Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot 22)

“I can assure you this is an excellent brand—most reliable—we never have any complaints.”

Elinor said:

“I’ll have one of salmon and anchovy and one of salmon and shrimp. Thank you.”

II

Elinor Carlisle entered the grounds of Hunterbury by the back gate.

It was a hot, clear summer’s day. There were sweetpeas in flower. Elinor passed close by a row of them. The undergardener, Horlick, who was remaining on to keep the place in order, greeted her respectfully.

“Good morning, miss. I got your letter. You’ll find the side door open, miss. I’ve unfastened the shutters and opened most of the windows.”

Elinor said:

“Thank you, Horlick.”

As she moved on, the young man said nervously, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down in spasmodic fashion:

“Excuse me, miss—”

Elinor turned back. “Yes?”

“Is it true that the house is sold? I mean, is it really settled?”

“Oh, yes!”

Horlick said nervously:

“I was wondering, miss, if you would say a word for me—to Major Somervell, I mean. He’ll be wanting gardeners. Maybe he’ll think I’m too young for head gardener, but I’ve worked under Mr. Stephens for four years now, and I reckon I know a tidyish bit, and I’ve kept things going fairly well since I’ve been here, single-handed.”

Elinor said quickly:

“Of course I will do all I can for you, Horlick. As a matter of fact, I intended to mention you to Major Somervell and tell him what a good gardener you are.”

Horlick’s face grew dusky red.

“Thank you, miss. That’s very kind of you. You can understand it’s been a bit of a blow, like—Mrs. Welman dying, and then the place being sold off so quick—and I—well, the fact of the matter is I was going to get married this autumn, only one’s got to be sure….”

He stopped.

Elinor said kindly:

“I hope Major Somervell will take you on. You can rely on me to do all I can.”

Horlick said again:

“Thank you, miss. We all hoped, you see, as how the place would be kept on by the family. Thank you, miss.”

Elinor walked on.

Suddenly, rushing over her like the stream from a broken dam, a wave of anger, of wild resentment, swept over her.

“We all hoped the place would be kept on by the family….”

She and Roddy could have lived here! She and Roddy… Roddy would have wanted that. It was what she herself would have wanted. They had always loved Hunterbury, both of them. Dear Hunterbury… In the years before her parents had died, when they had been in India, she had come here for holidays. She had played in the woods, rambled by the stream, picked sweetpeas in great flowering armloads, eaten fat green gooseberries and dark red luscious raspberries. Later, there had been apples. There had been places, secret lairs, where she had curled up with a book and read for hours.

She had loved Hunterbury. Always, at the back of her mind, she had felt sure of living there permanently s