Hercule Poirot strolled leisurely along the main road of Long Melford, which, for a village of its size, was essentially the only “main street.” It was a narrow, modest thoroughfare flanked by a scattering of shops and houses. A church with a spired tower stood solemnly at its center, its churchyard home to an ancient yew tree that whispered softly in the breeze.

The street’s shops were as varied as they were quaint: two antique stores—one specializing in weathered pine fireplace mantels, the other cluttered with old maps, chipped porcelain, and worm-eaten oak chests; two underwhelming cafés; a hat shop showcasing home-crafted designs in its window; a post office; a general store; and a shop selling knitting supplies. Together, they formed the simple commercial heart of the village.

Poirot moved with measured steps, observing every detail with care. He was not one to overlook the subtleties of his surroundings. Were Mrs. Oliver with him, she would undoubtedly grow impatient, questioning why he wasted time in such a manner. Poirot would likely respond with his characteristic calm: “Atmosphere, madame, is sometimes more revealing than facts.”

Reaching the edge of the village, the scenery shifted abruptly. Rows of newly built government housing came into view, their lawns neatly trimmed, with each door painted a different cheerful color, lending a sense of uniformity and charm. Beyond the housing estates lay open fields bordered by hedgerows and dotted with “desirable residences.” Poirot’s gaze lingered on one particular house, its roof crowned by an incongruous domed structure—a later addition, no doubt. This, he knew, was his destination.

As he entered the front garden, he spotted a woman working among the flowers. She was tall and slender, her golden hair shining like a halo in the afternoon sun. She was bent over a cluster of dahlias, tying them with deft, practiced movements. Hearing his approach, she straightened, her expression tinged with curiosity.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice tinged with polite wariness.

Poirot doffed his hat with a graceful flourish and offered a small bow. “Mrs. Restarick?”

“Yes, I’m Mary Restarick. And you are?”

“Hercule Poirot,” he replied with a polite smile. “Mrs. Ariadne Oliver mentioned you. She suggested I might pay a visit to Sir Roderick.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. “Yes, Naomi Lorimer did tell us you might be coming.” Her eyes briefly assessed him before she added, “Mrs. Oliver mentioned that you’re a detective. Is that true?”

“Authentic and entirely legitimate,” Poirot replied, his gaze subtly studying her.

Mary’s smile faltered slightly. Her immaculate hair and well-tailored attire suggested a woman trying to project the image of a composed English housewife—a role that seemed at odds with her true nature, as Poirot instinctively sensed.

“Your garden is magnificent,” he remarked.

“Do you like gardens?” she asked, a note of surprise in her voice.

“Not with the same passion as the English,” he admitted. “You have an innate talent for cultivating them, a most admirable art.”

She nodded and turned to lead him inside.

Through a set of French doors, they entered a meticulously decorated yet unremarkable sitting room. The walls bore two striking portraits: one of a thin-lipped woman in a gray evening gown, the other of a man exuding boundless energy. The room itself lacked personality, every detail meticulously curated but devoid of genuine warmth.

“Your daughter must find life in the countryside rather dull,” Poirot observed softly.

Mary hesitated before answering. “Yes, she prefers being in London. But she’s my stepdaughter,” she added after a pause. “She doesn’t like me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Poirot replied graciously.

“She has never accepted me,” Mary admitted with a hint of resignation. “I suppose that’s common with stepmothers. Norma surrounds herself with the worst sort of people, especially that young man, David Baker. Honestly, I can’t stand him.”

As she spoke, footsteps sounded on the staircase. A young man appeared at the landing, dressed in a black coat and velvet waistcoat. His long, chestnut curls framed a face of studied insouciance.

“David!” Mary exclaimed sharply. “What are you doing here?”

“Norma wasn’t at Borodene Mansions, so I assumed she might be here,” David replied casually, his demeanor unruffled.

“She isn’t here,” Mary snapped, her expression darkening. “How dare you barge in uninvited?”

“Barging in? Oh, come now, darling, that’s hardly the case,” David said with a shrug, waving dismissively as he sauntered out the door.

Mary clenched her jaw in anger. “He’s insufferable,” she muttered. “The way they dress, their mannerisms, those ridiculous long hairstyles! These people are everywhere nowadays.”

“Madame,” Poirot interjected gently, “young people and their fashions are fleeting. They are but a passing breeze.”

Mary sighed, her tone softening but laced with frustration. “Norma is difficult to understand. Sometimes I wonder if she’s lost in her own confusion and pain.”

Poirot regarded her thoughtfully. “Perhaps what is needed is a greater foundation of trust between you and her.”

Mary didn’t respond. Instead, she rapped her knuckles on an upstairs door. “Uncle, you have a visitor,” she called.