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The herbaceous borders were in full beauty and though Poirot himself leaned to a more orderly type of flower arrangement—a neat arrangement of beds of scarlet geraniums such as are seen at Ostend—he nevertheless realized that here was the perfection of the English garden spirit.
He pursued his way through a rose garden, where the neat layout of the beds delighted him—and through the winding ways of an alpine rock garden, coming at last to the walled kitchen gardens.
Here he observed a sturdy woman clad in a tweed coat and skirt, black browed, with short cropped black hair who was talking in a slow, emphatic Scots voice to what was evidently the head gardener. The head gardener, Poirot observed, did not appear to be enjoying the conversation.
A sarcastic inflection made itself heard in Miss Helen Montressor’s voice, and Poirot escaped nimbly down a side path.
A gardener who had been, Poirot shrewdly suspected, resting on his spade, began digging with fervour. Poirot approached nearer. The man, a young fellow, dug with ardour, his back to Poirot who paused to observe him.
“Good morning,” said Poirot amiably.
A muttered “Morning, sir,” was the response, but the man did not stop working.
Poirot was a little surprised. In his experience a gardener, though anxious to appear zealously at work as you approached, was usually only too willing to pause and pass the time of day when directly addressed.
It seemed, he thought, a little unnatural. He stood there for some minutes, watching the toiling figure. Was there, or was there not, something a little familiar about the turn of those shoulders? Or could it be, thought Hercule Poirot, that he was getting into a habit of thinking that both voices and shoulders were familiar when they were really nothing of the kind? Was he, as he had feared last night, growing old?
He passed thoughtfully onward out of the walled garden and paused to regard a rising slope of shrubbery outside.
Presently, like some fantastic moon, a round object rose gently over the top of the kitchen garden wall. It was the egg-shaped head of Hercule Poirot, and the eyes of Hercule Poirot regarded with a good deal of interest the face of the young gardener who had now stopped digging and was passing a sleeve across his wet face.
“Very curious and very interesting,” murmured Hercule Poirot as he discreetly lowered his head once more.
He emerged from the shrubbery and brushed off some twigs and leaves that were spoiling the neatness of his apparel.
Yes, indeed, very curious and interesting that Frank Carter, who had a secret
arial job in the country, should be working as a gardener in the employment of Alistair Blunt.
Reflecting on these points, Hercule Poirot heard a gong in the distance and retraced his steps towards the house.
On the way there he encountered his host talking to Miss Montressor who had just emerged from the kitchen garden by the farther door.
Her voice rose clear and distinct:
“It’s verra kind of you, Alistairr, but I would preferr not to accept any invitations this week while your Amerrican relations are with you!”
Blunt said:
“Julia’s rather a tactless woman, but she doesn’t mean—”
Miss Montressor said calmly:
“In my opinion her manner to me is verra insolent, and I will not put up with insolence—from American women or any others!”
Miss Montressor moved away, Poirot came up to find Alistair Blunt looking as sheepish as most men look who are having trouble with their female relations. He said ruefully:
“Women really are the devil! Good morning, M. Poirot. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
They turned towards the house and Blunt said with a sigh: “I do miss my wife!”
In the dining room, he remarked to the redoubtable Julia:
“I’m afraid, Julia, you’ve rather hurt Helen’s feelings.”
Mrs. Olivera said grimly:
“The Scotch are always touchy.”
