Cards on the Table by Agatha Christie

field in the direction of the cottage. As they came through the gate into the garden, the foremost of the two stopped dead.
    Mrs. Oliver came forward.
    â€œHow do you do, Miss Meredith? You remember me, don’t you?”
    â€œOh—oh, of course.” Anne Meredith extended her hand hurriedly. Her eyes looked wide and startled. Then she pulled herself together.
    â€œThis is my friend who lives with me—Miss Dawes. Rhoda, this is Mrs. Oliver.”
    The other girl was tall, dark, and vigorous-looking. She said excitedly:
    â€œOh, are you the Mrs. Oliver? Ariadne Oliver?”
    â€œI am,” said Mrs. Oliver, and she added to Anne, “Now let us sit down somewhere, my dear, because I’ve got a lot to say to you.”
    â€œOf course. And we’ll have tea—”
    â€œTea can wait,” said Mrs. Oliver.
    Anne led the way to a little group of deck and basket chairs, all rather dilapidated. Mrs. Oliver chose the strongest-looking with some care, having had various unfortunate experiences with flimsy summer furniture.
    â€œNow, my dear,” she said briskly. “Don’t let’s beat about the bush. About this murder the other evening. We’ve got to get busy and do something.”
    â€œDo something?” queried Anne.
    â€œNaturally,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know what you think, but I haven’t the least doubt who did it. That doctor. What was his name? Roberts. That’s it! Roberts. A Welsh name! I never trust the Welsh! I had a Welsh nurse and she took me to Harrogate one day and went home having forgotten all about me. Very unstable. But never mind about her. Roberts did it—that’s the point and we must put our heads together and prove he did.”
    Rhoda Dawes laughed suddenly—then she blushed.
    â€œI beg your pardon. But you’re—you’re so different from what I would have imagined.”
    â€œA disappointment, I expect,” said Mrs. Oliver serenely. “I’m used to that. Never mind. What we must do is prove that Roberts did it!”
    â€œHow can we?” said Anne.
    â€œOh, don’t be so defeatist, Anne,” cried Rhoda Dawes. “I think Mrs. Oliver’s splendid. Of course, she knows all about these things. She’ll do just as Sven Hjerson does.”
    Blushing slightly at the name of her celebrated Finnish detective, Mrs. Oliver said:
    â€œIt’s got to be done, and I’ll tell you why, child. You don’t want people thinking you did it?”
    â€œWhy should they?” asked Anne, her colour rising.
    â€œYou know what people are!” said Mrs. Oliver. “The three who didn’t do it will come in for just as much suspicion as the one who did.”
    Anne Meredith said slowly:
    â€œI still don’t quite see why you come to me, Mrs. Oliver?”
    â€œBecause in my opinion the other two don’t matter! Mrs. Lorrimer is one of those women who play bridge at bridge clubs all day. Women like that must be made of armourplating—they can look after themselves all right! And anyway she’s old. It wouldn’t matter if anyone thought she’d done it. A girl’s different. She’s got her life in front of her.”
    â€œAnd Major Despard?” asked Anne.
    â€œPah!” said Mrs. Oliver. “He’s a man! I never worry about men. Men can look after themselves. Do it remarkably well, if you ask me. Besides, Major Despard enjoys a dangerous life. He’s getting his fun at home instead of on the Irrawaddy—or do I mean the Limpopo? You know what I mean—that yellow African river that men like so much. No, I’m not worrying my head about either of those two.”
    â€œIt’s very kind of you,” said Anne slowly.
    â€œIt was a beastly thing to happen,” said Rhoda. “It’s brokenAnne up, Mrs. Oliver. She’s awfully sensitive. And I think you’re quite right. It would be ever so much