“A very foolish young man, Captain Ralph Paton,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “To leave so much evidence of his presence.”
“Ah! well,” said the inspector, “it was a dry, fine night, you know. He left no prints on the terrace or on the gravelled path. But, unluckily for him, a spring must have welled up just lately at the end of the path from the drive. See here.”
A small gravelled path joined the terrace a few feet away. In one spot, a few yards from its termination, the ground was wet and boggy. Crossing this wet place there were again the marks of footsteps, and amongst them the shoes with rubber studs.
Poirot followed the path on a little way, the inspector by his side.
“You noticed the women’s footprints?” he said suddenly.
The inspector laughed. “Naturally. But several different women have walked this way—and men as well. It’s a regular shortcut to the house, you see. It would be impossible to sort out all the footsteps. After all, it’s the ones on the windowsill that are really important.”
Poirot nodded.
“It’s no good going farther,” said the inspector, as we came in view of the drive. “It’s all gravelled again here, and hard as it can be.”
Again Poirot nodded, but his eyes were fixed on a small garden house—a kind of superior summerhouse. It was a little to the left of the path ahead of us, and a gravelled walk ran up to it.
Poirot lingered about until the inspector had gone back towards the house. Then he looked at me.
“You must have indeed been sent from the good God to replace my friend Hastings,” he said, with a twinkle. “I observe that you do not quit my side. How say you, Doctor Sheppard, shall we investigate that summerhouse? It interests me.”
He went up to the door and opened it. Inside, the place was almost dark. There were one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some folded deck chairs.
I was startled to observe my new friend. He had dropped to his hands and knees and was crawling about the floor. Every now and then he shook his head as though not satisfied. Finally, he sat back on his heels.
“Nothing,” he murmured. “Well, perhaps it was not to be expected. But it would have meant so much—”
He broke off, stiffening all over. Then he stretched out his hand to one of the rustic chairs. He detached something from one side of it.
“What is it?” I cried. “What have you found?”
He smiled, unclosing his hand so that I should see what lay in the palm of it. A scrap of stiff white cambric.
I took it from him, looked at it curiously, and then handed it back.
“What do you make of it, eh, my friend?” he asked, eyeing me keenly.
“A scrap torn from a handkerchief,” I suggested, shrugging my shoulders.
He made another dart and picked up a small quill—a goose quill by the look of it.
“And that?” he cried triumphantly. “What do you make of that?”
I only stared.
He slipped the quill into his pocket, and looked again at the scrap of white stuff.
“A fragment of a handkerchief?” he mused. “Perhaps you are right. But remember this—a good laundry does not starch a handkerchief.”
He nodded at me triumphantly, then he put away the scrap carefully in his pocketbook.
IX
The Goldfish Pond
We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the inspector. Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the house, slowly turning his head from side to side.
“Une belle propriété,” he said at last appreciatively. “Who inherits it?”
His words gave me almost a shock. It is an odd thing, but until that moment the question of inheritance had never come into my head. Poirot watched me keenly.
“It is a new idea to you, that,” he said at last. “You had not thought of it before—eh?”
“No,” I said truthfully. “I wish I had.”
He looked at me again curiously. “I wonder just what you mean by that,” he said thoughtfully. “Ah! no,” as I was about to speak. “Inutile! You would not tell me your real thought.”
“Everyone has something to hide,” I quoted, smiling.
“Exactly.”
“You still believe that?”
“More than ever, my friend. But it is not easy to hide things from Hercule Poirot. He has a knack of finding out.”
He descended the steps of the Dutch garden as he spoke.
“Let us walk a little,” he said over his shoulder. “The air is pleasant today.”
I followed him. He led me down a path to the left enclosed in yew hedges. A walk led down the middle, bordered each side with formal flowerbeds, and at the end was a round paved recess with a seat and a pond of goldfish. Instead of pursuing the path to the end, Poirot took another which wound up the side of a wooded slope. In one spot the trees had been cleared away, and a seat had been put. Sitting there one had a splendid view over the countryside, and one looked right down on the paved recess and the goldfish pond.
“England is very beautiful,” said Poirot, his eyes straying over the prospect. Then he smiled. “And so are English girls,” he said in a lower voice. “Hush, my friend, and look at the pretty picture below us.”
It was then that I saw Flora. She was moving along the path we had just left and she was humming a little snatch of song. Her step was more dancing than walking, and, in spite of her black dress, there was nothing but joy in her whole attitude. She gave a sudden pirouette on her toes, and her black draperies swung out. At the same time she flung her head back and laughed outright.
As she did so a man stepped out from the trees. It was Hector Blunt.
The girl started. Her expression changed a little. “How you startled me—I
