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Barton had a love affair." "Yes, we soon found that out. It had been discreet—but it didn’t take much finding." "Stephen Farraday?" "Yes. They used to meet in a little flat out Earl’s Court way. It had been going on for over six months. Say they’d had a quarrel—or possibly he was getting tired of her—well, she wouldn’t be the first woman to take her life in a fit of desperation." "By potassium cyanide in a public restaurant?" "Yes—if she wanted to be dramatic about it—with him looking on and all. Some people have a feeling for the spectacular. From what I could find out she hadn’t much feeling for the conventions—all the precautions were on his side." "Any evidence as to whether his wife knew what was going on?" "As far as we could learn she knew nothing about it." "She may have, for all that, Kemp. Not the kind of woman to wear her heart on her sleeve." "Oh, quite so. Count them both in as possibles. She for jealousy. He for his career. Divorce would have dished that. Not that divorce means as much as it used to, but in his case it would have meant the antagonism of the Kidderminster clan." "What about the secretary girl?" "She’s a possible. Might have been sweet on George Barton. They were pretty thick at the office and there’s an idea there that she was keen on him. Actually yesterday afternoon one of the telephone girls was giving an imitation of Barton holding Ruth Lessing’s hand and saying he couldn’t do without her, and Miss Lessing came out and caught them and sacked the girl there and then—gave her a month’s money and told her to go. Looks as though she was sensitive about it all. Then the sister came into a peck of money—one’s got to remember that. Looked a nice kid, but you can never tell. And there was Mrs. Barton’s other boyfriend." "I’m rather anxious to hear what you know about him?" Kemp said slowly: "Remarkably little—but what there is isn’t too good. His passport’s in order. He’s an American citizen about whom we can’t find anything, detrimental or otherwise. He came over here, stayed at Claridge’s and managed to strike up an acquaintance with Lord Dewsbury." "Confidence man?" "Might be. Dewsbury seems to have fallen for him—asked him to stay. Rather a critical time just then." "Armaments," said Race. "There was that trouble about the new tank trials in Dewsbury’s works." "Yes. This fellow Browne represented himself as interested in armaments. It was soon after he’d been up there that they discovered that sabotage business—just in the nick of time. Browne met a good many cronies of Dewsbury—he seemed to have cultivated all the ones who were connected with the armament firms. As a result he’s been shown a lot of stuff that in my opinion he ought never to have seen—and in one or two cases there’s been serious trouble in the works not long after he’s been in the neighbourhood." "An interesting person, Mr. Anthony Browne?" "Yes. He’s got a lot of charm, apparently, and plays it for all he’s worth." "And where did Mrs. Barton come in? George Barton hasn’t anything to do with the armament world?" "No. But they seem to have been fairly intimate. He may have let out something to her. You know, colonel, none better, what a pretty woman can get out of a man." Race nodded, taking the chief inspector’s words, as meant, to refer to the Counterespionage Department which he had once controlled and not—as some ignorant person might have thought—to some personal indiscretions of his own. He said after a minute or two: "Have you had a go at those letters that George Barton received?" "Yes. Found them in his desk at his house last night. Miss Marle found them for me." "You know I’m interested in those letters, Kemp. What’s the expert opinion on them?" "Cheap paper, ordinary ink—fingerprints show George Barton and Iris Marle handled them—and a horde of unidentified dabs on the envelope, postal employees, etc. They were printed and the experts say by someone of good education in normal health." "Good education. Not a servant?" "Presumably not." "That makes it more interesting still." "It means that somebody else had suspicions, at least."

"Sounds interesting," said Father. "She was staying in this hotel," said Miss Marple, "with a Mrs. Carpenter, I think. I looked in the register to see the name. The girl’s name is Elvira Blake." Father looked up with a quick air of interest. "She was a lovely girl. Very young, very much, as I say, sheltered and protected. Her guardian was a Colonel Luscombe, a very nice man. Quite charming. Elderly of course, and I am afraid terribly innocent." "The guardian or the girl?" "I meant the guardian," said Miss Marple. "I don’t know about the girl. But I do think she is in danger. I came across her quite by chance in Battersea Park. She was sitting at a refreshment place there with a young man." "Oh, that’s it, is it?" said Father. "Undesirable, I suppose. Beatnik—spiv—thug—" "A very handsome man," said Miss Marple. "Not so very young. Thirty-odd, the kind of man that I should say is very attractive to women, but his face is a bad face. Cruel, hawklike, predatory." "He mayn’t be as bad as he looks," said Father soothingly. "If anything he is worse than he looks," said Miss Marple. "I am convinced of it. He drives a large racing car." Father looked up quickly. "Racing car?" "Yes. Once or twice I’ve seen it standing near this hotel." "You don’t remember the number, do you?" "Yes, indeed I do. FAN 2266. I had a cousin who stuttered," Miss Marple explained. "That’s how I remember it." Father looked puzzled. "Do you know who he is?" demanded Miss Marple. "As a matter of fact I do," said Father slowly. "Half French, half Polish. Very well-known racing driver, he was world champion three years ago. His name is Ladislaus Malinowski. You’re quite right in some of your views about him. He has a bad reputation where women are concerned. That is to say, he is not a suitable friend for a young girl. But it’s not easy to do anything about that sort of thing. I suppose she is meeting him on the sly, is that it?" "Almost certainly," said Miss Marple. "Did you approach her guardian?" "I don’t know him," said Miss Marple. "I’ve only just been introduced to him once by a mutual friend. I don’t like the idea of going to him in a tale- bearing way. I wondered if perhaps in some way you could do something about it." "I can try," said Father. "By the way, I thought you might like to know that your friend, Canon Pennyfather, has turned up all right." "Indeed!" Miss Marple looked animated. "Where?" "A place called Milton St. John." "How very odd. What was he doing there? Did he know?" "Apparently—" Chief-Inspector Davy stressed the word—"he had had an accident." "What kind of an accident?" "Knocked down by a car—concussed—or else, of course, he might have been conked on the head." "Oh! I see." Miss Marple considered the point. "Doesn’t he know himself?" "He says—" again the Chief-Inspector stressed the word—"that he does not know anything." "Very remarkable." "Isn’t it? The last thing he remembers is driving in a taxi to Kensington Air Station." Miss Marple shook her head perplexedly. "I know it does happen that way in concussion," she murmured. "Didn’t he say anything—useful?" "He murmured something about the Walls of Jericho." "Joshua?" hazarded Miss Marple, "or Archaeology—excavations?—or I remember, long ago, a play—by Mr. Sutro, I think." "And all this week north of the Thames, Gaumont Cinemas—The Walls of Jericho, featuring Olga Radbourne and Bart Levinne," said Father. Miss Marple looked at him suspiciously. "He could have gone to that film in the Cromwell Road. He could have come out about eleven and come back here—though if so, someone ought to have seen him—it would be well before midnight—" "Took the wrong bus," Miss Marple suggested.

"Did your father tell you?" She shook her head. "Abdul described you. I—guessed." Pam exclaimed: "You went to see Father?" Poirot said: "Ah—yes. We have—some mutual friends." Pam said sharply: "I don’t believe it." "What do you not believe? That your father and I could have a mutual friend?" The girl flushed. "Don’t be stupid. I meant—that wasn’t really your reason—" She turned on her sister. "Why don’t you say something, Sheila?" Sheila started. She said: "It wasn’t—it wasn’t anything to do with Tony Hawker?" "Why should it be?" asked Poirot. Sheila flushed and went back across the room to the others. Pam said with sudden vehemence but in a lowered voice: "I don’t like Tony Hawker. There—there’s something sinister about him—and about her—Mrs. Larkin, I mean. Look at them now." Poirot followed her glance. Hawker’s head was close to that of his hostess. He appeared to be soothing her. Her voice rose for a minute. "—but I can’t wait. I want it now!" Poirot said with a little smile: "Les femmes—whatever it is—they always want it now, do they not?" But Pam Grant did not respond. Her face was cast down. She was nervously pleating and repleating her tweed skirt. Poirot murmured conversationally: "You are quite a different type from your sister, Mademoiselle." She flung her head up, impatient of banalities. She said: "M. Poirot. What’s the stuff Tony’s been giving Sheila? What is it that’s been making her—different?" He looked straight at her. He asked: "Have you ever taken cocaine, Miss Grant?" She shook her head. "Oh no! So that’s it? Cocaine? But isn’t that very dangerous?" Sheila Grant had come over to them, a fresh drink in her hand. She said: "What’s dangerous?" Poirot said: "We are talking of the effects of drug taking. Of the slow death of the mind and spirit—the destroying of all that is true and good in a human being." Sheila Grant caught her breath. The drink in her hand swayed and spilled on the floor. Poirot went on: "Dr. Stoddart has, I think, made clear to you just what that death in life entails. It is so easily done—so hard to undo. The person who deliberately profits from the degradation and misery of other people is a vampire preying on flesh and blood." He turned away. Behind him he heard Pam Grant’s voice say: "Sheila!" and caught a whisper—a faint whisper—from Sheila Grant. It was so low he hardly heard it. "The flask . . ." Hercule Poirot said goodbye to Mrs. Larkin and went out into the hall. On the hall table was a hunting flask lying with a crop and a hat. Poirot picked it up. There were initials on it: A.H. Poirot murmured to himself: "Tony’s flask is empty?" He shook it gently. There was no sound of liquor. He unscrewed the top. Tony Hawker’s flask was not empty. It was full—of white powder. . . . VI Hercule Poirot stood on the terrace of Lady Carmichael’s house and pleaded with a girl. He said: "You are very young, Mademoiselle. It is my belief that you have not known, not really known, what it is you and your sisters have been doing. You have been feeding, like the mares of Diomedes, on human flesh." Sheila shuddered and gave a sob. She said: "It sounds horrible, put like that. And yet it’s true! I never realized it until that evening in London when Dr. Stoddart talked to me. He was so grave—so sincere. I saw then what an awful thing it was I had been doing . . . Before that I thought it was—Oh! rather like drink after hours—something people would pay to get, but not something that really mattered very much!" Poirot said: "And now?" Sheila Grant said: "I’ll do anything you say. I—I’ll talk to the others," she added . . . "I don’t suppose Dr. Stoddart will ever speak to me again. . . ."

"I don’t think Lady Stubbs is likely to be in a haystack, Sir George." "If only I could do something," repeated the unhappy husband. "I think, you know, I’ll put an advertisement in the papers. Take it down, Amanda, will you?" He paused a moment in thought. "Hattie. Please come home. Desperate about you. George. All the papers, Amanda." Miss Brewis said acidly: "Lady Stubbs doesn’t often read the papers, Sir George. She’s no interest at all in current affairs or what’s going on in the world." She added, rather cattily, but Sir George was not in the mood to appreciate cattiness, "Of course you could put an advertisement in Vogue. That might catch her eye." Sir George said simply: "Anywhere you think but get on with it." He got up and walked towards the door. With his hand on the handle he paused and came back a few steps. He spoke directly to Poirot. "Look here, Poirot," he said, "you don’t think she’s dead, do you?" Poirot fixed his eyes on his coffee cup as he replied: "I should say it is far too soon, Sir George, to assume anything of that kind. There is no reason as yet to entertain such an idea." "So you do think so," said Sir George, heavily. "Well," he added defiantly, "I don’t! I say she’s quite all right." He nodded his head several times with increasing defiance, and went out banging the door behind him. Poirot buttered a piece of toast thoughtfully. In cases where there was any suspicion of a wife being murdered, he always automatically suspected the husband. (Similarly, with a husband’s demise, he suspected the wife.) But in this case he did not suspect Sir George of having done away with Lady Stubbs. From his brief observation of them he was quite convinced that Sir George was devoted to his wife. Moreover, as far as his excellent memory served him (and it served him pretty well), Sir George had been present on the lawn the entire afternoon until he himself had left with Mrs. Oliver to discover the body. He had been there on the lawn when they had returned with the news. No, it was not Sir George who was responsible for Hattie’s death. That is, if Hattie were dead. After all, Poirot told himself, there was no reason to believe so as yet. What he had just said to Sir George was true enough. But in his own mind the conviction was unalterable. The pattern, he thought, was the pattern of murder—a double murder. Miss Brewis interrupted his thoughts by speaking with almost tearful venom. "Men are such fools," she said, "such absolute fools! They’re quite shrewd in most ways, and then they go marrying entirely the wrong sort of woman." Poirot was always willing to let people talk. The more people who talked to him, and the more they said, the better. There was nearly always a grain of wheat among the chaff. "You think it has been an unfortunate marriage?" he demanded. "Disastrous—quite disastrous." "You mean—that they were not happy together?" "She’d a thoroughly bad influence over him in every way." "Now I find that very interesting. What kind of a bad influence?" "Making him run to and fro at her beck and call, getting expensive presents out of him—far more jewels than one woman could wear. And furs. She’s got two mink coats and a Russian ermine. What could any woman want with two mink coats, I’d like to know?" Poirot shook his head. "That I would not know," he said. "Sly," continued Miss Brewis. "Deceitful! Always playing the simpleton—especially when people were here. I suppose because she thought he liked her that way!" "And did he like her that way?" "Oh, men!" said Miss Brewis, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. "They don’t appreciate efficiency or unselfishness, or loyalty or any one of those qualities! Now with a clever, capable wife Sir George would have got somewhere." "Got where?" asked Poirot. "Well, he could take a prominent part in local affairs. Or stand for Parliament. He’s a much more able man than poor Mr. Masterton. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard Mr.

There was Whistler, he got his—and deserved it. There were those chaps who shot old Guterman. There was Verall and his arsenic. Tranter got off—but he did it all right. Mrs Courtland—she was lucky—her husband was a nasty perverted bit of work, and the jury acquitted her accordingly. Not justice—just sentiment. You’ve got to allow for that happening now and again. Sometimes there isn’t enough evidence—sometimes there’s sentiment, sometimes a murderer manages to put it across the jury—that last doesn’t happen often, but it can happen. Sometimes it’s a clever bit of work by defending counsel—or a prosecuting counsel takes the wrong tack. Oh yes, I’ve seen a lot of things like that. But—but—" Spence wagged a heavy forefinger. "I haven’t seen—not in my experience—an innocent man hanged for something he didn’t do. It’s a thing, M. Poirot, that I don’t want to see. "Not," added Spence, "in this country!" Poirot gazed back at him. "And you think you are going to see it now. But why—" Spence interrupted him. "I know some of the things you’re going to say. I’ll answer them without you having to ask them. I was put on this case. I was put on to get evidence of what happened. I went into the whole business very carefully. I got the facts, all the facts I could. All those facts pointed one way—pointed to one person. When I’d got all the facts I took them to my superior officer. After that it was out of my hands. The case went to the Public Prosecutor and it was up to him. He decided to prosecute—he couldn’t have done anything else—not on the evidence. And so James Bentley was arrested and committed for trial, and was duly tried and has been found guilty. They couldn’t have found him anything else, not on the evidence. And evidence is what a jury have to consider. Didn’t have any qualms about it either, I should say. No, I should say they were all quite satisfied he was guilty." "But you—are not?" "No." "Why?" Superintendent Spence sighed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his big hand. "I don’t know. What I mean is, I can’t give a reason—a concrete reason. To the jury I dare say he looked like a murderer—to me he didn’t—and I know a lot more about murderers than they do." "Yes, yes, you are an expert." "For one thing, you know, he wasn’t cocky. Not cocky at all. And in my experience they usually are. Always so damned pleased with themselves. Always think they’re stringing you along. Always sure they’ve been so clever about the whole thing. And even when they’re in the dock and must know they’re for it, they’re still in a queer sort of way getting a kick out of it all. They’re in the limelight. They’re the central figure. Playing the star part—perhaps for the first time in their lives. They’re—well—you know—cocky!" Spence brought out the word with an air of finality. "You’ll understand what I mean by that, M. Poirot." "I understand very well. And this James Bentley—he was not like that?" "No. He was—well, just scared stiff. Scared stiff from the start. And to some people that would square in with his being guilty. But not to me." "No, I agree with you. What is he like, this James Bentley?" "Thirty-three, medium height, sallow complexion, wears glasses—" Poirot arrested the flow. "No, I do not mean his physical characteristics. What sort of a personality?" "Oh—that." Superintendent Spence considered. "Unprepossessing sort of fellow. Nervous manner. Can’t look you straight in the face. Has a sly sideways way of peering at you. Worst possible sort of manner for a jury. Sometimes cringing and sometimes truculent. Blusters in an inefficient kind of way." He paused and added in a conversational tone: "Really a shy kind of chap. Had a cousin rather like that. If anything’s awkward they go and tell some silly lie that hasn’t a chance of being believed." "He does not sound attractive, your James Bentley." "Oh, he isn’t. Nobody could like him.

"My friends, if I were hiding from the police, do you know where I should hide? In a prison!" "What?" "You are seeking Monsieur Davenheim in order to put him in prison, so you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already there!" "What do you mean?" "You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman. Nevertheless I think if you took her up to Bow Street and confronted her with the man Billy Kellett she would recognize him! In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may be deceived." "Billy Kellett? But he’s known to the police!" "Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Aires last autumn—he was creating the character of Billy Kellett, "doing three months," so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a large fortune, as well as liberty. It was worth while doing the thing thoroughly. Only—" "Yes?" "Eh bien, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had to make up as himself again, and to sleep with a false beard is not easy—it invites detection! He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of madame his wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since his supposed return from Buenos Aires, he and Mrs. Davenheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was sure! Everything fitted in. The gardener who fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house was quite right. He went to the boathouse, donned his "tramp" clothes, which you may be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pawning the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of Bow Street, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him!" "It’s impossible," murmured Japp. "Ask Madame," said my friend, smiling. The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot’s plate. He opened it and a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend’s brow puckered. "Ah, sacré! But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse! Ce pauvre Japp? Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we three! That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child—mille tonnerres! Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?" Five THE PLYMOUTH EXPRESS "The Plymouth Express" was first published as "The Mystery of the Plymouth Express" in The Sketch, April 4, 1923. I Alec Simpson, RN, stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but the young sailor stopped him. "No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are." "Thank you, sir." The porter, generously tipped, withdrew. Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: "Plymouth only. Change for Torquay. Plymouth next stop." Then a whistle blew, and the train drew slowly out of the station. Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and frowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it! He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking. At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavoured to shove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out halfway into the carriage. "Why the devil won’t it go in?"

Take me back into the past, Mademoiselle, that I may find there the link that explains the whole thing." "What can there be to tell you? They are all dead." She repeated mournfully. "All dead—all dead—Robert, Sonia—darling, darling Daisy. She was so sweet—so happy—she had such lovely curls. We were all just crazy about her." "There was another victim, Madame. An indirect victim, you might say." "Poor Susanne? Yes, I had forgotten about her. The police questioned her. They were convinced she had something to do with it. Perhaps she had—but if so, only innocently. She had, I believe, chatted idly with someone, giving information as to the time of Daisy’s outings. The poor thing got terribly wrought up—she thought she was being held responsible." She shuddered. "She threw herself out of the window. Oh it was horrible." She buried her face in her hands. "What nationality was she, Madame?" "She was French." "What was her last name?" "It’s absurd, but I can’t remember—we all called her Susanne. A pretty laughing girl. She was devoted to Daisy." "She was the nurserymaid, was she not?" "Yes." "Who was the nurse?" "She was a trained hospital nurse. Stengelberg her name was. She, too, was devoted to Daisy—and to my sister." "Now, Madame, I want you to think carefully before you answer this question. Have you, since you were on this train, seen anyone that you recognized?" She stared at him. "I? No, no one at all." "What about Princess Dragomiroff?" "Oh, her? I know her, of course. I thought you meant anyone—anyone from—from that time." "So I did, Madame. Now think carefully. Some years have passed, remember. The person might have altered their appearance." Helena pondered deeply. Then she said: "No—I am sure—there is no one." "You yourself—you were a young girl at the time—did you have no one to superintend your studies or to look after you?" "Oh, yes, I had a dragon—a sort of governess to me and secretary to Sonia combined. She was English or rather Scotch—a big, red-haired woman." "What was her name?" "Miss Freebody." "Young or old?" "She seemed frightfully old to me. I suppose she couldn’t have been more than forty. Susanne, of course, used to look after my clothes and maid me." "And there were no other inmates of the house?" "Only servants." "And you are certain—quite certain, Madame—that you have recognized no one on the train?" She replied earnestly: "No one, Monsieur. No one at all." Five THE CHRISTIAN NAME OF PRINCESS DRAGOMIROFF When the Count and Countess had departed, Poirot looked across at the other two. "You see," he said, "we make progress." "Excellent work," said M. Bouc cordially. "For my part, I should never have dreamed of suspecting Count and Countess Andrenyi. I will admit I thought them quite hors de combat. I suppose there is no doubt that she committed the crime? It is rather sad. Still, they will not guillotine her. There are extenuating circumstances. A few years" imprisonment—that will be all." "In fact you are quite certain of her guilt." "My dear friend, surely there is no doubt of it? I thought your reassuring manner was only to smooth things over till we are dug out of the snow and the police take charge." "You do not believe the Count’s positive assertion—on his word of honour—that his wife is innocent?" "Mon cher—naturally—what else could he say? He adores his wife. He wants to save her! He tells his lie very well—quite in the grand Seigneur manner, but what else than a lie could it be?" "Well, you know, I had the preposterous idea that it might be the truth." "No, no. The handkerchief, remember. The handkerchief clinches the matter." "Oh, I am not so sure about the handkerchief. You remember, I always told you that there were two possibilities as to the ownership of the handkerchief." "All the same—" M. Bouc broke off. The door at the end had opened, and Princess Dragomiroff entered the dining car.

