The other girl was tall, dark, and vigorous-looking. She said excitedly:
“Oh, are you the Mrs. Oliver? Ariadne Oliver?”
“I am,” said Mrs. Oliver, and she added to Anne, “Now let us sit down somewhere, my dear, because I’ve got a lot to say to you.”
“Of course. And we’ll have tea—”
“Tea can wait,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Anne led the way to a little group of deck and basket chairs, all rather dilapidated. Mrs. Oliver chose the strongest-looking with some care, having had various unfortunate experiences with flimsy summer furniture.
“Now, my dear,” she said briskly. “Don’t let’s beat about the bush. About this murder the other evening. We’ve got to get busy and do something.”
“Do something?” queried Anne.
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know what you think, but I haven’t the least doubt who did it. That doctor. What was his name? Roberts. That’s it! Roberts. A Welsh name! I never trust the Welsh! I had a Welsh nurse and she took me to Harrogate one day and went home having forgotten all about me. Very unstable. But never mind about her. Roberts did it—that’s the point and we must put our heads together and prove he did.”
Rhoda Dawes laughed suddenly—then she blushed.
“I beg your pardon. But you’re—you’re so different from what I would have imagined.”
“A disappointment, I expect,” said Mrs. Oliver serenely. “I’m used to that. Never mind. What we must do is prove that Roberts did it!”
“How can we?” said Anne.
“Oh, don’t be so defeatist, Anne,” cried Rhoda Dawes. “I think Mrs. Oliver’s splendid. Of course, she knows all about these things. She’ll do just as Sven Hjerson does.”
Blushing slightly at the name of her celebrated Finnish detective, Mrs. Oliver said:
“It’s got to be done, and I’ll tell you why, child. You don’t want people thinking you did it?”
“Why should they?” asked Anne, her colour rising.
“You know what people are!” said Mrs. Oliver. “The three who didn’t do it will come in for just as much suspicion as the one who did.”
Anne Meredith said slowly:
“I still don’t quite see why you come to me, Mrs. Oliver?”
“Because in my opinion the other two don’t matter! Mrs. Lorrimer is one of those women who play bridge at bridge clubs all day. Women like that must be made of armourplating—they can look after themselves all right! And anyway she’s old. It wouldn’t matter if anyone thought she’d done it. A girl’s different. She’s got her life in front of her.”
“And Major Despard?” asked Anne.
“Pah!” said Mrs. Oliver. “He’s a man! I never worry about men. Men can look after themselves. Do it remarkably well, if you ask me. Besides, Major Despard enjoys a dangerous life. He’s getting his fun at home instead of on the Irrawaddy—or do I mean the Limpopo? You know what I mean—that yellow African river that men like so much. No, I’m not worrying my head about either of those two.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Anne slowly.
“It was a beastly thing to happen,” said Rhoda. “It’s broken Anne up, Mrs. Oliver. She’s awfully sensitive. And I think you’re quite right. It would be ever so much better to do something than just to sit here thinking about it all.”
“Of course it would,” said Mrs. Oliver. “To tell you the truth, a real murder has never come my way before. And, to continue telling the truth, I don’t believe real murder is very much in my line. I’m so used to loading the dice—if you understand what I mean. But I wasn’t going to be out of it and let those three men have all the fun to themselves. I’ve always said that if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard—”
“Yes?” said Rhoda, leaning forward with parted lips. “If you were head of Scotland Yard, what would you do?”
“I should arrest Dr. Roberts straight away—”
“Yes?”
“However, I’m not the head of Scotland Yard,” said Mrs. Oliver, retreating from dangerous ground. “I’m a private individual—”