why, if you ask me, she's so down on the Grant girls – says they're man-eaters! I dare say they do run after men a bit, but why not? It's natural, after all. And they're good-looking pieces, every one of them.'

Poirot interjected a question.

'Mrs Larkin? My dear man, it's no good asking me who she is. Who's anybody nowadays? They say she rides well and she's obviously well off. Husband was something in the city. He's dead, not divorced. She's not been here very long, came here just after the Grants did. I've always thought she -'

Old Lady Carmichael stopped. Her mouth opened, her eyes bulged. Leaning forward she struck Poirot a sharp blow across the knuckles with a paper-cutter she was holding. Disregarding his wince of pain she exclaimed excitedly: 'Why, of course! So that's why you're down here! You nasty, deceitful creature, I insist on your telling me all about it.'

'But what is it I am to tell you all about?'

Lady Carmichael aimed another playful blow which Poirot avoided deftly.

'Don't be an oyster, Hercule Poirot! I can see your moustaches quivering. Of course, it's crime brings you down here – and you're just pumping me shamelessly! Now let me see, can it be murder? Who's died lately? Only old Louisa Gilmore and she was eighty-five and had dropsy too. Can't be her. Poor Leo Staverton broke his neck in the hunting-field and he's all done up in plaster – that can't be it. Perhaps it isn't murder. What a pity! I can't remember any special jewel robberies lately… Perhaps it's just a criminal you're tracking down… Is it Beryl Larkin? Did she poison her husband? Perhaps it's remorse that makes her so vague.'

'Madame, Madame,' cried Hercule Poirot. 'You go too fast.'

'Nonsense. You're up to something, Hercule Poirot.'

'Are you acquainted with the classics, Madame?'

'What have the classics to do with it?'

'They have this to do with it. I emulate my great predecessor Hercules. One of the Labours of Hercules was the taming of the wild horses of Diomedes.'

'Don't tell me you came down here to train horses – at your age – and always wearing patent-leather shoes! You don't look to me as though you'd ever been on a horse in your life!'

'The horses, Madame, are symbolic. They were the wild horses who ate human flesh.'

'How very unpleasant of them. I always do think these ancient Greeks and Romans are very unpleasant. I can't think why clergymen are so fond of quoting from the classics – for one thing one never understands what they mean and it always seems to me that the whole subject matter of the classics is very unsuitable for clergymen. So much incest, and all those statues with nothing on – not that I mind that myself but you know what clergymen are – quite upset if girls come to church with no stockings on – let me see, where was I?'

'I am not quite sure.'

'I suppose, you wretch, you just won't tell me if Mrs Larkin murdered her husband? Or perhaps Anthony Hawker is the Brighton trunk murderer?'

She looked at him hopefully, but Hercule Poirot's face remained impassive.

'It might be forgery,' speculated Lady Carmichael. 'I did see Mrs Larkin in the bank the other morning and she'd just cashed a fifty pound cheque to self – it seemed to me at the time a lot of money to want in cash. Oh no, that's the wrong way round – if she was a forger she would be paying it in, wouldn't she? Hercule Poirot, if you sit there looking like an owl and saying nothing, I shall throw something at you.'

'You must have a little patience,' said Hercule Poirot.

IV

Ashley Lodge, the residence of General Grant, was not a large house. It was situated on the side of a hill, had good stables, and a straggling, rather neglected, garden.

Inside, it was what a house agent would have described as 'fully furnished'. Cross-legged Buddhas leered down from convenient niches, brass Benares trays and tables encumbered the floor space. Processional elephants garnished the mantelpieces and more tortured brasswork adorned the walls.

In the midst of this Anglo-Indian home from home, General Grant was ensconced in a large, shabby armchair with his leg, swathed in bandages, reposing on another chair.

'Gout,' he explained. 'Ever had the gout, Mr – er – Poirot? Makes a feller damned bad tempered! All my father's fault. Drank port all his life – so did my grandfather. It's played the deuce with me. Have a drink? Ring that bell, will you, for that feller of mine?'

A turbaned servant appeared. General Grant addressed him as Abdul and ordered him to bring whisky and soda. When it came he poured out such a generous portion that Poirot was moved to protest.

'Can't join you, I'm afraid, Mr Poirot.' The General eyed the tantalus sadly. 'My doctor wallah says it's poison to me to touch the stuff. Don't suppose he knows for a minute. Ignorant chaps doctors. Spoil-sports. Enjoy knocking a man off his food and drink and putting him on some pap like steamed fish. Steamed fish – pah!'

In his indignation the General incautiously moved his bad foot and uttered a yelp of agony at the twinge that ensued.

He apologised for his language.

'Like a bear with a sore head, that's what I am. My girls give me a wide berth when I've got an attack of gout. Don't know that I blame them. You've met one of 'em, I hear.'

'I have had that pleasure, yes. You have several daughters, have you not?'

'Four,' said the General gloomily. 'Not a boy amongst 'em. Four blinking girls. Bit of a thought, these days.'

'They are all four very charming, I hear?'

'Not too bad – not too bad. Mind you, I never know what they're up to. You can't control girls nowadays. Lax times – too much laxity everywhere. What can a man do? Can't lock 'em up, can I?'

'They are popular in the neighbourhood, I gather.'

'Some of the old cats don't like 'em,' said General Grant. 'A good deal of mutton dressed as lamb round here. A man's got to be careful. One of these blue-eyed widows nearly caught me – used to come round here purring like a kitten. 'Poor General Grant – you must have had such an interesting life.'' The General winked and placed one finger against his nose. 'A little bit too obvious, Mr Poirot. Oh well, take it all round, I suppose it's not a bad part of the world. A bit go ahead and noisy for my taste. I liked the country when it was the country – not all this motoring and jazz and that blasted, eternal radio. I won't have one here and the girls know it. A man's got a right to a little peace in his own home.'

Gently Poirot led the conversation round to Anthony Hawker.

'Hawker? Hawker? Don't know him. Yes, I do, though. Nasty looking fellow with his eyes too close together. Never trust a man who can't look you in the face.'

'He is a friend, is he not, of your daughter Sheila's?'

'Sheila? Wasn't aware of it. Girls never tell me anything.' The bushy eyebrows came down over the nose – the piercing, blue eyes looked out of the red face straight into Hercule Poirot's. 'Look here, Mr Poirot, what's all this about? Mind telling me what you've come to see me about?'

Poirot said slowly: 'That would be difficult – perhaps I hardly know myself. I would say only this: your daughter Sheila – perhaps all your daughters – have made some undesirable friends.'

'Got into a bad set, have they? I was a bit afraid of that. One hears a word dropped here and there.' He looked pathetically at Poirot. 'But what am I to do, Mr Poirot? What am I to do?'

Poirot shook his head perplexedly.

General Grant went on: 'What's wrong with the bunch they're running with?' he asked.

Poirot replied by another question.

'Have you noticed. General Grant, that any of your daughters have been moody, excited – then depressed – nervy – uncertain in their tempers?'

'Damme, sir, you're talking like a patent medicine. No, I haven't noticed anything of the kind.'

'That is fortunate,' said Poirot gravely.

'What the devil is the meaning of all this, sir?'

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