Cayley. The latter, as a neglected invalid, enjoyed himself a great deal, coughing in a sepulchral manner, shivering dramatically and saying several times: "Quite all right, my dear. I hope you enjoyed your game. It doesn’t matter about me at all. Even if I have caught a severe chill, what does it really matter? There’s a war on!" II At breakfast the next morning, Tuppence was aware at once of a certain tension in the atmosphere. Mrs. Perenna, her lips pursed very tightly together, was distinctly acrid in the few remarks she made. She left the room with what could only be described as a flounce. Major Bletchley, spreading marmalade thickly on his toast, gave vent to a deep chuckle. "Touch of frost in the air," he remarked. "Well, well! Only to be expected, I suppose." "Why, what has happened?" demanded Miss Minton, leaning forward eagerly, her thin neck twitching with pleasurable anticipation. "Don’t know that I ought to tell tales out of school," replied the Major irritatingly. "Oh! Major Bletchley!" "Do tell us," said Tuppence. Major Bletchley looked thoughtfully at his audience: Miss Minton, Mrs. Blenkensop, Mrs. Cayley and Mrs. O’Rourke. Mrs. Sprot and Betty had just left. He decided to talk. "It’s Meadowes," he said. "Been out on the tiles all night. Hasn’t come home yet." "What?" exclaimed Tuppence. Major Bletchley threw her a pleased and malicious glance. He enjoyed the discomfiture of the designing widow. "Bit of a gay dog, Meadowes," he chortled. "The Perenna’s annoyed. Naturally." "Oh dear," said Miss Minton, flushing painfully. Mrs. Cayley looked shocked. Mrs. O’Rourke merely chuckled. "Mrs. Perenna told me already," she said. "Ah, well, the boys will be the boys." Miss Minton said eagerly: "Oh, but surely—perhaps Mr. Meadowes has met with an accident. In the blackout, you know." "Good old blackout," said Major Bletchley. "Responsible for a lot. I can tell you, it’s been an eye opener being on patrol in the LDV. Stopping cars and all that. The amount of wives "just seeing their husbands home." And different names on their identity cards! And the wife or the husband coming back the other way alone a few hours later. Ha ha!" He chuckled, then quickly composed his face as he received the full blast of Mrs. Blenkensop’s disapproving stare. "Human nature—a bit humorous, eh?" he said appeasingly. "Oh, but Mr. Meadowes," bleated Miss Minton. "He may really have met with an accident. Been knocked down by a car." "That’ll be his story, I expect," said the Major. "Car hit him and knocked him out and he came to in the morning." "He may have been taken to hospital." "They’d have let us know. After all, he’s carrying his identity card, isn’t he?" "Oh dear," said Mrs. Cayley, "I wonder what Mr. Cayley will say?" This rhetorical question remained unanswered. Tuppence, rising with an assumption of affronted dignity, got up and left the room. Major Bletchley chuckled when the door closed behind her. "Poor old Meadowes," he said. "The fair widow’s annoyed about it. Thought she’d got her hooks into him." "Oh, Major Bletchley," bleated Miss Minton. Major Bletchley winked. "Remember your Dickens? Beware of widders, Sammy." III Tuppence was a little upset by Tommy’s unannounced absence, but she tried to reassure herself. He might possibly have struck some hot trail and gone off upon it. The difficulties of communication with each other under such circumstances had been foreseen by them both, and they had agreed that the other one was not to be unduly perturbed by unexplained absences. They had arranged certain contrivances between them for such emergencies. Mrs. Perenna had, according to Mrs. Sprot, been out last night.

This is—let me see, the third encounter." "You are right," said Harry. "This is the third encounter. Twice you have worsted me—have you never heard that the third time the luck changes? This is my round—cover him, Anne." I was all ready. In a flash I had whipped the pistol out of my stocking and was holding it to his head. The two men guarding Harry sprang forward, but his voice stopped them. "Another step—and he dies! If they come any nearer, Anne, pull the trigger—don’t hesitate." "I shan’t," I replied cheerfully. "I’m rather afraid of pulling it, anyway." I think Sir Eustace shared my fears. He was certainly shaking like a jelly. "Stay where you are," he commanded, and the men stopped obediently. "Tell them to leave the room," said Harry. Sir Eustace gave the order. The men filed out, and Harry shot the bolt across the door behind them. "Now we can talk," he observed grimly, and, coming across the room, he took the revolver out of my hand. Sir Eustace uttered a sigh of relief and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "I’m shockingly out of condition," he observed. "I think I must have a weak heart. I am glad that revolver is in competent hands. I didn’t trust Miss Anne with it. Well, my young friend, as you say, now we can talk. I’m willing to admit that you stole a march upon me. Where the devil that revolver came from I don’t know. I had the girl’s luggage searched when she arrived. And where did you produce it from now? You hadn’t got it on you a minute ago?" "Yes, I had," I replied. "It was in my stocking." "I don’t know enough about women. I ought to have studied them more," said Sir Eustace sadly. "I wonder if Pagett would have known that?" Harry rapped sharply on the table. "Don’t play the fool. If it weren’t for your grey hairs, I’d throw you out of the window. You damned scoundrel! Grey hairs, or no grey hairs, I—" He advanced a step or two, and Sir Eustace skipped nimbly behind the table. "The young are always so violent," he said reproachfully. "Unable to use their brains, they rely solely on their muscles. Let us talk sense. For the moment you have the upper hand. But that state of affairs cannot continue. The house is full of my men. You are hopelessly outnumbered. Your momentary ascendancy has been gained by an accident—" "Has it?" Something in Harry’s voice, a grim raillery, seemed to attract Sir Eustace’s attention. He stared at him. "Has it?" said Harry again. "Sit down, Sir Eustace, and listen to what I have to say." Still covering him with the revolver, he went on: "The cards are against you this time. To begin with, listen to that!" That was a dull banging at the door below. There were shouts, oaths, and then a sound of firing. Sir Eustace paled. "What’s that?" "Race—and his people. You didn’t know, did you, Sir Eustace, that Anne had an arrangement with me by which we should know whether communications from one to the other were genuine? Telegrams were to be signed "Andy," letters were to have the word "and" crossed out somewhere in them. Anne knew that your telegram was a fake. She came here of her own free will, walked deliberately into the snare, in the hope that she might catch you in your own trap. Before leaving Kimberley she wired both to me and to Race. Mrs. Blair has been in communication with us ever since. I received the letter written at your dictation, which was just what I expected. I had already discussed the probabilities of a secret passage leading out of the curioshop with Race, and he had discovered the place where the exit was situated." There was a screaming, tearing sound, and a heavy explosion which shook the room. "They’re shelling this part of the town. I must get you out of here, Anne." A bright light flared up. The house opposite was on fire. Sir Eustace had risen and was pacing up and down. Harry kept him covered with the revolver.

Part of it was unplanted and had gone largely to weeds. Ground elder had taken over most of the flower beds and Miss Marple’s hands could hardly restrain themselves from pulling up the vagrant bindweed asserting its superiority. Miss Anthea’s long hair flapped in the wind, shedding from time to time a vague hairpin on the path or the grass. She talked rather jerkily. "You have a very nice garden, I expect," she said. "Oh, it’s a very small one," said Miss Marple. They had come along a grass path and were pausing in front of a kind of hillock that rested against the wall at the end of it. "Our greenhouse," said Miss Anthea, mournfully. "Oh yes, where you had such a delightful grapevine." "Three vines," said Anthea. "A Black Hamburg and one of those small white grapes, very sweet, you know. And a third one of beautiful muscats." "And a heliotrope, you said." "Cherry Pie," said Anthea. "Ah yes, Cherry Pie. Such a lovely smell. Was there any bomb trouble round here? Did that—er—knock the greenhouse down?" "Oh no, we never suffered from anything of that kind. This neighbourhood was quite free of bombs. No, I’m afraid it just fell down from decay. We hadn’t been here so very long and we had no money to repair it, or to build it up again. And in fact, it wouldn’t have been worth it really because we couldn’t have kept it up even if we did. I’m afraid we just let it fall down. There was nothing else we could do. And now you see, it’s all grown over." "Ah that, completely covered by—what is that flowering creeper just coming into bloom?" "Oh yes. It’s quite a common one," said Anthea. "It begins with a P. Now what is the name of it?" she said doubtfully. "Poly something, something like that." "Oh yes. I think I do know the name. Polygonum Baldschuanicum. Very quick growing, I think, isn’t it? Very useful really if one wants to hide any tumbledown building or anything ugly of that kind." The mound in front of her was certainly thickly covered with the all- enveloping green and white flowering plant. It was, as Miss Marple well knew, a kind of menace to anything else that wanted to grow. Polygonum covered everything, and covered it in a remarkably short time. "The greenhouse must have been quite a big one," she said. "Oh yes—we had peaches in it, too—and nectarines." Anthea looked miserable. "It looks really very pretty now," said Miss Marple in a consoling tone. "Very pretty little white flowers, aren’t they?" "We have a very nice magnolia tree down this path to the left," said Anthea. "Once I believe there used to be a very fine border here—a herbaceous border. But that again one cannot keep up. It is too difficult. Everything is too difficult. Nothing is like it used to be—it’s all spoilt—everywhere." She led the way quickly down a path at right angles which ran along a side wall. Her pace had increased. Miss Marple could hardly keep up with her. It was, thought Miss Marple, as though she were deliberately being steered away from the Polygonum mound by her hostess. Steered away as from some ugly or displeasing spot. Was she ashamed perhaps that the past glories no longer remained? The Polygonum certainly was growing with extraordinary abandonment. It was not even being clipped or kept to reasonable proportions. It made a kind of flowery wilderness of that bit of the garden. She almost looks as though she was running away from it, thought Miss Marple, as she followed her hostess. Presently her attention was diverted to a broken down pigsty which had a few rose tendrils round it. "My great-uncle used to keep a few pigs," explained Anthea, "but of course one would never dream of doing anything of that kind nowadays, would one? Rather too noisome, I am afraid. We have a few floribunda roses near the house. I really think floribundas are such a great answer to difficulties." "Oh, I know," said Miss Marple. She mentioned the names of a few recent productions in the rose line. All the names, she thought, were entirely strange to Miss Anthea.

Which?" "My dear girl, you don’t expect me seriously to murder a policeman?" "Oh, but you are mad—mad! They will take you away and hang you by the neck until you’re dead." "They’ll what?" said Mr. Eastwood, with a very unpleasant feeling going up and down his spine. Steps sounded on the stair. "Here they come," whispered the girl. "Deny everything. It is the only hope." "That’s easy enough," admitted Mr. Eastwood, sotto voce. In another minute two men had entered the room. They were in plain clothes, but they had an official bearing that spoke of long training. The smaller of the two, a little dark man with quiet grey eyes, was the spokesman. "I arrest you, Conrad Fleckman," he said, "for the murder of Anna Rosenburg. Anything you say will be used in evidence against you. Here is my warrant and you will do well to come quietly." A half-strangled scream burst from the girl’s lips. Anthony stepped forward with a composed smile. "You are making a mistake, officer," he said pleasantly. "My name is Anthony Eastwood." The two detectives seemed completely unimpressed by his statement. "We’ll see about that later," said one of them, the one who had not spoken before. "In the meantime, you come along with us." "Conrad," wailed the girl. "Conrad, do not let them take you." Anthony looked at the detectives. "You will permit me, I am sure, to say good-bye to this young lady?" With more decency of feeling than he had expected, the two men moved towards the door. Anthony drew the girl into the corner by the window, and spoke to her in a rapid undertone. "Listen to me. What I said was true. I am not Conrad Fleckman. When you rang up this morning, they must have given you the wrong number. My name is Anthony Eastwood. I came in answer to your appeal because—well, I came." She stared at him incredulously. "You are not Conrad Fleckman?" "No." "Oh!" she cried, with a deep accent of distress. "And I kissed you!" "That’s all right," Mr. Eastwood assured her. "The early Christians made a practice of that sort of thing. Jolly sensible. Now look here, I’ll tool off with these people. I shall soon prove my identity. In the meantime, they won’t worry you, and you can warn this precious Conrad of yours. Afterwards—" "Yes?" "Well—just this. My telephone number is North-western 1743—and mind they don’t give you the wrong one." She gave him an enchanting glance, half tears, half a smile. "I shall not forget—indeed, I shall not forget." "That’s all right then. Good-bye. I say—" "Yes?" "Talking of the early Christians—once more wouldn’t matter, would it?" She flung her arms round his neck. Her lips just touched his. "I do like you—yes, I do like you. You will remember that, whatever happens, won’t you?" Anthony disengaged himself reluctantly and approached his captors. "I am ready to come with you. You don’t want to detain this young lady, I suppose?" "No, sir, that will be quite all right," said the small man civilly. "Decent fellows, these Scotland Yard men," thought Anthony to himself, as he followed them down the narrow stairway. There was no sign of the old woman in the shop, but Anthony caught a heavy breathing from a door at the rear, and guessed that she stood behind it, cautiously observing events. Once out in the dinginess of Kirk Street, Anthony drew a long breath, and addressed the smaller of the two men. "Now then, inspector—you are an inspector, I suppose?" "Yes, sir. Detective-Inspector Verrall. This is Detective-Sergeant Carter." "Well, Inspector Verrall, the time has come to talk sense—and to listen to it too. I’m not Conrad What’s-his-name. My name is Anthony Eastwood, as I told you, and I am a writer by profession. If you will accompany me to my flat, I think that I shall be able to satisfy you of my identity." Something in the matter-of-fact way Anthony spoke seemed to impress the detectives. For the first time an expression of doubt passed over Verrall’s face. Carter, apparently, was harder to convince. "I daresay," he sneered.

These things were in the forefront of her mind. But somewhere, underneath them, something was nagging at her. Walter Fane or Jackie Afflick, she had said. One or the other of them. And she had made out quite a good case against either of them. Perhaps that was what really worried her. Because, strictly speaking, it would be much more satisfactory if you could only make out a good case against one of them. One ought to be sure, by now, which. And Gwenda wasn’t sure. If only there was someone else … But there couldn’t be anyone else. Because Richard Erskine was out of it. Richard Erskine had been in Northumberland when Lily Kimble was killed and when the brandy in the decanter had been tampered with. Yes, Richard Erskine was right out of it. She was glad of that, because she liked Richard Erskine. Richard Erskine was attractive, very attractive. How sad for him to be married to that megalith of a woman with her suspicious eyes and deep bass voice. Just like a man’s voice…. Like a man’s voice…. The idea flashed through her mind with a queer misgiving. A man’s voice … Could it have been Mrs. Erskine, not her husband, who had replied to Giles on the telephone last night? No—no, surely not. No, of course not. She and Giles would have known. And anyway, to begin with, Mrs. Erskine could have had no idea of who was ringing up. No, of course it was Erskine speaking, and his wife, as he said, was away. His wife was away … Surely—no, that was impossible … Could it have been Mrs. Erskine? Mrs. Erskine, driven insane by jealousy? Mrs. Erskine to whom Lily Kimble had written? Was it a woman Léonie had seen in the garden that night when she looked out of the window? There was a sudden bang in the hall below. Somebody had come in through the front door. Gwenda came out from the bathroom on to the landing and looked over the banisters. She was relieved to see it was Dr. Kennedy. She called down: "I’m here." Her hands were held out in front of her—wet, glistening, a queer pinkish grey—they reminded her of something…. Kennedy looked up, shading his eyes. "Is that you, Gwennie? I can’t see your face … My eyes are dazzled—" And then Gwenda screamed…. Looking at those smooth monkey’s paws and hearing that voice in the hall— "It was you," she gasped. "You killed her … killed Helen … I—know now. It was you … all along … You…." He came up the stairs towards her. Slowly. Looking up at her. "Why couldn’t you leave me alone?" he said. "Why did you have to meddle? Why did you have to bring—Her—back? Just when I’d begun to forget—to forget. You brought her back again—Helen—my Helen. Bringing it all up again. I had to kill Lily—now I’ll have to kill you. Like I killed Helen … Yes, like I killed Helen…." He was close upon her now—his hands out towards her—reaching, she knew, for her throat. That kind, quizzical face—that nice, ordinary, elderly face—the same still, but for the eyes—the eyes were not sane…. Gwenda retreated before him, slowly, the scream frozen in her throat. She had screamed once. She could not scream again. And if she did scream no one would hear. Because there was no one in the house—not Giles, and not Mrs. Cocker, not even Miss Marple in the garden. Nobody. And the house next door was too far away to hear if she screamed. And anyway, she couldn’t scream … Because she was too frightened to scream. Frightened of those horrible reaching hands…. She could back away to the nursery door and then—and then—those hands would fasten round her throat…. A pitiful little stifled whimper came from between her lips. And then, suddenly, Dr. Kennedy stopped and reeled back as a jet of soapy water struck him between the eyes. He gasped and blinked and his hands went to his face.

Anyway, the whole thing seems most improbable. It doesn’t make sense." "It surprises you very much, does it, Mr. Restarick?" "Yes, indeed. When Alex spoke to me, I could hardly believe it." "Who, in your opinion, would be likely to administer arsenic to Mrs. Serrocold?" For a moment, a grin appeared upon Stephen Restarick’s handsome face. "Not the usual person. You can wash out the husband. Lewis Serrocold’s got nothing to gain. And also he worships that woman. He can’t bear her to have an ache in her little finger." "Who then? Have you any idea?" "Oh yes. I’d say it was a certainty." "Explain please." Stephen shook his head. "It’s a certainty psychologically speaking. Not in any other way. No evidence of any kind. And you probably wouldn’t agree." Stephen Restarick went out nonchalantly, and Inspector Curry drew cats on the sheet of paper in front of him. He was thinking three things. A, that Stephen Restarick thought a good deal of himself, B, that Stephen Restarick and his brother presented a united front; and C, that Stephen Restarick was a handsome man where Walter Hudd was a plain one. He wondered about two other things—what Stephen meant by "psychologically speaking" and whether Stephen could possibly have seen Gina from his seat at the piano. He rather thought not. 3 Into the Gothic gloom of the library, Gina brought an exotic glow. Even Inspector Curry blinked a little at the radiant young woman who sat down, leaned forward over the table and said expectantly, "Well?" Inspector Curry, observing her scarlet shirt and dark green slacks said drily: "I see you’re not wearing mourning, Mrs. Hudd?" "I haven’t got any," said Gina. "I know everyone is supposed to have a little black number and wear it with pearls. But I don’t. I hate black. I think it’s hideous, and only receptionists and housekeepers and people like that ought to wear it. Anyway Christian Gulbrandsen wasn’t really a relation. He’s my grandmother’s stepson." "And I suppose you didn’t know him very well?" Gina shook her head. "He came here three or four times when I was a child, but then in the war I went to America, and I only came back here to live about six months ago." "You have definitely come back here to live? You’re not just on a visit?" "I haven’t really thought," said Gina. "You were in the Great Hall last night, when Mr. Gulbrandsen went to his room?" "Yes. He said good night and went away. Grandam asked if he had everything he wanted and he said yes—that Jolly had fixed him up fine. Not those words, but that kind of thing. He said he had letters to write." "And then?" Gina described the scene between Lewis and Edgar Lawson. It was the same story as Inspector Curry had by now heard many times, but it took an added colour, a new gusto, under Gina’s handling. It became drama. "It was Wally’s revolver," she said. "Fancy Edgar’s having the guts to go and pinch it out of his room. I’d never have believed he’d have the guts." "Were you alarmed when they went into the study and Edgar Lawson locked the door?" "Oh no," said Gina, opening her enormous brown eyes very wide. "I loved it. It was so ham, you know, and so madly theatrical. Everything Edgar does is always ridiculous. One can’t take him seriously for a moment." "He did fire the revolver, though?" "Yes. We all thought then that he’d shot Lewis after all." "And did you enjoy that?" Inspector Curry could not refrain from asking. "Oh no, I was terrified, then. Everyone was, except Grandam. She never turned a hair." "That seems rather remarkable." "Not really. She’s that kind of person. Not quite in this world. She’s the sort of person who never believes anything bad can happen. She’s sweet." "During all this scene, who was in the Hall?" "Oh, we were all there. Except Uncle Christian, of course." "Not all, Mrs. Hudd. People went in and out." "Did they?" asked Gina vaguely. "Your husband, for instance, went out to fix the lights." "Yes. Wally’s great at fixing things." "During his absence, a shot was heard, I understand.

