But what an opportunity for the clever Miss Penn – a shrinking elderly lady with a pink-and-white complexion as we saw her.
But if she holds herself erect, wears large boots, alters her complexion with a few unseemly blotches and – crowning touch adds a few sparse hairs to her upper lip. What then? A masculine woman, says Mr Wood and – “a man in disguise” say we at once.’ ‘She really went to Charlock yesterday?’ ‘Assuredly. The train, as you may remember telling me, left here at eleven and got to Charlock Bay at two o’clock. Then the return train is even quicker – the one we came by. It leaves Charlock at four-five and gets here at six-fifteen. Naturally, the miniatures were never in the despatch case at all. That was artistically forced before being packed. Mademoiselle Mary has only to find a couple of mugs who will be sympathetic to her charm and champion beauty in distress. But one of the mugs was no mug – he was Hercule Poirotl’ I hardly liked the inference. I said hurriedly: ‘Then, when you ·aid you were helping a stranger, you were wilfully deceiving me.
That’s exactly what you were doing.’ ‘Never do I deceive you, Hastings. I only permit you to deceive yourself. I was referring to Mr Baker Wood – a stranger to these shores.’ His face darkened. ‘Ahl When I think of that imposition, that iniquitous overcharge, the same fare single to Charlock as return, my blood boils to protect the visitor! Not a pleasant man, Mr Baker Wood, not, as you would say, sympathetic. But a visitor! And we visitors, Hastings, must stand together. Me, I am all for the visitorst’
CHAPTER XIV THE MARKET BASING MYSTERY
‘After all, there’s nothing like the country, is there?’ said Inspector Japp, breathing in heavily through his nose and out through his mouth in the most approved fashion.
Poirot and I applauded the sentiment heartily. It had been the Scotland Yard inspector’s idea that we should all go for the week-end to the little country town of Market Basing. When off duty, Japp was an ardent botanist, and discoursed upon minute flowers possessed of unbelievably lengthy Latin names (somewhat strangely pronounced) with an enthusiasm even greater than that he gave to his cases.
‘Nobody knows us, and we know nobody,’ explained Japp.
‘That’s the idea.’
This was not to prove quite the case, however, for the local constable happened to have been transferred from a village fifteen miles away where a case of arsenical poisoning had brought him into contact with the Scotland Yard man. However, his delighted recognition of the great man only enhanced Japp’s sense of well-being, and as we sat down to breakfast on Sunday morning in the parlour of the village inn, with the sun shining, and tendrils of honeysuckle thrusting themselves in at the window, we were all in the best of spirits. The bacon and eggs were excellent, the coffee not so good, but passable and boiling hot.
‘This is the life,’ said Japp. ‘When I retire, I shall have a little place in the country. Far from crime, like this!’
‘Lc crime, il est partout,’ remarked Poirot, helping himself to a neat square of bread, and frowning at a sparrow which had balanced itself impertinently on the windowsill.
I quoted lightly:
‘That rabbit has a pleasant face, His private life is a disgrace I really could not tell to you The awful things that rabbits do.’
‘Lord,’ said Japp, stretching himself backward, ‘I believe I could manage another egg, and perhaps a rasher or two of bacon.
What do you say, Captain?’ ‘I’m with you,’ I returned heartily. ‘What about you, Poirot?’ Porot shook his head.
‘One must not so replenish the stomach that the brain refuses to function,’ he remarked.
‘I’ll risk replenishing the stomach a bit more,’ laughed Jalap.
‘I take a large size in stomachs; and by the way, you’re getting stout yourself, M. Poirot. Here, miss, eggs and bacon twice.’ At that moment, however, an imposing form blocked the doorway.
It was Constable Pollard.
‘I hope you’ll excuse me troubling the inspector, gentlemen, but I’d be glad of his advice.’ ‘I’m on my holiday,’ said Japp hastily. ‘No work for me. What is the case?’ ‘Gentleman up at Leigh Hall – shot himself – through the head.’ ‘Well, they will do it,’ said Japp prosaically. ‘Debt, or a woman, I suppose. Sorry I can’t help you, Pollard.’ ‘The point is,’ said the constable, ‘that he can’t have shot himself. Leastways, that’s what Dr Giles says.’ Japp put down his cup.