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everybody, including his wife, that he is a bad lot, the fat’s in the fire! But love’s love; the girl doesn’t want to think that her Henry has these revolting habits, these criminal tendencies, and all the rest of it. She’ll lie for him, swear black’s white for him and everything else. Yes, it’s difficult. Difficult for us, I mean. Well, there’s no good going on saying things were better in the old days. Perhaps we only thought so. Anyway, Poirot, how did you get yourself mixed up in all this? This isn’t your part of the country, is it? Always thought you lived in London. You used to when I knew you.”
    â€œI still live in London. I involved myself here at the request of a friend, Mrs. Oliver. You remember Mrs. Oliver?”
    Spence raised his head, closed his eyes and appeared to reflect.
    â€œMrs. Oliver? Can’t say that I do.”
    â€œShe writes books. Detective stories. You met her, if you will throw your mind back, during the time that you persuaded me toinvestigate the murder of Mrs. McGinty. You will not have forgotten Mrs. McGinty?”
    â€œGood lord, no. But it was a long time ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot, a very good turn. I went to you for help and you didn’t let me down.”
    â€œI was honoured—flattered—that you should come to consult me,” said Poirot. “I must say that I despaired once or twice. The man we had to save—to save his neck in those days I believe, it is long ago enough for that—was a man who was excessively difficult to do anything for. The kind of standard example of how not to do anything useful for himself.”
    â€œMarried that girl, didn’t he? The wet one. Not the bright one with the peroxide hair. Wonder how they got on together. Have you ever heard about it?”
    â€œNo,” said Poirot. “I presume all goes well with them.”
    â€œCan’t see what she saw in him.”
    â€œIt is difficult,” said Poirot, “but it is one of the great consolations in nature that a man, however unattractive, will find that he is attractive—to some woman. One can only say or hope that they married and lived happily ever afterwards.”
    â€œShouldn’t think they lived happily ever afterwards if they had to have Mother to live with them.”
    â€œNo, indeed,” said Poirot. “Or Stepfather,” he added.
    â€œWell,” said Spence, “here we are talking of old days again. All that’s over. I always thought that man, can’t remember his name now, ought to have run an undertaking parlour. Had just the face and manner for it. Perhaps he did. The girl had some money, didn’t she? Yes, he’d have made a very good undertaker. I can see him, all in black, calling for orders for the funeral. Perhaps he can even havebeen enthusiastic over the right kind of elm or teak or whatever they use for coffins. But he’d never have made good selling insurance or real estate. Anyway, don’t let’s harp back.” Then he said suddenly, “Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Apples. Is that how she’s got herself mixed up in this? That poor child got her head shoved under water in a bucket of floating apples, didn’t she, at a party? Is that what interested Mrs. Oliver?”
    â€œI don’t think she was particularly attracted because of the apples,” said Poirot, “but she was at the party.”
    â€œDo you say she lived here?”
    â€œNo, she does not live here. She was staying with a friend, a Mrs. Butler.”
    â€œButler? Yes, I know her. Lives down not far from the church. Widow. Husband was an airline pilot. Has a daughter. Rather nice-looking girl. Pretty manners. Mrs. Butler’s rather an attractive woman, don’t you think so?”
    â€œI have as yet barely met her, but, yes, I thought she was very attractive.”
    â€œAnd how does this concern you, Poirot? You weren’t here