Bad habit.
Besides, I like to leave business matters behind when I get away from London.
I've been looking forward, M. Poirot, to hearing a few of your adventures.
I read a lot of thrillers and detective stories, you know.
Do you think any of them are true to life?"
The conversation dwelt for the rest of the journey on the more spectacular cases of Hercule Poirot. Alistair Blunt displayed himself as avid as any schoolboy for details.
This pleasant atmosphere sustained a chill on arrival at Exsham where behind her massive bust Mrs. Olivera radiated a freezing disapproval.
She ignored Poirot as far as possible, addressing herself exclusively to her host and to Mr. Selby.
The latter showed Poirot to his room.
The house was a charming one, not very big, and furnished with the same quiet good taste that Poirot had noticed in London.
Everything was costly but simple.
The vast wealth that owned it was only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity was produced. The service was admirable – the cooking English, not Continental – the wines at dinner stirred Poirot to a passion of appreciation.
They had a perfect clear soup, a grilled sole, saddle of lamb with tiny young garden peas and strawberries and cream.
Poirot was so enjoying these creature comforts that the continued frigid demeanor of Mrs. Olivera and the brusque rudeness of her daughter, hardly attracted his attention. Jane, for some reason, was regarding him with definite hostility.
Hazily, towards the end of dinner, Poirot wondered why! Looking down the table with mild curiosity, Blunt asked: "Helen not dining with us tonight?"
Julia Olivera's lips drew themselves in with a taut line.
She said: "Dear Helen has been overtiring herself, I think, in the garden.
I suggested it would be far better for her to go to bed and rest than to bother to dress herself up and come here.
She quite saw my point."
"Oh, I see." Blunt looked vague and a little puzzled.
"I thought it made a bit of a change for her at weekends."
"Helen is such a simple soul. She likes turning in early," said Mrs. Olivera firmly.
When Poirot joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Blunt having remained behind for a few minutes' conversation with his secretary, he heard Jane Olivera say to her mother:
"Uncle Alistair didn't quite like the cool way you'd shelved Helen Montressor, mother."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Olivera robustly.
"Alistair is too good-natured.
Poor relations are all very well – very kind of him to let her have the cottage rent free, but to think he has to have her up to the house every weekend for dinner is absurd!
She's only a second cousin or something.
I don't think Alistair ought to be imposed upon!"
"I think she's proud in her way," said Jane.
"She does an awful lot in the garden."
"That shows a proper spirit," said Mrs. Olivera comfortably. "The Scotch are very independent and one respects them for it." She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of Poirot, added: "Just bring me the Low Down Review, dear. There's something about Lois Van Schuyler in it and that Moroccan guide of hers."
Alistair Blunt appeared in the doorway.
He said: "Now, M. Poirot, come into my room." Alistair Blunt's own sanctum was a low, long room at the back of the house, with windows opening upon the garden. It was comfortable, with deep armchairs and settees and just enough pleasant untidiness to make it livable. (Needless to say, Hercule Poirot would have preferred a greater symmetry!) After offering his guest a cigarette and lighting his own pipe, Alistair Blunt came to the point quite simply and directly.
He said: "There's a good deal that I'm not satisfied about.
I'm referring, of course, to this Sainsbury Seale woman.
For reasons of their own – reasons no doubt which are perfectly justified – the authorities have called off the hunt.
I don't know exactly who Albert Chapman is or what he's doing – but whatever it is, it's something pretty vital and it's the sort of business that might land him in a tight spot.
I don't know the ins and outs of it, but the P.M. did just mention that they can't afford any publicity whatever about this case and that the sooner it fades out of the public's memory the better. "That's quite O.K.
That's the official view, and they know what's necessary.
So the police have got their hands tied."
He leaned forward in his chair.
"But I want to know the truth, M. Poirot.
And you're the man to find it out for me.
You aren't hampered by officialdom."
"What do you want me to do, M. Blunt?"
"I want you to find this woman – Sainsbury Seale."
"Alive or dead?"
Alistair Blunt's eyebrows rose.
"You think it possible that she is dead?"