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thinking really of them. No, I don’t think they believed what Joyce was saying. They thought she was making up things.”
    â€œDid you think that, too?”
    â€œWell, I did really,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Of course,” she added, “Mrs. Drake would like to believe that the murder never really happened, but she can’t very well go as far as that, can she?”
    â€œI understand that this may be painful for her.”
    â€œI suppose it is in a way,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I think that bynow, you know, she is actually getting quite pleased to talk about it. I don’t think she likes to have to bottle it up all the time.”
    â€œDo you like her?” asked Poirot. “Do you think she’s a nice woman?”
    â€œYou do ask the most difficult questions. Embarrassing ones,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems the only thing you are interested in is whether people are nice or not. Rowena Drake is the bossy type—likes running things and people. She runs this whole place more or less, I should think. But runs it very efficiently. It depends if you like bossy women. I don’t much—”
    â€œWhat about Joyce’s mother whom we are on our way to see?”
    â€œShe’s quite a nice woman. Rather stupid, I should think. I’m sorry for her. It’s pretty awful to have your daughter murdered, isn’t it? And everyone here thinks it was a sex crime which makes it worse.”
    â€œBut there was no evidence of sexual assault, or so I understand?”
    â€œNo, but people like to think these things happen. It makes it more exciting. You know what people are like.”
    â€œOne thinks one does—but sometimes—well—we do not really know at all.”
    â€œWouldn’t it be better if my friend Judith Butler was to take you to see Mrs. Reynolds? She knows her quite well, and I’m a stranger to her.”
    â€œWe will do as planned.”
    â€œThe Computer Programme will go on,” murmured Mrs. Oliver rebelliously.

Seven
    M rs. Reynolds was a complete contrast to Mrs. Drake. There was no air of poised competence about her, nor indeed was there ever likely to be.
    She was wearing conventional black, had a moist handkerchief clasped in her hand and was clearly prepared to dissolve into tears at any moment.
    â€œIt’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said to Mrs. Oliver, “to bring a friend of yours down here to help us.” She put a damp hand into Poirot’s and looked at him doubtfully. “And if he can help in any way I’m sure I’ll be very grateful, though I don’t see what anyone can do. Nothing will bring her back, poor child. It’s awful to think of. How anyone could deliberately kill anyone of that age. If she had only cried out—though I suppose he rammed her head under water straight away and held it there. Oh, I can’t bear to think of it. I really can’t.”
    â€œIndeed, Madame, I do not want to distress you. Please do not think of it. I only want to ask you a few questions that might help—help, that is, to find your daughter’s murderer. You’ve no idea yourself, I suppose, who it can possibly be?”
    â€œHow could I have any idea? I shouldn’t have thought there was anyone, anyone living here, I mean. This is such a nice place. And the people living here are such nice people. I suppose it was just someone—some awful man who came in through one of the windows. Perhaps he’d taken drugs or something. He saw the light and that it was a party, so he gate-crashed.”
    â€œYou are quite sure that the assailant was male?”
    â€œOh, it must have been.” Mrs. Reynolds sounded shocked. “I’m sure it was. It couldn’t have been a woman, could it?”
    â€œA woman might have been strong enough.”
    â€œWell, I suppose in a way I know what you mean. You mean women are much more athletic