eleven, twelve, men must delve

i

after passing a troubled night, hercule poirot was up and about early on the next day. the

weather was perfect and he retraced his steps of last night.

the herbaceous borders were in full beauty and though poirot himself leaned to a more orderly

type of flower arrangement—a neat arrangement of beds of scarlet geraniums such as are seen at

ostend—he nevertheless realized that here was the perfection of the english garden spirit.

he pursued his way through a rose garden, where the neat layout of the beds delighted him—

and through the winding ways of an alpine rock garden, coming at last to the walled kitchen

gardens.

here he observed a sturdy woman clad in a tweed coat and skirt, black browed, with short

cropped black hair who was talking in a slow, emphatic scots voice to what was evidently the

head gardener. the head gardener, poirot observed, did not appear to be enjoying the

conversation.

a sarcastic inflection made itself heard in miss helen montressor’s voice, and poirot escaped

nimbly down a side path.

a gardener who had been, poirot shrewdly suspected, resting on his spade, began digging with

fervour. poirot approached nearer. the man, a young fellow, dug with ardour, his back to poirot

who paused to observe him.

“good morning,” said poirot amiably.

a muttered “morning, sir,” was the response, but the man did not stop working.

poirot was a little surprised. in his experience a gardener, though anxious to appear zealously at

work as you approached, was usually only too willing to pause and pass the time of day when

directly addressed.

it seemed, he thought, a little unnatural. he stood there for some minutes, watching the toiling

figure. was there, or was there not, something a little familiar about the turn of those shoulders?

or could it be, thought hercule poirot, that he was getting into a habit of thinking that both voices

and shoulders were familiar when they were really nothing of the kind? was he, as he had feared

last night, growing old?

he passed thoughtfully onward out of the walled garden and paused to regard a rising slope of

shrubbery outside.

presently, like some fantastic moon, a round object rose gently over the top of the kitchen

garden wall. it was the egg- shaped head of hercule poirot, and the eyes of hercule poirot

regarded with a good deal of interest the face of the young gardener who had now stopped digging

and was passing a sleeve across his wet face.

“very curious and very interesting,” murmured hercule poirot as he discreetly lowered his head

once more.

he emerged from the shrubbery and brushed off some twigs and leaves that were spoiling the

neatness of his apparel.

yes, indeed, very curious and interesting that frank carter, who had a secretarial job in the

country, should be working as a gardener in the employment of alistair blunt.

reflecting on these points, hercule poirot heard a gong in the distance and retraced his steps

towards the house.

on the way there he encountered his host talking to miss montressor who had just emerged

from the kitchen garden by the farther door.

her voice rose clear and distinct:

“it’s verra kind of you, alistairr, but i would preferr not to accept any invitations this week

while your amerrican relations are with you!”

blunt said:

“julia’s rather a tactless woman, but she doesn’t mean—”

miss montressor said calmly:

“in my opinion her manner to me is verra insolent, and i will not put up with insolence—from

american women or any others!”

miss montressor moved away, poirot came up to find alistair blunt looking as sheepish as most

men look who are having trouble with their female relations. he said ruefully:

“women really are the devil! good morning, m. poirot. lovely day, isn’t it?”

they turned towards the house and blunt said with a sigh: “i do miss my wife!”

in the dining room, he remarked to the redoubtable julia:

“i’m afraid, julia, you’ve rather hurt helen’s feelings.”

mrs. olivera said grimly:

“the scotch are always touchy.”

alistair blunt looked unhappy.

hercule poirot said:

“you have a young gardener, i noticed, whom i think you must have taken on recently.”

“i daresay,” said blunt. “yes, burton, my third gardener, left about three weeks ago, and we

took this fellow on instead.”

“do you remember where he came from?”

“i really don’t. macalister engaged him. somebody or other asked me to give him a trial, i

think. recommended him warmly. i’m rather surprised, because macalister says he isn’t much

good. he wants to sack him again.”

“what is his name?”

“dunning—sunbury—something like that.”

“would it be a great impertinence to ask what you pay him?”

“not at all. two pounds fifteen, i think it is.”

“not more?”

“certainly not more—might be a bit less.”

“now that,” said poirot, “is very curious.”

alistair blunt looked at him inquiringly.

but jane olivera, rustling the paper, distracted the conversation.

“a lot of people seem to be out for your blood, uncle alistair!”

“oh, you’re reading the debate in the house. that’s all right. only archerton—he’s always

tilting at windmills. and he’s got the most crazy ideas of finance. if we let him have his way,

england would be bankrupt in a week.”

jane said:

“don’t you ever want to try anything new?”

“not unless it’s an improvement to the old, my dear.”

“but you’d never think it would be. you’d always say, ‘this would never work’—without even

trying.”

“experimentalists can do a lot of harm.”

“yes, but how can you be satisfied with things as they are? all the waste and the inequality and

the unfairness. something must be done about it!”

“we get along pretty well in this country, jane, all things considered.”

jane said passionately:

“what’s needed is a new heaven and a new earth! and you sit there eating kidneys!”

she got up and went out by the french window into the garden.

alistair looked mildly surprised and a little uncomfortable.

he said: “jane has changed a lot lately. where does she get all these ideas?”

“take no notice of what jane says,” said mrs. olivera. “jane’s a very silly girl. you know what

girls are—they go to these queer parties in studios where the young men have funny ties and they

come home and talk a lot of nonsense.”

“yes, but jane was always rather a hard-boiled young woman.”

“it’s just a fashion, alistair, these things are in the air!”

alistair blunt said:

“yes, they’re in the air all right.”

he looked a little worried.

mrs. olivera rose and poirot opened the door for her. she swept out frowning to herself.

alistair blunt said suddenly:

“i don’t like it, you know! everybody’s talking this sort of stuff! and it doesn’t mean anything!

it’s all hot air! i find myself up against it the whole time—a new heaven and a new earth. what

does it mean? they can’t tell you themselves! they’re just drunk on words.”

he smiled suddenly, rather ruefully.

“i’m one of the last of the old guard, you know.”

poirot said curiously:

“if you were—removed, what would happen?”

“removed! what a way of putting it!” his face grew suddenly grave. “i’ll tell you. a lot of

damned fools would try a lot of very costly experiments. and that would be the end of stability—

of common sense, of solvency. in fact, of this england of ours as we know it …”

poirot nodded his head. he was essentially in sympathy with the banker. he, too, approved of

solvency. and he began to realize with a new meaning just exactly what alistair blunt stood for.

mr. barnes had told him, but he had hardly taken it in then. quite suddenly, he was afraid….