I soon found out about it - one of the Arab servants. His son had been spot as a spy. What have you got to say to that, Uncle Alington, as an example of what I call the red signal?" The specialist smiled noncommittally. "A very interesting story, my dear Dermot." "But not one that you accept unreservedly?" "Yes, yes, I have no doubt but that you had the premonition of danger, just as you state. But it is the origin of the premonition I dispute. According to you, it came from without, impressed by some outside source upon your mentality. But nowadays we find that nearly everything comes from within - from our subconscious self. "I suggest that by some glance or look this Arab had betrayed himself. Your conscious self did not notice or remember, but with your subconscious self it was otherwise. The subconscious never forgets. We believe, too, that it can reason and deduce quite independently of the higher or conscious will. Your subconscious self, then, believed that an attempt might be made to assassinate you, and succeeded in forcing its fear upon your conscious realization." "That sounds very convincing, I admit," said Dermot, smiling. "But not nearly so exciting," pouted Mrs Eversleigh. "It is also possible that you may have been subconsciously aware of the hate felt by the man towards you. What in old days used to be called telepathy certainly exists, though the conditions governing it are very little understood." "Have there been any other instances?" asked Claire of Dermot. "Oh yes, but nothing very pictorial - and I suppose they could all be explained under the heading of coincidence. I refused an invitation to a country house once, for no other reason than the 'red signal.' The place was burned out during the week. By the way, Uncle Alington, where does the subconscious come in there?" "I'm afraid it doesn't," said Sir Alington, smiling. "But you've got an equally good explanation. Come, now. No need to be tactful with near relatives." "Well, then, nephew, I venture to suggest that you refused the invitation for the ordinary reason that you didn't much want to go, and that after the fire, you suggested to yourself that you had had a warning of danger, which explanation you now believe implicitly." "It's hopeless," laughed Dermot. "It's heads you win, tails I lose." "Never mind, Mr West," cried Violet Eversleigh. "I believe in your Red Signal. Is the time in Mesopotamia the last time you had it?" "Yes - until -" "I beg your pardon?" "Nothing." Dermot sat silent. The words which had nearly left his lips were: "Yes, until tonight." They had come quite unbidden to his lips, voicing a thought which had as yet not been consciously realized, but he was aware at once that they were true. The Red Signal was looming up out of the darkness. Danger! Danger close at hand! But why? What conceivable danger could there be here? Here in the house of his friends? At least - well, yes, there was that kind of danger. He looked at Claire Trent - her whiteness, her slenderness, the exquisite droop of her golden head. But that danger had been there for some time - it was never likely to get acute. For Jack Trent was his best friend, and more than his best friend, the man who had saved his life in Flanders and been recommended for the V.C. for doing so. A good fellow, Jack, one of the best. Damned bad luck that he should have fallen in love with Jack's wife. He'd get over it some day, he supposed. A thing couldn't go on hurting like this forever. One could starve it out - that was it, starve it out. It was not as though she would ever guess - and if she did guess, there was no danger of her caring. A statue, a beautiful statue, a thing of gold and ivory and pale pink coral... a toy for a king, not a real woman... Claire... the very thought of her name, uttered silently, hurt him... He must get over it. He'd cared for women before... "But not like this!" said something. "Not like this." Well, there it was. No danger there - heartache, yes, but not danger. Not the danger of the Red Signal. That was for something else.

(MOLLIE picks up his hat and exits through the arch up Right.) Motorists are warned against icebound roads. (The door bell rings.) The heavy snow is expected to continue, and throughout the country . . . (MOLLIE enters, crosses to the desk, switches off the radio and hurries off through the arch up Right.) MOLLIE. (Off) How do you do? CHRISTOPHER. (Off) Thanks so much. (CHRISTOPHER WREN enters through the arch up Right with a suitcase, which he places Right of the refectory table. He is a rather wild-looking, neurotic young man. His hair is long and untidy and he wears a woven artistic tie. He has a confiding, almost childish manner. mollie enters and moves up Centre.) Weather is simply awful. My taxi gave up at your gate. (He crosses and places his hat on the sofa table.) Wouldn’t attempt the drive. No sporting instinct. (Moving up to MOLLIE) Are you Mrs. Ralston? How delightful! My name’s Wren. MOLLIE. How do you do, Mr. Wren? CHRISTOPHER. You know you’re not at all as I’d pictured you. I’ve been thinking of you as a retired General’s widow, Indian Army. I thought you’d be terrifically grim and Memsahibish, and that the whole place would be simply crammed with Benares brass. Instead, it’s heavenly. (Crossing below the sofa to Left of the sofa table)—quite heavenly. Lovely proportions. (Pointing at the desk) That’s a fake! (Pointing at the sofa table) Ah, but this table’s genuine. I’m simply going to love this place. (He moves below the armchair Centre.) Have you got any wax flowers or birds of Paradise? MOLLIE. I’m afraid not. CHRISTOPHER. What a pity! Well, what about a sideboard? A purple plummy mahogany sideboard with great solid carved fruits on it? MOLLIE. Yes, we have—in the dining room. (She glances at the door down Right.) CHRISTOPHER. (Following her glance) In here? (He moves down Right and opens the door.) I must see it. (CHRISTOPHER exits into the dining room and MOLLIE follows him. GILES enters through the archway up Right. He looks round and examines the suitcase. Hearing voices from the dining room, GILES exits up Right. MOLLIE. (Off) Do come and warm yourself. (MOLLIE enters from the dining room, followed by CHRISTOPHER. MOLLIE moves Centre.) CHRISTOPHER. (As he enters) Absolutely perfect. Real bedrock respectability. But why do away with a centre mahogany table? (Looking off Right.) Little tables just spoil the effect. (GILES enters up Right and stands Left of the large armchair Right.) MOLLIE. We thought guests would prefer them—this is my husband. CHRISTOPHER. (Moving up to GILES and shaking hands with him) How do you do? Terrible weather, isn’t it? Takes one back to Dickens and Scrooge and that irritating Tiny Tim. So bogus. (He turns towards the fire.) Of course, Mrs. Ralston, you’re absolutely right about the little tables. I was being carried away by my feeling for period. If you had a mahogany dining table, you’d have to have the right family round it. (He turns to GILES.) Stern handsome father with a beard, prolific, faded mother, eleven children of assorted ages, a grim governess, and somebody called "poor Harriet," the poor relation who acts as general dogsbody and is very, very grateful for being given a good home! GILES. (Disliking him) I’ll take your suitcase upstairs for you. (He picks up the suitcase. To MOLLIE) Oak Room, did you say? MOLLIE. Yes. CHRISTOPHER. I do hope that it’s got a fourposter with little chintz roses? GILES. It hasn’t. (GILES exits Left up the stairs with the suitcase.) CHRISTOPHER. I don’t believe your husband is going to like me. (Moving a few paces towards MOLLIE) How long have you been married? Are you very much in love?

She had been dreaming—dreaming that she was a child, back again in New York. How odd. She hadn’t thought of those days for years. It was really surprising that she could remember anything at all. How old had she been? Five? Six? She had dreamed that she was being taken home to the tenement from the hotel. The Argyles were sailing for England and not taking her with them after all. Anger and rage filled her heart for a moment or two until the realization came that it had only been a dream. How wonderful it had been. Taken into the car, going up in the elevator of the hotel to the eighteenth floor. The big suite, that wonderful bathroom; the revelation of what things there were in the world—if you were rich! If she could stay here, if she could keep all this—for ever…. Actually, there had been no difficulty at all. All that was needed was a show of affection; never easy for her, for she was not affectionate by disposition, but she had managed it. And there she was, established for life! A rich father and mother, clothes, cars, ships, aeroplanes, servants to wait on her, expensive dolls and toys. A fairy tale come true…. A pity that all those other children had had to be there, too. That was the war, of course. Or would it have happened anyway? That insatiable mother love! Really something unnatural in it. So animal. She had always felt a faint contempt for her adopted mother. Stupid in any case to choose the children she had chosen. The under-privileged! Criminal tendencies like Jacko’s. Unbalanced like Hester. A savage like Micky. And Tina, a half-caste! No wonder they had all turned out badly. Though she couldn’t really blame them for rebelling. She, herself, had rebelled. She remembered her meeting with Philip, a dashing young pilot. Her mother’s disapproval. "These hurried marriages. Wait until the war is over." But she hadn’t wanted to wait. She had as strong a will as her mother’s, and her father had backed her up. They had married, and the war had ended soon afterwards. She had wanted to have Philip all to herself—to get away out of her mother’s shadow. It was Fate that had defeated her, not her mother. First the failure of Philip’s financial schemes and then that horrifying blow—polio of the paralytic type. As soon as Philip was able to leave hospital they had come to Sunny Point. It had seemed inevitable that they would have to make their home there. Philip himself had seemed to think it inevitable. He had gone through all his money and her allowance from the Trust was not so very big. She had asked for a larger one, but the answer had been that perhaps for a while it would be wise to live at Sunny Point. But she wanted Philip to herself, all to herself, she didn’t want him to be the last of Rachel Argyle’s "children." She had not wanted a child of her own—she only wanted Philip. But Philip himself had seemed quite agreeable to the idea of coming to Sunny Point. "Easier for you," he said. "And people always coming and going there makes a distraction. Besides, I always find your father very good company." Why didn’t he want only to be with her as she wanted only to be with him? Why did he crave for other company—her father’s, Hester’s? And Mary had felt a wave of futile rage sweep over her. Her mother, as usual, would get her own way. But she hadn’t got her own way … she had died. And now it was going to be all raked up again. Why, oh, why? And why was Philip being so trying about it all? Questioning, trying to find out, mixing himself up in what was none of his business? Laying traps…. What kind of traps? III Leo Argyle watched the morning light fill the room slowly with dim grey light. He had thought out everything very carefully. It was quite clear to him—exactly what they were up against, he and Gwenda. He lay looking at the whole thing as Superintendent Huish would look at it. Rachel coming in and telling them about Jacko—his wildness and his threats.

Miss Lemon sat with her pencil poised, incurious. She repeated in muted tones the final phrase of dictation before the interruption. "—allow me to assure you, my dear sir, that the hypothesis you have advanced…." Poirot waved aside the advancement of the hypothesis. "That was Mrs. Oliver," he said. "Ariadne Oliver, the detective novelist. You may have read…" But he stopped, remembering that Miss Lemon only read improving books and regarded such frivolities as fictional crime with contempt. "She wants me to go down to Devonshire today, at once, in"—he glanced at the clock—"thirty-five minutes." Miss Lemon raised disapproving eyebrows. "That will be running it rather fine," she said. "For what reason?" "You may well ask! She did not tell me." "How very peculiar. Why not?" "Because," said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, "she was afraid of being overheard. Yes, she made that quite clear." "Well, really," said Miss Lemon, bristling in her employer’s defence. "The things people expect! Fancy thinking that you’d go rushing off on some wild goose chase like that! An important man like you! I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalanced—no sense of proportion. Shall I telephone through a telegram: Regret unable leave London?" Her hand went out to the telephone. Poirot’s voice arrested the gesture. "Du tout!" he said. "On the contrary. Be so kind as to summon a taxi immediately." He raised his voice. "Georges! A few necessities of toilet in my small valise. And quickly, very quickly, I have a train to catch." II The train, having done one hundred and eighty-odd miles of its two hundred and twelve miles journey at top speed, puffed gently and apologetically through the last thirty and drew into Nassecombe station. Only one person alighted, Hercule Poirot. He negotiated with care a yawning gap between the step of the train and the platform and looked round him. At the far end of the train a porter was busy inside a luggage compartment. Poirot picked up his valise and walked back along the platform to the exit. He gave up his ticket and walked out through the booking office. A large Humber saloon was drawn up outside and a chauffeur in uniform came forward. "Mr. Hercule Poirot?" he inquired respectfully. He took Poirot’s case from him and opened the door of the car. They drove away from the station over the railway bridge and turned down a country lane which wound between high hedges on either side. Presently the ground fell away on the right and disclosed a very beautiful river view with hills of a misty blue in the distance. The chauffeur drew into the hedge and stopped. "The River Helm, sir," he said. "With Dartmoor in the distance." It was clear that admiration was necessary. Poirot made the necessary noises, murmuring Magnifique! several times. Actually, Nature appealed to him very little. A well-cultivated neatly arranged kitchen garden was far more likely to bring a murmur of admiration to Poirot’s lips. Two girls passed the car, toiling slowly up the hill. They were carrying heavy rucksacks on their backs and wore shorts, with bright coloured scarves tied over their heads. "There is a Youth Hostel next door to us, sir," explained the chauffeur, who had clearly constituted himself Poirot’s guide to Devon. "Hoodown Park. Mr. Fletcher’s place it used to be. The Youth Hostel Association bought it and it’s fairly crammed in summer time. Take in over a hundred a night, they do. They’re not allowed to stay longer than a couple of nights—then they’ve got to move on. Both sexes and mostly foreigners." Poirot nodded absently. He was reflecting, not for the first time, that seen from the back, shorts were becoming to very few of the female sex. He shut his eyes in pain. Why, oh why, must young women array themselves thus? Those scarlet thighs were singularly unattractive! "They seem heavily laden," he murmured. "Yes, sir, and it’s a long pull from the station or the bus stop. Best part of two miles to Hoodown Park." He hesitated.

But surely, oh, surely it could not be he!" "Did any of your guests return to this room during the afternoon on any pretext?" "I was prepared for that question, Monsieur Poirot. Three of them did so. Countess Vera Rossakoff, Mr. Bernard Parker, and Lady Runcorn." "Let us hear about them." "The Countess Rossakoff is a very charming Russian lady, a member of the old régime. She has recently come to this country. She had bade me good-bye, and I was therefore somewhat surprised to find her in this room apparently gazing in rapture at my cabinet of fans. You know, Monsieur Poirot, the more I think of it, the more suspicious it seems to me. Don’t you agree?" "Extremely suspicious; but let us hear about the others." "Well, Parker simply came here to fetch a case of miniatures that I was anxious to show to Lady Runcorn." "And Lady Runcorn herself?" "As I daresay you know, Lady Runcorn is a middle-aged woman of considerable force of character who devotes most of her time to various charitable committees. She simply returned to fetch a handbag she had laid down somewhere." "Bien, monsieur. So we have four possible suspects. The Russian countess, the English grande dame, the South African millionaire, and Mr. Bernard Parker. Who is Mr. Parker, by the way?" The question appeared to embarrass Mr. Hardman considerably. "He is—er—he is a young fellow. Well, in fact, a young fellow I know." "I had already deduced as much," replied Poirot gravely. "What does he do, this Mr. Parker?" "He is a young man about town—not, perhaps, quite in the swim, if I may so express myself." "How did he come to be a friend of yours, may I ask?" "Well—er—on one or two occasions he has—performed certain little commissions for me." "Continue, monsieur," said Poirot. Hardman looked piteously at him. Evidently the last thing he wanted to do was to continue. But as Poirot maintained an inexorable silence, he capitulated. "You see, Monsieur Poirot—it is well-known that I am interested in antique jewels. Sometimes there is a family heirloom to be disposed of—which, mind you, would never be sold in the open market or to a dealer. But a private sale to me is a very different matter. Parker arranges the details of such things, he is in touch with both sides, and thus any little embarrassment is avoided. He brings anything of that kind to my notice. For instance, the Countess Rossakoff has brought some family jewels with her from Russia. She is anxious to sell them. Bernard Parker was to have arranged the transaction." "I see," said Poirot thoughtfully. "And you trust him implicitly?" "I have had no reason to do otherwise." "Mr. Hardman, of these four people, which do you yourself suspect?" "Oh, Monsieur Poirot, what a question! They are my friends, as I told you. I suspect none of them—or all of them, whichever way you like to put it." "I do not agree. You suspect one of those four. It is not Countess Rossakoff. It is not Mr. Parker. Is it Lady Runcorn or Mr. Johnston?" "You drive me into a corner, Monsieur Poirot, you do indeed. I am most anxious to have no scandal. Lady Runcorn belongs to one of the oldest families in England; but it is true, it is most unfortunately true, that her aunt, Lady Caroline, suffered from a most melancholy affliction. It was understood, of course, by all her friends, and her maid returned the teaspoons, or whatever it was, as promptly as possible. You see my predicament!" "So Lady Runcorn had an aunt who was a kleptomaniac? Very interesting. You permit that I examine the safe?" Mr. Hardman assenting, Poirot pushed back the door of the safe and examined the interior. The empty velvet-lined shelves gaped at us. "Even now the door does not shut properly," murmured Poirot, as he swung it to and fro. "I wonder why? Ah, what have we here? A glove, caught in the hinge. A man’s glove."

asked Miss Marple. "I don’t think so," said Jane. "No, I believe he was rather hard up." "The whole thing seems curious," said Dr Lloyd. "I must confess that if we accept the young man’s story as true, it seems to make the case very much more difficult. Why should the unknown woman who pretended to be Miss Helier drag this unknown man into the affair? Why should she stage such an elaborate comedy?" "Tell me, Jane," said Mrs Bantry. "Did young Faulkener ever come face to face with Mary Kerr at any stage of the proceedings?" "I don’t quite know," said Jane slowly, as she puzzled her brows in remembrance. "Because if he didn’t the case is solved!" said Mrs Bantry. "I’m sure I’m right. What is easier than to pretend you’re called up to town? You telephone to your maid from Paddington or whatever station you arrive at, and as she comes up to town, you go down again. The young man calls by appointment, he’s doped, you set the stage for the burglary, over-doing it as much as possible. You telephone the police, give a description of your scapegoat, and off you go to town again. Then you arrive home by a later train and do the surprised innocent." "But why should she steal her own jewels, Dolly?" "They always do," said Mrs Bantry. "And anyway, I can think of hundreds of reasons. She may have wanted money at once – old Sir Herman wouldn’t give her the cash, perhaps, so she pretends the jewels are stolen and then sells them secretly. Or she may have been being blackmailed by someone who threatened to tell her husband or Sir Herman’s wife. Or she may have already sold the jewels and Sir Herman was getting ratty and asking to see them, so she had to do something about it. That’s done a good deal in books. Or perhaps she was going to have them reset and she’d got paste replicas. Or – here’s a very good idea – and not so much done in books – she pretends they are stolen, gets in an awful state and he gives her a fresh lot. So she gets two lots instead of one. That kind of woman, I am sure, is most frightfully artful." "You are clever, Dolly," said Jane admiringly. "I never thought of that." "You may be clever, but she doesn’t say you’re right," said Colonel Bantry. "I incline to suspicion of the city gentleman. He’d know the sort of telegram to get the lady out of the way, and he could manage the rest easily enough with the help of a new lady friend. Nobody seems to have thought of asking him for an alibi." "What do you think, Miss Marple?" asked Jane, turning towards the old lady who had sat silent, a puzzled frown on her face. "My dear, I really don’t know what to say. Sir Henry will laugh, but I recall no village parallel to help me this time. Of course there are several questions that suggest themselves. For instance, the servant question. In – ahem – an irregular ménage of the kind you describe, the servant employed would doubtless be perfectly aware of the state of things, and a really nice girl would not take such a place – her mother wouldn’t let her for a minute. So I think we can assume that the maid was not a really trustworthy character. She may have been in league with the thieves. She would leave the house open for them and actually go to London as though sure of the pretence telephone message so as to divert suspicion from herself. I must confess that that seems the most probable solution. Only if ordinary thieves were concerned it seems very odd. It seems to argue more knowledge than a maidservant was likely to have." Miss Marple paused and then went on dreamily: "I can’t help feeling that there was some – well, what I must describe as personal feeling about the whole thing. Supposing somebody had a spite, for instance? A young actress that he hadn’t treated well? Don’t you think that that would explain things better? A deliberate attempt to get him into trouble. That’s what it looks like. And yet – that’s not entirely satisfactory . . ." "Why, doctor, you haven’t said anything," said Jane. "I’d forgotten you." "I’m always getting forgotten," said the grizzled doctor sadly.

He winked one eye. "Perhaps you’ve been sent down there to have a look round, eh, my boy?" "A look round at what?" said Tommy. "Well, this house of yours, The Laurels, did you say? There used to be some silly jokes about The Laurels sometimes. Mind you, they’d had a good look round, the security people and the rest of them. They thought that somewhere in that house was valuable evidence of some kind. There was an idea it had been sent overseas –Italy was mentioned–just before people got alerted. But other people thought it might be still hidden there in that part of the world somewhere. You know, it’s the sort of place that has cellars and flagstones and various things. Come now, Tommy, my boy, I feel you’re on the hunt again." "I assure you I don’t do anything of that kind nowadays." "Well, that’s what one thought before about you when you were at that other place. Beginning of the last war. You know, where you ran down that German chap. That and the woman with the nursery rhyme books. Yes. Sharp bit of work, all that. And now, perhaps, they’ve set you on another trail!" "Nonsense," said Tommy. "You mustn’t get all these ideas in your head. I’m an old gaffer now." "You’re a cunning old dog. I bet you’re better than some of these young ones. Yes. You sit there looking innocent, and really I expect, well, one mustn’t ask you questions. Mustn’t ask you to betray State secrets, must I? Anyway, be careful of your missus. You know she’s always one to stick herself forward too much. She had a narrow escape last time in the N or M days." "Ah well," said Tommy, "I think Tuppence is just interested in the general antiquity of this place, you know. Who lived there and where. And pictures of the old people who used to live in the house, and all the rest of it. That and planning the garden. That’s all we’re really interested in nowadays. Gardens. Gardens and bulb catalogues and all the rest of it." "Well, maybe I’ll believe that if a year passes and nothing exciting has happened. But I know you, Beresford, and I know our Mrs Beresford, too. The two of you together, you’re a wonderful couple and I bet you’ll come up with something. I tell you, if those papers ever come to light, it’ll have a very, very great effect on the political front and there are several people who won’t be pleased. No indeed. And those people who won’t be pleased are looked on as–pillars of rectitude at the moment! But by some they are thought to be dangerous. Remember that. They’re dangerous, and the ones that aren’t dangerous are in contact with those who are dangerous. So you be careful and make your missus be careful too." "Really," said Tommy, "your ideas, you make me feel quite excited." "Well, go on feeling excited but look after Mrs Tuppence. I’m fond of Tuppence. She’s a nice girl, always was and still is." "Hardly a girl," said Tommy. "Now don’t say that of your wife. Don’t get in that habit. One in a thousand, she is. But I’m sorry for someone who has her in the picture sleuthing him down. She’s probably out on the hunt today." "I don’t think she is. More likely gone to tea with an elderly lady." "Ah well. Elderly ladies can sometimes give you useful information. Elderly ladies and children of five years old. All the unlikely people come out sometimes with a truth nobody had ever dreamed of. I could tell you things–" "I’m sure you could, Colonel." "Ah well, one mustn’t give away secrets." Colonel Atkinson shook his head. III On his way home Tommy stared out of the railway carriage window and watched the rapidly retreating countryside. "I wonder," he said to himself, "I really wonder. That old boy, he’s usually in the know. Knows things. But what can there be that could matter now. It’s all in the past–I mean there’s nothing, can’t be anything left from that war. Not nowadays." Then he wondered.

