Chapter 7 Chapter VII

Mrs. Reynolds is a stark contrast to Mrs. Drake, who doesn't seem shrewd at all, and seems to be, in fact. She was wearing a black mourning dress, clutching a wet handkerchief tightly in her hand, ready to wipe away the falling tears at any time. She said to Mrs. Oliver that it would be very kind of you to bring a friend to help. She stretched out her wet hands to Poirot, and looked at him suspiciously again, saying: "I should be very grateful if he can help, although I don't think anyone can recover, poor child, no one." Can't get her alive.It's scary to think about it. How could anyone casually kill such a small child?It would have been nice if she had yelped—but I think the guy stuck her head straight in the water and kept holding it there, oh, I can't stand it.I can't imagine. "

"Madame, I really don't want to upset you, please don't think about it any further. I just want to ask you a few questions, which may--maybe help to find the murderer of your daughter. You probably don't know who the murderer might be? " "How would I know? I mean, I can't think of anyone who lives in this area. It's such a nice place, and the people are so kind. I think maybe someone just jumped in the window when some scumbag Or he was on drugs or something, and he saw the lights were on, and there was a party, and he slipped in." "Are you sure the murderer was a man?"

"Ah, it should be a man." Mrs. Reynolds seemed taken aback, "I believe so, it can't be a woman, how could it be?" "Women are also powerful." "Well, I seem to understand you. You mean women are stronger these days than they used to be, but I'm sure they don't do such things. Joyce was a boy--thirteen." "Madam, I don't want to disturb you for too long, and I don't want to ask some difficult questions, which the police must have asked. I don't want you to wallow in painful memories. It's just that your daughter said something at the party. By the way, you are probably not here, are you?"

"Oh no, I'm away, I haven't been feeling well lately, and the kids' parties tend to be exhausting. I drove them there, and then I picked them up. You know, three kids together Go, the older Ann is sixteen, and Leopold is nearly eleven, and you want to know what Joyce said?" "Mrs. Oliver was there, and she can attest that your daughter did say that. I think she meant that she had witnessed a murder." "Joyce? Oh, how can she say that. How can she see a murder?" "Well, everyone seems to think it's quite impossible," said Poirot. "I just wanted to ask you if it seemed to you. Did she mention it to you?"

"Saw the murder? Joyce?" "You must not forget," said Poirot, "that children of Joyce's age often abuse the word murder, as in the case of someone being hit by a car, or a group of children fighting together, and someone being pushed into a river. Wait a minute, this sort of thing is often unintentional, with very unfortunate consequences." "Ah, I don't recall any such thing happened to be seen by Joyce, and she never revealed a word to me. She must be joking." "She's pretty sure," said Mrs. Oliver. "She keeps insisting it's true. She sees it."

"Anyone believe it?" asked Mrs. Reynolds. "I don't know," replied Poirot. "I don't think they believe it," said Mrs. Oliver, "or maybe they don't want to—well, don't want to believe it to make her talk more interesting." "They all mocked her a little and said it was all made up," said Poirot, who was not as understanding as Mrs. Oliver. "My God, how could they," said Mrs. Reynolds, "as if Joyce was going to lie about such a thing." She was so embarrassed that she blushed. "I understand that it seems unlikely," said Poirot, "is it more likely that she may be mistaken, that she has witnessed something that does seem to her to be a murder, perhaps by some a story."

"If that's the case, surely she will tell me?" Mrs. Reynolds was still embarrassed. "Yes," said Poirot, "she never mentioned it before? Perhaps you have forgotten it, especially when things of little importance are so easily forgotten." "What's the meaning?" "We don't know," said Poirot, "that's one of the difficulties. It happened maybe three weeks ago—perhaps three years ago, when she said she was 'very young'," said a thirteen-year-old girl. When was 'very young'? You can't recall any great sensation around here?"

"No, there isn't. I mean, I've heard a lot of it, or I've seen it in the papers, you know, I mean women being humiliated, or some girl running off with a lover or something. But I don't remember any Nothing important, nothing to interest Joyce." "But if Joyce insists that she witnessed a murder, do you think she really thinks so?" "Why would she say it if she didn't think so?" said Mrs. Reynolds. "I think she must be confused." "Yes, it seems possible. Can I," he asked, "may I ask the other two kids at your party?"

"Of course, though I don't know what you're hoping to get from them. Ann is upstairs doing her homework for an honors, and Leopold is in the garden building model airplanes." Leopold, with his strong, fat face, seemed to be completely immersed in mechanical construction.After asking for a long time, he finally focused on what he was asked. "Were you there, Leopold? You heard my sister. What did she say?" "Oh, you mean the murder?" He didn't sound interested at all. "Yes, that's right," replied Poirot. "Is it true that she said she saw a murder?"

"No, of course not," said Leopold. "Who was it that she saw killed? Joyce was like that." "Is that what Joyce is like? What kind?" "Bragging," said Leopold, panting through his nostrils as he spooled the thread, "she's a damn fool," he added, "you know, she's all about blushing and getting attention. " "Do you really think she made it all up?" Leopold turned to look at Mrs. Oliver. "I think she's trying to impress you," he said. "You write detective stories, don't you? I think she's just talking. She's making you pay more attention to her than anyone else."

"She always does that, doesn't she?" asked Poirot. "Hey, she'll say anything," Leopold said, "but I bet no one believes her." "Did you pay attention? Do you think anyone believes it?" "Oh, I heard her talk, but didn't pay much attention to it. Beatrice laughed at her, and so did Cassie, they said, it was all bullshit and whatnot." Seemingly finding nothing more from Leopold, they went upstairs to find Ann.Ann looked far more than sixteen years old. She was lying on the table with several books spread out in front of her. "Yes, I was at the party," she said. "Did you hear what my sister said about the murder?" "Yes, I heard that. But I didn't pay much attention." "You don't think it's true?" "Of course not. There hasn't been a murder here in centuries. I don't think there's been a real murder in years." "Then why do you think she said that?" "Bragging, she used to show off, and she made up a wonderful story about a trip to India, where my uncle went, and she pretended to go with him. A lot of the girls at school really believed it." "Well, don't you remember what you call murders that happened around here the last three or four years?" "No, just ordinary things," Ann replied. "I'm talking about what you see in the papers every day. And it's not really happening here. It's always been in Manchester, I think." "Who do you think will kill your sister, Ann? You must know who her friends are, and who doesn't like her." "I can't imagine who would kill her. I think it must be some kind of insane person. Nobody else would, would they?" "Has no one ever—quarreled with her, or been at odds with her?" "Do you mean she has any enemies? I think it's a silly question to ask. Who has any real enemies? There are only people you don't like." As they walked out of the room, Ann said, "I don't want to speak ill of Joyce, because she's dead and it's not good to do that, but you know, she's a real liar. I'm sorry to speak ill of her, but it's truth." "Have we made any progress?" asked Mrs. Oliver as they left. "Not really," said Hercule Poirot, "but it's interesting," he said thoughtfully. Mrs. Oliver seemed to beg to differ.