Six
Satisfied with what he had achieved, Poirot took leave of his friend.
The information he wanted would be forthcoming—he had no doubt as to that. He had gotSpence interested. And Spence, once set upon a trail, was not one to relinquish¹ it. His reputation asa retired² high- ranking officer of the C.I.D. would have won him friends in the local policedepartments concerned.
And next—Poirot consulted his watch—he was to meet Mrs. Oliver in exactly ten minutes’ timeoutside a house called Apple Trees. Really, the name seemed uncannily appropriate.
Really, thought Poirot, one didn’t seem able to get away from apples. Nothing could be moreagreeable than a juicy English apple—And yet here were apples mixed up with broomsticks, andwitches, and old-fashioned folklore³, and a murdered child.
Following the route indicated to him, Poirot arrived to the minute outside a red brick Georgianstyle house with a neat beech⁴ hedge enclosing it, and a pleasant garden showing beyond.
He put his hand out, raised the latch⁵ and entered through the wrought⁶ iron gate which bore apainted board labelled “Apple Trees.” A path led up to the front door. Looking rather like one ofthose Swiss clocks where figures come out automatically of a door above the clock face, the frontdoor opened and Mrs. Oliver emerged on the steps.
“You’re absolutely punctual,” she said breathlessly. “I was watching for you from the window.”
Poirot turned and closed the gate carefully behind him. Practically on every occasion that he hadmet Mrs. Oliver, whether by appointment or by accident, a motif⁷ of apples seemed to beintroduced almost immediately. She was either eating an apple or had been eating an apple—witness an apple core nestling on her broad chest—or was carrying a bag of apples. But todaythere was no apple in evidence at all. Very correct, Poirot thought approvingly. It would have beenin very bad taste to be

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