All of this Poirot observed with detached interest. Also contained within the limits of the village and facing on the street were several small houses, old-fashioned in style, sometimes retaining Georgian purity, more often showing some signs of Victorian improvement, as a veranda, bow window, or a small conservatory. One or two houses had had a complete face lift and showed signs of claiming to be new and proud of it.
There were also some delightful and decrepit old-world cottages, some pretending to be a hundred or so years older than they were, others completely genuine, any added comforts of plumbing or such, being carefully hidden from any casual glance.
Poirot walked gently along digesting all that he saw. If his impatient friend, Mrs.
Oliver had been with him, she would have immediately demanded why he was wasting time, as the house to which he was bound was a quarter of a mile beyond the village limits. Poirot would have told her that he was absorbing the local atmosphere; that these things were sometimes important.
At the end of the village there came an abrupt transition. On one side, set back from the road, was a row of newly built council houses, a strip of green in front of them and a gay note set by each house having been given a different coloured front door. Beyond the council houses the sway of fields and hedges resumed its course interspersed now and then by the occasional “desirable residences” of a house agent’s list, with their own trees and gardens and a general air of reserve and of keeping themselves to themselves.
Ahead of him farther down the road Poirot descried a house, the top story of which displayed an unusual note of bulbous construction. Something had evidently been tacked on up there not so many years ago. This no doubt was the Mecca towards which his feet were bent.
He arrived at a gate to which the nameplate Crosshedges was attached. He surveyed the house. It was a conventional house dating perhaps to the beginning of the century. It was neither beautiful nor ugly. Commonplace was perhaps the word to describe it. The garden was more attractive than the house and had obviously been the subject of a great deal of care and attention in its time, though it had been allowed to fall into disarray. It still had smooth green lawns, plenty of flower beds, carefully planted areas of shrubs to display a certain landscape effect. It was all in good order. A gardener was certainly employed in this garden, Poirot reflected.
A personal interest was perhaps also taken, since he noted in a corner near the house a woman bending over one of the flower beds, tying up dahlias, he thought. Her head showed as a bright circle of pure gold colour. She was tall, slim but squareshouldered.
He unlatched the gate, passed through and walked up towards the house.
The woman turned her head and then straightened herself, turning towards him enquiringly.
She remained standing, waiting for him to speak, some garden twine hanging from her left hand. She looked, he noted, puzzled.
“Yes?” she said.
Poirot, very foreign, took off his hat with a flourish and bowed. Her eyes rested on his moustaches with a kind of fascination.
“Mrs. Restarick?” “Yes. I — ” “I hope that I do not derange you, Madame.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Not at all. Are you — ” I have permitted myself to pay a visit on you. A friend of mine, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver — ” “Oh, of course. I know who you must be. Monsieur Poiret.” “Monsieur Poirot,” he corrected her with an emphasis on the last syllable.
“Hercule Poirot, at your service. I was passing through this neighbourhood and I ventured to call upon you here in the hope that I might be allowed to pay my respects to Sir Roderick Horsefield.” “Yes. Naomi Lorrimer told us you might turnup.” “I hope it is not inconvenient?” “Oh, it is not inconvenient at all.
Ariadne Oliver was here last weekend. She came over with the Lorrimers. Her books are most amusing, aren’t they? But perhaps you don’t find detective stories amusing.