"I mean to say, if I have a lot of dooks and earls and viscounts and
suchlike down to the country place I've gotten, you'll be able to sort
them out all right and put them where they should be round the dining
table?"
"Oh! quite easily," I replied, smiling.
We exchanged a few more preliminaries, and then I found myself engaged.
What Mr. Ryland wanted was a secretary conversant with English society,
as he already had an American secretary and a stenographer with him.
Two days later I went down to Hatton Chase, the seat of the Duke of
Loamshire, which the American millionaire had rented for a period of
six months.
My duties gave me no difficulty whatever. At one period of my life I
had been private secretary to a busy member of Parliament, so I was
not called upon to assume a role unfamiliar to me. Mr. Ryland usually
entertained a large party over the week-end, but the middle of the week
was comparatively quiet. I saw very little of Mr. Appleby, the American
secretary, but he seemed a pleasant, normal young American, very
efficient in his work. Of Miss Martin, the stenographer, I saw rather
more. She was a pretty girl of about twenty-three or four, with auburn
hair and brown eyes that could look mischievous enough upon occasion,
though they were usually cast demurely down. I had an idea that she
both disliked and distrusted her employer, though, of course, she was
careful never to hint at anything of the kind, but the time came when I
was unexpectedly taken into her confidence.
I had, of course, carefully scrutinised all the members of the
household. One or two of the servants had been newly engaged, one of
the footmen, I think, and some of the housemaids. The butler, the
housekeeper, and the chef were the duke's own staff, who had consented
to remain on in the establishment. The housemaids I dismissed as
unimportant; I scrutinised James, the second footman, very carefully;
but it was clear that he was an under-footman and an under-footman
only. He had, indeed, been engaged by the butler. A person of whom
I was far more suspicious was Deaves, Ryland's valet, whom he had
brought over from New York with him. An Englishman by birth, with an
irreproachable manner, I yet harboured vague suspicions about him.
I had been at Hatton Chase three weeks, and not an incident of any kind
had arisen which I could lay my finger on in support of our theory.
There was no trace of the activities of the Big Four. Mr. Ryland was a
man of overpowering force and personality, but I was coming to believe
that Poirot had made a mistake when he associated him with that dread
organisation. I even heard him mention Poirot in a casual way at dinner
one night.
"Wonderful little man, they say. But he's a quitter. How do I know?
I put him on a deal, and he turned me down the last minute. I'm not
taking any more of your Monsieur Hercule Poirot."
It was at moments such as these that I felt my cheek pads most
wearisome!
And then Miss Martin told me a rather curious story. Ryland had gone
to London for the day, taking Appleby with him. Miss Martin and I were
strolling together in the garden after tea. I liked the girl very
much, she was so unaffected and so natural. I could see that there was
something on her mind, and at last out it came.
"Do you know, Major Neville," she said, "I am really thinking of
resigning my post here."