'We're talking too much,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'Anyway,' she said, 'if anyone is going to be killed, it seems to me that probably the most likely one would be Ann Reynolds.'
'What's the matter with the family?
Why should they all get killed, one after another? Oh, Ariadne, it's frightening!'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'but there are times when it's quite right to be frightened.
I've just had a telegram and I'm acting upon it.'
'Oh, I didn't hear the telephone.'
'It didn't come through the telephone.
It came to the door.'
She hesitated a moment, then she held it out to her friend.
'What's this mean? Operation?'
'Tonsils, probably,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'Miranda had a bad throat last week, hadn't she? Well, what more likely than; that she should be taken to consult a throat specialist in London?'
'Are you quite mad, Ariadne?'
'Probably,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoy being in London. You needn't worry. She's not going to have any operation. That's what's called 'cover' in spy stories. We'll take her to a theatre, or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole I think it would be best to take her to the ballet.'
'I'm frightened,' said Judith.
Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. She looked more than ever, Mrs. Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked divorced from reality.
'Come on,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'I promised Hercule Poirot I'd bring you when he gave me the word. Well, he's given me the word.'
'What's going on in this place?' said Judith.
'I can't think why I ever came here.'
'I sometimes wondered why you did,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'but there's no accounting for where people go to live. A friend of mine went to live in Moreton-in the-Marsh the other day. I asked him why he wanted to go and live there. He said he'd always wanted to and thought about it.
Whenever he retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn't been to it myself but it sounded to me bound to be damp.
What was it actually like? He said he didn't know what it was like because he'd never been there himself. But he had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too.'
'Did he go?'
'Yes.'
'Did he like it when he got there?'
'Well, I haven't heard that yet,' said Mrs. Oliver.
'But people are very odd, aren't they? The things they want to do, the things they simply have to do?' She went to the garden and called, 'Miranda, we're going to London.'
Miranda came slowly towards them.
'Going to London?'
'Ariadne's going to drive us there,' said her mother. 'We'll go and see a theatre there. Mrs. Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet. Would you like to go to the ballet?'
'I'd love it,' said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. 'I must go and say goodbye to one of my friends first.'
'We're going practically at once.'
'Oh, I shan't be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things I promised to do.'
She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate.
'Who are Miranda's friends?' asked Mrs. Oliver, with some curiosity.
'I never really know,' said Judith. 'She never tells one things, you know. Sometimes I think that the only things that she really feels are her friends are the birds sheA looks at in the woods. Or squirrels or things like that. I think everybody likes her but I don't know that she has any particular friends. I mean, she doesn't bring back girls to tea and things like that.
Not as much as other girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reynolds.'
She added vaguely: 'Joyce used to tell her fantastic things about elephants and tigers.' She roused herself.
'Well, I must go up and pack, I suppose, as you insist.
But I don't want to leave here. There are lots of things I'm in the middle of doing, like this jelly and-'
'You've got to come,' said Mrs. Oliver.
She was quite firm about it.
Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Miranda ran in through the side door, somewhat out of breath.
'Aren't we going to have lunch first?' she demanded.
In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child who liked her food.
'We'll stop for lunch on the way,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'We'll stop at The Black Boy at Haversham. That would be about right.
It's about three-quarters of an hour from here and they give you quite a good meal.
Come on, Miranda, we're going to start now.'
'I shan't have time to tell Cathie I can't go to the pictures with her to-morrow. Oh, perhaps I could ring her up.'
'Well, hurry up,' said her mother.
Miranda ran into the sitting-room where the telephone was situated.
Judith and Mrs. Oliver put suitcases into the car.
Miranda came out of the sitting-room.
'I left a message,' she said breathlessly.
'That's all right now.'
'I think you're mad, Ariadne,' said Judith, as they got into the car.
'Quite mad. What's it all about?'
'We shall know in due course, I suppose,' said Mrs. Oliver.
'I don't know if I'm mad or he is.'
'He? Who?'
'Hercule Poirot,' said Mrs. Oliver.
In London Hercule Poirot was sitting in a room with four other men. One was Inspector Timothy Raglan, looking respectful and poker-faced as was his invariable habit when in the presence of his superiors, the second was Superintendent Spence. The third was Alfred Richmond, Chief Constable of the County and the fourth was a man with a sharp, legal face from the Public Prosecutor's office. They looked at Hercule Poirot with varying expressions, or what one might describe as non-expressions.
'You seem quite sure. Monsieur Poirot.'
'I am quite sure,' said Hercule Poirot. 'When a thing arranges itself so, one realises that it must be so, one only looks for reasons why it should not be so. If one does not find the reasons why it should not be so, then one is strengthened in one's opinion.'
'The motives seem somewhat complex, if I may say so.'
'No,' said Poirot, 'not complex really.
