He stared. Stared across a hollow that lay at his feet where the path ran round the other side of it. Stared at one particular golden red branching shrub which framed something that Poirot did not know for a moment was really there or was a mere effect of shadow and sunshine and leaves.
What am I seeing? thought Poirot. Is this the result of enchantment?
It could be. In this place here, it could be. Is it a human being I see, or is it - what could it be? His mind reverted to some adventures of his many years ago which he had christened "The Labours of Hercules".
Somehow, he thought, this was not an English garden in which he was sitting.
There was an atmosphere here. He tried to pin it down. It had qualities of magic, of enchantment, certainly of beauty, bashful beauty, yet wild. Here, if you were staging a scene in the theatre, you would have your nymphs, your fauns, you would have Greek beauty, you would have fear too.
Yes, he thought, in this sunk garden there is fear. What did Spence's sister say?
Something about a murder that took place in the original quarry years ago? Blood had stained the rock there, and afterwards, death had been forgotten, all had been covered over, Michael Garfield had come, had planned and had created a garden of great beauty, and an elderly woman who had not many more years to live had paid out money for it.
He saw now it was a young man who stood on the other side of the hollow, framed by golden red leaves, and a young man, so Poirot now recognised, of an unusual beauty. One didn't think of young men that way nowadays. You said of a young man that he was sexy or madly attractive, and these evidences of praise are often quite justly made. A man with a craggy face, a man with wild greasy hair and whose features were far from regular.
You didn't say a young man was beautiful.
If you did say it, you said it apologetically as though you were praising some quality that had been long dead. The sexy girls didn't want Orpheus with his lute, they wanted a pop singer with a raucous voice, expressive eyes and large masses of unruly hair.
Poirot got up and walked round the path. As he got to the other side of the steep descent, the young man came out from the trees to meet him. His youth seemed the most characteristic thing about him, yet, as Poirot saw, he was not really young. He was past thirty, perhaps nearer forty. The smile on his face was very, very faint. It was not quite a welcoming smile, it was just a smile of quiet recognition.
He was tall, slender, with features of great perfection such as a classical sculptor might have produced. His eyes were dark, his hair was black and fitted him as a woven chain mail helmet or cap might have done. For a moment Poirot wondered whether he and this young man might not be meeting in the course of some pageant that was being rehearsed. If so, thought Poirot, looking down at his galoshes, I, alas, shall have to go to the wardrobe mistress to get myself better equipped. He said: "I am perhaps trespassing here. If so, I must apologise. I am a stranger in this part of the world. I only arrived yesterday."
"I don't think one could call it trespassing."
The voice was very quiet; it was polite yet in a curious way uninterested, as if this man's thoughts were really somewhere quite far away.
"It's not exactly open to the public, but people do walk round here. Old Colonel Weston and his wife don't mind. They would mind if there was any damage done, but that's not really very likely."
"No vandalism," said Poirot, looking round him. "No litter that is noticeable. Not even a little basket. That is very unusual, is it not? And it seems deserted -strange. Here you would think," he went on, "there would be lovers walking."
"Lovers don't come here," said the young man. "It's supposed to be unlucky for some reason."
"Are you, I wonder, the architect? But perhaps I'm guessing wrong." "My name is Michael Garfield," said the young man.
"I thought it might be," said Poirot. He gesticulated with a hand around him. "You made this?"
"Yes," said Michael Garfield.
"It is very beautiful," said Poirot. "Somehow one feels it is always rather unusual when something beautiful is made in well, frankly, what is a dull part of the English landscape.
"I congratulate you," he said. "You must be satisfied with what you have done here."
"Is one ever satisfied? I wonder."
"You made it, I think, for a Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe. No longer alive, I believe. There is a Colonel and Mrs Weston, I believe? Do they own it now?"
"Yes. They got it cheap. It's a big, ungainly house, not easy to run, not what most people want. She left it in her Will to me."
