Hallowe'en Party by Agatha Christie Page A

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 comesto being offered a lift in a smart-looking car. They believe what they’re told. I suppose one cannot help that.”
    â€œBut what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely different nature.”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œPerhaps you would show me where—”
    â€œOf course. No more coffee?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œIt 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 armchairs, sporting prints and bookshelves.
    â€œThe 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—
    â€œI can’t come in,” she said to Poirot. “It makes me think of it too much.”
    â€œThere’s nothing to see now,” said Mrs. Drake. “I mean, I’m just showing you where, as you asked.”
    â€œI suppose,” said Poirot, “there was water—a good deal of water.”
    â€œThere 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œOh yes. Even while the bobbing was going on, the bucket had to be filled up once or twice.”
    â€œSo the person who did it? That person also would have got wet, one would think.”
    â€œYes, yes, I suppose so.”
    â€œThat was not specially noticed?”
    â€œNo, no, the Inspector asked me about that. You see, by the end of the evening nearly everyone was a