Hercule Poirot lingered briefly by the staircase, tilting his head slightly to listen. From the garden below, he could hear Mary Restarick moving about, her sounds of busyness carrying faintly through the house. Satisfied that everything remained undisturbed, he carefully made his way down the corridor.

One by one, he opened the doors along the way. The first led to a bathroom, the next to a linen closet filled with neatly folded fabrics. Further along, he found a vacant double bedroom, a lived-in single room, and a tastefully decorated double bedroom—likely belonging to Mary Restarick. Moving to the adjoining door, he entered a simpler room, its modest furnishings suggesting it belonged to Andrew Restarick.

Crossing to the opposite end of the hallway, Poirot opened another single room. This one appeared to be rarely used, perhaps reserved for occasional weekend visitors. His gaze swept over a hairbrush casually left on the dressing table. Stepping inside, he opened the wardrobe to find a small selection of country attire, neatly hung.

A desk drawer caught his attention next. He opened it slowly to reveal a collection of trivial items and a few old, insignificant letters. Finding nothing of interest, Poirot closed the drawer, straightened, and exited the room. Back downstairs, he politely declined Mary Restarick’s invitation to stay for tea.

“I promised a friend I would return promptly and must catch the next train,” Poirot explained.

“Would you like me to call a taxi? Or perhaps I could drive you to the station?” Mary offered.

“There’s no need, madame. Your kindness is appreciated, but I’ll manage,” Poirot replied.

After bidding her farewell, he walked along the village’s quiet lanes until he reached a small bridge near the church. Crossing it, he spotted a large black car parked under a beech tree, the driver standing attentively nearby. Poirot climbed in, removing his patent leather shoes with a relieved sigh.

“Back to London,” he said softly.

The driver started the engine, and the car rolled smoothly onto the main road. As they passed a young man thumbing for a ride, Poirot’s gaze lingered on him. The youth’s flamboyant attire and unconventional hairstyle made him hard to miss. Poirot suddenly sat upright.

“Stop,” he instructed. “Reverse. He needs a lift.”

The driver hesitated momentarily but complied.

David Baker approached the car, his face lighting up with surprise and gratitude. “I didn’t think anyone would stop—thanks a lot!”

Sliding into the back seat, David casually dropped his bag to the floor and ran a hand through his chestnut curls. “You must’ve recognized me,” he said with a grin.

Poirot returned the smile. “Perhaps your style is a bit too striking to go unnoticed.”

“Fashion always comes at a price,” David said with a shrug. “But this is standard fare for people like me.”

Poirot nodded, his tone light. “It’s reminiscent of a Van Dyck portrait. Add a cavalier hat and lace collar, and you’d complete the look.”

David burst out laughing. “You’re funny, though I doubt Mrs. Restarick would agree with you.”

“In fact, she doesn’t think very highly of you,” Poirot replied candidly. “But I gather you care quite a lot for her daughter.”

David’s laughter faltered slightly but quickly returned. “You could say that. But it’s not one-sided—Norma’s just as into me as I am into her.”

Poirot fixed him with a steady gaze. “Where is she now?”

David’s expression turned wary. “Why are you asking?”

“I’d like to see her,” Poirot replied evenly.

“She’s in London,” David said after a pause. “Works at an interior design firm—Susan Phelps, I think. But I don’t have her address.”

“You haven’t had a fight?” Poirot asked suddenly.

“No. We don’t fight,” David answered curtly, his tone defensive.

“But you seem worried about her.”

“Why would I be worried?” David scoffed. “She just likes to disappear sometimes. That’s all.”

Poirot’s sharp gaze didn’t waver. “Why did you sneak into the Restarick house today? What were you looking for upstairs?”

David shifted uncomfortably. “I was just having a look around. Do I need to explain myself to you?”

Poirot’s voice remained calm. “Do you suspect something has happened to Norma?”

David didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to stare out the window, his face a mixture of frustration and unease.

“Mr. Baker,” Poirot said gently, breaking the silence, “I need to find Norma.”

“Are you working for Andrew?” David asked with a bitter laugh. “Have they finally realized something’s wrong?”

“Not yet,” Poirot replied softly. “But if you know anything, now would be the time to tell me.”

David sat in silence for a moment before speaking, his voice subdued. “I don’t know where she is. But I hope she’s all right.”

Shortly after, David asked to be let out. As he opened the door, Poirot posed one final question. “If you remember anything, please contact me immediately.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” David said, shutting the door behind him and walking away.

Leaning back in his seat, Poirot closed his eyes. David’s words were casual, but his underlying anxiety was unmistakable. Poirot knew the mystery was only beginning to unfold.