One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (Hercule Poirot 23)

“Oh, that’s splendid. Mr. Blunt will be delighted. If he calls for you about a quarter to six, will that—Oh, good morning, Mrs. Olivera—”

Jane Olivera’s mother had just entered. She was very smartly dressed, with a hat clinging to an eyebrow in the midst of a very soignée coiffure.

“Oh! Mr. Selby, did Mr. Blunt give you any instructions about those garden chairs? I meant to talk to him about them last night, because I knew we’d be going down this weekend and—”

Mrs. Olivera took in Poirot and paused.

“Do you know Mrs. Olivera, M. Poirot?”

“I have already had the pleasure of meeting Madame.”

Poirot bowed.

Mrs. Olivera said vaguely:

“Oh? How do you do. Of course, Mr. Selby, I know that Alistair is a very busy man and that these small domestic matters mayn’t seem to him important—”

“It’s quite all right, Mrs. Olivera,” said the efficient Mr. Selby. “He told me about it and I rang up Messrs Deevers about them.”

“Well, now, that’s a real load off my mind. Now, Mr. Selby, can you tell me …”

Mrs. Olivera clacked on. She was, thought Poirot, rather like a hen. A big, fat hen! Mrs. Olivera, still clacking, moved majestically after her bust towards the door.

“ … And if you’re quite sure that there will only be ourselves this weekend—”

Mr. Selby coughed.

“Er—M. Poirot is also coming down for the weekend.”

Mrs. Olivera stopped. She turned round and surveyed Poirot with visible distaste.

“Is that really so?”

“Mr. Blunt has been kind enough to invite me,” said Poirot.

“Well, I wonder—why, if that isn’t queer of Alistair. You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot, but Mr. Blunt particularly told me that he wanted a quiet, family weekend!”

Selby said firmly:

“Mr. Blunt is particularly anxious that M. Poirot should come.”

“Oh really? He didn’t mention it to me.”

The door opened. Jane stood there. She said impatiently:

“Mother, aren’t you coming? Our lunch appointment is at one fifteen!”

“I’m coming, Jane. Don’t be impatient.”

“Well, get a move on, for goodness sake—Hallo, M. Poirot.”

She was suddenly very still—her petulance frozen. Her eyes more wary.

Mrs. Olivera said in a cold voice:

“M. Poirot is coming down to Exsham for the weekend.”

“Oh—I see.”