Surely the idea was absurd!
He recalled the melodramatic revelations of quiet little Mr. Barnes. He speculated on the mysterious whereabouts of Mr. Q.X.912, alias Albert Chapman.
He remembered, with a spasm of annoyance, the anxious look in the eyes of the maidservant, Agnes -
It was always the same way – people would keep things back! Usually quite unimportant things, but until they were cleared out of the way, impossible to pursue a straight path.
At the moment the path was anything but straight!
And the most unaccountable obstacle in the way of clear thinking and orderly progress was what he described to himself as the contradictory and impossible problem of Miss Sainsbury Seale. For, if the facts that Hercule Poirot had observed were true facts – then nothing whatever made sense!
Hercule Poirot said to himself, with astonishment in the thought:
'Is it possible that I am growing old?'
Chapter 6
ELEVEN, TWELVE, MEN MUST DELVE
I
After passing a troubled night, Hercule Poirot was up and about early on the next day. The weather was perfect and he retraced his steps of last night. 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 Scotch 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 fervor.
Poirot approached nearer. The man, a young fellow, dug with ardor, 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 wail. 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 secretarial 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, with its Scotch burr, rose clear and distinct:
'It's verra kind of you, Alistairr, but I would preferr not to accept any invitations this week while yourr 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 Amerrican 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.'
Alistair Blunt looked unhappy.
Hercule Poirot said:
'You have a young gardener, I noticed, whom I think you must have taken on recently.'
'I daresay,' said Blunt. 'Yes, Burton, my third gardener, left about three weeks ago, and we took this fellow on instead.'
'Do you remember where he came from?'
'I really don't. MacAlister engaged him. Somebody or other asked me to give him a trial, I think. Recommended him warmly. I'm rather surprised, because MacAlister says he isn't much good. He wants to sack him.'
'What is his name?'
'Dunning – Sunbury – something like that.'
'Would it be a great impertinence to ask what you pay him?'
Alistair Blunt looked amused.
'Not at all. Two pounds fifteen, I think it is.'
'Not more?'
'Certainly not more – might be a bit less.'
'Now that,' said Poirot, 'is very curious.'
Alistair Blunt looked at him inquiringly.
But Jane Olivera, rustling the paper, distracted the conversation.
