“I should like to go for a picnic.”
Colonel Weston stared at him.
Twelve
“A picnic, M. Poirot?”
Emily Brewster stared at him as though he were out of his senses.
Poirot said engagingly:
“It sounds to you, does it not, very outrageous? But indeed it seems to me a most admirable idea. We need something of the every day, the usual, to restore life to the normal. I am most anxious to see something of Dartmoor, the weather is good. It will—how shall I say, it will cheer everybody up! So aid me in this matter. Persuade everyone.”
The idea met with unexpected success. Everyone was at first dubious and then grudgingly admitted it might not be such a bad idea after all.
It was not suggested that Captain Marshall should be asked. He had himself announced that he had to go to Plymouth that day. Mr. Blatt was of the party, enthusiastically so. He was determined to be the life and soul of it. Besides him there was Emily Brewster, the Redferns, Stephen Lane, the Gardeners, who were persuaded to delay their departure by one day, Rosamund Darnley and Linda.
Poirot had been eloquent to Rosamund and had dwelt on the advantage it would be to Linda to have something to take her out of herself. To this Rosamund agreed. She said:
“You’re quite right. The shock has been very bad for a child of that age. It has made her terribly jumpy.”
“That is only natural, Mademoiselle. But at any age one soon forgets. Persuade her to come. You can, I know.”
Major Barry had refused firmly. He said he didn’t like picnics. “Lots of baskets to carry,” he said. “And darned uncomfortable. Eating my food at a table’s good enough for me.”
The party assembled at ten o’clock. Three cars had been ordered. Mr. Blatt was loud and cheerful, imitating a tourist guide.
“This way, ladies and gentlemen—this way for Dartmoor. Heather and bilberries, Devonshire cream and convicts. Bring your wives, gentlemen, or bring the other thing! Everyone welcome! Scenery guaranteed. Walk up. Walk up.”
At the last minute Rosamund Darnley came down looking concerned. She said:
“Linda’s not coming. She says she’s got a frightful headache.”
Poirot cried:
“But it will do her good to come. Persuade her, Mademoiselle.”
Rosamund said firmly:
“It’s no good. She’s absolutely determined. I’ve given her some aspirin and she’s gone to bed.”
She hesitated and said:
“I think, perhaps, I won’t go, either.
“Can’t allow that, dear lady, can’t allow that,” cried Mr. Blatt, seizing her facetiously by the arm. “La haute Mode must grace the occasion. No refusals! I’ve taken you into custody, ha, ha. Sentenced to Dartmoor.”
He led her firmly to the first car. Rosamund threw a black look at Hercule Poirot.
“I’ll stay with Linda,” said Christine Redfern. “I don’t mind a bit.”
Patrick said: “Oh, come on, Christine.”
And Poirot said:
“No, no, you must come, Madame. With a headache one is better alone. Come, let us start.”
The three cars drove off. They went first to the real Pixy’s Cave on Sheepstor, and had a good deal of fun looking for the entrance and at last finding it, aided by a picture postcard.