we had come to the lodge itself. He sent his voice echoing forth in a loud ‘Cooee,’ to which came an answering ‘Cooee.’
‘Come in,’ said Mr Croft. He passed through the open door and up the short flight of stairs to a pleasant bedroom. There, on a sofa, was a stout middle-aged woman with pretty grey hair and a very sweet smile.
‘Who do you think this is, mother?’ said Mr Croft. ‘The extra-special, world-celebrated detective, Mr Hercule Poirot. I brought him right along to have a chat with you.’
‘If that isn’t too exciting for words,’ cried Mrs Croft, shaking Poirot warmly by the hand. ‘Read about that Blue Train business, I did, and you just happening to be on it, and a lot about your other cases. Since thistrouble with my back, I’ve read all the detective stories that ever were, I should think. Nothing else seems to pass the time away so quick. Bert, dear, call out to Edith to bring the tea along.’
‘Right you are, mother.’
‘She’s a kind of nurse attendant, Edith is,’ Mrs Croft explained. ‘She comes along each morning to fix me up. We’re not bothering with servants. Bert’s as good a cook and a house-parlourman as you’d find anywhere, and it gives him occupation—that and the garden.’
‘Here we are,’ cried Mr Croft, reappearing with a tray. ‘Here’s the tea. This is a great day in our lives, mother.’
‘I suppose you’re staying down here, Mr Poirot?’ Mrs Croft asked, as she leaned over a little and wielded the teapot.
‘Why, yes, Madame, I take the holiday.’
‘But surely I read that you had retired—that you’d taken a holiday for good and all.’
‘Ah! Madame, you must not believe everything you read in the papers.’
‘Well, that’s true enough. So you still carry on business?’
‘When I find a case that interests me.’
‘Sure you’re not down here on work?’ inquired Mr Croft, shrewdly. ‘Calling it a holiday might be all part of the game.’
‘You mustn’t ask him embarrassing questions, Bert,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Or he won’t come again. We’re simple people, Mr Poirot, and you’re giving us a great treat coming here today—you and your friend. You really don’t know the pleasure you’re giving us.’
She was so natural and so frank in her gratification that my heart quite warmed to her.
‘That was a bad business about that picture,’ said Mr Croft.
‘That poor little girl might have been killed,’ said Mrs Croft, with deep feeling. ‘She is a live wire. Livens the place up when she comes down here. Not much liked in the neighbourhood, so I’ve heard. But that’s the way in these stuck English places. They don’t like life and gaiety in a girl. I don’t wonder she doesn’t spend much time down here, and that long-nosed cousin of hers has no more chance of persuading her to settle down here for good and all than—than—well, I don’t know what.’
‘Don’t gossip, Milly,’ said her husband.
‘Aha!’ said Poirot. ‘The wind is in that quarter. Trust the instinct of Madame! So M. Charles Vyse is in love with our little friend?’
‘He’s silly about her,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘But she won’t marry a country lawyer. And I don’t blame her. He’s a poor stick, anyway. I’d like her to marry that nice sailor—what’s his name, Challenger. Many a smart marriage might be worse than that. He’s older than she is, butwhat of that? Steadying—that’s what she needs. Flying about all over the place, the Continent even, all alone or with that queer-looking Mrs Rice. She’s a sweet girl, Mr Poirot—I know that well enough. But I’m worried about her. She’s looked none too happy lately. She’s had what I call a haunted kind of look. And that worries me! I’ve got my reasons for being interested in that girl, haven’t I, Bert?’
Mr Croft got up from his chair rather suddenly.
‘No need to go into that, Milly,’ he said. ‘I wonder, Mr Poirot, if you’d care to see some snapshots of
‘Come in,’ said Mr Croft. He passed through the open door and up the short flight of stairs to a pleasant bedroom. There, on a sofa, was a stout middle-aged woman with pretty grey hair and a very sweet smile.
‘Who do you think this is, mother?’ said Mr Croft. ‘The extra-special, world-celebrated detective, Mr Hercule Poirot. I brought him right along to have a chat with you.’
‘If that isn’t too exciting for words,’ cried Mrs Croft, shaking Poirot warmly by the hand. ‘Read about that Blue Train business, I did, and you just happening to be on it, and a lot about your other cases. Since thistrouble with my back, I’ve read all the detective stories that ever were, I should think. Nothing else seems to pass the time away so quick. Bert, dear, call out to Edith to bring the tea along.’
‘Right you are, mother.’
‘She’s a kind of nurse attendant, Edith is,’ Mrs Croft explained. ‘She comes along each morning to fix me up. We’re not bothering with servants. Bert’s as good a cook and a house-parlourman as you’d find anywhere, and it gives him occupation—that and the garden.’
‘Here we are,’ cried Mr Croft, reappearing with a tray. ‘Here’s the tea. This is a great day in our lives, mother.’
‘I suppose you’re staying down here, Mr Poirot?’ Mrs Croft asked, as she leaned over a little and wielded the teapot.
‘Why, yes, Madame, I take the holiday.’
‘But surely I read that you had retired—that you’d taken a holiday for good and all.’
‘Ah! Madame, you must not believe everything you read in the papers.’
‘Well, that’s true enough. So you still carry on business?’
‘When I find a case that interests me.’
‘Sure you’re not down here on work?’ inquired Mr Croft, shrewdly. ‘Calling it a holiday might be all part of the game.’
‘You mustn’t ask him embarrassing questions, Bert,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Or he won’t come again. We’re simple people, Mr Poirot, and you’re giving us a great treat coming here today—you and your friend. You really don’t know the pleasure you’re giving us.’
She was so natural and so frank in her gratification that my heart quite warmed to her.
‘That was a bad business about that picture,’ said Mr Croft.
‘That poor little girl might have been killed,’ said Mrs Croft, with deep feeling. ‘She is a live wire. Livens the place up when she comes down here. Not much liked in the neighbourhood, so I’ve heard. But that’s the way in these stuck English places. They don’t like life and gaiety in a girl. I don’t wonder she doesn’t spend much time down here, and that long-nosed cousin of hers has no more chance of persuading her to settle down here for good and all than—than—well, I don’t know what.’
‘Don’t gossip, Milly,’ said her husband.
‘Aha!’ said Poirot. ‘The wind is in that quarter. Trust the instinct of Madame! So M. Charles Vyse is in love with our little friend?’
‘He’s silly about her,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘But she won’t marry a country lawyer. And I don’t blame her. He’s a poor stick, anyway. I’d like her to marry that nice sailor—what’s his name, Challenger. Many a smart marriage might be worse than that. He’s older than she is, butwhat of that? Steadying—that’s what she needs. Flying about all over the place, the Continent even, all alone or with that queer-looking Mrs Rice. She’s a sweet girl, Mr Poirot—I know that well enough. But I’m worried about her. She’s looked none too happy lately. She’s had what I call a haunted kind of look. And that worries me! I’ve got my reasons for being interested in that girl, haven’t I, Bert?’
Mr Croft got up from his chair rather suddenly.
‘No need to go into that, Milly,’ he said. ‘I wonder, Mr Poirot, if you’d care to see some snapshots of
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