Agatha Christie - Hallowe'en Party

Very vulnerable. There were other things about her that he knew, or thought he knew. It was only thinking so far, but yet he was almost sure.

Michael Garfield looked up and said.

"Ha! Senor Moustachios. A very good afternoon to you, sir."

"Can I look at what you are doing or would it incommode you? I do not want to be intrusive."

"You can look," said Michael Garfield, "it makes no difference to me."

He added gently, "I'm enjoying myself very much."

Poirot came to stand behind his shoulder. He nodded. It was a very delicate pencil drawing, the lines almost invisible. The man could draw, Poirot thought. Not only design gardens. He said, almost under his breath:

"Exquisite!"

"I think so too," said Michael Garfield.

He let it be left doubtful whether he referred to the drawing he was making, or to the sitter.

"Why? asked Poirot.

"Why am I doing it? Do you think I have a reason?"

"You might have."

"You're quite right. If I go away from here, there are one or two things I want to remember. Miranda is one of them."

"Would you forget her easily?"

"Very easily. I am like that. But to have forgotten something or someone, to be unable to bring a face, a turn of a shoulder, a gesture, a tree, a flower, a contour of landscape, to know what it was like to see it but not to be able to bring that image in front of one's eyes, that sometimes causes-what shall I say?-almost agony. You see, you record-and it all passes away."

"Not the Quarry Garden or park. That has not passed away."

"Don't you think so? It soon will. It soon will if no-one is here.

Nature takes over, you know. It needs love and attention and care and skill. If a Council takes it over-and that's what happens very often nowadays-then it will be what they call 'kept up'. The latest sort of shrubs may be put in, extra paths will be made, seats will be put at certain distances. Litter bins even may be erected. Oh, they are so careful, so kind at preserving. You can't preserve this. It's wild.

To keep something wild is far more difficult than to preserve it."

"Monsieur Poirot." Miranda's voice came across the stream.

Poirot moved forward, so that he came within earshot of her.

"So I find you here. So you came to sit for your portrait, did you?"

She shook her head.

"I didn't come for that. That just happened."

"Yes," said Michael Garfield, "yes, it just happened. A piece of luck sometimes comes one's way."

"You were just walking in your favourite garden?"

"I was looking for the well, really," said Miranda.

"A well?"

"There was a wishing well once in this wood."

"In a former quarry? I didn't know they kept wells in quarries."

"There was always a wood round the quarry. Well there were always trees here.

Michael knows where the well is but he won't tell me."

"It will be much more fun for you," said Michael Garfield, "to go on looking for it. Especially when you're not at all sure it really exists."

"Old Mrs. Goodbody knows all about it."

And added:

"She's a witch."

"Quite right," said Michael. "She's the local witch, Monsieur Poirot. There's always a local witch, you know, in most places. They don't always call themselves witches, but everyone knows. They tell a fortune or put a spell on your begonias or shrivel up your peonies or stop a farmer's cow from giving milk and probably give love potions as well."

"It was a wishing well," said Miranda. "People used to come here and wish. They had to go round it three times backwards and it was on the side of the hill, so it wasn't always very easy to do." She looked past Poirot at Michael Garfield.

"I shall find it one day," she said, "even if you won't tell me. It's here somewhere, but it was sealed up, Mrs. Goodbody said. Oh! years ago. Sealed up because it was said to be dangerous. A child fell into it years ago. Kitty Somebody. Someone else might have fallen into it."

"Well, go on thinking so," said Michael Garfield. "It's a good local story, but there is a wishing well over at Little Belling."

"Of course," said Miranda, "I know all about that one. It's a very common one," she said. "Everybody knows about it, and it's very silly. People throw pennies into it and there's not any water in it any more so there's not even a splash."

"Well, I'm sorry."

"I'll tell you when I find it," said Miranda.

"You mustn't always believe everything a witch says. I don't believe any child ever fell into it. I expect a cat fell into it once and got drowned."

"Ding dong dell, pussy's in the well," said Miranda. She got up.

"I must go now," she said. "Mummy will be expecting me."

She moved carefully from the knob of rock, smiled at both the men and went off down an even more intransigent path that ran the other side of the water.

"Ding dong dell'," said Poirot, thoughtfully. "One believes what one wants to believe, Michael Garfield. Was she right or was she not right?"

Michael Garfield looked at him thoughtfully, then he smiled.

"She is quite right," he said. "There is a well, and it is as she says sealed up. I suppose it may have been dangerous. I don't think it was ever a wishing well. I think that's Mrs. Goodbody's own bit of fancy talk.

There's a wishing tree, or there was once. A beech tree half-way up the hillside that I believe people did go round three times backwards and wished."

"What's happened to that? Don't they go round it any more?"

"No. I believe it was struck by lightning about six years ago. Split in two. So that pretty story's gone west."

"Have you told Miranda about that?"

"No. I thought I'd rather leave her with her well. A blasted beech wouldn't be much fun for her, would it?"

"I must go on my way," said Poirot.

"Going back to your police friend?"

"Yes."

"You look tired."

"I am tired," said Hercule Poirot. "I am extremely tired."

"You'd be more comfortable in canvas shoes or sandals."

"Ah, ga, con."

"I see. You are sartorially ambitious."

He looked at Poirot.

"The tout ensemble; it is very good and especially, if I may mention it, your superb moustache."

"I am gratified," said Poirot, "that you have noticed it."

"The point is rather, could anyone not notice it?"

Poirot put his head on one side. Then he said:

"You spoke of the drawing you are doing because you wish to remember the young Miranda. Does that mean you're going away from here?"

"I have thought of it, yes."

"Yet you are, it seems to me, bien place ' i ici"

"Oh yes, eminently so. I have a house to live in, a house small but designed by myself, and I have my work, but that is less satisfactory than it used to be. So restlessness is coming over me."

"Why is your work less satisfactory?"

"Because people wish me to do the most atrocious things. People who want to improve their gardens, people who bought some land and they're building a house and want the garden designed."

"Are you not doing her garden for Mrs. Drake?"

"She wants me to, yes. I made suggestions for it and she seemed to agree with them. I don't think, though," he added thoughtfully, "that I really trust her."

"You mean that she would not let you have what you wanted?"

"I mean that she would certainly have what she wanted herself and that though she is attracted by the ideas I have set out, she would suddenly demand something quite different. Something utilitarian, expensive and showy, perhaps. She would bully me, I think. She would insist on her ideas being carried out. I would not agree, and we should quarrel. So on the whole it is better I leave here before I quarrel. And not only with Mrs. Drake but many other neighbours. I am quite well known. I don't need to stay in one spot. I could go and find some other corner of England, or it could be some corner of Normandy or Brittany."