Hickory Dickory Dock

‘I do not think so. I read up the subject,’ said the conscientious Miss Lemon, ‘in the Encyclopaedia Britannica and in a medical work. But I was not convinced.’

Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute and a half.

Did he wish to embroil himself in the troubles of Miss Lemon’s sister and the passions and grievances of a polyglot hostel? But it was very annoying and inconvenient to have Miss Lemon making mistakes in typing his letters. He told himself that if he were to embroil himself in the matter, that would be the reason. He did not admit to himself that he had been rather bored of late and that the very triviality of the business attracted him.

‘“The parsley sinking into the butter on a hot day,”’ he murmured to himself.

‘Parsley? Butter?’ Miss Lemon looked startled.

‘A quotation from one of your classics,’ he said. ‘You are acquainted, no doubt, with the Adventures, to say nothing of the Exploits, of Sherlock Holmes.’

‘You mean these Baker Street societies and all that,’ said Miss Lemon. ‘Grown men being so silly! But there, that’s men all over. Like the model railways they go on playing with. I can’t say I’ve ever had time to read any of the stories. When I do get time for reading, which isn’t very often, I prefer an improving book.’

Hercule Poirot bowed his head gracefully.

‘How would it be, Miss Lemon, if you were to invite your sister here for some suitable refreshment—afternoon tea, perhaps? I might be able to be of some slight assistance to her.’

‘That’s very kind of you, M. Poirot. Really very kind indeed. My sister is always free in the afternoons.’

‘Then shall we say tomorrow, if you can arrange it?’

And in due course, the faithful George was instructed to provide a meal of square crumpets richly buttered, symmetrical sandwiches, and other suitable components of a lavish English afternoon tea.

CHAPTER 2 (#u049153c2-9d25-5af5-96cf-92a90a6e46b3)

Miss Lemon’s sister, whose name was Mrs Hubbard, had a definite resemblance to her sister. She was a good deal yellower of skin, she was plumper, her hair was more frivolously done, and she was less brisk in manner, but the eyes that looked out of a round and amiable countenance were the same shrewd eyes that gleamed through Miss Lemon’s pince-nez.

‘This is very kind of you, I’m sure, M. Poirot,’ she said. ‘Very kind. And such a delicious tea, too. I’m sure I’ve eaten far more than I should—well, perhaps just one more sandwich—tea? Well, just half a cup.’

‘First,’ said Poirot, ‘we make the repast—afterwards we get down to business.’

He smiled at her amiably and twirled his moustache, and Mrs Hubbard said:

‘You know, you’re exactly like I pictured you from Felicity’s description.’

After a moment’s startled realisation that Felicity was the severe Miss Lemon’s Christian name, Poirot replied that he should have expected no less given Miss Lemon’s efficiency.

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Hubbard absently, taking a second sandwich, ‘Felicity has never cared for people. I do. That’s why I’m so worried.’

‘Can you explain to me exactly what does worry you?’

‘Yes, I can. It would be natural enough for money to be taken—small sums here and there. And if it were jewellery that’s quite straightforward too—at least, I don’t mean straightforward, quite the opposite—but it would fit in—with kleptomania or dishonesty. But I’ll just read you a list of the things that have been taken, that I’ve put down on paper.’

Mrs Hubbard opened her bag and took out a small notebook.

Evening shoe (one of a new pair)

Bracelet (costume jewellery)

Diamond ring (found in plate of soup)

Powder compact

Lipstick

Stethoscope

Ear-rings

Cigarette lighter

Old flannel trousers

Electric light bulbs

Box of chocolates

Silk scarf (found cut to pieces)

Rucksack (ditto)

Boracic powder

Bath salts

Cookery book

Hercule Poirot drew in a long deep breath.

‘Remarkable,’ he said, ‘and quite—quite fascinating.’

He was entranced. He looked from the severe disapproving face of Miss Lemon to the kindly, distressed face of Mrs Hubbard.

‘I congratulate you,’ he said warmly to the latter.

She looked startled.

‘But why, M. Poirot?’

‘I congratulate you on having such a unique and beautiful problem.’

‘Well, perhaps it makes sense to you, M. Poirot, but—’

‘It does not make sense at all. It reminds me of nothing so much as a round game I was recently persuaded to play by some young friends during the Christmas season. It was called, I understand, the Three Horned Lady. Each person in turn uttered the following phrase, “I went to Paris and bought—” adding some article. The next person repeated that and added a further article and the object of the game was to memorise in their proper order the articles thus enumerated, some of them, I may say, of a most monstrous and ridiculous nature. A piece of soap, a white elephant, a gate-legged table and a Muscovy duck were, I remember, some of the items. The difficulty of the memorisation lay, of course, in the totally unrelated nature of the objects—the lack of sequence, so to speak. As in the list you have just shown me. By the time that, say, twelve objects had been mentioned, to enumerate them in their proper order became almost impossible. A failure to do so resulted in a paper horn being handed to the competitor and he or she had to continue the recitation next time in the terms, “I, a one horned lady, went to Paris,” etc. After three horns had been acquired, retirement was compulsory, the last left in was the winner.’

‘I’m sure you were the winner, M. Poirot,’ said Miss Lemon, with the faith of a loyal employee.

Poirot beamed.