"Why?" "My Miss Pinkerton spoke of the look in his eyes when he was measuring up his next victim. From the way she spoke I got the impression—it’s only an impression, mark you—that the man she was speaking of was at least her social equal. Of course, I may be wrong." "You’re probably quite right! Those nuances of conversation can’t be put down in black and white, but they’re the sort of things one doesn’t really make mistakes about." "You know," said Luke, "it’s a great relief to have you knowing all about it." "It will probably cramp your style less, I agree. And I can probably help you." "Your help will be invaluable. You really mean to see it through?" "Of course." Luke said with a sudden slight embarrassment: "What about Lord Whitfield? Do you think—?" "Naturally we don’t tell Gordon anything about it!" said Bridget. "You mean he wouldn’t believe it?" "Oh, he’d believe it! Gordon could believe anything! He’d probably be simply thrilled and insist on having half a dozen of his bright young men down to beat up the neighbourhood! He’d simply adore it!" "That does rather rule it out," agreed Luke. "Yes, we can’t allow him to have his simple pleasures, I’m afraid." Luke looked at her. He seemed about to say something then changed his mind. He looked instead at his watch. "Yes," said Bridget, "we ought to be getting home." She got up. There was a sudden constraint between them as though Luke’s unspoken words hovered uncomfortably in the air. They walked home in silence.

The bathroom was situated between Ruby’s room and the slightly larger room occupied by Josie. It was illuminating. Colonel Melchett silently marvelled at the amount of aids to beauty that women could use. Rows of jars of face cream, cleansing cream, vanishing cream, skin-feeding cream! Boxes of different shades of powder. An untidy heap of every variety of lipstick. Hair lotions and "brightening" applications. Eyelash black, mascara, blue stain for under the eyes, at least twelve different shades of nail varnish, face tissues, bits of cotton wool, dirty powder-puffs. Bottles of lotions—astringent, tonic, soothing, etc. "Do you mean to say," he murmured feebly, "that women use all these things?" Inspector Slack, who always knew everything, kindly enlightened him. "In private life, sir, so to speak, a lady keeps to one or two distinct shades, one for evening, one for day. They know what suits them and they keep to it. But these professional girls, they have to ring a change, so to speak. They do exhibition dances, and one night it’s a tango and the next a crinoline Victorian dance and then a kind of Apache dance and then just ordinary ballroom, and, of course, the makeup varies a good bit." "Good lord!" said the Colonel. "No wonder the people who turn out these creams and messes make a fortune." "Easy money, that’s what it is," said Slack. "Easy money. Got to spend a bit in advertisement, of course." Colonel Melchett jerked his mind away from the fascinating and age-long problem of woman’s adornments. He said to Harper, who had just joined them: "There’s still this dancing fellow. Your pigeon, Superintendent?" "I suppose so, sir." As they went downstairs Harper asked: "What did you think of Mr. Bartlett’s story, sir?" "About his car? I think, Harper, that that young man wants watching. It’s a fishy story. Supposing that he did take Ruby Keene out in that car last night, after all?" IV Superintendent Harper’s manner was slow and pleasant and absolutely noncommittal. These cases where the police of two counties had to collaborate were always difficult. He liked Colonel Melchett and considered him an able Chief Constable, but he was nevertheless glad to be tackling the present interview by himself. Never do too much at once, was Superintendent Harper’s rule. Bare routine inquiry for the first time. That left the persons you were interviewing relieved and predisposed them to be more unguarded in the next interview you had with them. Harper already knew Raymond Starr by sight. A fine-looking specimen, tall, lithe, and good-looking, with very white teeth in a deeply-bronzed face. He was dark and graceful. He had a pleasant, friendly manner and was very popular in the hotel. "I’m afraid I can’t help you much, Superintendent. I knew Ruby quite well, of course. She’d been here over a month and we had practised our dances together and all that. But there’s really very little to say. She was quite a pleasant and rather stupid girl." "It’s her friendships we’re particularly anxious to know about. Her friendships with men." "So I suppose. Well, I don’t know anything! She’d got a few young men in tow in the hotel, but nothing special. You see, she was nearly always monopolized by the Jefferson family." "Yes, the Jefferson family." Harper paused meditatively. He shot a shrewd glance at the young man. "What did you think of that business, Mr. Starr?" Raymond Starr said coolly: "What business?" Harper said: "Did you know that Mr. Jefferson was proposing to adopt Ruby Keene legally?" This appeared to be news to Starr. He pursed up his lips and whistled. He said: "The clever little devil! Oh, well, there’s no fool like an old fool." "That’s how it strikes you, is it?" "Well—what else can one say? If the old boy wanted to adopt someone, why didn’t he pick upon a girl of his own class?" "Ruby Keene never mentioned the matter to you?" "No, she didn’t. I knew she was elated about something, but I didn’t know what it was." "And Josie?"

Agatha Christie Poirot’s Early Cases The Affair at the Victory Ball I Pure chance led my friend Hercule Poirot, formerly chief of the Belgian force, to be connected with the Styles Case. His success brought him notoriety, and he decided to devote himself to the solving of problems in crime. Having been wounded on the Somme and invalided out of the Army, I finally took up my quarters with him in London. Since I have a first-hand knowledge of most of his cases, it has been suggested to me that I select some of the most interesting and place them on record. In doing so, I feel that I cannot do better than begin with that strange tangle which aroused such widespread public interest at the time. I refer to the affair at the Victory Ball. Although perhaps it is not so fully demonstrative of Poirot’s peculiar methods as some of the more obscure cases, its sensational features, the well-known people involved, and the tremendous publicity given it by the Press, make it stand out as a cause célèbre and I have long felt that it is only fitting that Poirot’s connection with the solution should be given to the world. It was a fine morning in spring, and we were sitting in Poirot’s rooms. My little friend, neat and dapper as ever, his egg-shaped head tilted on one side, was delicately applying a new pomade to his moustache. A certain harmless vanity was a characteristic of Poirot’s and fell into line with his general love of order and method. The Daily Newsmonger, which I had been reading, had slipped to the floor, and I was deep in a brown study when Poirot’s voice recalled me. "Of what are you thinking so deeply, mon ami?" "To tell you the truth," I replied, "I was puzzling over this unaccountable affair at the Victory Ball. The papers are full of it." I tapped the sheet with my finger as I spoke. "Yes?" "The more one reads of it, the more shrouded in mystery the whole thing becomes!" I warmed to my subject. "Who killed Lord Cronshaw? Was Coco Courtenay’s death on the same night a mere coincidence? Was it an accident? Or did she deliberately take an overdose of cocaine?" I stopped, and then added dramatically: "These are the questions I ask myself." Poirot, somewhat to my annoyance, did not play up. He was peering into the glass, and merely murmured: "Decidedly, this new pomade, it is a marvel for the moustaches!" Catching my eye, however, he added hastily: "Quite so—and how do you reply to your questions?" But before I could answer, the door opened, and our landlady announced Inspector Japp. The Scotland Yard man was an old friend of ours and we greeted him warmly. "Ah, my good Japp," cried Poirot, "and what brings you to see us?" "Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Japp, seating himself and nodding to me, "I’m on a case that strikes me as being very much in your line, and I came along to know whether you’d care to have a finger in the pie?" Poirot had a good opinion of Japp’s abilities, though deploring his lamentable lack of method, but I, for my part, considered that the detective’s highest talent lay in the gentle art of seeking favours under the guise of conferring them! "It’s the Victory Ball," said Japp persuasively. "Come, now, you’d like to have a hand in that." Poirot smiled at me. "My friend Hastings would, at all events. He was just holding forth on the subject, n’est-ce pas, mon ami?" "Well, sir," said Japp condescendingly, "you shall be in it too. I can tell you, it’s something of a feather in your cap to have inside knowledge of a case like this. Well, here’s to business. You know the main facts of the case, I suppose, Monsieur Poirot?" "From the papers only—and the imagination of the journalist is sometimes misleading. Recount the whole story to me." Japp crossed his legs comfortably and began. "As all the world and his wife knows, on Tuesday last a grand Victory Ball was held.

The police, they know me very well. I assist the police! Without me the police never would they have made the arrest of a very dangerous criminal. I risked my life because I am brave—brave like a lion—I do not care about risks." "Mitzi," they say to me, "you are a heroine, you are superb." "Ach, it is nothing, I say."’" Julia stopped. "And a great deal more," she added. "I think," said Edmund thoughtfully, "that soon Mitzi will have assisted the police in not one but hundreds of cases!" "She’s softened towards me," said Phillipa. "She actually presented me with the recipe for Delicious Death as a kind of wedding present. She added that I was on no account to divulge the secret to Julia, because Julia had ruined her omelette pan." "Mrs. Lucas," said Edmund, "is all over Phillipa now that since Belle Goedler’s death Phillipa and Julia have inherited the Goedler millions. She sent us some silver asparagus tongs as a wedding present. I shall have enormous pleasure in not asking her to the wedding!" "And so they lived happily ever after," said Patrick. "Edmund and Phillipa—and Julia and Patrick?" he added tentatively. "Not with me, you won’t live happily ever after," said Julia. "The remarks that Inspector Craddock improvised to address to Edmund apply far more aptly to you. You are the sort of soft young man who would like a rich wife. Nothing doing!" "There’s gratitude for you," said Patrick. "After all I did for that girl." "Nearly landed me in prison on a murder charge—that’s what your forgetfulness nearly did for me," said Julia. "I shall never forget that evening when your sister’s letter came. I really thought I was for it. I couldn’t see any way out." "As it is," she added musingly, "I think I shall go on the stage." "What? You, too?" groaned Patrick. "Yes. I might go to Perth. See if I can get your Julia’s place in the Rep there. Then, when I’ve learnt my job, I shall go into theatre management—and put on Edmund’s plays, perhaps." "I thought you wrote novels," said Julian Harmon. "Well, so did I," said Edmund. "I began writing a novel. Rather good it was. Pages about an unshaven man getting out of bed and what he smelt like, and the grey streets, and a horrible old woman with dropsy and a vicious young tart who dribbled down her chin—and they all talked interminably about the state of the world and wondered what they were alive for. And suddenly I began to wonder too … And then a rather comic idea occurred to me … and I jotted it down—and then I worked up rather a good little scene … All very obvious stuff. But somehow, I got interested … And before I knew what I was doing I’d finished a roaring farce in three acts." "What’s it called?" asked Patrick. "What the Butler Saw?" "Well, it easily might be … As a matter of I’ve called it Elephants Do Forget. What’s more, it’s been accepted and it’s going to be produced!" "Elephants Do Forget," murmured Bunch. "I thought they didn’t?" The Rev. Julian Harmon gave a guilty start. "My goodness. I’ve been so interested. My sermon!" "Detective stories again," said Bunch. "Real-life ones this time." "You might preach on Thou Shall Do No Murder," suggested Patrick. "No," said Julian Harmon quietly. "I shan’t take that as my text." "No," said Bunch. "You’re quite right, Julian. I know a much nicer text, a happy text." She quoted in a fresh voice, "For lo the Spring is here and the Voice of the Turtle is heard in the Land—I haven’t got it quite right—but you know the one I mean. Though why a turtle I can’t think. I shouldn’t think turtles have got nice voices at all." "The word turtle," explained the Rev. Julian Harmon, "is not very happily translated. It doesn’t mean a reptile but the turtle dove. The Hebrew word in the original is—" Bunch interrupted him by giving him a hug and saying: "I know one thing—You think that the Ahasuerus of the Bible is Artaxerxes the Second, but between you and me it was Artaxerxes the Third."

It was, she supposed, the effect of her own sadness and preoccupation. They all loved her dearly, as she knew. Then, too, they were all at difficult ages – Barbara at school still, Averil a gawky and suspicious eighteen. Tony spent most of his time on a neighbouring farm. Annoying that he should have got this silly idea about farming into his head, and very weak of Rodney to have encouraged him. Oh, dear, Joan had thought, it seems too hard that I should always have to do all the unpleasant things. When there are such nice girls at Miss Harley’s, I really cannot think why Barbara has to make friends with such undesirable specimens. I shall have to make it quite plain to her that she can only bring girls here that I approve of. And then I suppose there will be another row and tears and sulks. Averil, of course, is no help to me, and I do hate that funny sneering way she has of talking. It sounds so badly to outside people. Yes, thought Joan, bringing up children was a thankless and difficult business. One didn’t really get enough appreciation for it. The tact one had to use, and the good humour. Knowing exactly when to be firm and when to give way. Nobody really knows, thought Joan, what I had to go through that time when Rodney was ill. Then she winced slightly – for the thought brought up a memory of a remark uttered caustically by Dr McQueen to the effect that during every conversation, sooner or later somebody says, "Nobody knows what I went through at that time!" Everybody had laughed and said that it was quite true. Well, thought Joan, wriggling her toes uneasily in her shoes because of the sand that had got in, it’s perfectly true. Nobody does know what I went through at that time, not even Rodney. For when Rodney had come back, in the general relief, everything had swung back to normal, and the children had been their own cheerful, amiable selves again. Harmony had been restored. Which showed, Joan thought, that the whole thing had really been due to anxiety. Anxiety had made her lose her own poise. Anxiety had made the children nervous and bad tempered. A very upsetting time altogether and why she had got to select those particular incidents to think about now – when what she wanted was happy memories and not depressing ones – she really couldn’t imagine. It had all started – what had it started from? Of course – trying to remember poetry. Though really could anything be more ridiculous, thought Joan, than to walk about in a desert spouting poetry! Not that it mattered since there wasn’t anybody to see or hear. There wasn’t anybody – no, she adjured herself, no, you must not give way to panic. This is all silliness, sheer nerves … She turned quickly and began to walk back towards the rest house. She found that she was forcing herself not to break into a run. There was nothing to be afraid of in being alone – nothing at all. Perhaps she was one of those people who suffered from – now, what was the word? Not claustrophobia, that was the terror of confined spaces – the thing that was the opposite of that. It began with an A. The fear of open spaces. The whole thing could be explained scientifically. But explaining it scientifically, though reassuring, didn’t at the moment actually help. Easy to say to yourself that the whole thing was perfectly logical and reasonable, but not so easy to control the curious odds and ends of thoughts that popped in and out of your head for all the world like lizards popping out of holes. Myrna Randolph, she thought, like a snake – these other things like lizards. Open spaces – and all her life she’d lived in a box. Yes, a box with toy children and toy servants and a toy husband. No, Joan, what are you saying – how can you be so silly? Your children are real enough. The children were real, and so were Cook and Agnes, and so was Rodney. Then perhaps, thought Joan, I’m not real. Perhaps I’m just a toy wife and mother. Oh dear, this was dreadful. Quite incoherent she was getting. Perhaps if she said some more poetry. She must be able to remember something. And aloud, with disproportionate fervour, she exclaimed: " From you have I been absent in the Spring." She couldn’t remember how it went on. She didn’t seem to want to.

A frayed dressing gown cord they said it was as caused it. Of course, his clothes were always something awful—old-fashioned and put on anyhow, and all tattered, and yet he had a kind of air, all the same, as though he was somebody! Oh, we get all sorts of interesting customers here." She moved off. Hercule Poirot ate his filleted sole. His eyes showed a green light. "It is odd," he said to himself, "how the cleverest people slip over details. Bonnington will be interested." But the time had not yet come for leisurely discussion with Bonnington. Armed with introductions from a certain influential quarter, Hercule Poirot found no difficulty at all in dealing with the coroner for the district. "A curious figure, the deceased man Gascoigne," he observed. "A lonely, eccentric old fellow. But his decease seems to arouse an unusual amount of attention?" He looked with some curiosity at his visitor as he spoke. Hercule Poirot chose his words carefully. "There are circumstances connected with it, Monsieur, which make investigation desirable." "Well, how can I help you?" "It is, I believe, within your province to order documents produced in your court to be destroyed, or to be impounded—as you think fit. A certain letter was found in the pocket of Henry Gascoigne’s dressing gown, was it not?" "That is so." "A letter from his nephew, Dr. George Lorrimer?" "Quite correct. The letter was produced at the inquest as helping to fix the time of death." "Which was corroborated by the medical evidence?" "Exactly." "Is that letter still available?" Hercule Poirot waited rather anxiously for the reply. When he heard that the letter was still available for examination he drew a sigh of relief. When it was finally produced he studied it with some care. It was written in a slightly cramped handwriting with a stylographic pen. It ran as follows: Dear Uncle Henry, I am sorry to tell you that I have had no success as regards Uncle Anthony. He showed no enthusiasm for a visit from you and would give me no reply to your request that he would let bygones be bygones. He is, of course, extremely ill, and his mind is inclined to wander. I should fancy that the end is very near. He seemed hardly to remember who you were. I am sorry to have failed you, but I can assure you that I did my best. Your affectionate nephew, GEORGE LORRIMER The letter itself was dated 3rd November. Poirot glanced at the envelope’s postmark—4:30 p.m. 3 Nov. He murmured: "It is beautifully in order, is it not?" Kingston Hill was his next objective. After a little trouble, with the exercise of good-humoured pertinacity, he obtained an interview with Amelia Hill, cook-housekeeper to the late Anthony Gascoigne. Mrs. Hill was inclined to be stiff and suspicious at first, but the charming geniality of this strange-looking foreigner would have had its effect on a stone. Mrs. Amelia Hill began to unbend. She found herself, as had so many other women before her, pouring out her troubles to a really sympathetic listener. For fourteen years she had had charge of Mr. Gascoigne’s household—not an easy job! No, indeed! Many a woman would have quailed under the burdens she had had to bear! Eccentric the poor gentleman was and no denying it. Remarkably close with his money—a kind of mania with him it was—and he as rich a gentleman as might be! But Mrs. Hill had served him faithfully, and put up with his ways, and naturally she’d expected at any rate a remembrance. But no—nothing at all! Just an old will that left all his money to his wife and if she predeceased him then everything to his brother, Henry. A will made years ago. It didn’t seem fair! Gradually Hercule Poirot detached her from her main theme of unsatisfied cupidity. It was indeed a heartless injustice! Mrs. Hill could not be blamed for feeling hurt and surprised. It was well known that Mr. Gascoigne was tightfisted about money. It had even been said that the dead man had refused his only brother assistance. Mrs. Hill probably knew all about that. "Was it that that Dr. Lorrimer came to see him about?" asked Mrs.

Never think of yourself disparagingly, Miss Carnaby. You may be what is termed an untrained woman but there is nothing wrong with your brains or with your courage." Miss Carnaby said with a faint smile: "And yet I have been found out, M. Poirot." "Only by me. That was inevitable! When I had interviewed Mrs. Samuelson I realized that the kidnapping of Shan Tung was one of a series. I had already learned that you had once been left a Pekinese dog and had an invalid sister. I had only to ask my invaluable servant to look for a small flat within a certain radius occupied by an invalid lady who had a Pekinese dog and a sister who visited her once a week on her day out. It was simple." Amy Carnaby drew herself up. She said: "You have been very kind. It emboldens me to ask you a favour. I cannot, I know, escape the penalty for what I have done. I shall be sent to prison, I suppose. But if you could, M. Poirot, avert some of the publicity. So distressing for Emily—and for those few who knew us in the old days. I could not, I suppose, go to prison under a false name? Or is that a very wrong thing to ask?" Hercule Poirot said: "I think I can do more than that. But first of all I must make one thing quite clear. This ramp has got to stop. There must be no more disappearing dogs. All that is finished!" "Yes! Oh yes!" "And the money you extracted from Lady Hoggin must be returned." Amy Carnaby crossed the room, opened the drawer of a bureau and returned with a packet of notes which she handed to Poirot. "I was going to pay it into the pool today." Poirot took the notes and counted them. He got up. "I think it possible, Miss Carnaby, that I may be able to persuade Sir Joseph not to prosecute." "Oh, M. Poirot!" Amy Carnaby clasped her hands. Emily gave a cry of joy. Augustus barked and wagged his tail. "As for you, mon ami," said Poirot addressing him. "There is one thing that I wish you would give me. It is your mantle of invisibility that I need. In all these cases nobody for a moment suspected that there was a second dog involved. Augustus possessed the lion’s skin of invisibility." "Of course, M. Poirot, according to the legend, Pekinese were lions once. And they still have the hearts of lions!" "Augustus is, I suppose, the dog that was left to you by Lady Hartingfield and who is reported to have died? Were you never afraid of him coming home alone through the traffic?" "Oh no, M. Poirot, Augustus is very clever about traffic. I have trained him most carefully. He has even grasped the principle of One Way Streets." "In that case," said Hercule Poirot, "he is superior to most human beings!" VIII Sir Joseph received Hercule Poirot in his study. He said: "Well, Mr. Poirot? Made your boast good?" "Let me first ask you a question," said Poirot as he seated himself. "I know who the criminal is and I think it possible that I can produce sufficient evidence to convict this person. But in that case I doubt if you will ever recover your money." "Not get back my money?" Sir Joseph turned purple. Hercule Poirot went on: "But I am not a policeman. I am acting in this case solely in your interests. I could, I think, recover your money intact, if no proceedings were taken." "Eh?" said Sir Joseph. "That needs a bit of thinking about." "It is entirely for you to decide. Strictly speaking, I suppose you ought to prosecute in the public interest. Most people would say so." "I dare say they would," said Sir Joseph sharply. "It wouldn’t be their money that had gone west. If there’s one thing I hate it’s to be swindled. Nobody’s ever swindled me and got away with it." "Well then, what do you decide?" Sir Joseph hit the table with his fist. "I’ll have the brass! Nobody’s going to say they got away with two hundred pounds of my money."

