Sandy's Garden ... The Case of the Disappearing Pansies

A moment later Miss Lemon knocked and entered the room.

“There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr. Poirot,” she announced.” “Please show him in, Miss Lemon,” the Belgian responded, rising to his feet and extending his hand as an immaculately-dressed gentleman was ushered into his company. “Monsieur Poirot, I am Rupert Higginbotham. It’s so good of you to see me and to listen to my problem.” “No, no, not at all, Mr. Higginbotham, it is my pleasure. I am always pleased to help people with … how shall we say? ... their little difficulties. So, what is the nature of the problem?”

Rupert Higginbotham accepted Poirot’s invitation with alacrity, explaining how his large garden, in the leafy suburbs of a prosperous market town, was maintained by his city-bred wife and himself, aided by a jobbing gardener, Robbins, who had laid out a bed with winter-flowering pansies some two weeks before Mr. Higginbotham’s visit to Charterhouse Square, pansies which had all disappeared!

“Can you discover the cause, Monsieur Poirot? You will find I am a man of means who will not be ungrateful.” “Poirot,” interjected Captain Hastings, “Surely the most likely explanation…” but his sentence was interrupted by an admonitory index finger.” “Hastings,” said Poirot, “we are happy accept Mr. Higginbotham’s challenge; I do not doubt that we shall be able to furnish him with the correct answer to the mystery of the disappearing pansies. We shall call on you tomorrow, Mr. Higginbotham,” he added, accepting the proffered business card. “You may expect us at ten o’clock.”

The following morning, having consulted Bradshaw’s Railway Guide, Poirot and Hastings alighted from a cab at Mr. Higginbotham’s home at ten o’clock precisely to be greeted by Mr. Higginbotham and his petite wife. “Enchanté, madame,” smiled Poirot, accepting her hand. “And now, monsieur, if you will offer me a tour of your garden?”

The visitors were shown the leaf-sprinkled but plant-less bed where the pansies had been, Poirot pausing to don his pince-nez before stooping to afford a closer look at the indent of a small boot where the leaves had been pushed away to reveal the soil.

They admired the lawns, weed-free and in bowling green condition except for a sprinkling of very small dark-brown spheres near the former pansy bed. They praised the precisely clipped hedges which defined the borders of the grounds surrounding the house; and to the rear of the property they looked over a gate which gave access to what Mr. Higginbotham explained was a former bridle-way, now regarded as a private footpath for himself and his neighbours, few non-local residents being aware of its existence.

“We had gone to Scotland for a few days just after Robbins planted the bed,” the owner elucidated in response to Poirot’s enquiry, “and we returned to find the pansies gone. No, Robbins hasn’t been here during our absence; he knows nothing of this.” “Monsieur Higginbotham,” Poirot declared. “Your pansies have not been stolen by children; they have not been spirited away by malign sprites: no, your pansies were attacked by Oryctolagus cuniculi. I recommend you ask your nurseryman to recommend species which are resistant to this pest and have your gardener replant the bed with such.”

“Poirot,” said Hastings in the train on the way back to London. “I was going to suggest yesterday that the problem might be rabbits. But you have blamed Oryctolagus cuniculi, of which I know nothing.” “Ah, mon ami, they are indeed rabbits,” replied Poirot, tapping his pocket. “But the service charge for the apartment must be paid, n'est-ce pas?

Sandy Simpson, who didn’t need Poirot to tell him that rabbits enjoyed his pansies!