"And you sold it."
"I sold the house."
"And not the Quarry Garden?"
"Oh yes. The Quarry Garden went with it, practically thrown in, as one might say."
"Now why?" said Poirot. "It is interesting, that. You do not mind if I am perhaps a little curious?"
"Your questions are not quite the usual ones," said Michael Garfield.
"I ask not so much for facts as for reasons. Why did A do so and so? Why did ? do something else? Why was C's behaviour quite different from that of A and B?"
"You should be talking to a scientist," said Michael. "It is a matter - or so we are told nowadays - of genes or chromosomes. The arrangement, the pattern, and so on."
"You said just now you were not entirely satisfied because no one ever was. Was your employer, your patron, whatever you like to call her was she satisfied? With this thing of beauty?"
"Up to a point," said Michael. "I saw to that. She was easy to satisfy."
"That seems most unlikely," said Hercule Poirot. "She was, I have learned, over sixty. Sixty-five at least. Are people of that age often satisfied?"
"She was assured by me that what I had carried out was the exact carrying out of her instructions and imagination and ideas."
"And was it?"
"Do you ask me that seriously?"
"No," said Poirot. "No. Frankly I do not."
"For success in life," said Michael Garfield, "one has to pursue the career one wants, one has to satisfy such artistic leanings as one has got, but one has as well to be a tradesman. You have to sell your wares. Otherwise you are tied to carrying out other people's ideas in a way which will not accord with one's own. I carried out mainly my own ideas and I sold them, marketed them perhaps is a better word, to the client who employed me, as a direct carrying out of her plans and schemes. It is not a very difficult art to learn. There is no more to it than selling a child brown eggs rather than white ones. The customer has to be assured they are the best ones, the right ones. The essence of the countryside. Shall we say, the hen's own preference? Brown, farm, country eggs. One does not sell them if one says They are just eggs. There is only one difference in eggs. They are new laid or they are not!"
"You are an unusual young man," said Poirot. "Arrogant," he said thoughtfully. "Perhaps."
"You have made here something very beautiful. You have added vision and planning to the rough material of stone hollowed out in the pursuit of industry, with no thought of beauty in that hacking out. You have added imagination, a result seen in the mind's eye, that you have managed to raise the money to fulfil. I congratulate you. I pay my tribute. The tribute of an old man who is approaching a time when the end of his own work is come."
"But at the moment you are still carrying it on?" "You know who I am, then?"
Poirot was pleased indubitably. He liked people to know who he was. Nowadays, he feared, most people did not.
"You follow the trail of blood... It is already known here. It is a small community, news travels. Another public success brought you here."
"Ah, you mean Mrs Oliver."
"Ariadne Oliver. A best-seller. People wish to interview her, to know what she thinks about such subjects as student unrest, socialism, girls' clothing, should sex be permissive, and many other things that are no concern of hers."
"Yes, yes," said Poirot, "deplorable, I think They do not learn very much, I have noticed, from Mrs Oliver. They learn only that she is fond of apples. That has now been known for twenty years at least, I should think, but she still repeats it with a pleasant smile. Although now, I fear, she no longer likes apples."
"It was apples that brought you here, was it not?"
"Apples at a Hallowe'en party," said Poirot. "You were at that party?"
"No."
"You were fortunate."
"Fortunate?" Michael Garfield repeated the word, something that sounded faintly like surprise in his voice.
"To have been one of the guests at a party where murder is committed is not a pleasant experience. Perhaps you have not experienced it, but I tell you, you are fortunate because -" Poirot became a little more foreign - "il ya a des ennuis, vous comprenez? People ask you times, dates, impertinent questions." He went on, "You knew the child?"
"Oh yes. The Reynolds are well known here. I know most of the people living round here. We all know each other in Woodleigh Common, though in varying degrees. There is some intimacy, some friendships, some people remain merest acquaintances, and so on."