"Thank you, M. MacQueen. One further question—when did you last see M. Ratchett alive?" "Last evening about"—he thought for a minute—"ten o’clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some memoranda from him." "On what subject?" "Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia. What was delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject." "And that was the last time M. Ratchett was seen alive?" "Yes, I suppose so." "Do you know when M. Ratchett received the last threatening letter?" "On the morning of the day we left Constantinople." "There is one more question I must ask you, M. MacQueen: were you on good terms with your employer?" The young man’s eyes twinkled suddenly. "This is where I’m supposed to go all goosefleshy down the back. In the words of a best seller, "You’ve nothing on me." Ratchett and I were on perfectly good terms." "Perhaps, M. MacQueen, you will give me your full name and your address in America." MacQueen gave his name—Hector Willard MacQueen, and an address in New York. Poirot leaned back against the cushions. "That is all for the present, M. MacQueen," he said. "I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of M. Ratchett’s death to yourself for a little time." "His valet, Masterman, will have to know." "He probably knows already," said Poirot dryly. "If so try to get him to hold his tongue." "That oughtn’t to be difficult. He’s a Britisher, and does what he calls "Keeps himself to himself." He’s a low opinion of Americans and no opinion at all of any other nationality." "Thank you, M. MacQueen." The American left the carriage. "Well?" demanded M. Bouc. "You believe what he says, this young man?" "He seems honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any affection for his employer as he probably would have done had he been involved in any way. It is true M. Ratchett did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy M. Ratchett was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion." "So you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime," said M. Bouc jovially. Poirot cast on him a look of reproach. "Me, I suspect everybody till the last minute," he said. "All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed MacQueen losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fourteen times. It is not in accord with his psychology—not at all." "No," said Mr. Bouc thoughtfully. "That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate—it suggests more the Latin temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de train insisted, a woman." Seven THE BODY Followed by Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way to the next coach and the compartment occupied by the murdered man. The conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his key. The two men passed inside. Poirot turned inquiringly to his companion. "How much has been disarranged in this compartment?" "Nothing has been touched. I was careful not to move the body in making my examination." Poirot nodded. He looked round him. The first thing that struck the senses was the intense cold. The window was pushed down as far as it would go and the blind was drawn up. "Brrr," observed Poirot. The other smiled appreciatively. "I did not like to close it," he said. Poirot examined the window carefully. "You are right," he announced. "Nobody left the carriage this way. Possibly the open window was intended to suggest the fact, but, if so, the snow has defeated the murderer’s object." He examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a small case from his pocket he blew a little powder over it. "No fingerprints at all," he said. "That means it has been wiped. Well, if there had been fingerprints it would have told us very little. They would have been those of M. Ratchett or his valet or the conductor. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays.

It wasn’t, really. Even Dr. Penrose says he wasn’t the right type, and that he couldn’t have murdered anybody. And Dr. Kennedy was quite sure he hadn’t done it, but only thought he had. So you see it was someone who wanted it to seem as though my father had done it, and we think we know who—at least it’s one of two people—" "Gwenda," said Giles. "We can’t really—" "I wonder, Mr. Reed," said the Inspector, "if you would mind going out into the garden and seeing how my men are getting on. Tell them I sent you." He closed the french windows after Giles and latched them and came back to Gwenda. "Now just tell me all your ideas, Mrs. Reed. Never mind if they are rather incoherent." And Gwenda had poured out all her and Giles’s speculations and reasonings, and the steps they had taken to find out all they could about the three men who might have figured in Helen Halliday’s life, and the final conclusions they had come to—and how both Walter Fane and J. J. Afflick had been rung up, as though by Giles, and had been summoned to Hillside the preceding afternoon. "But you do see, don’t you, Inspector—that one of them might be lying?" And in a gentle, rather tired voice, the Inspector said: "That’s one of the principal difficulties in my kind of work. So many people may be lying. And so many people usually are … Though not always for the reasons that you’d think. And some people don’t even know they’re lying." "Do you think I’m like that?" Gwenda asked apprehensively. And the Inspector had smiled and said: "I think you’re a very truthful witness, Mrs. Reed." "And you think I’m right about who murdered her?" The Inspector sighed and said: "It’s not a question of thinking—not with us. It’s a question of checking up. Where everybody was, what account everybody gives of their movements. We know accurately enough, to within ten minutes or so, when Lily Kimble was killed. Between two twenty and two forty-five. Anyone could have killed her and then come on here yesterday afternoon. I don’t see, myself, any reason for those telephone calls. It doesn’t give either of the people you mention an alibi for the time of the murder." "But you will find out, won’t you, what they were doing at the time? Between two twenty and two forty-five. You will ask them." Inspector Primer smiled. "We shall ask all the questions necessary, Mrs. Reed, you may be sure of that. All in good time. There’s no good in rushing things. You’ve got to see your way ahead." Gwenda had a sudden vision of patience and quiet unsensational work. Unhurried, remorseless…. She said: "I see … yes. Because you’re professional. And Giles and I are just amateurs. We might make a lucky hit—but we wouldn’t really know how to follow it up." "Something of the kind, Mrs. Reed." The Inspector smiled again. He got up and unfastened the french windows. Then, just as he was about to step through them, he stopped. Rather, Gwenda thought, like a pointing dog. "Excuse me, Mrs. Reed. That lady wouldn’t be a Miss Jane Marple, would she?" Gwenda had come to stand beside him. At the bottom of the garden Miss Marple was still waging a losing war with bindweed. "Yes, that’s Miss Marple. She’s awfully kind in helping us with the garden." "Miss Marple," said the Inspector. "I see." And as Gwenda looked at him enquiringly and said, "She’s rather a dear," he replied: "She’s a very celebrated lady, is Miss Marple. Got the Chief Constables of at least three counties in her pocket. She’s not got my Chief yet, but I dare say that will come. So Miss Marple’s got her finger in this pie." "She’s made an awful lot of helpful suggestions," said Gwenda. "I bet she has," said the Inspector. "Was it her suggestion where to look for the deceased Mrs. Halliday?" "She said that Giles and I ought to know quite well where to look," said Gwenda. "And it did seem stupid of us not to have thought of it before."

"Technically, yes." "More than technically. I knew that he had taken his dose. I heard when Shirley called to me." "Did you know that a double dose would kill him?" "I knew that it might." She added deliberately: "I hoped that it would." "I see." Llewellyn’s manner was quiet, unemotional. "He was incurable, wasn’t he? I mean, he would definitely have been a cripple for life." "It was not a mercy killing, if that is what you mean." "What happened about it?" "I took full responsibility. I was not blamed. The question arose as to whether it might have been suicide – that is, whether Henry might have deliberately told me that he had not had his dose in order to get a second one. The tablets were never left within his reach, owing to his extravagant fits of despair and rage." "What did you say to that suggestion?" "I said that I did not think that it was likely. Henry would never have thought of such a thing. He would have gone on living for years – years, with Shirley waiting on him and enduring his selfishness and bad temper, sacrificing all her life to him. I wanted her to be happy, to have her life and live it. She’d met Richard Wilding not long before. They’d fallen in love with each other." "Yes, she told me." "She might have left Henry in the ordinary course of events. But a Henry ill, crippled, dependent upon her – that Henry she would never leave. Even if she no longer cared for him, she would never have left him. Shirley was loyal, she was the most loyal person I’ve ever known. Oh, can’t you see? I couldn’t bear her whole life to be wasted, ruined. I didn’t care what they did to me." "But actually they didn’t do anything to you." "No. Sometimes – I wish they had." "Yes, I daresay you do feel like that. But there’s nothing really they could do. Even if it wasn’t a mistake, if the doctor suspected some merciful impulse in your heart, or even an unmerciful one, he would know that there was no case, and he wouldn’t be anxious to make one. If there had been any suspicion of Shirley having done it, it would have been a different matter." "There was never any question of that. A maid actually heard Henry say to me that he hadn’t had his tablets and ask me to give them to him." "Yes, it was all made easy for you – very easy." He looked up at her. "How do you feel about it now?" "I wanted Shirley to be free to –" "Leave Shirley out of it. This is between you and Henry. How do you feel about Henry? That it was all for the best?" " No." "Thank God for that." "Henry didn’t want to die. I killed him." "Do you regret?" "If you mean – would I do it again? – yes." "Without remorse?" "Remorse? Oh yes. It was a wicked thing to do. I know that. I’ve lived with it ever since. I can’t forget." "Hence the Foundation for Sub-Normal Children? Good works? A course of duty, stern duty. It’s your way of making amends." "It’s all I can do." "Is it any use?" "What do you mean? It’s worth while." "I’m not talking of its use to others. Does it help you?" "I don’t know …" "It’s punishment you want, isn’t it?" "I want, I suppose, to make amends." "To whom? Henry? But Henry’s dead. And from all I’ve heard, there’s nothing that Henry would care less about than sub-normal children. You must face it, Laura, you can’t make amends." She stood motionless for a moment, like one stricken. Then she flung back her head, the colour rose in her cheeks. She looked at him defiantly, and his heart leapt in sudden admiration. "That’s true," she said. "I’ve been trying, perhaps, to dodge that. You’ve shown me that I can’t. I told you I didn’t believe in God, but I do, really. I know that what I’ve done was evil. I think I believe, in my heart of hearts, that I shall be damned for it. Unless I repent – and I don’t repent. I did what I did with my eyes open.

She has had a letter which upsets her greatly." "He found his wife with the letter in her hand. She held it out to him. ""Read it," she said. "George read it. It was on heavily scented paper, and the writing was big and black. " I have seen the future. Be warned before it is too late. Beware of the Full Moon. The Blue Primrose means Warning; the Blue Hollyhock means Danger; the Blue Geranium means Death . . . "Just about to burst out laughing, George caught Nurse Copling’s eye. She made a quick warning gesture. He said rather awkwardly, "The woman’s probably trying to frighten you, Mary. Anyway there aren’t such things as blue primroses and blue geraniums." "But Mrs Pritchard began to cry and say her days were numbered. Nurse Copling came out with George upon the landing. ""Of all the silly tomfoolery," he burst out. ""I suppose it is." "Something in the nurse’s tone struck him, and he stared at her in amazement. ""Surely, nurse, you don’t believe –" ""No, no, Mr Pritchard. I don’t believe in reading the future – that’s nonsense. What puzzles me is the meaning of this. Fortune-tellers are usually out for what they can get. But this woman seems to be frightening Mrs Pritchard with no advantage to herself. I can’t see the point. There’s another thing –" ""Yes?" ""Mrs Pritchard says that something about Zarida was faintly familiar to her." ""Well?" ""Well, I don’t like it, Mr Pritchard, that’s all." ""I didn’t know you were so superstitious, nurse." ""I’m not superstitious; but I know when a thing is fishy." "It was about four days after this that the first incident happened. To explain it to you, I shall have to describe Mrs Pritchard’s room –" "You’d better let me do that," interrupted Mrs Bantry. "It was papered with one of those new wallpapers where you apply clumps of flowers to make a kind of herbaceous border. The effect is almost like being in a garden – though, of course, the flowers are all wrong. I mean they simply couldn’t be in bloom all at the same time –" "Don’t let a passion for horticultural accuracy run away with you, Dolly," said her husband. "We all know you’re an enthusiastic gardener." "Well, it is absurd," protested Mrs Bantry. "To have bluebells and daffodils and lupins and hollyhocks and Michaelmas daisies all grouped together." "Most unscientific," said Sir Henry. "But to proceed with the story." "Well, among these massed flowers were primroses, clumps of yellow and pink primroses and – oh go on, Arthur, this is your story –" Colonel Bantry took up the tale. "Mrs Pritchard rang her bell violently one morning. The household came running – thought she was in extremis; not at all. She was violently excited and pointing at the wallpaper; and there sure enough was one blue primrose in the midst of the others . . ." "Oh!" said Miss Helier, "how creepy!" "The question was: Hadn’t the blue primrose always been there? That was George’s suggestion and the nurse’s. But Mrs Pritchard wouldn’t have it at any price. She had never noticed it till that very morning and the night before had been full moon. She was very upset about it." "I met George Pritchard that same day and he told me about it," said Mrs Bantry. "I went to see Mrs Pritchard and did my best to ridicule the whole thing; but without success. I came away really concerned, and I remember I met Jean Instow and told her about it. Jean is a queer girl. She said, "So she’s really upset about it?" I told her that I thought the woman was perfectly capable of dying of fright – she was really abnormally superstitious. "I remember Jean rather startled me with what she said next. She said, "Well, that might be all for the best, mightn’t it?" And she said it so coolly, in so matter-of-fact a tone that I was really – well, shocked.

Why should the rich employer kill the humble companion? It’s so much more likely to be the other way about. I mean – that’s the way things happen." "Is it?" said Sir Henry. "You shock me." "But of course," went on Miss Marple, "she would have to wear Miss Barton’s clothes, and they would probably be a little tight on her, so that her general appearance would look as though she had got a little fatter. That’s why I asked that question. A gentleman would be sure to think it was the lady who had got fatter, and not the clothes that had got smaller – though that isn’t quite the right way of putting it." "But if Amy Durrant killed Miss Barton, what did she gain by it?" asked Mrs Bantry. "She couldn’t keep up the deception for ever." "She only kept it up for another month or so," pointed out Miss Marple. "And during that time I expect she travelled, keeping away from anyone who might know her. That’s what I meant by saying that one lady of a certain age looks so like another. I don’t suppose the different photograph on her passport was ever noticed – you know what passports are. And then in March, she went down to this Cornish place and began to act queerly and draw attention to herself so that when people found her clothes on the beach and read her last letter they shouldn’t think of the commonsense conclusion." "Which was?" asked Sir Henry. "No body ," said Miss Marple firmly. "That’s the thing that would stare you in the face, if there weren’t such a lot of red herrings to draw you off the trail – including the suggestion of foul play and remorse. No body. That was the real significant fact." "Do you mean –" said Mrs Bantry – "do you mean that there wasn’t any remorse? That there wasn’t – that she didn’t drown herself?" "Not she!" said Miss Marple. "It’s just Mrs Trout over again. Mrs Trout was very good at red herrings, but she met her match in me. And I can see through your remorse-driven Miss Barton. Drown herself? Went off to Australia, if I’m any good at guessing." "You are, Miss Marple," said Dr Lloyd. "Undoubtedly you are. Now it again took me quite by surprise. Why, you could have knocked me down with a feather that day in Melbourne." "Was that what you spoke of as a final coincidence?" Dr Lloyd nodded. "Yes, it was rather rough luck on Miss Barton – or Miss Amy Durrant – whatever you like to call her. I became a ship’s doctor for a while, and landing in Melbourne, the first person I saw as I walked down the street was the lady I thought had been drowned in Cornwall. She saw the game was up as far as I was concerned, and she did the bold thing – took me into her confidence. A curious woman, completely lacking, I suppose, in some moral sense. She was the eldest of a family of nine, all wretchedly poor. They had applied once for help to their rich cousin in England and been repulsed, Miss Barton having quarrelled with their father. Money was wanted desperately, for the three youngest children were delicate and wanted expensive medical treatment. Amy Barton then and there seems to have decided on her plan of cold-blooded murder. She set out for England, working her passage over as a children’s nurse. She obtained the situation of companion to Miss Barton, calling herself Amy Durrant. She engaged a room and put some furniture into it so as to create more of a personality for herself. The drowning plan was a sudden inspiration. She had been waiting for some opportunity to present itself. Then she staged the final scene of the drama and returned to Australia, and in due time she and her brothers and sisters inherited Miss Barton’s money as next of kin." "A very bold and perfect crime," said Sir Henry. "Almost the perfect crime. If it had been Miss Barton who had died in the Canaries, suspicion might attach to Amy Durrant and her connection with the Barton family might have been discovered; but the change of identity and the double crime, as you may call it, effectually did away with that. Yes, almost the perfect crime." "What happened to her?" asked Mrs Bantry. "What did you do in the matter, Dr Lloyd?" "I was in a very curious position, Mrs Bantry.

A nasty fellow if I ever saw one! The sort of fellow who would skin his grandmother. And all glossed over with this superficial charm of manner. He was talking now – telling a story of his own discomfiture and making everybody laugh with his rueful appreciation of a joke at his expense. If Allerton was X, I decided, his crimes had been committed for profit in some way. It was true that Poirot had not definitely said that X was a man. I considered Miss Cole as a possibility. Her movements were restless and jerky – obviously a woman of nerves. Handsome in a hag-ridden kind of way. Still, she looked normal enough. She, Mrs Luttrell and Judith were the only women at the dinner table. Mrs Franklin was having dinner upstairs in her room, and the nurse who attended to her had her meals after us. After dinner I was standing by the drawing-room window looking out into the garden and thinking back to the time when I had seen Cynthia Murdoch, a young girl with auburn hair, run across that lawn. How charming she had looked in her white overall . . . Lost in thoughts of the past, I started when Judith passed her arm through mine and led me with her out of the window on to the terrace. She said abruptly: "What’s the matter?" I was startled. "The matter? What do you mean?" "You’ve been so queer all through the evening. Why were you staring at everyone at dinner?" I was annoyed. I had had no idea I had allowed my thoughts so much sway over me. "Was I? I suppose I was thinking of the past. Seeing ghosts perhaps." "Oh, yes, of course you stayed here, didn’t you, when you were a young man? An old lady was murdered here, or something?" "Poisoned with strychnine." "What was she like? Nice or nasty?" I considered the question. "She was a very kind woman," I said slowly. "Generous. Gave a lot to charity." "Oh, that kind of generosity." Judith’s voice sounded faintly scornful. Then she asked a curious question: "Were people – happy here?" No, they had not been happy. That, at least, I knew. I said slowly: "No." "Why not?" "Because they felt like prisoners. Mrs Inglethorp, you see, had all the money – and – doled it out. Her stepchildren could have no life of their own." I heard Judith take a sharp breath. The hand on my arm tightened. "That’s wicked – wicked. An abuse of power. It shouldn’t be allowed. Old people, sick people, they shouldn’t have the power to hold up the lives of the young and strong. To keep them tied down, fretting, wasting their power and energy that could be used – that’s needed. It’s just selfishness." "The old," I said drily, "have not got a monopoly of that quality." "Oh, I know, Father, you think the young are selfish. So we are, perhaps, but it’s a clean selfishness. At least we only want to do what we want ourselves, we don’t want everybody else to do what we want, we don’t want to make slaves of other people." "No, you just trample them down if they happen to be in your way." Judith squeezed my arm. She said: "Don’t be so bitter! I don’t really do much trampling – and you’ve never tried to dictate our lives to any of us. We are grateful for that." "I’m afraid," I said honestly, "that I’d have liked to, though. It was your mother who insisted you should be allowed to make your own mistakes." Judith gave my arm another quick squeeze. She said: "I know. You’d have liked to fuss over us like a hen! I do hate fuss. I won’t stand it. But you do agree with me, don’t you, about useful lives being sacrificed to useless ones?" "It does sometimes happen," I admitted. "But there’s no need for drastic measures . . . It’s up to anybody just to walk out, you know." "Yes, but is it? Is it?" Her tone was so vehement that I looked at her in some astonishment. It was too dark to see her face clearly.

She had been dead at least an hour—probably longer. The following were the points made. There was another door in Mrs. Rhodes’s room leading into the corridor. This door was locked and bolted on the inside. The only window in the room was closed and latched. According to Mr. Rhodes nobody had passed through the room in which he was sitting except a chambermaid bringing hot-water bottles. The weapon found in the wound was a stiletto dagger which had been lying on Mrs. Rhodes’s dressing table. She was in the habit of using it as a paper knife. There were no fingerprints on it. The situation boiled down to this—no one but Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid had entered the victim’s room. I enquired about the chambermaid. "That was our first line of enquiry," said Mr. Petherick. "Mary Hill is a local woman. She had been chambermaid at the Crown for ten years. There seems absolutely no reason why she should commit a sudden assault on a guest. She is, in any case, extraordinarily stupid, almost half-witted. Her story has never varied. She brought Mrs. Rhodes her hot-water bottle and says the lady was drowsy—just dropping off to sleep. Frankly, I cannot believe, and I am sure no jury would believe, that she committed the crime." Mr. Petherick went on to mention a few additional details. At the head of the staircase in the Crown Hotel is a kind of miniature lounge where people sometimes sit and have coffee. A passage goes off to the right and the last door in it is the door into the room occupied by Mr. Rhodes. The passage then turns sharply to the right again and the first door round the corner is the door into Mrs. Rhodes’s room. As it happened, both these doors could be seen by witnesses. The first door—that into Mr. Rhodes’s room, which I will call A, could be seen by four people, two commercial travellers and an elderly married couple who were having coffee. According to them nobody went in or out of door A except Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid. As to the other door in the passage B, there was an electrician at work there and he also swears that nobody entered or left door B except the chambermaid. It was certainly a very curious and interesting case. On the face of it, it looked as though Mr. Rhodes must have murdered his wife. But I could see that Mr. Petherick was quite convinced of his client’s innocence and Mr. Petherick was a very shrewd man. At the inquest Mr. Rhodes had told a hesitating and rambling story about some woman who had written threatening letters to his wife. His story, I gathered, had been unconvincing in the extreme. Appealed to by Mr. Petherick, he explained himself. "Frankly," he said, "I never believed it. I thought Amy had made most of it up." Mrs. Rhodes, I gathered, was one of those romantic liars who go through life embroidering everything that happens to them. The amount of adventures that, according to her own account, happened to her in a year was simply incredible. If she slipped on a bit of banana peel it was a case of near escape from death. If a lampshade caught fire she was rescued from a burning building at the hazard of her life. Her husband got into the habit of discounting her statements. Her tale as to some woman whose child she had injured in a motor accident and who had vowed vengeance on her—well—Mr. Rhodes had simply not taken any notice of it. The incident had happened before he married his wife and although she had read him letters couched in crazy language, he had suspected her of composing them herself. She had actually done such a thing once or twice before. She was a woman of hysterical tendencies who craved ceaselessly for excitement. Now, all that seemed to me very natural—indeed, we have a young woman in the village who does much the same thing. The danger with such people is that when anything at all extraordinary really does happen to them, nobody believes they are speaking the truth. It seemed to me that that was what had happened in this case. The police, I gathered, merely believed that Mr.

