Plenty of human beings about like that.

More than there used to be I'd say nowadays."

"And you've no suspicion of your own?"

"I can't stick my neck out and diagnose a murderer without some evidence."

"Still, you admit it must have been someone at the party. You cannot have a murder without a murderer."

"You can easily in some detective stories that are written. Probably your pet authoress writes them like that. But in this case I agree.

The murderer must have been there. A guest, a domestic help, someone who walked in through the window. Easily done if he'd studied the catch of the window beforehand. It might have struck some crazy brain that it would be a novel idea and a bit of fun to have a murder at a Hallowe'en party. That's all you've got to start off with, isn't it?

Just someone who was at the party."

Under bushy brows a pair of eyes twinkled at Poirot.

"I was there myself," he said.

"Came in late, just to see what was doing."

He nodded his head vigorously.

"Yes, that's the problem, isn't it? Like a social announcement in the papers:

"Amongst those present was A Murderer?" \020POIROT looked up at The Elms and approved of it.

He was admitted and taken promptly by what he judged to be a secretary to the head-mistress's study.

Miss Ernlyn rose from her desk to greet him.

"I am delighted to meet you, Mr.

Poirot. I've heard about you."

"You are too kind," said Poirot.

"From a very old friend of mine. Miss Bulstrode. Former head-mistress of Meadowbank. You remember Miss Bulstrode, perhaps?"

"One would not be likely to forget her.

A great personality."

"Yes," said Miss Emiyn.

"She made Meadowbank the school it is." She sighed slightly and said,

"It has changed a little nowadays. Different aims, different methods, but it still holds its own as a school of distinction, of progress, and also of tradition. Ah well, we must not live too much in the past.

You have come to see me, no doubt, about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don't know if you have any particular interest in her case. It's out of your usual run of things, I imagine. You knew her personally, or her family perhaps?"

"No," said Poirot.

"I came at the request of an old friend, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, who was staying down here and was present at the party."

"She writes delightful books," said Miss Emiyn.

"I have met her once or twice.

Well, that makes the whole thing easier, I think, to discuss. So long as no personal feelings are involved, one can go straight ahead. It was a horrifying thing to happen.

If I may say so, it was an unlikely thing to happen. The children involved seem neither old enough nor young enough for it to fall into any special class. A psychological crime is indicated. Do you agree?"

"No," said Poirot.

"I think it was a murder, like most murders, committed for a motive, possibly a sordid one."

"Indeed. And the reason?"

"The reason was a remark made by Joyce; not actually at the party, I under132 stand, but earlier in the day when preparations were being made by some of the older children and other helpers. She announced that she had once seen a murder committed."

"Was she believed?"

"On the whole, I think she was not believed."

"That seems the most likely response.

Joyce-I speak plainly to you. Monsieur Poirot, because we do not want unnecessary sentiment to cloud mental faculties-she was a rather mediocre child, neither stupid nor particularly intellectual.

She was, quite frankly, a compulsive liar.

And by that I do not mean that she was specially deceitful. She was not trying to avoid retribution or to avoid being found out in some peccadillo. She boasted. She boasted of things that had not happened, but that would impress her friends who were listening to her. As a result, of course, they inclined not to believe the tall stories she told."

"You think that she boasted of having seen a murder committed in order to make herself important, to intrigue someone-?"

"Yes. And I would suggest that Ariadne Oliver was doubtless the person whom she wanted to impress…"

"So you don't think Joyce saw a murder committed at all?"

"I should doubt it very much."

"You are of the opinion that she made the whole thing up?"

"I would not say that. She did witness, perhaps, a car accident, or someone perhaps who was hit with a ball on the golf links and injured-something that she could work up into an impressive happening that might, just conceivably, pass as an attempted murder."

"So the only assumption we can make with any certainty is that there was a murderer present at the Hallowe'en party."

"Certainly," said Miss Ernlyn, without turning a grey hair.

"Certainly. That follows on logically, does it not?"

"Would you have any idea who that murderer might be?"

"That is certainly a sensible question," said Miss Emiyn.

"After all, the majority of the children at the party were aged between nine and fifteen, and I suppose nearly all of them had been or were pupils at my school. I ought to know something about them. Something, too, about their families and their backgrounds."

"I believe that one of your own teachers, a year or two ago, was strangled by an unknown killer."

"You are referring to Janet White?

About twenty-four years of age. An emotional girl. As far as is known, she was out walking alone. She may, of course, have arranged to meet some young man.

She was a girl who was quite attractive to men in a modest sort of way.

Her killer has not been discovered. The police questioned various young men or asked them to assist them in their inquiries, as the technique goes, but they were not able to find sufficient evidence to bring a case against anyone. An unsatisfactory business from their point of view. And, I may say, from mine."

"You and I have a principle in common.

We do not approve of murder."

Miss Ernlyn looked at him for a moment or two. Her expression did not change, but Poirot had an idea that he was being sized up with a great deal of care.

"I like the way you put it," she said.

"From what you read and hear nowadays, it seems that murder under certain aspects is slowly but surely being made acceptable to a large section of the community."

She was silent for a few minutes, and Poirot also did not speak. She was, he thought, considering a plan of action.

She rose and touched a bell.

"I think," she said, "that you had better talk to Miss Whittaker."

Some five minutes passed after Miss Ernlyn had left the room and then the door opened and a woman of about forty entered. She had russet-coloured hair, cut short, and came in with a brisk step.

"Monsieur Poirot?" she said.

"Can I help you? Miss Ernlyn seems to think that that might be so."

"If Miss Ernlyn thinks so, then it is almost a certainty that you can.

I would take her word for it."

"You know her?"

"I have only met her this afternoon."

"But you have made up your mind quickly about her."

"I hope you are going to tell me that I am right."

Elizabeth Whittaker gave a short, quick sigh.

"Oh yes, you're right. I presume that this is about the death of Joyce Reynolds.

I don't know exactly how you come into it.

Through the police?" She shook her head slightly in a dissatisfied manner.

"No, not through the police. Privately, through a friend."

She took a chair, pushing it back a little so as to face him.

"Yes. What do you want to know?"

"I don't think there is any need to tell you. No need to waste time asking questions that may be of no importance. Something happened that evening at the party which perhaps it is well that I should know about.

Is that it?"