HERCULE POIROT walked along the main street of Long Basing.

That is, if you can describe as a main street a street that is to all intents and purposes the only street, which was the case in Long Basing. It was one of those villages that exhibit a tendency to length without breadth. It had an impressive church with a tall tower and a yew tree of elderly dignity in its churchyard. It had its full quota of village shops disclosing much variety. It had two antique shops, one mostly consisting of stripped pine chimney pieces, the other disclosing a full house of piled up ancient maps, a good deal of porcelain, most of it chipped, some worm-eaten old oak chests, shelves of glass, some Victorian silver, all somewhat hampered in display by lack of space. There were two cafes, both rather nasty, there was a basket shop, quite delightful, with a large variety of home-made wares, there was a post office-cum-greengrocer, there was a draper's which dealt largely in millinery and also a shoe department for children and a large miscellaneous selection of haberdashery of all kinds. There was a stationery and newspaper shop which also dealt in tobacco and sweets. There was a wool shop which was clearly the aristocrat of the place. Two white-haired severe women were in charge of shelves and shelves of knitting materials of every description. Also large quantities of dressmaking patterns and knitting patterns and which branched off into a counter for art needle-work. What had lately been the local grocers' had now blossomed into calling itself "a supermarket" complete with stacks of wire baskets and packaged materials of every cereal and cleaning material, all in dazzling paper boxes. And there was a small establishment with one small window with Lillah written across it in fancy letters, a fashion display of one French blouse, labelled "Latest chic", and a navy skirt and a purple striped jumper labelled "separates". These were displayed by being flung down as by a careless hand in the window.

All of this Poirot observed with detached interest. Also contained within the limits of the village and facing on the street were several small houses, old-fashioned in style, sometimes retaining Georgian purity, more often showing some signs of Victorian improvement, as a veranda, bow window, or a small conservatory. One or two houses had had a complete face lift and showed signs of claiming to be new and proud of it.

There were also some delightful and decrepit old-world cottages, some pretending to be a hundred or so years older than they were, others completely genuine, any added comforts of plumbing or such, being carefully hidden from any casual glance.

Poirot walked gently along digesting all that he saw. If his impatient friend, Mrs.

Oliver had been with him, she would have immediately demanded why he was wasting time, as the house to which he was bound was a quarter of a mile beyond the village limits. Poirot would have told her that he was absorbing the local atmosphere; that these things were sometimes important.

At the end of the village there came an abrupt transition. On one side, set back from the road, was a row of newly built council houses, a strip of green in front of them and a gay note set by each house having been given a different coloured front door. Beyond the council houses the sway of fields and hedges resumed its course interspersed now and then by the occasional "desirable residences" of a house agent's list, with their own trees and gardens and a general air of reserve and of keeping themselves to themselves.

Ahead of him farther down the road Poirot descried a house, the top story of which displayed an unusual note of bulbous construction. Something had evidently been tacked on up there not so many years ago. This no doubt was the Mecca towards which his feet were bent.

He arrived at a gate to which the nameplate Crosshedges was attached. He surveyed the house. It was a conventional house dating perhaps to the beginning of the century. It was neither beautiful nor ugly. Commonplace was perhaps the word to describe it. The garden was more attractive than the house and had obviously been the subject of a great deal of care and attention in its time, though it had been allowed to fall into disarray. It still had smooth green lawns, plenty of flower beds, carefully planted areas of shrubs to display a certain landscape effect. It was all in good order. A gardener was certainly employed in this garden, Poirot reflected.

A personal interest was perhaps also taken, since he noted in a corner near the house a woman bending over one of the flower beds, tying up dahlias, he thought. Her head showed as a bright circle of pure gold colour. She was tall, slim but squareshouldered.

He unlatched the gate, passed through and walked up towards the house.

The woman turned her head and then straightened herself, turning towards him enquiringly.

She remained standing, waiting for him to speak, some garden twine hanging from her left hand. She looked, he noted, puzzled.

"Yes?" she said.

Poirot, very foreign, took off his hat with a flourish and bowed. Her eyes rested on his moustaches with a kind of fascination.

"Mrs. Restarick?" "Yes. I - " "I hope that I do not derange you, Madame." A faint smile touched her lips. "Not at all. Are you - " I have permitted myself to pay a visit on you. A friend of mine, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver - " "Oh, of course. I know who you must be. Monsieur Poiret." "Monsieur Poirot," he corrected her with an emphasis on the last syllable.

"Hercule Poirot, at your service. I was passing through this neighbourhood and I ventured to call upon you here in the hope that I might be allowed to pay my respects to Sir Roderick Horsefield." "Yes. Naomi Lorrimer told us you might turnup." "I hope it is not inconvenient?" "Oh, it is not inconvenient at all.

Ariadne Oliver was here last weekend. She came over with the Lorrimers. Her books are most amusing, aren't they? But perhaps you don't find detective stories amusing.

You are a detective yourself, aren't you - a real one?" "I am all that there is of the most real," said Hercule Poirot.

He noticed that she repressed a smile.

He studied her more closely. She was handsome in a rather artificial fashion.

Her golden hair was stiffly arranged. He wondered whether she might not at heart be secretly unsure of herself, whether she were not carefully playing the part of the English lady absorbed in her garden. He wondered a little what her social background might have been.

"You have a very fine garden here," he said.

"You like gardens?" "Not as the English like gardens. You have for a garden a special talent in England. It means something to you that it does not to us." "To French people, you mean?" "I am not French. I am Belgian." "Oh yes. I believe that Mrs. Oliver mentioned that you were once with the Belgian Police Force?" "That is so. Me, I am an old Belgian police dog." He gave a polite little laugh and said, waving his hands, "But your gardens, you English, I admire. I sit at your feet! The Latin races, they like the formal garden, the gardens of the chateau of Versailles in miniature, and also of course they invented the potager. Very important, the potager. Here in England you have the potager, but you got it from France and you do not love your potager as much as you love your flowers. Hein?

That is so?" "Yes, I think you are right," said Mary Restarick. "Do come into the house. You came to see my uncle." "I came, as you say, to pay homage to Sir Roderick, but I pay homage to you also, Madame. Always I pay homage to beauty when I meet it." He bowed.

She laughed with slight embarrassment.

"You mustn't pay me so many compliments." She led the way through an open french window and he followed her.