"Good morning, Mr. Burton, I hear you went to London yesterday." Yes, she had heard all right. Her eyes were, I thought, kindly, but full of curiosity, too. "I went to see my doctor," I said. Miss Emily smiled. That smile made little of Marcus Kent. She murmured: "I hear Megan nearly missed the train. She jumped in when it was going." "Helped by me," I said. "I hauled her in." "How lucky you were there. Otherwise there might have been an accident." It is extraordinary how much of a fool one gentle inquisitive old maiden lady can make a man feel! I was saved further suffering by the onslaught of Mrs. Dane Calthrop. She had her own tame elderly maiden lady in tow, but she herself was full of direct speech. "Good morning," she said. "I heard you’ve made Megan buy herself some decent clothes? Very sensible of you. It takes a man to think of something really practical like that. I’ve been worried about that girl for a long time. Girls with brains are so liable to turn into morons, aren’t they?" With which remarkable statement, she shot into the fish shop. Miss Marple, left standing by me, twinkled a little and said: "Mrs. Dane Calthrop is a very remarkable woman, you know. She’s nearly always right." "It makes her rather alarming," I said. "Sincerity has that effect," said Miss Marple. Mrs. Dane Calthrop shot out of the fish shop again and rejoined us. She was holding a large red lobster. "Have you ever seen anything so unlike Mr. Pye?" she said—"very virile and handsome, isn’t it?" IV I was a little nervous of meeting Joanna but I found when I got home that I needn’t have worried. She was out and she did not return for lunch. This aggrieved Partridge a good deal, who said sourly as she proffered two loin chops in an entrée dish: "Miss Burton said specially as she was going to be in." I ate both chops in an attempt to atone for Joanna’s lapse. All the same, I wondered where my sister was. She had taken to be very mysterious about her doings of late. It was half past three when Joanna burst into the drawing room. I had heard a car stop outside and I half expected to see Griffith, but the car drove on and Joanna came in alone. Her face was very red and she seemed upset. I perceived that something had happened. "What’s the matter?" I asked. Joanna opened her mouth, closed it again, sighed, plumped herself down in a chair and stared in front of her. She said: "I’ve had the most awful day." "What’s happened?" "I’ve done the most incredible thing. It was awful—" "But what—" "I just started out for a walk, an ordinary walk—I went up over the hill and on to the moor. I walked miles—I felt like it. Then I dropped down into a hollow. There’s a farm there—A God-forsaken lonely sort of spot. I was thirsty and I wondered if they’d got any milk or something. So I wandered into the farmyard and then the door opened and Owen came out." "Yes?" "He thought it might be the district nurse. There was a woman in there having a baby. He was expecting the nurse and he’d sent word to her to get hold of another doctor. It—things were going wrong." "Yes?" "So he said—to me. "Come on, you’ll do—better than nobody." I said I couldn’t, and he said what did I mean? I said I’d never done anything like that, that I didn’t know anything— "He said what the hell did that matter? And then he was awful. He turned on me. He said, "You’re a woman, aren’t you? I suppose you can do your durnedest to help another woman?" And he went on at me—said I’d talked as though I was interested in doctoring and had said I wished I was a nurse. "All pretty talk, I suppose! You didn’t mean anything real by it, but this is real and you’re going to behave like a decent human being and not like a useless ornamental nitwit!" "I’ve done the most incredible things, Jerry. Held instruments and boiled them and handed things.

I have been working backwards. Here—" he picked up the volume that he had laid on the arm of his chair when I entered, "—here, my dear Colin, is The Leavenworth Case." He handed the book to me. "That’s going back quite a long time," I said. "I believe my father mentioned that he read it as a boy. I believe I once read it myself. It must seem rather old-fashioned now." "It is admirable," said Poirot. "One savours its period atmosphere, its studied and deliberate melodrama. Those rich and lavish descriptions of the golden beauty of Eleanor, the moonlight beauty of Mary!" "I must read it again," I said. "I’d forgotten the parts about the beautiful girls." "And there is the maidservant, Hannah, so true to type, and the murderer, an excellent psychological study." I perceived that I had let myself in for a lecture. I composed myself to listen. "Then we will take the Adventures of Arsene Lupin," Poirot went on. "How fantastic, how unreal. And yet what vitality there is in them, what vigour, what life! They are preposterous, but they have panache. There is humour, too." He laid down the Adventures of Arsene Lupin and picked up another book. "And there is The Mystery of the Yellow Room. That—ah, that is really a classic! I approve of it from start to finish. Such a logical approach! There were criticisms of it, I remember, which said that it was unfair. But it is not unfair, my dear Colin. No, no. Very nearly so, perhaps, but not quite. There is the hair’s breadth of difference. No. All through there is truth, concealed with a careful and cunning use of words. Everything should be clear at that supreme moment when the men meet at the angle of three corridors." He laid it down reverently. "Definitely a masterpiece, and, I gather, almost forgotten nowadays." Poirot skipped twenty years or so, to approach the works of somewhat later authors. "I have read also," he said, "some of the early works of Mrs. Ariadne Oliver. She is by way of being a friend of mine, and of yours, I think. I do not wholly approve of her works, mind you. The happenings in them are highly improbable. The long arm of coincidence is far too freely employed. And, being young at the time, she was foolish enough to make her detective a Finn, and it is clear that she knows nothing about Finns or Finland except possibly the works of Sibelius. Still, she has an original habit of mind, she makes an occasional shrewd deduction, and of later years she has learnt a good deal about things which she did not know before. Police procedure for instance. She is also now a little more reliable on the subject of firearms. What was even more needed, she has possibly acquired a solicitor or a barrister friend who has put her right on certain points of the law." He laid aside Mrs. Ariadne Oliver and picked up another book. "Now here is Mr. Cyril Quain. Ah, he is a master, Mr. Quain, of the alibi." "He’s a deadly dull writer if I remember rightly," I said. "It is true," said Poirot, "that nothing particularly thrilling happens in his books. There is a corpse, of course. Occasionally more than one. But the whole point is always the alibi, the railway timetable, the bus routes, the plans of the cross-country roads. I confess I enjoy this intricate, this elaborate use of the alibi. I enjoy trying to catch Mr. Cyril Quain out." "And I suppose you always succeed," I said. Poirot was honest. "Not always," he admitted. "No, not always. Of course, after a time one realizes that one book of his is almost exactly like another. The alibis resemble each other every time, even though they are not exactly the same. You know, mon cher Colin, I imagine this Cyril Quain sitting in his room, smoking his pipe as he is represented to do in his photographs, sitting there with around him the A.B.C.s, the continental Bradshaws, the airline brochures, the timetables of every kind. Even the movements of liners.

And it would be a great convenience—yes, and it would be strategically satisfactory—if I could meet them here." "I’m afraid," said Helen slowly, "that that would be too difficult—" "Not so difficult as you think. Already I have devised a means. The house, it is sold. So Mr. Entwhistle will declare. (Entendu, sometimes these things fall through!) He will invite the various members of the family to assemble here and to choose what they will from the furnishings before it is all put up to auction. A suitable weekend can be selected for that purpose." He paused and then said: "You see, it is easy, is it not?" Helen looked at him. The blue eyes were cold—almost frosty. "Are you laying a trap for someone, M. Poirot?" "Alas! I wish I knew enough. No, I have still the open mind. "There may," Hercule Poirot added thoughtfully, "be certain tests…." "Tests? What kind of tests?" "I have not yet formulated them to myself. And in any case, Madame, it would be better that you should not know them." "So that I can be tested too?" "You, Madame, have been taken behind the scenes. Now there is one thing that is doubtful. The young people will, I think, come readily. But it may be difficult, may it not, to secure the presence here of Mr. Timothy Abernethie. I hear that he never leaves home." Helen smiled suddenly. "I believe you may be lucky there, M. Poirot. I heard from Maude yesterday. The workmen are in painting the house and Timothy is suffering terribly from the smell of the paint. He says that it is seriously affecting his health. I think that he and Maude would both be pleased to come here—perhaps for a week or two. Maude is still not able to get about very well—you know she broke her ankle?" "I had not heard. How unfortunate." "Luckily they have got Cora’s companion, Miss Gilchrist. It seems that she has turned out a perfect treasure." "What is that?" Poirot turned sharply on Helen. "Did they ask for Miss Gilchrist to go to them? Who suggested it?" "I think Susan fixed it up. Susan Banks." "Aha," said Poirot in a curious voice. "So it was the little Susan who suggested it. She is fond of making the arrangements." "Susan struck me as being a very competent girl." "Yes. She is competent. Did you hear that Miss Gilchrist had a narrow escape from death with a piece of poisoned wedding cake?" "No!" Helen looked startled. "I do remember now that Maude said over the telephone that Miss Gilchrist had just come out of hospital but I’d no idea why she had been in hospital. Poisoned? But, M. Poirot—why—" "Do you really ask that?" Helen said with sudden vehemence: "Oh! get them all here! Find out the truth! There mustn’t be any more murders." "So you will cooperate?" "Yes— I will cooperate." Fifteen I "That linoleum does look nice, Mrs. Jones. What a hand you have with lino. The teapot’s on the kitchen table, so go and help yourself. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve taken up Mr. Abernethie’s elevenses." Miss Gilchrist trotted up the staircase, carrying a daintily set out tray. She tapped on Timothy’s door, interpreted a growl from within as an invitation to enter, and tripped briskly in. "Morning coffee and biscuits, Mr. Abernethie. I do hope you’re feeling brighter today. Such a lovely day." Timothy grunted and said suspiciously: "Is there skim on that milk?" "Oh no, Mr. Abernethie. I took it off very carefully, and anyway I’ve brought up the little strainer in case it should form again. Some people like it, you know, they say it’s the cream—and so it is really." "Idiots!" said Timothy. "What kind of biscuits are those?" "They’re those nice digestive biscuits." "Digestive tripe. Ginger-nuts are the only biscuits worth eating." "I’m afraid the grocer hadn’t got any this week. But these are really very nice. You try them and see." "I know what they’re like, thank you.

He went into basements, and stoked boilers. When the flying-bombs went over here, he used to turn green—really green. It made Eustace and me laugh a lot." What I would have said next I do not know, for at that moment a car drew up outside. In a flash Josephine was at the window, her snub nose pressed to the pane. "Who is it?" I asked. "It’s Mr. Gaitskill, grandfather’s lawyer. I expect he’s come about the will." Breathing excitedly, she hurried from the room, doubtless to resume her sleuthing activities. Magda Leonides came into the room, and to my surprise came across to me and took my hands in hers. "My dear," she said, "thank goodness you’re still here. One needs a man so badly." She dropped my hands, crossed to a high-backed chair, altered its position a little, glanced at herself in a mirror, then, picking up a small Battersea enamel box from a table, she stood pensively opening and shutting it. It was an attractive pose. Sophia put her head in at the door and said in an admonitory whisper, "Gaitskill!" "I know," said Magda. A few moments later Sophia entered the room, accompanied by a small elderly man, and Magda put down her enamel box and came forward to meet him. "Good morning, Mrs. Philip. I’m on my way upstairs. It seems there’s some misunderstanding about the will. Your husband wrote to me with the impression that the will was in my keeping. I understood from Mr. Leonides himself that it was at his vault. You don’t know anything about it, I suppose?" "About poor Sweetie’s will?" Magda opened astonished eyes. "No, of course not. Don’t tell me that wicked woman upstairs has destroyed it?" "Now, Mrs. Philip,"—he shook an admonitory finger at her—"no wild surmises. It’s just a question of where your father-in-law kept it." "But he sent it to you—surely he did—after signing it. He actually told us he had." "The police, I understand, have been through Mr. Leonides" private papers," said Mr. Gaitskill. "I’ll just have a word with Chief-Inspector Taverner." He left the room. "Darling," cried Magda. "She has destroyed it. I know I’m right." "Nonsense, Mother, she wouldn’t do a stupid thing like that." "It wouldn’t be stupid at all. If there’s no will she’ll get everything." "Ssh—here’s Gaitskill back again." The lawyer reentered the room. Chief-Inspector Taverner was with him and behind Taverner came Philip. "I understood from Mr. Leonides," Gaitskill was saying, "that he had placed his will with the Bank for safe keeping." Taverner shook his head. "I’ve been in communication with the Bank. They have no private papers belonging to Mr. Leonides beyond certain securities which they held for him." Philip said: "I wonder if Roger—or Aunt Edith … Perhaps, Sophia, you’d ask them to come down here." But Roger Leonides, summoned with the others to the conclave, could give no assistance. "But it’s nonsense—absolute nonsense," he declared. "Father signed the will and said distinctly that he was posting it to Mr. Gaitskill on the following day." "If my memory serves me," said Mr. Gaitskill, leaning back and half-closing his eyes, "it was on November 24th of last year that I forwarded a draft drawn up according to Mr. Leonides" instructions. He approved the draft, returned it to me, and in due course I sent him the will for signature. After a lapse of a week, I ventured to remind him that I had not yet received the will duly signed and attested, and asking him if here was anything he wished altered. He replied that he was perfectly satisfied, and added that after signing the will he had sent it to his bank." "That’s quite right," said Roger eagerly. "It was about the end of November last year—you remember, Philip? Father had us all up one evening and read the will to us." Taverner turned towards Philip Leonides. "That agrees with your recollection, Mr. Leonides?" "Yes," said Philip. "It was rather like the Voysey Inheritance," said Magda. She sighed pleasurably.

Already you were feeling the illness which has since overtaken you, and you stayed in the house one day when the others went on an all day excursion on the river. There was a ring at the door and you went to it and you saw—shall I tell you what you saw? You saw a young man who was as simple as a child and as handsome as a god! And you invented for him a girl—not Juanita—but Incognita—and for a few hours you walked with him in Arcady. . . ." There was a long pause. Then Katrina said in a low hoarse voice: "In one thing at least I have told you the truth. I have given you the right end to the story. Nita will die young." "Ah non!" Hercule Poirot was transformed. He struck his hand on the table. He was suddenly prosaic, mundane, practical. He said: "It is quite unnecessary! You need not die. You can fight for your life, can you not, as well as another?" She shook her head—sadly, hopelessly— "What life is there for me?" "Not the life of the stage, bien entendu! But think, there is another life. Come now, Mademoiselle, be honest, was your father really a Prince or a Grand Duke, or even a General?" She laughed suddenly. She said: "He drove a lorry in Leningrad!" "Very good! And why should you not be the wife of a garage hand in a country village? And have children as beautiful as gods, and with feet, perhaps, that will dance as you once danced." Katrina caught her breath. "But the whole idea is fantastic!" "Nevertheless," said Hercule Poirot with great self-satisfaction, "I believe it is going to come true!" Forty-two THE ERYMANTHIAN BOAR "The Erymanthian Boar" was first published in The Strand, February 1940. The accomplishment of the third Labor of Hercules having brought him to Switzerland, Hercule Poirot decided that being there, he might take advantage of the fact and visit certain places which were up to now unknown to him. He passed an agreeable couple of days at Chamonix, lingered a day or two at Montreux and then went on to Andermatt, a spot which he had heard various friends praise highly. Andermatt, however, affected him unpleasantly. It was at the end of a valley with towering snow-peaked mountains shutting it in. He felt, unreasonably, that it was difficult to breathe. "Impossible to remain here," said Hercule Poirot to himself. It was at that moment that he caught sight of a funicular railway. "Decidedly, I must mount." The funicular, he discovered, ascended first to Les Avines, then to Caurouchet and finally to Rochers Neiges, ten thousand feet above sea level. Poirot did not propose mounting as high as all that. Les Avines, he thought, would be quite sufficiently his affair. But here he reckoned without that element of chance which plays so large a part in life. The funicular had started when the conductor approached Poirot and demanded his ticket. After he had inspected it and punched it with a fearsome pair of clippers, he returned it with a bow. At the same time Poirot felt a small wad of paper pressed into his hand with the ticket. The eyebrows of Hercule Poirot rose a little on his forehead. Presently, unostentatiously, without hurrying himself, he smoothed out the wad of paper. It proved to be a hurriedly scribbled note written in pencil. Impossible (it ran) to mistake those moustaches! I salute you, my dear colleague. If you are willing, you can be of great assistance to me. You have doubtless read of the affaire Salley? The killer—Marrascaud—is believed to have a rendezvous with some members of his gang at Rochers Neiges—of all places in the world! Of course the whole thing may be a blague—but our information is reliable—there is always someone who squeals, is there not? So keep your eyes open, my friend. Get in touch with Inspector Drouet who is on the spot. He is a sound man—but he cannot pretend to the brilliance of Hercule Poirot. It is important, my friend, that Marrascaud should be taken—and taken alive.

All unwittingly her words, spoken at random, touched him on the raw. A cul-de-sac. Yes, but there was always a way out – the way you had come – the way back into the world . . . Something impetuous and youthful stirred in him. Her simple trust appealed to the best side of his nature – and the condition of her problem appealed to something else – the innate criminologist in him. He wanted to see these people of whom she spoke. He wanted to form his own judgement. He said: "If you are really convinced I can be of any use . . . Mind, I guarantee nothing." He expected her to be overwhelmed with delight, but she took it very calmly. "I knew you would do it. I’ve always thought of you as a real friend. Will you come back with me now?" "No. I think if I pay you a visit tomorrow it will be more satisfactory. Will you give me the name and address of Miss Crabtree’s lawyer? I may want to ask him a few questions." She wrote it down and handed it to him. Then she got up and said rather shyly: "I – I’m really most awfully grateful. Goodbye." "And your own address?" "How stupid of me. 18 Palatine Walk, Chelsea." It was three o’clock on the following afternoon when Sir Edward Palliser approached 18 Palatine Walk with a sober, measured tread. In the interval he had found out several things. He had paid a visit that morning to Scotland Yard, where the Assistant Commissioner was an old friend of his, and he had also had an interview with the late Miss Crabtree’s lawyer. As a result he had a clearer vision of the circumstances. Miss Crabtree’s arrangements in regard to money had been somewhat peculiar. She never made use of a cheque-book. Instead she was in the habit of writing to her lawyer and asking him to have a certain sum in five-pound notes waiting for her. It was nearly always the same sum. Three hundred pounds four times a year. She came to fetch it herself in a four-wheeler which she regarded as the only safe means of conveyance. At other times she never left the house. At Scotland Yard Sir Edward learned that the question of finance had been gone into very carefully. Miss Crabtree had been almost due for her next instalment of money. Presumably the previous three hundred had been spent – or almost spent. But this was exactly the point that had not been easy to ascertain. By checking the household expenditure, it was soon evident that Miss Crabtree’s expenditure per quarter fell a good deal short of three hundred pounds. On the other hand she was in the habit of sending five-pound notes away to needy friends or relatives. Whether there had been much or little money in the house at the time of her death was a debatable point. None had been found. It was this particular point which Sir Edward was revolving in his mind as he approached Palatine Walk. The door of the house (which was a non-basement one) was opened to him by a small elderly woman with an alert gaze. He was shown into a big double room on the left of the small hallway and there Magdalen came to him. More clearly than before, he saw the traces of nervous strain in her face. "You told me to ask questions, and I have come to do so," said Sir Edward, smiling as he shook hands. "First of all I want to know who last saw your aunt and exactly what time that was?" "It was after tea – five o’clock. Martha was the last person with her. She had been paying the books that afternoon, and brought Aunt Lily the change and the accounts." "You trust Martha?" "Oh, absolutely. She was with Aunt Lily for – oh! thirty years, I suppose. She’s honest as the day." Sir Edward nodded. "Another question. Why did your cousin, Mrs Crabtree, take a headache powder?" "Well, because she had a headache." "Naturally, but was there any particular reason why she should have a headache?" "Well, yes, in a way. There was rather a scene at lunch. Emily is very excitable and highly strung. She and Aunt Lily used to have rows sometimes." "And they had one at lunch?" "Yes. Aunt Lily was rather trying about little things.

Without you I should be lost. I desire a little information from the good Mr. Hammond." "You are acting on behalf of Captain Ralph Paton, I understand," said the lawyer cautiously. Poirot shook his head. "Not so. I am acting in the interests of justice. Miss Ackroyd has asked me to investigate the death of her uncle." Mr. Hammond seemed slightly taken aback. "I cannot seriously believe that Captain Paton can be concerned in this crime," he said, "however strong the circumstantial evidence against him may be. The mere fact that he was hard pressed for money—" "Was he hard pressed for money?" interpolated Poirot quickly. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "It was a chronic condition with Ralph Paton," he said drily. "Money went through his hands like water. He was always applying to his stepfather." "Had he done so of late? During the last year, for instance?" "I cannot say. Mr. Ackroyd did not mention the fact to me." "I comprehend. Mr. Hammond, I take it that you are acquainted with the provisions of Mr. Ackroyd’s will?" "Certainly. That is my principal business here today." "Then, seeing that I am acting for Miss Ackroyd, you will not object to telling me the terms of that will?" "They are quite simple. Shorn of legal phraseology, and after paying certain legacies and bequests—" "Such as—?" interrupted Poirot. Mr. Hammond seemed a little surprised. "A thousand pounds to his housekeeper, Miss Russell; fifty pounds to the cook, Emma Cooper; five hundred pounds to his secretary, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond. Then to various hospitals—" Poirot held up his hand. "Ah! the charitable bequests, they interest me not." "Quite so. The income on ten thousand pounds" worth of shares to be paid to Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd during her lifetime. Miss Flora Ackroyd inherits twenty thousand pounds outright. The residue—including this property, and the shares in Ackroyd and Son—to his adopted son, Ralph Paton." "Mr. Ackroyd possessed a large fortune?" "A very large fortune. Captain Paton will be an exceedingly wealthy young man." There was a silence. Poirot and the lawyer looked at each other. "Mr. Hammond," came Mrs. Ackroyd’s voice plaintively from the fireplace. The lawyer answered the summons. Poirot took my arm and drew me right into the window. "Regard the irises," he remarked in a rather loud voice. "Magnificent, are they not? A straight and pleasing effect." At the same time I felt the pressure of his hand on my arm, and he added in a low tone: "Do you really wish to aid me? To take part in this investigation?" "Yes, indeed," I said eagerly. "There’s nothing I should like better. You don’t know what a dull old fogey’s life I lead. Never anything out of the ordinary." "Good, we will be colleagues then. In a minute or two I fancy Major Blunt will join us. He is not happy with the good mamma. Now there are some things I want to know—but I do not wish to seem to want to know them. You comprehend? So it will be your part to ask the questions." "What questions do you want me to ask?" I asked apprehensively. "I want you to introduce the name of Mrs. Ferrars." "Yes?" "Speak of her in a natural fashion. Ask him if he was down here when her husband died. You understand the kind of thing I mean. And while he replies, watch his face without seeming to watch it. C’est compris?" There was no time for more, for at that minute, as Poirot had prophesied, Blunt left the others in his abrupt fashion and came over to us. I suggested strolling on the terrace, and he acquiesced. Poirot stayed behind. I stopped to examine a late rose. "How things change in the course of a day or two," I observed. "I was up here last Wednesday, I remember, walking up and down this same terrace. Ackroyd was with me—full of spirits. And now—three days later—Ackroyd’s dead, poor fellow. Mrs. Ferrars dead—you knew her, didn’t you? But of course you did." Blunt nodded his head.

