The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories Read online

  through and looked up inquiringly.

  "Yes, M. Poirot?" Her pencil hoqeredready

  over her shorthand pad.

  "What is your opinion of that letter, Miss

  Lemon?"

  With a slight frown Miss Lemt)n l0ut down the

  pencil and read through the letter agair.

  The contents of a letter meant nothing to Miss

  Lemon except from the point of vieV of composing

  an adequate reply. Very occasio0ally her em

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  Agatha Christie

  ployer appealed to her human, as opposed to

  her official, capacities. It slightly annoyed Miss

  Lemon when he did so--she was very nearly the

  perfect machine, completely and gloriously unin-terested

  in all human affairs. Her real passion in

  life was the perfection of a filing system beside

  which all other filing systems should sink into

  oblivion. She dreamed of such a system at night.

  Nevertheless, Miss Lemon was perfectly capable

  of intelligence on purely human matters, as Her-cule

  Poirot well knew.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Old lady," said Miss Lemon. "Got the wind

  up pretty badly."

  "Ah! The wind rises in her, you think9.''

  Miss Lemon, who considered that Poirot had

  · been long enough in Great Britain to understand

  its slang terms, did not reply. She took a brief look

  at the double envelope.

  "Very hush-hush," she said. "And tells you

  nothing at all."

  "Yes," said Hercule Poirot. "I observed that."

  Miss Lemon's hand hung once more hopefully

  over the shorthand pad. This time Hercule Poirot

  responded.

  "Tell her I will do myself the honor to call upon

  her at any time she suggests, unless she prefers to

  consult me here. Do not type the letter--write it by

  hand."

  "Yes, M. Poirot."

  Poirot produced more correspondence. "These

  are bills."

  Miss Lemon's efficient hands sorted them

  quickly. "I'll pay all but these two."

  HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

  "Why those two? There is no error in them."

  "They are firms you've only just begun to deal

  with. It looks bad to pay too promptly when

  you've just opened an account--looks as though

  you were working up to get some credit later on."

  "Ah!" murmured Poirot. "I bow to your su-perior

  knowledge of the British tradesman."

  "There's nothing much I don't know about

  them," said Miss Lemon grimly.

  The letter to Miss Amelia Barrowby was duly

  written and sent, but no reply Was forthcoming.

  Perhaps, thought Hercule Poirot, the old lady had

  unraveled her mystery herself. Yet he felt.a shade

  of surprise that in that case she should not have

  written a courteous word to say that his services

  were no longer required.

  It was five days later when Miss Lemon, after

  receiving her morning's instructions, said, "That

  Miss Barrowby we wrote to--no wonder there's

  been no answer. She's dead."

  Hercule Poirot said very softly, "Ah--dead."

  It sounded not so much like a question as an

  answer.

  Opening her handbag, Miss Lemon produced a

  newspaper cutting. "I saw it in the tube and tore it

  out."

  Just registering in his mind approval of the fact

  that, though Miss Lemon used the word "tore,"

  she had neatly cut the entry out with scissors,

  Poirot read the announcement taken from the

  Births, Deaths and Marriages in the Morning

  Post: "On March 26th--suddenly--at Rosebank,

  Charman's Green, Amelia Jane Barrowby, in her

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  Agatha Christie

  seventy-third year. No flowers, by request."

  Poirot read it over. He murmured under his

  breath, "Suddenly." Then he said briskly, "If

  you will be so obliging as to take a letter, Miss

  Lemon?"

  The pencil hovered. Miss Lemon, her mind

  dwelling on the intricacies of the filing system,

  took down in rapid and correct shorthand:

  Dear Miss Barrowby: I have received no

  reply from you, but as I shall be in the neigh-borhood

  of Charman's Green on Friday, I

  will call upon you on that day and discuss

  more fully the matter you mentioned to me in

  your letter.

  Yours, etc.

  "Type this letter, please; and if it is posted at

  once, it should get to Charman's Green tonight."

  On the following morning a letter in a black-edged

  envelope arrived by the second post:

  Dear Sir: In reply to your letter my aunt,

  Miss Barrowby, passed away on the twenty-sixth,

  so the matter you speak of is no longer

  of importance.

  Yours truly,

  MARY DELAFONTAINE.

  Poirot smiled to himself. "No longer of im-portance

  .... Ah--that is what we shall see. En

  avant--to Charman's Green."

