Agatha Christie Halloween Party
Agatha Christie Limited.
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AGATHA CHRISTIE, POIROT аnd the Agatha Christie Signature аre registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.
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Halloween Party
CHAPTER 1
At the moment it was a scene of chaotic activity. Energetic women came in and out of doors moving chairs, small tables, flower vases, and carrying large quantities of yellow pumpkins which they disposed strategically in selected spots.
It was to be a Halloween party for invited guests of an age group between ten and seventeen years old.
Mrs Oliver, removing herself from the main group, leant against a vacant background of wall and held up a large yellow pumpkin, looking at it criticallyThe last time I saw one of these, she said, sweeping back her grey hair from her prominent forehead, was in the United States last yearhundreds of them. All over the house. Ive never seen so many pumpkins. As a matter of fact, she added thoughtfully, Ive never really known the difference between a pumpkin and a vegetable marrow . Whats this one?
Sorry, dear, said Mrs Butler, as she fell over her friends feet.
Mrs Oliver pressed herself closer against the wall.
My fault, she said. Im standing about and getting in the way. But it was rather remarkable, seeing so many pumpkins or vegetable marrows, whatever they are. They were everywhere, in the shops, and in peoples houses, with candles or nightlights inside them or strung up. Very interesting really. But it wasnt for a Halloween party, it was Thanksgiving. Now Ive always associated pumpkins with Halloween and thats the end of October. Thanksgiving comes much later, doesnt it? Isnt it November, about the third week in November? Anyway, here, Halloween is definitely the 31st of October, isnt it? First Halloween and then, what comes next? All Souls Day ? Thats when in Paris you go to cemeteries and put flowers on graves. Not a sad sort of feast. I mean, all the children go too, and enjoy themselves. You go to flower markets first and buy lots and lots of lovely flowers. Flowers never look so lovely as they do in Paris in the market there.
A lot of busy women were falling over Mrs Oliver occasionally, but they were not listening to her. They were all too busy with what they were doing.
They consisted for the most part of mothers, one or two competent spinsters; there were useful teenagers, boys of sixteen and seventeen climbing up ladders or standing on chairs to put decorations, pumpkins or vegetable marrows or brightly coloured witchballs at a suitable elevation; girls from eleven to fifteen hung about in groups and giggled.
And after All Souls Day and cemeteries, went on Mrs Oliver, lowering her bulk on to the arm of a settee, you have All Saints Day. I think Im right?
Nobody responded to this question. Mrs Drake, a handsome middle-aged woman who was giving the party, made a pronouncement.
Im not calling this a Halloween party, although of course it is one really. Im calling it the Eleven Plus party . Its that sort of age group. Mostly people who are leaving the Elms and going on to other schools.
But thats not very accurate, Rowena, is it? said Miss Whittaker, resetting her pince-nez on her nose disapprovingly.
Miss Whittaker as a local school-teacher was always firm on accuracy.
Because weve abolished the eleven-plus some time ago.
Mrs Oliver rose from the settee apologetically. I havent been making myself useful. Ive just been sitting here saying silly things about pumpkins and vegetable marrowsAnd
resting my feet, she thought, with a slight pang of conscience , but without sufficient feeling of guilt to say it aloud.
Now what can I do next? she asked, and added, What lovely apples!
Someone had just brought a large bowl of apples into the room. Mrs Oliver was partial to apples.
Lovely red ones, she added.
Theyre not really very good, said Rowena Drake. But they look nice and partified . Thats for bobbing for apples . Theyre rather soft apples, so people will be able to get their teeth into them better. Take them into the library, will you, Beatrice? Bobbing for apples always makes a mess with the water slopping over, but that doesnt matter with the library carpet, its so old. Oh! Thank you, Joyce.
Joyce, a sturdy thirteen-year-old, seized the bowl of apples. Two rolled off it and stopped, as though arrested by a witchs wand, at Mrs Olivers feet.
You like apples, dont you, said Joyce. I read you did, or perhaps I heard it on the telly. Youre the one who writes murder stories, arent you?