The following morning dawned bright and sunny. A really glorious dayl Poirot, however, was taking no chances. He wore a woolly waistcoat, a mackintosh, a heavy overcoat, and two mufflers, in addition to wearing his thickest suit. He also swallowed two tablets of ‘Anti-grippe’ before starting and packed a further supply.
We took a couple of small suitcases with us. The pretty girl we had noticed the day before had a small suitcase, and so did the young man whom I gathered to have been the object of Poirot’s sympathy. Otherwise, there was no luggage. The four pieces were stowed away by the driver, and we all took our places.
Poirot, rather maliciously, I thought, assigned me the outside place as ‘I had the mania for the fresh air’ and himself occupied the seat next to our fair neighbour. Presently, however, he made amends. The man in seat 6 was a noisy fellow, inclined to be facetious and boisterous, and Poirot asked the girl in a low voice if she would like to change seats with him. She agreed gratefully, and, the change having been effected, she entered into conversation with us and we were soon all three chattering together merrily.
She was evidently quite young, not more than nineteen, and as ingenuous as a child. She soon confided to us the reason for her trip. She was going, it seemed, on business for her aunt who kept a most interesting antique shop in Ebermouth.
This aunt had been left in very reduced circumstances on the death of her father and had used her small capital and a houseful of beautiful things which her father had left to start in business.
She had been extremely successful and had made quite a name for herself in the trade. This girl, Mary Durrant, had come to be with her aunt and learn the business and was very excited about it much preferring it to the other alternative – becoming a nursery governess or companion.
Poirot nodded interest and approval to all this.
‘Mademoiselle will be successful, I am sure,’ he said gallantly.
‘But I will give her a little word of advice. Do not be too trusting, mademoiselle. Everywhere in the world there are rogues and vagabonds, even it may be on this very coach of ours. One should lways be on the guard, suspiciousl’ She stared at him open-mouthed, and he nodded sapiently.
‘But yes, it is as I say. Who knows? Even I who speak to you may be a malefactor of the worst description.’ And he twinkled more than ever at her surprised face.
We stopped for lunch at Monkhampton, and, after a few words with the waiter, Poirot managed to secure us a small table for three close by the window. Outside, in a big courtyard, about twenty char–bancs were parked – char–bancs which had come from all over the county. The hotel dining-room was full, and the noise was rather considerable.
‘One can have altogether too much of the holiday spirit,’ I said with a grimace.
Mary Durrant agreed. ‘Ebermouth is quite spoiled in the summers nowadays. My aunt says it used to be quite different.
Now one can hardly get along the pavements for the crowd.’ ‘But it is good for business, mademoiselle.’ ‘Not for ours particularly. We sell only rare and valuable things.
We do not go in for cheap bric-h-brac. My aunt has clients all over England. If they want a particular period table or chair, or a certain piece of china, they write to her, and, sooner or later, she gets it for them. That is what has happened in this case.’ We looked interested and she went on to explain. A certain American gentleman, Mr J. Baker Wood, was a connoisseur and collector of miniatures. A very valuable set of miniatures had recently come into the market, and Miss Elizabeth Penn – Mary’s aunt – had purchased them. She had written to Mr Wood describing the miniatures and naming a price. He had replied at once, saying that he was prepared to purchase if the miniatures were as represented and asking that someone should be sent with them for him to see where he was staying at Charlock Bay. Miss Durrant had accordingly been despatched, acting as representative for the firm.