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‘Right away we made up our minds to travel,’ he said. ‘We’d always wanted to come to the old country. Well, we did. We came down to this part of the world—tried to look up some of my wife’s people—they came from round about here. But we couldn’t trace any of them. Then we took a trip on the Continent—Paris, Rome, the Italian Lakes, Florence—all those places. It was while we were in Italy that we had the train accident. My poor wife was badly smashed up. Cruel, wasn’t it? I’ve taken her to the best doctors and they all say the same—there’s nothing for it but time—time and lying up. It’s an injury to the spine.’

‘What a misfortune!’

‘Hard luck, isn’t it? Well, there it was. And she’d only got one kind of fancy—to come down here. She kind of felt if we had a little place of our own—something small—it would make all the difference. We saw a lot of messy-looking shacks, and then by good luck we found this. Nice and quiet and tucked away—no cars passing, or gramophones next door. I took it right away.’

With the last words we had come to the lodge itself. He sent his voice echoing forth in a loud ‘Cooee,’ to which came an answering ‘Cooee.’

‘Come in,’ said Mr Croft. He passed through the open door and up the short flight of stairs to a pleasant bedroom. There, on a sofa, was a stout middle-aged woman with pretty grey hair and a very sweet smile.

‘Who do you think this is, mother?’ said Mr Croft. ‘The extra-special, world-celebrated detective, Mr Hercule Poirot. I brought him right along to have a chat with you.’

‘If that isn’t too exciting for words,’ cried Mrs Croft, shaking Poirot warmly by the hand. ‘Read about that Blue Train business, I did, and you just happening to be on it, and a lot about your other cases. Since this trouble with my back, I’ve read all the detective stories that ever were, I should think. Nothing else seems to pass the time away so quick. Bert, dear, call out to Edith to bring the tea along.’

‘Right you are, mother.’

‘She’s a kind of nurse attendant, Edith is,’ Mrs Croft explained. ‘She comes along each morning to fix me up. We’re not bothering with servants. Bert’s as good a cook and a house-parlourman as you’d find anywhere, and it gives him occupation—that and the garden.’

‘Here we are,’ cried Mr Croft, reappearing with a tray. ‘Here’s the tea. This is a great day in our lives, mother.’

‘I suppose you’re staying down here, Mr Poirot?’ Mrs Croft asked, as she leaned over a little and wielded the teapot.

‘Why, yes, Madame, I take the holiday.’

‘But surely I read that you had retired—that you’d taken a holiday for good and all.’

‘Ah! Madame, you must not believe everything you read in the papers.’

‘Well, that’s true enough. So you still carry on business?’

‘When I find a case that interests me.’

‘Sure you’re not down here on work?’ inquired Mr Croft, shrewdly. ‘Calling it a holiday might be all part of the game.’

‘You mustn’t ask him embarrassing questions, Bert,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Or he won’t come again. We’re simple people, Mr Poirot, and you’re giving us a great treat coming here today—you and your friend. You really don’t know the pleasure you’re giving us.’

She was so natural and so frank in her gratification that my heart quite warmed to her.

‘That was a bad business about that picture,’ said Mr Croft.

‘That poor little girl might have been killed,’ said Mrs Croft, with deep feeling. ‘She is a live wire. Livens the place up when she comes down here. Not much liked in the neighbourhood, so I’ve heard. But that’s the way in these stuck English places. They don’t like life and gaiety in a girl. I don’t wonder she doesn’t spend much time down here, and that long-nosed cousin of hers has no more chance of persuading her to settle down here for good and all than—than—well, I don’t know what.’

‘Don’t gossip, Milly,’ said her husband.

‘Aha!’ said Poirot. ‘The wind is in that quarter. Trust the instinct of Madame! So M. Charles Vyse is in love with our little friend?’

‘He’s silly about