Then we might add: "No reasonable offer refused’—like flats and furniture." "I should think any offer we get in answer to that would be a pretty unreasonable one!" "Tommy! You’re a genius! That’s ever so much more chic. "No unreasonable offer refused—if pay is good." How’s that?" "I shouldn’t mention pay again. It looks rather eager." "It couldn’t look as eager as I feel! But perhaps you are right. Now I’ll read it straight through. "Two young adventurers for hire. Willing to do anything, go anywhere. Pay must be good. No unreasonable offer refused." How would that strike you if you read it?" "It would strike me as either being a hoax, or else written by a lunatic." "It’s not half so insane as a thing I read this morning beginning "Petunia" and signed "Best Boy." " She tore out the leaf and handed it to Tommy. "There you are. The Times, I think. Reply to Box so-and-so. I expect it will be about five shillings. Here’s half a crown for my share." Tommy was holding the paper thoughtfully. His face burned a deeper red. "Shall we really try it?" he said at last. "Shall we, Tuppence? Just for the fun of the thing?" "Tommy, you’re a sport! I knew you would be! Let’s drink to success." She poured some cold dregs of tea into the two cups. "Here’s to our joint venture, and may it prosper!" "The Young Adventurers, Ltd.!" responded Tommy. They put down the cups and laughed rather uncertainly. Tuppence rose. "I must return to my palatial suite at the hostel." "Perhaps it is time I strolled round to the Ritz," agreed Tommy with a grin. "Where shall we meet? And when?" "Twelve o’clock tomorrow. Piccadilly Tube station. Will that suit you?" "My time is my own," replied Mr. Beresford magnificently. "So long, then." "Good-bye, old thing." The two young people went off in opposite directions. Tuppence’s hostel was situated in what was charitably called Southern Belgravia. For reasons of economy she did not take a bus. She was halfway across St. James’s Park, when a man’s voice behind her made her start. "Excuse me," it said. "But may I speak to you for a moment?" Two MR. WHITTINGTON’S OFFER Tuppence turned sharply, but the words hovering on the tip of her tongue remained unspoken for the man’s appearance and manner did not bear out her first and most natural assumption. She hesitated. As if he read her thoughts, the man said quickly: "I can assure you I mean no disrespect." Tuppence believed him. Although she disliked and distrusted him instinctively, she was inclined to acquit him of the particular motive which she had at first attributed to him. She looked him up and down. He was a big man, clean-shaven, with a heavy jowl. His eyes were small and cunning, and shifted their glance under her direct gaze. "Well, what is it?" she asked. The man smiled. "I happened to overhear part of your conversation with the young gentleman in Lyons’." "Well—what of it?" "Nothing—except that I think I may be of some use to you." Another inference forced itself into Tuppence’s mind. "You followed me here?" "I took that liberty." "And in what way do you think you could be of use to me?" The man took a card from his pocket and handed it to her with a bow. Tuppence took it and scrutinized it carefully. It bore the inscription "Mr. Edward Whittington." Below the name were the words "Esthonia Glassware Co.," and the address of a city office. Mr. Whittington spoke again: "If you will call upon me tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock, I will lay the details of my proposition before you." "At eleven o’clock?" said Tuppence doubtfully. "At eleven o’clock." Tuppence made up her mind. "Very well. I’ll be there." "Thank you. Good evening." He raised his hat with a flourish, and walked away. Tuppence remained for some minutes gazing after him. Then she gave a curious movement of her shoulders, rather as a terrier shakes himself.

Old Lear was pretty awful, wasn’t he? I mean, he did deserve the snub Cordelia gave him." "I can see," I said, "that we are going to have many interesting discussions about Shakespeare." "I can see you two are going to be very highbrow," said Joanna. "I’m afraid I always find Shakespeare terribly dreary. All those long scenes where everybody is drunk and it’s supposed to be funny." "Talking of drink," I said turning to Megan. "How are you feeling?" "Quite all right, thank you." "Not at all giddy? You don’t see two of Joanna or anything like that?" "No. I just feel as though I’d like to talk rather a lot." "Splendid," I said. "Obviously you are one of our natural drinkers. That is to say, if that really was your first cocktail." "Oh, it was." "A good strong head is an asset to any human being," I said. Joanna took Megan upstairs to unpack. Partridge came in, looking sour, and said she had made two cup custards for lunch and what should she do about it? Six I The inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and, as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets were wagging. The time of Mrs. Symmington’s death was put at between three and four o’clock. She was alone in the house, Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walking and Megan had gone for a bicycle ride. The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it—and then in a state of agitation she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps" nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated words, "I can’t go on…." Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington’s nervous condition and poor stamina. The coroner was suave and discreet. He spoke with bitter condemnation of people who write those despicable things, anonymous letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guilty of murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such a dastardly and malicious piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, the jury brought in the inevitable verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane. The coroner had done his best—Owen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, I heard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, "No smoke without fire, that’s what I say!" "Must ’a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn’t never have done it otherwise…." Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women. II It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological order. The next landmark of importance, of course, was Superintendent Nash’s visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of the community, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities of the people involved. Aimée Griffith came on the morning after the inquest. She was looking, as always, radiant with health and vigour and succeeded, also as usual, in putting my back up almost immediately. Joanna and Megan were out, so I did the honours. "Good morning," said Miss Griffith. "I hear you’ve got Megan Hunter here?" "We have." "Very good of you, I’m sure. It must be rather a nuisance to you. I came up to say she can come to us if you like. I dare say I can find ways of making her useful about the house." I looked at Aimée Griffith with a good deal of distaste. "How kind of you," I said. "But we like having her. She potters about quite happily." "I dare say. Much too fond of pottering, that child. Still, I suppose she can’t help it, being practically half-witted." "I think she’s rather an intelligent girl," I said. Aimée Griffith gave me a hard stare.

Ring them up. Tell them I’m dead." Isobel looked at him thoughtfully for a moment or two, and then went out. She understood the art of living with a genius very thoroughly. She went to the telephone and made some plausible excuse. She looked round her, yawning a little. Then she sat down at her desk and began to write. "Dear Jane, Many thanks for your cheque received today. You are good to your godchild. A hundred pounds will do all sorts of things. Children are a terrible expense. You are so fond of Winnie that I felt I was not doing wrong in coming to you for help. Alan, like all geniuses, can only work at what he wants to work at—and unfortunately that doesn’t always keep the pot boiling. Hope to see you soon. Yours, Isobel" When The Connoisseur was finished, some months later, Alan invited Jane to come and see it. The thing was not quite as he had conceived it—that was impossible to hope for—but it was near enough. He felt the glow of the creator. He had made this thing and it was good. Jane did not this time tell him it was splendid. The colour crept into her cheeks and her lips parted. She looked at Alan, and he saw in her eyes that which he wished to see. Jane knew. He walked on air. He had shown Jane! The picture off his mind, he began to notice his immediate surroundings once more. Winnie had benefited enormously from her fortnight at the seaside, but it struck him that her clothes were very shabby. He said so to Isobel. "Alan! You who never notice anything! But I like children to be simply dressed—I hate them all fussed up." "There’s a difference between simplicity and darns and patches." Isobel said nothing, but she got Winnie a new frock. Two days later Alan was struggling with income tax returns. His own passbook lay in front of him. He was hunting through Isobel’s desk for hers when Winnie danced into the room with a disreputable doll. "Daddy, I’ve got a riddle. Can you guess it? "Within a wall as white as milk, within a curtain soft as silk, bathed in a sea of crystal clear, a golden apple doth appear." Guess what that is?" "Your mother," said Alan absently. He was still hunting. "Daddy!" Winnie gave a scream of laughter. "It’s an egg. Why did you think it was mummy?" Alan smiled too. "I wasn’t really listening," he said. "And the words sounded like mummy, somehow." A wall as white as milk. A curtain. Crystal. The golden apple. Yes, it did suggest Isobel to him. Curious things, words. He had found the passbook now. He ordered Winnie peremptorily from the room. Ten minutes later he looked up, startled by a sharp exclamation. "Alan!" "Hullo, Isobel. I didn’t hear you come in. Look here, I can’t make out these items in your passbook." "What business had you to touch my passbook?" He stared at her, astonished. She was angry. He had never seen her angry before. "I had no idea you would mind." "I do mind—very much indeed. You have no business to touch my things." Alan suddenly became angry too. "I apologize. But since I have touched your things, perhaps you will explain one or two entries that puzzle me. As far as I can see, nearly five hundred pounds has been paid into your account this year which I cannot check. Where does it come from?" Isobel had recovered her temper. She sank into a chair. "You needn’t be so solemn about it, Alan," she said lightly. "It isn’t the wages of sin, or anything like that." "Where did this money come from?" "From a woman. A friend of yours. It’s not mine at all. It’s for Winnie." "Winnie? Do you mean—this money came from Jane?" Isobel nodded. "She’s devoted to the child—can’t do enough for her." "Yes, but—surely the money ought to have been invested for Winnie." "Oh! it isn’t that sort of thing at all. It’s for current expenses, clothes and all that." Alan said nothing. He was thinking of Winnie’s frocks—all darns and patches.

"You don’t say so," said George. An uneasy feeling arose in his own breast. He hurried into his room. Whatever plans he was forming were instantly brushed aside by a most unexpected sight. There on the dressing table was the little packet which had been stolen from him the night before! George picked it up and examined it. Yes, it was undoubtedly the same. But the seals had been broken. After a minute’s hesitation, he unwrapped it. If other people had seen its contents, there was no reason why he should not see them also. Besides, it was possible that the contents had been abstracted. The unwound paper revealed a small cardboard box, such as jewellers use. George opened it. Inside, nestling on a bed of cotton wool, was a plain gold wedding ring. He picked it up and examined it. There was no inscription inside - nothing whatever to mark it out from any other wedding ring. George dropped his head into his hands with a groan. "Lunacy," he murmured. "That’s what it is. Stark, staring lunacy. There’s no sense anywhere." Suddenly he remembered the chambermaid’s statement, and at the same time he observed that there was a broad parapet outside the window. It was not a feat he would ordinarily have attempted, but he was so aflame with curiosity and anger that he was in the mood to make light of difficulties. He sprang upon the window sill. A few seconds later he was peering in at the window of the room occupied by the blackbearded man. The window was open and the room was empty. A little farther along was a fire escape. It was clear how the quarry had taken his departure. George jumped in through the window. The missing man’s effects were still scattered about. There might be some clue among them to shed light on George’s perplexities. He began to hunt about, starting with the contents of a battered kit bag. It was a sound that arrested his search - a very slight sound, but a sound indubitably in the room. George’s glance leapt to the big wardrobe. He sprang up and wrenched open the door. As he did so, a man jumped out from it and went rolling over the floor locked in George’s embrace. He was no mean antagonist. All George’s special tricks availed very little. They fell apart at length in sheer exhaustion, and for the first time George saw who his adversary was. It was the little man with the ginger moustache! "Who the devil are you?" demanded George. For answer the other drew out a card and handed it to him. George read it aloud. "Detective-Inspector Jarrold, Scotland Yard." "That’s right, sir. And you’d do well to tell me all you know about this business." "I would, would I?" said George thoughtfully. "Do you know, inspector, I believe you’re right. Shall we adjourn to a more cheerful spot?" In a quiet corner of the bar George unfolded his soul. Inspector Jarrold listened sympathetically. "Very puzzling, as you say, sir," he remarked when George had finished. "There’s a lot as I can’t make head or tail of myself, but there’s one or two points I can clear up for you. I was here after Mardenberg (your black-bearded friend) and your turning up and watching him the way you did made me suspicious. I couldn’t place you. I slipped into your room last night when you were out of it, and it was I who sneaked the little packet from under your pillow. When I opened it and found it wasn’t what I was after, I took the first opportunity of returning it to your room." "That makes things a little clearer certainly," said George thoughtfully. "I seem to have made rather an ass of myself all through." "I wouldn’t say that, sir. You did uncommon well for a beginner. You say you visited the bathroom this morning and took away what was concealed behind the skirting board?" "Yes. But it’s only a rotten love letter," said George gloomily. "Dash it all, I didn’t mean to go nosing out the poor fellow’s private life." "Would you mind letting me see it, sir?" George took a folded letter from his pocket and passed it to the inspector. The latter unfolded it. "As you say, sir.

She is glad I am going to die! Yes, she gloats over it. She who is well and strong. Look at her, never a day’s illness, that one! And all for nothing. What good is that great carcass of hers to her? What can she make of it?" "Felicie stooped and picked up the broken fragments of glass. " "I do not mind what she says," she observed in a singsong voice. "What does it matter? I am a respectable girl, I am. As for her. She will be knowing the fires of Purgatory before very long. I am a Christian, I say nothing." " "You hate me," cried Annette. "You have always hated me. Ah! but I can charm you, all the same. I can make you do what I want. See now, if I ask you to, you would go down on your knees before me now on the grass." " "You are absurd," said Felicie uneasily. " "But, yes, you will do it. You will. To please me. Down on your knees. I ask it of you, I, Annette. Down on your knees, Felicie." "Whether it was the wonderful pleading in the voice, or some deeper motive, Felicie obeyed. She sank slowly to her knees, her arms spread wide, her face vacant and stupid. "Annette flung her head back and laughed—peal upon peal of laughter. " "Look at her, with her stupid face! How ridiculous she looks. You can get up now, Felicie, thank you! It is of no use to scowl at me. I am your mistress. You have to do what I say." "She lay back on her pillows exhausted. Felicie picked up the tray and moved slowly away. Once she looked back over her shoulder, and the smouldering resentment in her eyes startled me. "I was not there when Annette died. But it was terrible, it seems. She clung to life. She fought against death like a madwoman. Again and again she gasped out: "I will not die—do you hear me? I will not die. I will live—live—" "Miss Slater told me all this when I came to see her six months later. " "My poor Raoul," she said kindly. "You loved her, did you not?" " "Always—always. But of what use could I be to her? Let us not talk of it. She is dead—she so brilliant, so full of burning life . . ." "Miss Slater was a sympathetic woman. She went on to talk of other things. She was very worried about Felicie, so she told me. The girl had had a queer sort of nervous breakdown, and ever since she had been very strange in manner. " "You know," said Miss Slater, after a momentary hesitation, "that she is learning the piano?" "I did not know it, and was very much surprised to hear it. Felicie—learning the piano! I would have declared the girl would not know one note from another. " "She has talent, they say," continued Miss Slater. "I can’t understand it. I have always put her down as—well, Raoul, you know yourself, she was always a stupid girl." "I nodded. " "She is so strange in her manner sometimes—I really don’t know what to make of it." "A few minutes later I entered the Salle de Lecture. Felicie was playing the piano. She was playing the air that I had heard Annette sing in Paris. You understand, Messieurs, it gave me quite a turn. And then, hearing me, she broke off suddenly and looked round at me, her eyes full of mockery and intelligence. For a moment I thought—Well, I will not tell you what I thought. " "Tiens!" she said. "So it is you—Monsieur Raoul." "I cannot describe the way she said it. To Annette I had never ceased to be Raoul. But Felicie, since we had met as grown-ups, always addressed me as Monsieur Raoul. But the way she said it now was different—as though the Monsieur, slightly stressed, was somehow very amusing. " "Why, Felicie," I stammered. "You look quite different today." " "Do I?" she said reflectively. "It is odd, that.

Copleigh’s wilder suppositions as to child murderers— "Sir Philip Starke comes in as a very valuable source of information," said Ivor Smith. "He’s the biggest landowner in these parts—and in other parts of England as well." "In Cumberland?" Ivor Smith looked at Tuppence sharply. "Cumberland? Why do you mention Cumberland? What do you know about Cumberland, Mrs. Tommy?" "Nothing," said Tuppence. "For some reason or other it just came into my head." She frowned and looked perplexed. "And a red and white striped rose on the side of a house—one of those old-fashioned roses." She shook her head. "Does Sir Philip Starke own the Canal House?" "He owns the land—He owns most of the land hereabouts." "Yes, he said so last night." "Through him, we’ve learned a good deal about leases and tenancies that have been cleverly obscured through legal complexities—" "Those house agents I went to see in the Market Square—Is there something phony about them, or did I imagine it?" "You didn’t imagine it. We’re going to pay them a visit this morning. We are going to ask some rather awkward questions." "Good," said Tuppence. "We’re doing quite nicely. We’ve cleared up the big post office robbery of 1965, and the Albury Cross robberies, and the Irish Mail train business. We’ve found some of the loot. Clever places they manufactured in these houses. A new bath installed in one, a service flat made in another—a couple of its rooms a little smaller than they ought to have been thereby providing for an interesting recess. Oh yes, we’ve found out a great deal." "But what about the people?" said Tuppence. "I mean the people who thought of it, or ran it—apart from Mr. Eccles, I mean. There must have been others who knew something." "Oh yes. There were a couple of men—one who ran a night club, conveniently just off the M1. Happy Hamish they used to call him. Slippery as an eel. And a woman they called Killer Kate—but that was a long time ago—one of our more interesting criminals. A beautiful girl, but her mental balance was doubtful. They eased her out—she might have become a danger to them. They were a strictly business concern—in it for loot—not for murder." "And was the Canal House one of their hideaway places?" "At one time, Ladymead, they called it then. It’s had a lot of different names in its time." "Just to make things more difficult, I suppose," said Tuppence. "Ladymead. I wonder if that ties up with some particular thing." "What should it tie up with?" "Well, it doesn’t really," said Tuppence. "It just started off another hare in my mind, if you know what I mean. The trouble is," she added, "I don’t really know what I mean myself now. The picture, too. Boscowan painted the picture and then somebody else painted a boat into it, with a name on the boat—" "Tiger Lily." "No, Waterlily. And his wife says that he didn’t paint the boat." "Would she know?" "I expect she would. If you were married to a painter, and especially if you were an artist yourself, I think you’d know if it was a different style of painting. She’s rather frightening, I think," said Tuppence. "Who—Mrs. Boscowan?" "Yes. If you know what I mean, powerful. Rather overwhelming." "Possibly. Yes." "She knows things," said Tuppence, "but I’m not sure that she knows them because she knows them, if you know what I mean." "I don’t," said Tommy firmly. "Well, I mean, there’s one way of knowing things. The other way is that you sort of feel them." "That’s rather the way you go in for, Tuppence." "You can say what you like," said Tuppence, apparently following her own track of thought, "the whole thing ties up round Sutton Chancellor. Round Ladymead, or Canal House or whatever you like to call it. And all the people who lived there, now and in past times. Some things I think might go back a long way." "You’re thinking of Mrs. Copleigh." "On the whole," said Tuppence, "I think Mrs.

She had had two lovely boys, and they too had died, paralysed. "Some nursemaid," said my grandmother, "must have let them sit on the damp grass." Really, I suppose, it must have been a case of polio–not recognised at that time–which was always called rheumatic fever, the result of damp, and which resulted in crippling paralysis. Anyway, her two children had died. One of her grown-up nephews, who was staying in the same house, also had suffered from paralysis and remained crippled for life. Yet, in spite of her losses, in spite of everything, Aunt Cassie was gay, bright, and full of more human sympathy than anyone I have ever known. She was the one person mother longed to see at that time. "She understands, it is no good making consoling phrases at people." I remember that I was used as an emissary by the family, that somebody–perhaps Grannie, or perhaps one of my aunts–took me aside and murmured that I must be my mamma’s little comforter, that I must go into the room where my mother was lying and point out to her that father was happy now, that he was in Heaven, that he was at peace. I was willing–it was what I believed myself, what surely everyone believed. I went in, a little timid, with the vague feeling which children have when they are doing what they have been told is right, and what they know is right, but which they feel may, somehow or other, for a reason that they don’t know, be wrong. I went timidly up to mother and touched her. "Mummy, father is at peace now. He is happy. You wouldn’t want him back, would you?" Suddenly my mother reared up in bed, with a violent gesture that startled me into jumping back. "Yes, I would," she cried in a low voice. "Yes, I would. I would do anything in the world to have him back–anything, anything at all. I’d force him to come back, if I could. I want him, I want him back here, now, in this world with me." I shrank away, rather frightened. My mother said quickly, "It’s all right, darling. It’s all right. It’s just that I am not–not very well at present. Thank you for coming." And she kissed me and I went away consoled. PART III GROWING UP I Life took on a completely different complexion after my father’s death. I stepped out of my child’s world, a world of security and thoughtlessness, to enter the fringes of the world of reality. I think there is no doubt that from the man of the family comes the stability of the home. We all laugh when the phrase comes, "Your father knows best," but that phrase does represent what was so marked a feature of later Victorian life. Father–the rock upon which the home is set. Father likes meals punctually; Father mustn’t be worried after dinner; Father would like you to play duets with him. You accept it all unquestioningly. Father provides meals; Father sees that the house works to rule; Father provides music lessons. Father took great pride and pleasure in Madge’s company as she grew up. He enjoyed her wit and her attractiveness; they were excellent companions to each other. He found in her, I think, some of the gaiety and humour my mother probably lacked–but he had a soft spot in his heart for his little girl, the afterthought, little Agatha. We had our favourite rhyme: Agatha-Pagatha my black hen, She lays eggs for gentlemen, She laid six and she laid seven, And one day she laid eleven! Father and I were very fond of that particular joke. But Monty, I think, was really his favourite. His love for his son was more than he would feel for any daughter. Monty was an affectionate boy, and he had great affection for his father. He was, alas, unsatisfactory from the point of view of making a success of life, and father was unceasingly worried about this. In a way, I think, his happiest time, where Monty was concerned, was after the South African War. Monty obtained a commission in a regular regiment, the East Surreys, and went straight from South Africa, with his regiment, to India.