"What was she like, the child Joyce?"
"She was - how can I put it? - not important. She had rather an ugly voice. Shrill. Really, that's about all I remember about her. I'm not particularly fond of children. Mostly they bore me. Joyce bored me. When she talked, she talked about herself."
"She was not interesting?"
Michael Garfield looked slightly surprised.
"I shouldn't think so," he said. "Does she have to be?"
"It is my view that people devoid of interest are unlikely to be murdered. People are murdered for gain, for fear or for love. One takes one's choice, but one has to have a starting point -" He broke off and glanced at his watch. "I must proceed. I have an engagement to fulfil. Once more, my felicitations."
He went on down, following the path and picking his way carefully. He was glad that for once he was not wearing his tight patent leather shoes.
Michael Garfield was not the only person he was to meet in the sunk garden that day. As he reached the bottom he noted that three paths led from there in slightly different directions. At the entrance of the middle path, sitting on a fallen trunk of a tree, a child was awaiting him. She made this clear at once.
"I expect you are Mr Hercule Poirot, aren't you?" she said.
Her voice was clear, almost bell-like in tone. She was a fragile creature. Something about her matched the sunk garden.
A dryad or some elf-like being.
"That is my name," said Poirot.
"I came to meet you," said the child. "You are coming to tea with us, aren't you?"
"With Mrs Butler and Mrs Oliver?
"Yes. That's right. That's Mummy and Aunt Ariadne." She added with a note of censure: "You're rather late."
"I am sorry. I stopped to speak to someone."
"Yes, I saw you. You were talking to Michael, weren't you?"
"You know him?"
"Of course. We've lived here quite a long time. I know everybody."
Poirot wondered how old she was. He asked her. She said, "I'm twelve years old. I'm going to boarding-school next year."
"Will you be sorry or glad?"
"I don't really know till I get there. I don't think I like this place very much, not as much as I did." She added, "I think you'd better come with me, now, please."
"But certainly. But certainly. I apologise for being late."
"Oh, it doesn't really matter."
"What's your name?"
"Miranda."
"I think it suits you," said Poirot.
"Are you thinking of Shakespeare?"
"Yes. Do you have it in lessons?"
"Yes. Miss Emlyn read us some of it. I asked Mummy to read some more. I liked it. It has a wonderful sound. A brave new world. There isn't anything really like that, is there?"
"You don't believe in it?" "Do you?"
"There is always a brave new world," said Poirot, "but only, you know, for very special people. The lucky ones. The ones who carry the making of that world within themselves."
"Oh, I see," said Miranda, with an air of apparently seeing with the utmost ease, though what she saw Poirot rather wondered.
She turned, started along the path and said, "We go this way. It's not very far. You can go through the hedge of our garden."
Then she looked back over her shoulder and pointed, saying: "In the middle there, that's where the fountain was."
"A fountain?"
"Oh, years ago. I suppose it's still there, underneath the shrubs and the azaleas and the other things. It was all broken up, you see. People took bits of it away but nobody has put a new one there."
"It seems a pity."
"I don't know. I'm not sure. Do you like fountains very much?" "fa depend," said Poirot.
"I know some French," said Miranda. "That's 'it depends', isn't it?" "You are quite right. You seem very well educated."
"Everyone says Miss Emlyn is a very fine teacher. She's our headmistress. She's awfully strict and a bit stern, but she's terribly interesting sometimes in the things she tells us."
"Then she is certainly a good teacher," said Hercule Poirot. "You know this place very well you seem to know all the paths. Do you come here often?"
"Oh yes, it's one of my favourite walks. Nobody knows where I am, you see, when I come here. I sit in trees - on the branches, and such things. I like that. Watching things happen."
"What sort of things?"
"Mostly birds and squirrels. Birds are very quarrelsome, aren't they? Not like in the bit of poetry that says 'birds in their little nests agree'. They don't really, do they? And I watch squirrels."