  Rosebank was a house that seemed likely to live

  up to its name, which is more than can be said for

  HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

  59

  most houses of its class and character.

  Hercule Poirot paused as he walked up the path

  to the front door and looked approvingly at the

  neatly planned beds on either side of him. Rose

  trees that promised a good harvest later in the

  year, and at present daffodils, early tulips, blue

  hyacinths--the last bed was partly edged with

  shells.

  Poirot murmured to himself, "How does it go,

  the English rhyme the children sing?

  Mistress Mary, quite contrary,

  How does your garden grow?

  With cockle-shells, and silver bells,

  And pretty maids all in a row.

  "Not a row, perhaps," he considered, "but

  here is at least one pretty maid to make the little

  rhyme come right."

  The front door had opened and a neat little

  maid in cap and apron was looking somewhat

  dubiously at the spectacle of a heavily mustached

  foreign gentleman talking aloud to himself in the

  front garden. She was, as Poirot had noted, a very

  pretty little maid, with round blue eyes and rosy

  cheeks.

  Poirot raised his hat with courtesy and addressed

  her: "Pardon, but does a.Miss Amelia

  Barrowby live here?"

  The little maid gasped and her eyes grew

  rounder. "Oh, sir, didn't you know? She's dead.

  Ever so sudden it was. Tuesday night."

  She hesitated, divided between two strong instincts:

  the first, distrust of a foreigner; the sec

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  Agatha Christie

  and, the pleasurable enjoyment of her class in

  dwelling on the subject of illness and death.

  "You amaze me," said Hercule Poirot, not very

  truthfully. "I had an appointment with the lady

  for today. However, I can perhaps see the other

  lady who lives here."

  The little maid seemed slightly doubtful. "The

  mistress? Well, you could see her, perhaps, but I

  don't k
now whether she'll be seeing anyone or

  not."

  "She will see me," said Poirot, and handed her

  a card.

  The authority of his tone had its effect. The

  rosy-cheeked maid fell back and ushered PoirOt

  into a sitting room on the right of the hall. Then,

  card in hand, she departed to summon her

  mistress.

  Hercule Poirot looked round him. The room

  was a perfectly conventional drawing room--oatmeal-colored

  paper with a frieze round the top, indeterminate

  cretonnes, rose-colored cushions and

  curtains, a good many china knick-knacks and ornaments.

  There was nothing in the room that

  stood out, that announced a definite personality.

  Suddenly Poirot, who was very sensitive, felt

  eyes watching him. He wheeled round. A girl was

  standing in the entrance of the French window--a

  small, sallow girl, with very black hair and suspicious

  eyes.

  She came in, and as Poirot made a little bow she

  burst out abruptly, "Why have you come?"

  Poirot did not reply. He merely raised his eyebrows.

  "You are not a lawyer--no?" Her English was

  HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

  61

  good, but not for a minute would anyone have

  taken her to be English.

  "Why should I be a lawyer, mademoiselle?"

  The girl stared at him sullenly. "I thought you

  might be. I thought you had come perhaps to say

  that she did not know what she was doing. I have

  heard of such things--the not due influence; that

  is what they call it, no? But that is not right. She

  wanted me to have the money, and I shall have it.

  If it is needful I shall have a lawyer of my own.

  The money is mine. She wrote it down so, and so it

  shall be." She looked ugly, her chin thrust out,

  her eyes gleaming.

  The door opened and a tall woman entered and

  said, "Katrina."

  The girl shrank, flushed, muttered something

  and went out through the window.

  Poirot turned to face the newcomer who had

  so effectually dealt with the situation by uttering

  a single word. There had been authority in her

  voice, and contempt and a shade of well-bred

  irony. He realized at once that this was the owner

  of the house, Mary Delafontaine.

  "M. Poirot? I wrote to you. You cannot have

  received my letter."

  "Alas, I have been away from London."

  "Oh, I see; that explains it. I must introduce

  myself. My name is Delafontaine. This is my hus-band.

  Miss Barrowby was my aunt."

  Mr. Delafontaine had entered so quietly that his

  arrival had passed unnoticed. He was a tall man

  with grizzled hair and an indeterminate manner.

  He had a nervous way of fingering his chin. He

  looked often toward his wife, and it was plain that

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  Agatha Christie

  he expected her to take the lead in any conversa-tion.

  "I much regret that I intrude in the midst of

  your bereavement," said Hercule Poirot.

