‘Details rarely escape me.’
Lady Westholme rose, made a slight inclination of her head, and left the room. As Miss Pierce was following her, gazing down ruefully at her left leg, Poirot said:
‘A little moment, please, mademoiselle?’
‘Yes?’ Miss Pierce looked up, a slightly apprehensive look upon her face.
Poirot leaned forward confidentially.
‘You see this bunch of wild flowers on the table here?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Pierce—staring.
‘And you noticed that when you first came into the room I sneezed once or twice?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you notice if I had just been sniffing those flowers?’
‘Well—really—no—I couldn’t say.’
‘But you remember my sneezing?’
‘Oh yes, I remember that!’
Ah, well—no matter. I wondered, you see, if these flowers might induce the hay fever. No matter!’
‘Hay fever?’ cried Miss Pierce. ‘I remember a cousin of mine was a martyr to it! She always said that if you sprayed your nose daily with a solution of boracic—’
With some difficulty Poirot shelved the cousin’s nasal treatment and got rid of Miss Pierce. He shut the door and came back into the room with his eyebrows raised.
‘But I did not sneeze,’ he murmured. ‘So much for that. No, I did not sneeze.’
Chapter 6
Lennox Boynton came into the room with a quick, resolute step. Had he been there, Dr Gerard would have been surprised at the change in the man. The apathy was gone. His bearing was alert—although he was plainly nervous. His eyes had a tendency to shift rapidly from point to point about the room.
‘Good morning, M. Boynton.’ Poirot rose and bowed ceremoniously. Lennox responded somewhat awkwardly. ‘I much appreciate your giving me this interview.’
Lennox Boynton said rather uncertainly: ‘Er—Colonel Carbury said it would be a good thing—advised it—some formalities—he said.’
‘Please sit down, M. Boynton.’
Lennox sat down on the chair lately vacated by Lady Westholme. Poirot went on conversationally:
‘This has been a great shock to you, I am afraid?’
‘Yes, of course. Well, no, perhaps not…We always knew that my mother’s heart was not strong.’
‘Was it wise, under those circumstances, to allow her to undertake such an arduous expedition?’
Lennox Boynton raised his head. He spoke not without a certain sad dignity.
‘My mother, M.—er—Poirot, made her own decisions. If she made up her mind to anything it was no good our opposing her.’
He drew in his breath sharply as he said the last words. His face suddenly went rather white.
‘I know well,’ admitted Poirot, ‘that elderly ladies are sometimes headstrong.’