‘Tell me then, tell me all you can—even if you do not know her name, tell me all you know about her.’
‘Well, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don’t come into it except that they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there—and I didn’t enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don’t really like drink, and so people have to find a soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me—you know—how much they like my books, and how they’ve been longing to meet me—and it all makes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I manage to cope more or less. And they say how much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But my publisher always says I’m not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real life grew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing around listening. When you said an unattractive Ophelia it clicked somehow. I thought: “Now who does that remind me of?” And then it came to me: “Of course. The girl at the party that day.” I rather think she belonged there unless I’m confusing her with some other girl.’
Poirot sighed. With Mrs Oliver one always needed a lot of patience.
‘Who were these people with whom you went to have drinks?’
‘Trefusis, I think, unless it was Treherne. That sort of name—he’s a tycoon. Rich. Something in the City, but he’s spent most of his life in South Africa—’
‘He has a wife?’
‘Yes. Very good-looking woman. Much younger than he is. Lots of golden hair. Second wife. The daughter was the first wife’s daughter. Then there was an uncle of incredible antiquity. Rather deaf. He’s frightfully distinguished—strings of letters after his name. An admiral or an air-marshal or something. He’s an astronomer too, I think. Anyway, he’s got a kind of big telescope sticking out of the roof. Though I suppose that might be just a hobby. There was a foreign girl there, too, who sort of trots about after the old boy. Goes up to London with him, I believe, and sees he doesn’t get run over. Rather pretty, she was.’
Poirot sorted out the information Mrs Oliver had supplied him with, feeling rather like a human computer.
‘There lives then in the house Mr and Mrs Trefusis—’
‘It’s not Trefusis—I remember now—It’s Restarick.’
‘That is not at all the same type of name.’
‘Yes it is. It’s a Cornish name, isn’t it?’
‘There lives there then, Mr and Mrs Restarick, the distinguished elderly uncle. Is his name Restarick too?’
‘It’s Sir Roderick something.’
‘And there is the au pair girl, or whatever she is, and a daughter—any more children?’
‘I don’t think so—but I don’t really know. The daughter doesn’t live at home, by the way. She was only down for the weekend. Doesn’t get on with the stepmother, I expect. She’s got a job in London, and she’s picked up with a boy friend they don’t much like, so I understand.’
‘You seem to know quite a lot about the family.’
‘Oh well, one picks things up. The Lorrimers are great talkers. Always chattering about someone or other. One hears a lot of gossip about the people all around. Sometimes, though, one gets them mixed up. I probably have. I wish I could remember that girl’s Christian name. Something connected with a song… Thora? Speak to me, Thora. Thora, Thora. Something like that, or Myra? Myra, oh Myra my love is all for thee. Something like that. I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls. Norma? Or do I mean Maritana? Norma—Norma Restarick. That’s right, I’m sure.’ She added inconsequently, ‘She’s a third girl.’
‘I thought you said you thought she was an only child.’
‘So she is—or I think so.’
‘Then what do you mean by saying she is the third girl?’
‘Good gracious, don’t you know what a third girl is? Don’t you read The Times?’
‘I read the births, deaths, and marriages. And such articles as I find of interest.’
‘No, I mean the front advertisement page. Only it isn’t in the front now. So I’m thinking of taking some other paper. But I’ll show you.’
She went to a side table and snatched up The Times, turned the pages over and brought it to him. ‘Here you are—look. “THIRD GIRL for comfortable second floor flat, own room, central heating, Earl’s Court.” “Third girl wanted to share flat. 5gns. week own room.” “4th girl wanted. Regent’s park. Own room.” It’s the way girls like living now. Better than PGs or a hostel. The main girl takes a furnished flat, and then shares out the rent. Second girl is usually a friend. Then they find a third girl by advertising if they don’t know one. And, as you see, very often they manage to squeeze in a fourth girl. First girl takes the best room, second girl pays rather less, third girl less still and is stuck in a cat-hole. They fix it among themselves which one has the flat to herself which night a week—or something like that. It works reasonably well.’
