adore Sven Hjerson, and who'll flock to see Sven Hjerson. He's box office, darling!'
'But people who read my books know what he's like! You can't invent an entirely new young man in the Norwegian Resistance Movement and just call him Sven Hjerson.'
'Ariadne darling, I did explain all that. It's not a book, darling, it's a play. And we've just got to have glamour! And if we get this tension, this antagonism between Sven Hjerson and this – what's-her-name? – Karen – you know, all against each other and yet really frightfully attracted'
'Sven Hjerson never cared for women,' said Mrs Oliver coldly.
'But you can't have him a pansy, darling! Not for this sort of play. I mean it's not green bay trees or anything like that. It's thrills and murders and clean open-air fun.'
The mention of open air had its effect.
'I think I'm going out,' said Mrs Oliver abruptly. 'I need air. I need air badly.'
'Shall I come with you?' asked Robin tenderly.
'No, I'd rather go alone.'
'Just as you like, darling. Perhaps you're right. I'd better go and whip up an egg nog for Madre. The poor sweet is feeling just a teeny weeny bit left out of things. She does like attention, you know. And you'll think about that scene in the cellar, won't you? The whole thing is coming really wonderfully well. It's going to be the most tremendous success. I know it is!'
Mrs Oliver sighed.
'But the main thing,' continued Robin, 'is for you to feel happy about it!'
Casting a cold look at him, Mrs Oliver threw a showy military cape which she had once bought in Italy about her ample shoulders and went out into Broadhinny.
She would forget her troubles, she decided, by turning her mind to the elucidation of real crime. Hercule Poirot needed help. She would take a look at the inhabitants of Broadhinny, exercise her woman's intuition which had never failed, and tell Poirot who the murderer was. Then he would only have to get the necessary evidence.
Mrs Oliver started her quest by going down the hill to the post office and buying two pounds of apples. During the purchase, she entered into amicable conversation with Mrs Sweetiman.
Having agreed that the weather was very warm for the time of year, Mrs Oliver remarked that she was staying with Mrs Upward at Laburnums.
'Yes, I know. You'll be the lady from London that writes the murder books? Three of them I've got here now in Penguins.'
Mrs Oliver cast a glance over the Penguin display. It was slightly overlaid by children's waders.
'The Affair of the Second Goldfish,' she mused, 'that's quite a good one. The Cat it was Who Died – that's where I made a blowpipe a foot long and it's really six feet. Ridiculous that a blowpipe should be that size, but someone wrote from a museum to tell me so. Sometimes I think there are people who only read books in the hope of finding mistakes in them. What's the other one of them? Oh! Death of a Debutante – that's frightful tripe! I made sulphonal soluble in water and it isn't, and the whole thing is wildly impossible from start to finish. At least eight people die before Sven Hjerson gets his brainwave.'
'Very popular they are,' said Mrs Sweetiman, unmoved by this interesting self-criticism. 'You wouldn't believe! I've never read any myself, because I don't really get time for reading.'
'You had a murder of your own down here, didn't you?' said Mrs Oliver.
'Yes, last November that was. Almost next door here, as you might say.'
'I hear there's a detective down here, looking into it?'
'Ah, you mean the little foreign gentleman up at Long Meadows? He was in here only yesterday and -'
Mrs Sweetiman broke off as another customer entered for stamps.
She bustled round to the post office side.
'Good morning, Miss Henderson. Warm for the time of year, today.'
'Yes, it is.'
Mrs Oliver stared hard at the tall girl's back. She had a Sealyham with her on a lead.
'Means the fruit blossom will get nipped later!' said Mrs Sweetiman, with gloomy relish. 'How's Mrs Wetherby keeping?'
'Fairly well, thank you. She hasn't been out much. There's been such an east wind lately.'
'There's a very good picture on at Kilchester this week, Miss Henderson. You ought to go.'
'I thought of going last night, but I couldn't really bother.'
'It's Betty Grable next week – I'm out of 5s. books of stamps. Will two 6d. ones do you?'
As the girl went out, Mrs Oliver said:
'Mrs Wetherby's an invalid, isn't she?'
'That's as may be,' Mrs Sweetiman replied rather acidly. 'There's some of us as hasn't the time to lay by.'
'I do so agree with you,' said Mrs Oliver. 'I tell Mrs Upward that if she'd only make more of an effort to use her legs it would be better for her.'
Mrs Sweetiman looked amused.
'She gets about when she wants to – or so I've heard.'
'Does she now?'
Mrs Oliver considered the source of information.
'Janet?' she hazarded.
'Janet Groom grumbles a bit,' said Mrs Sweetiman. 'And you can hardly wonder, can you? Miss Groom's not so young herself and she has the rheumatism cruel bad when the wind's in the east. But arthritis, it's called, when it's the gentry has it, and invalid chairs and what not. Ah well, I wouldn't risk losing the use of my legs, I wouldn't. But there, nowadays even if you've got a chilblain you run to the doctor with it so as to get your money's worth out of the National Health. Too much of this health business we've got. Never did you any good thinking how bad you feel.'
'I expect you're right,' said Mrs Oliver.
She picked up her apples and went out in pursuit of Deirdre Henderson. This was not difficult, since the Sealyham was old and fat and was enjoying a leisurely examination of tufts of grass and pleasant smells.
Dogs, Mrs Oliver considered, were always a means at introduction.
'What a darling!' she exclaimed.
The big young woman with the plain face looked gratified.
'He is rather attractive,' she said. 'Aren't you, Ben?'
Ben looked up, gave a slight wiggle of his sausage-like body, resumed his nasal inspection of a tuft of thistles, approved it and proceeded to register approval in the usual manner.
'Does he fight?' asked Mrs Oliver. 'Sealyhams do very often.'
'Yes, he's an awful fighter. That's why I keep him on the lead.'
'I thought so.'
Both women considered the Sealyham.
Then Deirdre Henderson said with a kind of rush:
'You're – you're Ariadne Oliver, aren't you?'
'Yes. I'm staying with the Upwards.'
'I know. Robin told us you were coming. I must tell you how much I enjoy your books.'
Mrs Oliver, as usual, went purple with embarrassment.
'Oh,' she murmured unhappily. 'I'm very glad,' she added gloomily.
'I haven't read as many of them as I'd like to, because we get books sent down from the Times Book Club and Mother doesn't like detective stories. She's frightfully sensitive and they keep her awake at night. But I adore them.'
'You've had a real crime down here, haven't you?' said Mrs Oliver. 'Which house was it? One of these cottages?'
'That one there.'
Deirdre Henderson spoke in a rather choked voice.
Mrs Oliver directed her gaze on Mrs McGinty's former dwelling, the front doorstep of which was at present