  "I quite realize that it is not your fault," said

  Mrs. Delafontaine. "My aunt died on Tuesday

  evening. It was quite unexpected."

  "Most unexpected," said Mr. Delafontaine.

  "Great blow." His eyes watched the window

  where the foreign girl had disappeared.

  "I apologize," said Hercule Poirot. "And I

  withdraw." He moved a step toward the door.

  "Half a sec," said Mr. Delafontaine. "You--er--had

  an appointment with Aunt Amelia, you

  say?'"

  ·

  'Parfaiternent." .

  "Perhaps you will tell us about it," said his

  wife. "If there is anything we can do--"

  "It was of a private nature," said Poirot. "I am

  a detective," he added simply.

  Mr. Delafontaine knocked over a little china

  figure he was handling. His wife looked puzzled.

  "A detective? And you had an appointment

  with auntie? But how extraordinary!" She stared

  at him. "Can't you tell us a little more, M.

  Poirot? It--it seems quite fantastic."

  Poirot was silent for a moment. He chose his

  words with care.

  "It is difficult for me, madame, to know what

  to do."

  "Look here," said Mr. Delafontaine. "She

  didn't mention Russians, did she?"

  "Russians?"

  HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

  63

  "Yes, you know--Bolshies, Reds, all that sort

  of thing."

  "Don't be absurd, Henry," said his wife.

  Mr. Delafontaine collapsed. "Sorry--sorry--I

  just wondered."

  Mary Delafontaine looked frankly at Poirot.

  Her eyes were very blue--the color of forget-menots.

  "If you can tell us anything, M. Poirot, I

  should be glad if you would do so. I can assure

  you that I have a--a reason for asking."

  Mr. Delafontaine looked alarmed. "Be careful,

  old girl--you know there may be nothing in it."

  Again his wife quelled him with a glance.

  "Well, M. Poirot?"

  Slowly, gravely, Hercule Poirot shook his head.

  He shook it with visible regret, but he shook it.

  "At present, madame," he said, "I fear I must

  say nothing."

  He bowed, picked up his hat and moved to the

  door. Mary Delafontaine came with him into the

  hall. On the doorstep he paused and looked at her.

  "You are fond of your garden, I think, madame?"

  "I? Yes, I spend a lot of time gardening."

  "Je vous fait mes compliments."

  He bowed once more and strode down to the

  gate. As he passed out of it and turned to the right

  he glanced back and registered two impressions

  --a sallow face watching him from a first-floor

  window, and a man of erect and soldierly carriage

  pacing up and down on the opposite side of the

  street.

  Hercule Poirot nodded to himself. "Definitive

  64

  Agatha Chrt

  rnent," he said. "There is a mouse in this hole!

  What move must the cat make now?"

  His decision took him to the nearest post office.

  Here he put through a couple of telephone calls.

  The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his

  steps to Charman's Green police station, where he

  inquired for Inspector Sims.

  Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a

  hearty manner. "M. Poirot?" he inquired. "I

  thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone

  call through from the chief constable about you.

  He said you'd be dropping in. Come into my of-fice."

  The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to

  one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a

  gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.

  "You're very quick onto the mark, M. Poirot.

  Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost

  before we know it is a case. What put you onto

  it?"

  Poirot drew out the letter he had received and

  handed it to the inspector. The latter read it with

  some interest.

  "Interest
ing," he said. "The trouble is, it might

  mean so many things. Pity she couldn't have been

  a little more explicit. It would have helped us

  now."

  "Or there might have been no need for help."

  "You mean?"

  "She might have been alive."

  "You go as far as that, do you? H'm--I'm not

  sure you're wrong."

  "I pray of you, inspector, recount to me the

  facts. I know nothing at all."

  HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

  65

  "That's easily done. Old lady was taken bad

  after dinner on Tuesday night. Very alarming.

  Convulsions--spasms--what not. They sent for

  the doctor. By the time he arrived she was dead.

  Idea was she'd died of a fit. Well, he didn't much

  like the look of things. He hemmed and hawed

  and put it with a bit of soft sawder, but he made it

  clear that he couldn't give a death certificate. And

  as far as the family go, that's where the matter

  stands. They're awaiting the result of the post-mortem.

  We've got a bit farther. The doctor gave

  us the tip right away--he and the police surgeon

  did the autopsy together--and the result is in no

  doubt whatever. The old lady died of a large dose

  of strychnine."

  "Aha!"