‘And where does this girl whose name might just possibly be Norma live in London?’
‘As I’ve told you I don’t really know anything about her.’
‘But you could find out?’
‘Oh yes, I expect that would be quite easy.’
‘You are sure there was no talk, no mention of an unexpected death?’
‘Do you mean a death in London—or at the Restaricks’ home?’
‘Either.’
‘I don’t think so. Shall I see what I can rake up?’
Mrs Oliver’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She was by now entering into the spirit of the thing.
‘That would be very kind.’
‘I’ll ring up the Lorrimers. Actually now would be quite a good time.’ She went towards the telephone. ‘I shall have to think of reasons and things—perhaps invent things?’
She looked towards Poirot rather doubtfully.
‘But naturally. That is understood. You are a woman of imagination—you will have no difficulty. But—not too fantastic, you understand. Moderation.’
Mrs Oliver flashed him an understanding glance.
She dialled and asked for the number she wanted. Turning her head, she hissed: ‘Have you got a pencil and paper—or a notebook—something to write down names or addresses or places?’
Poirot had already his notebook arranged by his elbow and nodded his head reassuringly.
Mrs Oliver turned back to the receiver she held and launched herself into speech. Poirot listened attentively to one side of a telephone conversation.
‘Hallo. Can I speak to—Oh, it’s you, Naomi. Ariadne Oliver here. Oh, yes—well, it was rather a crowd… Oh, you mean the old boy?… No, you know I don’t… Practically blind?… I thought he was going up to London with the little foreign girl… Yes, it must be rather worrying for them sometimes—but she seems to manage him quite well… One of the things I rang up for was to ask you what the girl’s address was—No, the Restarick girl, I mean—somewhere in South Ken, isn’t it? Or was it Knightsbridge? Well, I promised her a book and I wrote down the address, but of course I’ve lost it as usual. I can’t even remember her name. Is it Thora or Norma?… Yes, I thought it was Norma:… Wait a minute, I’ll get a pencil… Yes, I’m ready…67 Borodene Mansions… I know—that great block that looks rather like Wormwood Scrubs prison… Yes, I believe the flats are very comfortable with central heating and everything… Who are the other two girls she lives with?… Friends of hers?…or advertisements?… Claudia Reece-Holland…her father’s the MP, is he? Who’s the other one?… No, I suppose you wouldn’t know—she’s quite nice, too, I suppose… What do they all do? They always seem to be secretaries, don’t they?… Oh, the other girl’s an interior decorator—you think—or to do with an art gallery—No, Naomi, of course I don’t really want to know—one just wonders—what do all the girls do nowadays?—well, it’s useful for me to know because of my books—one wants to keep up to date… What was it you told me about some boy friend… Yes, but one’s so helpless, isn’t one? I mean girls do just exactly as they like…does he look very awful? Is he the unshaven dirty kind? Oh, that kind—Brocade waistcoats, and long curling chestnut hair—lying on his shoulders—yes, so hard to tell whether they’re girls or boys, isn’t it?—Yes, they do look like Vandykes sometimes if they’re good looking… What did you say? That Andrew Restarick simply hates him?… Yes, men usually do… Mary Restarick?… Well, I suppose you do usually have rows with a stepmother. I expect she was quite thankful when the girl got a job in London. What do you mean about people saying things… Why, couldn’t they find out what was the matter with her?… Who said?… Yes, but what did they hush up?… Oh—a nurse?—talked to the Jenners’ governess? Do you mean her husband? Oh, I see—The doctors couldn’t find out… No, but people are so ill-natured. I do agree with you. These things are usually quite untrue… Oh, gastric, was it?… But how ridiculous. Do you mean people said what’s his name—Andrew—You mean it would be easy with all those weed killers about—Yes, but why?… I mean, it’s not a case of some wife he’s hated for years—she’s the second wife—and much younger than he is and good looking… Yes, I suppose that could be—but why should the foreign girl want to either?… You mean she might have resented things that Mrs Restarick said to her… She’s quite an attractive little thing—I suppose Andrew might have taken a fancy to her—nothing serious of course—but it might have annoyed Mary, and then she might have pitched into the girl and—’
Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs Oliver perceived Poirot signalling wildly to her.
