v

at the gothic house, poirot was received by a secretary, a tall, limp young man with an

accomplished social manner.

he was pleasantly apologetic.

“i am so sorry, m. poirot—and so is mr. blunt. he has been called to downing street. the

result of this—er—incident last night. i rang your flat, but unfortunately you had already left.”

the young man went on rapidly:

“mr. blunt commissioned me to ask you if it would be possible for you to spend the weekend

with him at his house in kent. exsham, you know. if so, he would call for you in the car tomorrow

evening.”

poirot hesitated.

the young man said persuasively:

“mr. blunt is really most anxious to see you.”

hercule poirot bowed his head.

he said: “thank you. i accept.”

“oh, that’s splendid. mr. blunt will be delighted. if he calls for you about a quarter to six, will

that—oh, good morning, mrs. olivera—”

jane olivera’s mother had just entered. she was very smartly dressed, with a hat clinging to an

eyebrow in the midst of a very soignée coiffure.

“oh! mr. selby, did mr. blunt give you any instructions about those garden chairs? i meant to

talk to him about them last night, because i knew we’d be going down this weekend and—”

mrs. olivera took in poirot and paused.

“do you know mrs. olivera, m. poirot?”

“i have already had the pleasure of meeting madame.”

poirot bowed.

mrs. olivera said vaguely:

“oh? how do you do. of course, mr. selby, i know that alistair is a very busy man and that

these small domestic matters mayn’t seem to him important—”

“it’s quite all right, mrs. olivera,” said the efficient mr. selby. “he told me about it and i rang

up messrs deevers about them.”

“well, now, that’s a real load off my mind. now, mr. selby, can you tell me …”

mrs. olivera clacked on. she was, thought poirot, rather like a hen. a big, fat hen! mrs.

olivera, still clacking, moved majestically after her bust towards the door.

“ … and if you’re quite sure that there will only be ourselves this weekend—”

mr. selby coughed.

“er—m. poirot is also coming down for the weekend.”

mrs. olivera stopped. she turned round and surveyed poirot with visible distaste.

“is that really so?”

“mr. blunt has been kind enough to invite me,” said poirot.

“well, i wonder—why, if that isn’t queer of alistair. you’ll excuse me, m. poirot, but mr.

blunt particularly told me that he wanted a quiet, family weekend!”

selby said firmly:

“mr. blunt is particularly anxious that m. poirot should come.”

“oh really? he didn’t mention it to me.”

the door opened. jane stood there. she said impatiently:

“mother, aren’t you coming? our lunch appointment is at one fifteen!”

“i’m coming, jane. don’t be impatient.”

“well, get a move on, for goodness sake—hallo, m. poirot.”

she was suddenly very still—her petulance frozen. her eyes more wary.

mrs. olivera said in a cold voice:

“m. poirot is coming down to exsham for the weekend.”

“oh—i see.”

jane olivera stood back to let her mother pass her. on the point of following her, she whirled

back again.

“m. poirot!”

her voice was imperious.

poirot crossed the room to her.

she said in a low voice: “you’re coming down to exsham? why?”

poirot shrugged his shoulders. he said:

“it is a kind thought of your uncle’s.”

jane said:

“but he can’t know … he can’t … when did he ask you? oh, there’s no need—”

“jane!”

her mother was calling from the hall.

jane said in a low, urgent tone:

“stay away. please don’t come.”

she went out. poirot heard the sounds of altercation. heard mrs. olivera’s high, complaining,

clucking voice. “i really will not tolerate your rudeness, jane … i shall take steps to see that you

do not interfere—”

the secretary said:

“then at a little before six tomorrow, m. poirot?”

poirot nodded assent mechanically. he was standing like a man who has seen a ghost. but it

was his ears, not his eyes, that had given him the shock.

two of the sentences that had drifted in through the open door were almost identical with those

he had heard last night through the telephone, and he knew why the voice had been faintly

familiar.

as he walked out into the sunshine he shook his head blankly.

mrs. olivera?

but it was impossible! it could not have been mrs. olivera who had spoken over the ’phone!

that empty-headed society woman—selfish, brainless, grasping, self-centred? what had he

called her to himself just now?

“that good fat hen? c’est ridicule!” said hercule poirot.

his ears, he decided, must have deceived him. and yet—