Hallowe'en Party by Agatha Christie

manners, good appearance. Nobody’d dream anything was wrong with him. Ever had a bite at a nice red juicy apple and there, down by the core, something rather nasty rears itself up and wags its head at you? Plenty of human beings about like that. More than there used to be, I’d say nowadays.”
    â€œAnd you’ve no suspicion of your own?”
    â€œI can’t stick my neck out and diagnose a murderer without some evidence.”
    â€œStill, you admit it must have been someone at the party. You cannot have a murder without a murderer.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œI was there myself,” he said. “Came in late, just to see what was doing.”
    He nodded his head vigorously.
    â€œYes, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Like a social announcement in the papers:
    Â 
    â€˜Amongst those present was—
    A Murderer. ’”

Ten
    P oirot 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 headmistress’s study. Miss Emlyn rose from her desk to greet him.
    â€œI am delighted to meet you, Mr. Poirot. I’ve heard about you.”
    â€œYou are too kind,” said Poirot.
    â€œFrom a very old friend of mine, Miss Bulstrode. Former headmistress of Meadowbank. You remember Miss Bulstrode, perhaps?”
    â€œOne would not be likely to forget her. A great personality.”
    â€œYes,” said Miss Emlyn. “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 usualrun of things, I imagine. You knew her personally, or her family perhaps?”
    â€œNo,” 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.”
    â€œShe writes delightful books,” said Miss Emlyn. “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?”
    â€œNo,” said Poirot. “I think it was a murder, like most murders, committed for a motive, possibly a sordid one.”
    â€œIndeed. And the reason?”
    â€œThe reason was a remark made by Joyce; not actually at the party, I understand, 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.”
    â€œWas she believed?”
    â€œOn the whole, I think she was not believed.”
    â€œThat 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