He went through the garden and across the fields, and turned to the right along the towpath.
Mrs. Astwell remained a minute or two looking after him, instead of getting on with her morning chores.
“Sweet on one or other of ’em, he is,” she observed to herself. “I think it’s Miss Anne, but I’m not certain. He don’t give much away by his face. Treats ’em both alike. I’m not sure they ain’t both sweet on him, too. If so, they won’t be such dear friends so much longer. Nothing like a gentleman for coming between two young ladies.”
Pleasurably excited by the prospect of assisting at a budding romance, Mrs. Astwell turned indoors to her task of washing up the breakfast things, when once again the doorbell rang.
“Drat that door,” said Mrs. Astwell. “Do it on purpose, they do. Parcel, I suppose. Or might be a telegram.”
She moved slowly to the front door.
Two gentlemen stood there, a small foreign gentleman and an exceedingly English, big, burly gentleman. The latter she had seen before, she remembered.
“Miss Meredith at home?” asked the big man.
Mrs. Astwell shook her head.
“Just gone out.”
“Really? Which way? We didn’t meet her.”
Mrs. Astwell, secretly studying the amazing moustache of the other gentleman, and deciding that they looked an unlikely pair to be friends, volunteered further information.
“Gone out on the river,” she explained.
The other gentleman broke in:
“And the other lady? Miss Dawes?”
“They’ve both gone.”
“Ah, thank you,” said Battle. “Let me see, which way does one get to the river?”
“First turning to the left, down the lane,” Mrs. Astwell replied promptly. “When you get to the towpath, go right. I heard them say that’s the way they were going,” she added helpfully. “Not above a quarter of an hour ago. You’ll soon catch ’em up.”
“And I wonder,” she added to herself as she unwillingly closed the front door, having stared inquisitively at their retreating backs, “who you two might be. Can’t place you, somehow.”
Mrs. Astwell returned to the kitchen sink, and Battle and Poirot duly took the first turning to the left—a straggling lane which soon ended abruptly at the towpath.
Poirot was hurrying along, and Battle eyed him curiously.
“Anything the matter, M. Poirot? You seem in a mighty hurry.”
“It is true. I am uneasy, my friend.”
“Anything particular?”
Poirot shook his head.
“No. But there are possibilities. You never know….”
“You’ve got something in your head,” said Battle. “You were urgent that we should come down here this morning without losing a moment—and, my word, you made Constable Turner step on the gas! What are you afraid of? The girl’s shot her bolt.”
Poirot was silent.
“What are you afraid of?” Battle repeated.
“What is one always afraid of in these cases?”