There were.one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some folded deck-chairs.
I was startled to observe my new friend.
He had dropped to his hands and knees and was crawling about the floor.
Every now and then he shook his head as though not satisfied.
Finally, he sat back on his heels.
‘Nothing,’ he murmured.
‘Well, perhaps it was not to be expected.
But it would have meant so much ‘ He broke off, stiffening all over.
Then he stretched out his hand to one of the rustic chairs. He detached something from one side of it.
‘What is it?’ I cried.
‘What have you found?’
He smiled, unclosing his hand so that I should see what lay in the palm of it.
A scrap of stiff white cambric.
I took it from him, looked at it curiously, and then handed it back.
‘What do you make of it, eh, my friend?’ he asked, eyeing me keenly.
‘A scrap torn from a handkerchief,’ I suggested, shrugging my shoulders.
He made another dart and picked up a small quill - a goose quill by the look of it.
‘And that?’ he cried triumphantly.
‘What do you make of that?’ I only stared.
He slipped the quill into his pocket, and looked again at the scrap of white stuff.
‘A fragment of a handkerchief?’ he mused.
‘Perhaps you are right.
But remember this - a good laundry does not starch a handkerchief.’
He nodded at me triumphantly, then he put away the scrap carefully in his pocketbook.
Chapter 9
The Goldfish Pond
We walked back to the house together.
There was no sign of the inspector.
Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the house, slowly turning his head from side to side. ‘Une belle proprietor he said at last appreciatively.
‘Who inherits it?’
His words gave me almost a shock.
It is an odd thing, but until that moment the question of inheritance had never come into my head.
Poirot watched me keenly.
‘It is a new idea to you, that,’ he said at last.
‘You had not thought of it before - eh?’
‘No,’ I said truthfully.
‘I wish I had.’
He looked at me again curiously.
‘I wonder just what you mean by that,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘Oh! no,’ as I was about to speak. ‘Inutile\ You would not tell me your real thought.’
‘Everyone has something to hide,’ I quoted, smiling.
‘Exactly.’
‘You still believe that?’
‘More than ever, my friend.
But it is not easy to hide things from Hercule Poirot.
He has a knack of finding out.’ He descended the steps of the Dutch garden as he spoke.
‘Let us walk a little,’ he said over his shoulder. The air is pleasant today.’
I followed him. He led me down a path to the left enclosed in yew hedges.
A walk led down the middle, bordered each side with formal flower beds, and at the end was a round paved recess with a seat and a pond of goldfish. Instead of pursuing the path to the end, Poirot took another which wound up the side of a wooded slope. In one spot the trees had been cleared away, and a seat had been put. Sitting there one had a splendid view over the countryside, and one looked right down on the paved recess and the goldfish pond.
‘England is very beautiful,’ said Poirot, his eyes straying over the prospect.