth shook her head decidedly.

"No, indeed. Tell a tall tale, she would, and tell it well, mind you.

But I'd never believe her."

"Tell it with the object of showing off?

"That's right. They told you the Indian story, didn't they? There's many as believed that, you know. Been away for the holidays, the family had. Gone abroad saPiewhere. I don't know if it was her father and mother or her uncle and aunt, but they went to India and she came back from those holidays with tall tales of how she'd been taken there with them. Made a good story of it, she did. A Maharajah and a tiger shoot and elephants-ah, it was fine hearing and a lot of those around her here believed it. But I said straight along, she's telling more than ever happened. Could be, I thought at first, she was just exaggerating. But the story got added to every time. There were more tigers, if you know what I mean. Far more tigers than could possibly happen. And elephants, too, for that matter. I'd known her before, too, telling tall stories."

"Always to get attention?"

"Aye, you're right there. She was a great one for getting attention."

"Because a child told a tall story about a travel trip she never took," said Superintendent Spence, "you can't say that every tall tale she told was a lie."

"It might not be," said Elspeth, "but I'd say the likelihood was that it usually would be."

"So you think that if Joyce Reynolds came out with a tale that she'd seen a murder committed, you'd say she was probably lying and you wouldn't believe the story was true?"

"That's what I'd think," said Mrs.

McKay.

"You might be wrong," said her brother.

"Yes," said Mrs. McKay.

"Anyone may be wrong. It's like the old story of the boy who cried "Wolf, wolf," and he cried it once too often, when it was a real wolf, and nobody believed him, and so the wolf got him."

"So you'd sum it up " "I'd still say the probabilities are that she wasn't speaking the truth. But I'm a fair woman. She may have been.

She may have seen something. Not quite so much as she said she saw, but something."

"And so she got herself killed," said Superintendent Spence.

"You've got to mind that, Elspeth. She got herself killed."

"That's true enough," said Mrs.

McKay.

"And that's why I'm saying maybe I've misjudged her. And if so, I'm sorry. But ask anyone who knew her and they'll tell you that lies came natural to her. It was a party she was at, remember, and she was excited. She'd want to make an effect."

"Indeed, they didn't believe her," said Poirot.

Elspeth McKay shook her head doubtfully.

"Who could she have seen murdered?4' asked Poirot.

He looked from brother to sister.

"Nobody," said Mrs. McKay with decision.

"There must have been deaths here, say, over the last three years."

"Oh that, naturally," said Spence.

"Just the usual old folks or invalids or what you'd expect or maybe a hit-and-run motorist " "No unusual or unexpected deaths?"

"Well " Elspeth hesitated.

"I mean " Spence took over.

"I've jotted a few names down here."

He pushed the paper over to Poirot.

"Save you a bit of trouble, asking questions around."

"Are these suggested victims?"

"Hardly as much as that. Say within the range of possibility."

Poirot read aloud.

"Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe. Charlotte Benfield. Janet White. Lesley Ferrier-" He broke off, looked across the table and repeated the first name. Mrs.

LlewellynSmythe.

"Could be," said Mrs. McKay.

"Yes, you might have something there." She added a word that sounded like "opera".

"Opera?" Poirot looked puzzled. He had heard of no opera.

"Went off one night, she did," said Elspeth, "was never heard of again."

"Mrs. LlewellynSmythe?"

"No, no. The opera girl. She could have put something in the medicine easily enough. And she came into all the money, didn't she-or so she thought at the time?"

Poirot looked at Spence for enlightenment.

"And never been heard of since," said Mrs. McKay.

"These foreign girls are all the same."

The significance of the word "opera" came to Poirot.

"An au pair girl," he said.