‘Just a moment, darling,’ said Mrs Oliver into the telephone. ‘It’s the baker.’ Poirot looked affronted. ‘Hang on.’
She laid down the receiver, hurried across the room, and backed Poirot into a breakfast nook.
‘Yes,’ she demanded breathlessly.
‘A baker,’ said Poirot with scorn. ‘Me!’
‘Well, I had to think of something quickly. What were you signalling about? Did you understand what she—’
Poirot cut her short.
‘You shall tell me presently. I know enough. What I want you to do is, with your rapid powers of improvisation, to arrange some plausible pretext for me to visit the Restaricks—an old friend of yours, shortly to be in the neighbourhood. Perhaps you could say—’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll think of something. Shall you give a false name?’
‘Certainly not. Let us at least try to keep it simple.’
Mrs Oliver nodded, and hurried back to the abandoned telephone.
‘Naomi? I can’t remember what we were saying. Why does something always come to interrupt just when one has settled down to a nice gossip? I can’t even remember now what I rang you up for to begin with—Oh yes—that child Thora’s address—Norma, I mean—and you gave it to me. But there was something else I wanted to—oh, I remember. An old friend of mine. A most fascinating little man. Actually I was talking about him the other day down there. Hercule Poirot his name is. He’s going to be staying quite close to the Restaricks and he is most tremendously anxious to meet old Sir Roderick. He knows a lot about him and has a terrific admiration for him, and for some wonderful discovery of his in the war—or some scientific thing he did—anyway, he is very anxious to “call upon him and present his respects”, that’s how he put it. Will that be all right, do you think? Will you warn them? Yes, he’ll probably just turn up out of the blue. Tell them to make him tell them some wonderful espionage stories… He—what? Oh! your mowers? Yes, of course you must go. Goodbye.’
She put back the receiver and sank down in an armchair. ‘Goodness, how exhausting. Was that all right?’
‘Not bad,’ said Poirot.
‘I thought I’d better pin it all to the old boy. Then you’ll get to see the lot which I suppose is what you want. And one can always be vague about scientific subjects if one is a woman, and you can think up something more definite that sounds probable by the time you arrive. Now, do you want to hear what she was telling me?’
‘There has been gossip, I gather. About the health of Mrs Restarick?’
‘That’s it. It seems she had some kind of mysterious illness—gastric in nature—and the doctors were puzzled. They sent her into hospital and she got quite all right, but there didn’t seem any real cause to account for it. And she went home, and it all began to start again—and again the doctors were puzzled. And then people began to talk. A rather irresponsible nurse started it and her sister told a neighbour, and the neighbour went out on daily work and told someone else, and how queer it all was. And then people began saying that her husband must be trying to poison her. The sort of thing people always say—but in this case it really didn’t seem to make sense. And then Naomi and I wondered about the au pair girl, she’s a kind of secretary companion to the old boy—so really there isn’t any kind of reason why she should administer weed killer to Mrs Restarick.’
‘I heard you suggesting a few.’
‘Well, there is usually something possible…’
‘Murder desired…’ said Poirot thoughtfully…‘But not yet committed.’
CHAPTER 3
Mrs Oliver drove into the inner court of Borodene Mansions. There were six cars filling the parking space. As Mrs Oliver hesitated, one of the cars reversed out and drove away. Mrs Oliver hurried neatly into the vacant space.
