Murder in the Mews (Hercule Poirot 18)

Reggie said:

“Well, goodnight, sir. I’ll be toddling off to bed.”

“Goodnight, my boy,” said Lord Mayfield.

Reggie picked up a detective story which he had begun earlier in the evening and left the room.

Lord Mayfield and Sir George stepped out upon the terrace.

It was a beautiful night, with a clear sky studded with stars.

Sir George drew a deep breath.

“Phew, that woman uses a lot of scent,” he remarked.

Lord Mayfield laughed.

“Anyway, it’s not cheap scent. One of the most expensive brands on the market, I should say.”

Sir George gave a grimace.

“I suppose one should be thankful for that.”

“You should, indeed. I think a woman smothered in cheap scent is one of the greatest abominations known to mankind.”

Sir George glanced up at the sky.

“Extraordinary the way it’s cleared. I heard the rain beating down when we were at dinner.”

The two men strolled gently along the terrace.

The terrace ran the whole length of the house. Below it the ground sloped gently away, permitting a magnificent view over the Sussex weald.

Sir George lit a cigar.

“About this metal alloy—” he began.

The talk became technical.

As they approached the far end of the terrace for the fifth time, Lord Mayfield said with a sigh:

“Oh, well, I suppose we’d better get down to it.”

“Yes, good bit of work to get through.”

The two men turned, and Lord Mayfield uttered a surprised ejaculation.

“Hallo! See that?”

“See what?” asked Sir George.

“Thought I saw someone slip across the terrace from my study window.”

“Nonsense, old boy. I didn’t see anything.”

“Well, I did—or I thought I did.”

“Your eyes are playing tricks on you. I was looking straight down the terrace, and I’d have seen anything there was to be seen. There’s precious little I don’t see—even if I do have to hold a newspaper at arm’s length.”