'You want beauty,' said Hercule Poirot. 'Beauty at any price. For me, it is truth I want. Always truth.'
Michael Garfield laughed.
'Go on home to your police friends and leave me here in my local paradise. Get thee beyond me, Satan.'
POIROT went on up the hill.
Suddenly he no longer felt the pain of his feet. Something had come to him. The fitting together of the things he had thought and felt, had known they were connected, but had not seen how they were connected. He was conscious now of danger - danger that might come to someone any minute now unless steps were taken to prevent it. Serious danger.
Elspeth McKay came out to the door to meet him.
'You look fagged out,' she said. 'Come and sit down.'
'Your brother is here?'
'No. He's gone down to the station. Something's happened, I believe.'
'Something has happened?' He was startled. 'So soon? Not possible.'
'Eh?' said Elspeth. 'What do you mean?'
'Nothing. Nothing. Something has happened to somebody, do you mean?'
'Yes, but I don't know who exactly. Anyway, Tim Raglan rang up and asked for him to go down there. I'll get you a cup of tea, shall I?'
'No,' said Poirot, 'thank you very much, but I think-I think I will go home.' He could not face the prospect of black bitter tea. He thought of a good excuse that would mask any signs of bad manners.
'My feet,' he explained. 'My feet. I am not very suitably attired as to footwear for the country. A change of shoes would be desirable.'
Elspeth McKay looked down at them.
'No,' she said. 'I can see they're not. Patent leather draws the feet. There's a letter for you, by the way.
Foreign stamps on it. Come from abroad-co Superintendent Spence, Pine Crest. I'll bring it to you.'
She came back in a minute or two, and handed it to him.
'If you don't want the envelope, I'd like it for one of my nephews-he collects stamps.'
'Of course.' Poirot opened the letter and handed her the envelope. She thanked him and went back into the house.
Poirot unfolded the sheet and read.
Mr. Goby's foreign service was run with the same competence that he showed in his English one. He spared no expense and got his results quickly.
True, the results did not amount to much Poirot had not thought that they would.
Olga Seminoff had not returned to her home town. She had had no family still living. She had had a friend, an elderly woman, with whom she had corresponded intermittently, giving news of her life in England.
She had been on good terms with her employer who had been occasionally exacting, but has also been generous.
The last letters received from Olga had been dated about a year and a half ago. In them there had been mention of a young man. There were hints that they were considering marriage, but the young man, whose name she did not mention, had, she said, his way to make, so nothing could be settled as yet. In her last letter she spoke happily of their prospects being good.
When no more letters came, the elderly friend assumed that Olga had married her Englishman and changed her address.
Such things happened frequently when girls went to England. If they were happily married they often never wrote again.
She had not worried.
It fitted, Poirot thought. Lesley had spoken of marriage, but might not have meant it. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had been spoken of as 'generous'. Lesley had been given money by someone, Olga perhaps (money originally given her by her employers), to induce him to do forgery on her behalf.
Elspeth McKay came out on the terrace again. Poirot consulted her as to her surmises about a partnership between Olga and Lesley.
She considered a moment. Then the oracle spoke.
'Kept very quiet about it, if so. Never any rumours about those two.
There usually is in a place like this if there's anything in it.'
'Young Ferrier was tied up to a married woman. He might have warned the girl not to say anything about him to her employer.'
'Likely enough. Mrs. Smythe would probably know that Lesley Ferrier was a bad character, and would warn the girl to have nothing to do with him.'
Poirot folded up the letter and put it into his pocket.
'I wish you'd let me get you a pot of tea.'
'No, no I must go back to my guest house and change my shoes. You do not know when your brother will be back?'
'I've no idea. They didn't say what they wanted him for.'
Poirot walked along the road to his guest house. It was only a few hundred yards.
As he walked up to the front door it was opened and his landlady, a cheerful lady of thirty odd, came out to him.
'There's a lady here to see you,' she said. 'Been waiting some time. I told her I didn't know where you'd gone exactly or when you'd be back, but she said she'd wait.' She added, 'It's Mrs. Drake. She's in a state, I'd say. She's usually so calm about everything, but really I think she's had a shock of some kind.
She's in the sitting-room. Shall I bring you in some tea and something?'
'No,' said Poirot, 'I think it will be better not. I will hear first what she has to say.'
He opened the door and went into the sitting-room. Rowena Drake had been standing by the window. It was not the window overlooking the front path so she had not seen his approach. She turned abruptly as she heard the sound of the door.
'Monsieur Poirot. At last. It seemed so long.'
'I am sorry, Madame. I have been in the Quarry Wood and also talking to my friend, Mrs. Oliver. And then I have been talking to two boys.
To Nicholas and Desmond.'
'Nicholas and Desmond? Yes, I know.
I wonder oh! one thinks all sorts of things.'
'You are upset,' said Poirot gently.
It was not a thing he thought he would ever see. Rowena Drake upset, no longer mistress of events, no longer arranging everything, and enforcing her decisions on others.
'You've heard, haven't you?' she asked. 'Oh well, perhaps you haven't.'
'What should I have heard?'
'Something dreadful. He's he's dead. Somebody killed him.'
'Who is dead, Madame?'
'Then you haven't really heard. And he's only a child, too, and I thought oh, what a fool I've been. I should have told you. I should have told you when you asked me. It makes me feel terrible terribly