She descended, banged the door and stood looking up to the sky. It was a recent block, occupying a space left by the havoc of a land mine in the last war. It might, Mrs Oliver thought, have been lifted en bloc from the Great West Road and, first deprived of some such legend as SKYLARK’S FEATHER RAZOR BLADES, have been deposited as a block of flats in situ. It looked extremely functional and whoever had built it had obviously scorned any ornamental additions.
It was a busy time. Cars and people were going in and out of the courtyard as the day’s work came to a close.
Mrs Oliver glanced down at her wrist. Ten minutes to seven. About the right time, as far as she could judge. The kind of time when girls in jobs might be presumed to have returned, either to renew their make up, change their clothes to tight exotic pants or whatever their particular addiction was, and go out again, or else to settle down to home life and wash their smalls and their stockings. Anyway, quite a sensible time to try. The block was exactly the same on the east and the west, with big swing doors set in the centre. Mrs Oliver chose the left hand side but immediately found that she was wrong. All this side was numbers from 100 to 200. She crossed over to the other side.
No. 67 was on the sixth floor. Mrs Oliver pressed the button of the lift. The doors opened like a yawning mouth with a menacing clash. Mrs Oliver hurried into the yawning cavern. She was always afraid of modern lifts.
Crash. The doors came to again. The lift went up. It stopped almost immediately (that was frightening too!). Mrs Oliver scuttled out like a frightened rabbit.
She looked up at the wall and went along the right hand passage. She came to a door marked 67 in metal numbers affixed to the centre of the door. The numeral 7 detached itself and fell on her feet as she arrived.
‘This place doesn’t like me,’ said Mrs Oliver to herself as she winced with pain and picked the number up gingerly and affixed it by its spike to the door again.
She pressed the bell. Perhaps everyone was out.
However, the door opened almost at once. A tall handsome girl stood in the doorway. She was wearing a dark well-cut suit with a very short skirt, a white silk shirt, and was very well shod. She had swept-up dark hair, good but discreet make up, and for some reason was slightly alarming to Mrs Oliver.
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Oliver, galvanizing herself to say the right thing. ‘Is Miss Restarick in, by any chance?’
‘No, I’m sorry, she’s out. Can I give her a message?’
Mrs Oliver said, ‘Oh’ again—before proceeding. She made a play of action by producing a parcel rather untidily done up in brown paper. ‘I promised her a book,’ she explained. ‘One of mine that she hadn’t read. I hope I’ve remembered actually which it was. She won’t be in soon, I suppose?’
‘I really couldn’t say. I don’t know what she is doing tonight.’
‘Oh. Are you Miss Reece-Holland?’
The girl looked slightly surprised.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’ve met your father,’ said Mrs Oliver. She went on, ‘I’m Mrs Oliver. I write books,’ she added in the usual guilty style in which she invariably made such an announcement.
‘Won’t you come in?’
Mrs Oliver accepted the invitation, and Claudia Reece-Holland led her into a sitting-room. All the rooms of the flats were papered the same with an artificial raw wood pattern. Tenants could then display their modern pictures or apply any forms of decoration they fancied. There was a foundation of modern built-in furniture, cupboard, bookshelves and so on, a large settee and a pull-out type of table. Personal bits and pieces could be added by the tenants. There were also signs of individuality displayed here by a gigantic Harlequin pasted on one wall, and a stencil of a monkey swinging from branches of palm fronds on another wall.
‘I’m sure Norma will be thrilled to get your book, Mrs Oliver. Won’t you have a drink? Sherry? Gin?’
This girl had the brisk manner of a really good secretary. Mrs Oliver refused.
‘You’ve got a splendid view up here,’ she said, looking out of the window and blinking a little as she got the setting sun straight in her eyes.
‘Yes. Not so funny when the lift goes out of order.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought that lift would dare to go out of order. It’s so—so—robot-like.’
‘Recently installed, but none the better for that,’ said Claudia. ‘It needs frequent adjusting and all that.’
Another girl came in, talking as she entered.
‘Claudia, have you any idea where I put—’
She stopped, looking at Mrs Oliver.
Claudia made a quick introduction.
‘Frances Cary—Mrs Oliver. Mrs Ariadne Oliver.’
‘Oh, how exciting,’ said Frances.
She was a tall willowy girl, with long black hair, a heavily made up dead white face, and eyebrows and eyelashes slightly slanted upwards—the effect heightened by mascara. She wore tight velvet pants and a heavy sweater. She was a complete contrast to the brisk and efficient Claudia.
‘I brought a book I’d promised Norma Restarick,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Oh!—what a pity she’s still in the country.’
‘Hasn’t she come back?’
There was quite definitely a pause. Mrs Oliver thought the two girls exchanged a glance.
‘I thought she had a job in London,’ said Mrs Oliver, endeavouring to convey innocent surprise.
‘Oh yes,’ said Claudia. ‘She’s in an interior decorating place. She’s sent down with patterns occasionally to places in the country.’ She smiled. ‘We live rather separate lives here,’ she explained. ‘Come and go as we like—and don’t usually bother to leave messages. But I won’t forget to give her your book when she does get back.’
Nothing could have been easier than the casual explanation.
Mrs Oliver rose. ‘Well, thank you very much.’
Claudia accompanied her to the door. ‘I shall tell my father I’ve met you,’ she said. ‘He’s a great reader of detective stories.’
Closing the door she went back into the sitting-room.
The girl Frances was leaning against the window.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Did I boob?’
‘I’d just said that Norma was out.’
Frances shrugged her shoulders.
‘I couldn’t tell. Claudia, where is that girl? Why didn’t she come back on Monday? Where has she gone?’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘She didn’t stay on down with her people? That’s where she went for the weekend.’
‘No. I rang up, actually, to find out.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t really matter… All the same, she is—well, there’s something queer about her.’
‘She’s not really queerer than anyone else.’ But the opinion sounded uncertain.
‘Oh yes, she is,’ said Frances. ‘Sometimes she gives me the shivers. She’s not normal, you know.’
She laughed suddenly.
‘Norma isn’t normal! You know she isn’t, Claudia, although you won’t admit it. Loyalty to your employer, I suppose.’
CHAPTER 4
Hercule Poirot walked along the main street of Long Basing. That is, if you can describe as a main street a street that is to all intents and purposes the only street, which was the case in Long Basing. It was one of those villages that exhibit a tendency to length without breadth. It had an impressive church with a tall tower and a yew tree of elderly dignity in its churchyard. It had its full quota of village shops disclosing much variety. It had two antique shops, one mostly consisting of stripped pine chimney pieces, the other disclosing a full house of piled up ancient maps, a good deal of porcelain, most of it chipped, some worm-eaten old oak chests, shelves of glass, some Victorian silver, all somewhat hampered in display by lack of space. There were two cafés, both rather nasty, there was a basket shop, quite delightful, with a large variety of home-made wares, there was a post office-cum-greengrocer, there was a draper’s which dealt largely in millinery and also a shoe department for children and a large miscellaneous selection of haberdashery of all kinds. There was a stationery and newspaper shop which also dealt in tobacco and sweets. There was a wool shop which was clearly the aristocrat of the place. Two white-haired severe women were in charge of shelves and shelves of knitting materials of every description. Also large quantities of dress-making patterns and knitting patterns and which branched off into a counter for art needlework. What had lately been the local grocer’s had now blossomed into calling itself ‘a supermarket’ complete with stacks of wire baskets and packaged materials of every cereal and cleaning material, all in dazzling paper boxes. And there was a small establishment with one small window with Lillah written across it in fancy letters, a fashion display of one French blouse, labelled ‘Latest chic’, and a navy skirt and a purple striped jumper labelled ‘separates’. These were displayed by being flung down as by a careless hand in the window.
All of this Poirot observed with a 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 storey 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 square-shouldered. He unlatched the gate, passed through and walked up towards the house. The woman turned her head and then straightened herself, turning towards him inquiringly.