Brown, and how she had consented to discover and reveal to them the whereabouts of Jane Finn. Julius was congratulatory. "That’s all right, Miss Tuppence. Splendid! I guess that hundred thousand pounds will look just as good in the morning to the lady as it did overnight. There’s nothing to worry over. She won’t speak without the cash anyway, you bet!" There was certainly a good deal of common sense in this, and Tuppence felt a little comforted. "What you say is true," said Sir James meditatively. "I must confess, however, that I cannot help wishing we had not interrupted at the minute we did. Still, it cannot be helped, it is only a matter of waiting until the morning." He looked across at the inert figure on the bed. Mrs. Vandemeyer lay perfectly passive with closed eyes. He shook his head. "Well," said Tuppence, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "we must wait until the morning, that’s all. But I don’t think we ought to leave the flat." "What about leaving that bright boy of yours on guard?" "Albert? And suppose she came round again and hooked it. Albert couldn’t stop her." "I guess she won’t want to make tracks away from the dollars." "She might. She seemed very frightened of "Mr. Brown." " "What? Real plumb scared of him?" "Yes. She looked round and said even walls had ears." "Maybe she meant a dictaphone," said Julius with interest. "Miss Tuppence is right," said Sir James quietly. "We must not leave the flat—if only for Mrs. Vandemeyer’s sake." Julius stared at him. "You think he’d get after her? Between now and tomorrow morning. How could he know, even?" "You forget your own suggestion of a dictaphone," said Sir James dryly. "We have a very formidable adversary. I believe, if we exercise all due care, that there is a very good chance of his being delivered into our hands. But we must neglect no precaution. We have an important witness, but she must be safeguarded. I would suggest that Miss Tuppence should go to bed, and that you and I, Mr. Hersheimmer, should share the vigil." Tuppence was about to protest, but happening to glance at the bed she saw Mrs. Vandemeyer, her eyes half open, with such an expression of mingled fear and malevolence on her face that it quite froze the words on her lips. For a moment she wondered whether the faint and the heart attack had been a gigantic sham, but remembering the deadly pallor she could hardly credit the supposition. As she looked the expression disappeared as by magic, and Mrs. Vandemeyer lay inert and motionless as before. For a moment the girl fancied she must have dreamt it. But she determined nevertheless to be on the alert. "Well," said Julius, "I guess we’d better make a move out of here anyway." The others fell in with his suggestion. Sir James again felt Mrs. Vandemeyer’s pulse. "Perfectly satisfactory," he said in a low voice to Tuppence. "She’ll be absolutely all right after a night’s rest." The girl hesitated a moment by the bed. The intensity of the expression she had surprised had impressed her powerfully. Mrs. Vandemeyer lifted her eyelids. She seemed to be struggling to speak. Tuppence bent over her. "Don’t—leave—" she seemed unable to proceed, murmuring something that sounded like "sleepy." Then she tried again. Tuppence bent lower still. It was only a breath. "Mr.—Brown—" The voice stopped. But the half-closed eyes seemed still to send an agonized message. Moved by a sudden impulse, the girl said quickly: "I shan’t leave the flat. I shall sit up all night." A flash of relief showed before the lids descended once more. Apparently Mrs. Vandemeyer slept. But her words had awakened a new uneasiness in Tuppence. What had she meant by that low murmur. "Mr. Brown?" Tuppence caught herself nervously looking over her shoulder. The big wardrobe loomed up in a sinister fashion before her eyes. Plenty of room for a man to hide in that . . . Half-ashamed of herself Tuppence pulled it open and looked inside. No one—of course!

"I don’t want, of course," said Cherry, "to go behind Miss Knight’s back in anyway." "Never mind about Miss Knight," said Miss Marple, coming to a decision. "She’ll go off to someone called Lady Conway at a hotel in Llandudno—and enjoy herself thoroughly. We’ll have to settle a lot of details, Cherry, and I shall want to talk to your husband—but if you really think you’d be happy…." "It’d suit us down to the ground," said Cherry. "And you really can rely on me doing things properly. I’ll even use the dustpan and brush if you like." Miss Marple laughed at this supreme offer. Cherry picked up the breakfast tray again. "I must get cracking. I got here late this morning—hearing about poor Arthur Badcock." "Arthur Badcock? What happened to him?" "Haven’t you heard? He’s up at the police station now," said Cherry. "They asked him if he’d come and "assist them with their inquiries" and you know what that always means." "When did this happen?" demanded Miss Marple. "This morning," said Cherry. "I suppose," she added, "that it got out about his once having been married to Marina Gregg." "What!" Miss Marple sat up again. "Arthur Badcock was once married to Marina Gregg?" "That’s the story," said Cherry. "Nobody had any idea of it. It was Mr. Upshaw put it about. He’s been to the States once or twice on business for his firm and so he knows a lot of gossip from over there. It was a long time ago, you know. Really before she’d begun her career. They were only married a year or two and then she won a film award and of course he wasn’t good enough for her then, so they had one of these easy American divorces and he just faded out, as you might say. He’s the fading out kind, Arthur Badcock. He wouldn’t make a fuss. He changed his name and came back to England. It’s all ever so long ago. You wouldn’t think anything like that mattered nowadays, would you? Still, there it is. It’s enough for the police to go on, I suppose." "Oh, no," said Miss Marple. "Oh no. This mustn’t happen. If I could only think what to do—Now, let me see." She made a gesture to Cherry. "Take the tray away, Cherry, and send Miss Knight up to me. I’m going to get up." Cherry obeyed. Miss Marple dressed herself with fingers that fumbled slightly. It irritated her when she found excitement of any kind affecting her. She was just hooking up her dress when Miss Knight entered. "Did you want me? Cherry said—" Miss Marple broke in incisively. "Get Inch," she said. "I beg your pardon," said Miss Knight, startled. "Inch," said Miss Marple, "get Inch. Telephone for him to come at once." "Oh, oh I see. You mean the taxi people. But his name’s Roberts, isn’t it?" "To me," said Miss Marple, "he is Inch and always will be. But anyway get him. He’s to come here at once." "You want to go for a little drive?" "Just get him, can you?" said Miss Marple. "And hurry, please." Miss Knight looked at her doubtfully and proceeded to do as she was told. "We are feeling all right, dear, aren’t we?" she said anxiously. "We are both feeling very well," said Miss Marple, "and I am feeling particularly well. Inertia does not suit me, and never has. A practical course of action, that is what I have been wanting for a long time." "Has that Mrs. Baker been saying something that has upset you?" "Nothing has upset me," said Miss Marple. "I feel particularly well. I am annoyed with myself for being stupid. But really, until I got a hint from Dr. Haydock this morning—now I wonder if I remember rightly. Where is that medical book of mine?" She gestured Miss Knight aside and walked firmly down the stairs. She found the book she wanted on a shelf in the drawing room. Taking it out she looked up the index, murmured, "Page 210," turned to the page in question, read for a few moments then nodded her head, satisfied. "Most remarkable," she said, "most curious.

Did you ever!" "Shocking," said Lucy vaguely, her mind elsewhere. "Of course I didn’t listen," said Mrs. Kidder virtuously, "I wouldn’t put no stock in such tales myself. It beats me how people think up such things, let alone say them. All I hope is none of it gets to Miss Emma’s ears. It might upset her and I wouldn’t like that. She’s a very nice lady, Miss Emma is, and I’ve not heard a word against her, not a word. And of course Mr. Alfred being dead nobody says anything against him now. Not even that it’s a judgment, which they well might do. But it’s awful, miss, isn’t it, the wicked talk there is." Mrs. Kidder spoke with immense enjoyment. "It must be quite painful for you to listen to it," said Lucy. "Oh, it is," said Mrs. Kidder. "It is indeed. I says to my husband, I says, however can they?" The bell rang. "There’s the doctor, miss. Will you let ’im in, or shall I?" "I’ll go," said Lucy. But it was not the doctor. On the doorstep stood a tall, elegant woman in a mink coat. Drawn up to the gravel sweep was a purring Rolls with a chauffeur at the wheel. "Can I see Miss Emma Crackenthorpe, please?" It was an attractive voice, the R’s slightly blurred. The woman was attractive too. About thirty-five, with dark hair and expensively and beautifully made up. "I’m sorry," said Lucy, "Miss Crackenthorpe is ill in bed and can’t see anyone." "I know she has been ill, yes; but it is very important that I should see her." "I’m afraid," Lucy began. The visitor interrupted her. "I think you are Miss Eyelesbarrow, are you not?" She smiled, an attractive smile. "My son has spoken of you, so I know. I am Lady Stoddart-West and Alexander is staying with me now." "Oh, I see," said Lucy. "And it is really important that I should see Miss Crackenthorpe," continued the other. "I know all about her illness and I assure you this is not just a social call. It is because of something that the boys have said to me—that my son has said to me. It is, I think, a matter of grave importance and I would like to speak to Miss Crackenthorpe about it. Please, will you ask her?" "Come in." Lucy ushered her visitor into the hall and into the drawing room. Then she said, "I’ll go up and ask Miss Crackenthorpe." She went upstairs, knocked on Emma’s door and entered. "Lady Stoddart-West is here," she said. "She wants to see you very particularly." "Lady Stoddart-West?" Emma looked surprised. A look of alarm came into her face. "There’s nothing wrong, is there, with the boys—with Alexander?" "No, no," Lucy reassured her. "I’m sure the boys are all right. It seemed to be something the boys have told her or said to her." "Oh. Well…" Emma hesitated. "Perhaps I ought to see her. Do I look all right, Lucy?" "You look very nice," said Lucy. Emma was sitting up in bed, a soft pink shawl was round her shoulders and brought out the faint rose-pink of her cheeks. Her dark hair had been neatly brushed and combed by Nurse. Lucy had placed a bowl of autumn leaves on the dressing table the day before. Her room looked attractive and quite unlike a sick room. "I’m really quite well enough to get up," said Emma. "Dr. Quimper said I could tomorrow." "You look really quite like yourself again," said Lucy. "Shall I bring Lady Stoddart-West up?" "Yes, do." Lucy went downstairs again. "Will you come up to Miss Crackenthorpe’s room?" She escorted the visitor upstairs, opened the door for her to pass in and then shut it. Lady Stoddart-West approached the bed with outstretched hand. "Miss Crackenthorpe? I really do apologize for breaking in on you like this. I have seen you, I think, at the sports at the school." "Yes," said Emma, "I remember you quite well. Do sit down." In the chair conveniently placed by the bed Lady Stoddart-West sat down.

"With the object of fomenting doubt and suspicions among you?" "Yes." "So that, really, he may not have meant to alter his will at all?" She demurred. "No, I think that part of it was quite genuine. He probably did wish to make a new will—but he enjoyed underlining the fact." "Madame," said Poirot, "I have no official standing and my questions, you understand, are not perhaps those that an English officer of the law would ask. But I have a great desire to know what form you think that new will would have taken. I am asking, you perceive, not for your knowledge, but simply for your opinion. Les femmes, they are never slow to form an opinion, Dieu merci." Hilda Lee smiled a little. "I don’t mind saying what I think. My husband’s sister Jennifer married a Spaniard, Juan Estravados. Her daughter, Pilar, has just arrived here. She is a very lovely girl—and she is, of course, the only grandchild in the family. Old Mr Lee was delighted with her. He took a tremendous fancy to her. In my opinion, he wished to leave her a considerable sum in his new will. Probably he had only left her a small portion or even nothing at all in an old one." "Did you know your sister-in-law at all?" "No, I never met her. Her Spanish husband died in tragic circumstances, I believe, soon after the marriage. Jennifer herself died a year ago. Pilar was left an orphan. This is why Mr Lee sent for her to come and live with him in England." "And the other members of the family, did they welcome her coming?" Hilda said quietly: "I think they all liked her. It was very pleasant to have someone young and alive in the house." "And she, did she seem to like being here?" Hilda said slowly: "I don’t know. It must seem cold and strange to a girl brought up in the South—in Spain." Johnson said: "Can’t be very pleasant being in Spain just at present. Now, Mrs Lee, we’d like to hear your account of the conversation this afternoon." Poirot murmured: "I apologize. I have made the digressions." Hilda Lee said: "After my father-in-law finished telephoning, he looked round at us and laughed, and said we all looked very glum. Then he said he was tired and should go to bed early. Nobody was to come up and see him this evening. He said he wanted to be in good form for Christmas Day. Something like that." "Then—" Her brows knit in an effort of remembrance. "I think he said something about its being necessary to be one of a large family to appreciate Christmas, and then he went on to speak of money. He said it would cost him more to run this house in future. He told George and Magdalene they would have to economize. Told her she ought to make her own clothes. Rather an old-fashioned idea, I’m afraid. I don’t wonder it annoyed her. He said his own wife had been clever with her needle." Poirot said gently: "Is that all that he said about her?" Hilda flushed. "He made a slighting reference to her brains. My husband was very devoted to his mother, and that upset him very much. And then, suddenly Mr Lee began shouting at us all. He worked himself up about it. I can understand, of course, how he felt—" Poirot said gently, interrupting her: "How did he feel?" She turned her tranquil eyes upon him. "He was disappointed, of course," she said. "Because there are no grandchildren—no boys, I mean—no Lees to carry on. I can see that that must have festered for a long time. And suddenly he couldn’t keep it in any longer and vented his rage against his sons—saying they were a lot of namby-pamby old women—something like that. I felt sorry for him, then, because I realized how his pride was hurt by it." "And then?" "And then," said Hilda slowly, "we all went away." "That was the last you saw of him?" She bowed her head. "Where were you at the time the crime occurred?" "I was with my husband in the music-room. He was playing to me." "And then?" "We heard tables and chairs overturned upstairs, and china being broken—some terrible struggle.

Her father, it seems, was a very rich man. He only learned of the child's existence a few months before his death. He hired agents to try and trace her, and left all his money to her when she should be found." Mortimer listened with close attention. He had no reason to doubt Mr Dinsmead's story. It explained Magdalen's dark beauty; explained too, perhaps, her aloof manner. Nevertheless, though the story itself might be true, something lay undivulged behind it. But Mortimer had no intention of rousing the other's suspicions. Instead, he must go out of his way to allay them. "A very interesting story, Mr Dinsmead," he said. "I congratulate Miss Magdalen. An heiress and a beauty, she has a great future ahead." "She has that," agreed her father warmly, "and she's a rare good girl too, Mr Cleveland." There was every evidence of hearty warmth in his manner. "Well," said Mortimer, "I must be pushing along now, I suppose. I have got to thank you once more, Mr Dinsmead, for your singularly well- timed hospitality." Accompanied by his host, he went into the house to bid farewell to Mrs Dinsmead. She was standing by the window with her back to them, and did not hear them enter. At her husband's jovial, "Here's Mr Cleveland come to say good-bye," she started nervously and swung round, dropping something which she held in her hand. Mortimer picked it up for her. It was a miniature of Charlotte done in the style of some twenty- five years ago. Mortimer repeated to her the thanks he had already proffered to her husband. He noticed again her look of fear and the furtive glances that she shot at him beneath her eyelids. The two girls were not in evidence, but it was not part of Mortimer's policy to seem anxious to see them; also he had his own idea, which was shortly to prove correct. He had gone about half a mile from the house on his way down to where he had left the car the night before, when the bushes on one side of the path were thrust aside, and Magdalen came out on the track ahead of him. "I had to see you," she said. "I expected you," said Mortimer. "It was you who wrote S.O.S. on the table in my room last night, wasn't it?" Magdalen nodded. "Why?" asked Mortimer gently. The girl turned aside and began pulling off leaves from a bush. "I don't know," she said. "Honestly, I don't know." "Tell me," said Mortimer. Magdalen drew a deep breath. "I am a practical person," she said, "not the kind of person who imagines things or fancies them. You, I think, believe in ghosts and spirits. I don't, and when I tell you that there is something very wrong in that house," she pointed up the hill, "I mean that there is something tangibly wrong - it's not just an echo of the past. It has been coming on ever since we've been there. Every day it grows worse. Father is different, Mother is different, Charlotte is different." Mortimer interposed. "Is Johnnie different?" he asked. Magdalen looked at him, a dawning appreciation in her eyes. "No," she said, "now I come to think of it. Johnnie is not different. He is the only one who's - who's untouched by it all. He was untouched last night at tea." "And you?" asked Mortimer. "I was afraid - horribly afraid, just like a child - without knowing what it was I was afraid of. And Father was - queer, there's no other word for it. He talked about miracles and then I prayed - actually prayed for a miracle, and you knocked on the door." She stopped abruptly, staring at him. "I seem mad to you, I suppose," she said defiantly. "No," said Mortimer, "on the contrary you seem extremely sane. All sane people have a premonition of danger if it is near them." "You don't understand," said Magdalen. "I was not afraid - for myself." "For whom, then?" But again Magdalen shook her head in a puzzled fashion. "I don't know," She went on: "I wrote S.O.S. on an impulse.

"You are surprised," he said. "It is not what you expected, eh?" "No, indeed," said Hilary. "I never thought—I never imagined—" But already her surprise was subsiding. With her recognition of Mr. Aristides the dream world of unreality in which she had been living for the past weeks shattered and broke. She knew now that the Unit had seemed unreal to her—because it was unreal. It had never been what it pretended to be. The Herr Director with his spellbinder’s voice had been unreal too—a mere figurehead of fiction set up to obscure the truth. The truth was here in this secret oriental room. A little old man sitting there and laughing quietly. With Mr. Aristides in the centre of the picture, everything made sense—hard, practical, everyday sense. "I see now," said Hilary. "This—is all yours, isn’t it?" "Yes, Madame." "And the Director? The so-called Director?" "He is very good," said Mr. Aristides appreciatively. "I pay him a very high salary. He used to run Revivalist Meetings." He smoked thoughtfully for a moment or two. Hilary did not speak. "There is Turkish Delight beside you, Madame. And other sweetmeats if you prefer them." Again there was a silence. Then he went on, "I am a philanthropist, Madame. As you know, I am rich. One of the richest men—possibly the richest man—in the world today. With my wealth I feel under the obligation to serve humanity. I have established here, in this remote spot, a colony of lepers and a vast assembly of research into the problem of the cure of leprosy. Certain types of leprosy are curable. Others, so far, have proved incurable. But all the time we are working and obtaining good results. Leprosy is not really such an easily communicated disease. It is not half so infectious or so contagious as smallpox or typhus or plague or any of these other things. And yet, if you say to people, "a leper colony" they will shudder and give it a wide berth. It is an old, old fear, that. A fear that you can find in the Bible, and which has existed all down through the years. The horror of the leper. It has been useful to me in establishing this place." "You established it for that reason?" "Yes. We have here also a Cancer Research department, and important work is being done on tuberculosis. There is virus research, also—for curative reasons, bien entendu—biological warfare is not mentioned. All humane, all acceptable, all redounding greatly to my honour. Well-known physicians, surgeons and research chemists come here to see our results from time to time as they have come today. The building has been cunningly constructed in such a way that a part of it is shut off and unapparent even from the air. The more secret laboratories have been tunnelled right into the rock. In any case, I am above suspicion." He smiled and added simply: "I am so very rich, you see." "But why?" demanded Hilary. "Why this urge for destruction?" "I have no urge for destruction, Madame. You wrong me." "But then—I simply don’t understand." "I am a businessman," said Mr. Aristides simply. "I am also a collector. When wealth becomes oppressive, that is the only thing to do. I have collected many things in my time. Pictures—I have the finest art collection in Europe. Certain kinds of ceramics. Philately—my stamp collection is famous. When a collection is fully representative, one goes on to the next thing. I am an old man, Madame, and there was not very much more for me to collect. So I came at last to collecting brains." "Brains?" Hilary queried. He nodded gently. "Yes, it is the most interesting thing to collect of all. Little by little, Madame, I am assembling here all the brains of the world. The young men, those are the ones I am bringing here. Young men of promise, young men of achievement. One day the tired nations of the world will wake up and realize that their scientists are old and stale, and that the young brains of the world, the doctors, the research chemists, the physicists, the surgeons, are all here in my keeping.

I left the shop elated. At last, things had begun to march! I now knew that John Wilson had the means for the crime—but what about the motive? He had come to Belgium on business, and had asked M. Déroulard, whom he knew slightly, to put him up. There was apparently no way in which Déroulard’s death could benefit him. Moreover, I discovered by inquiries in England that he had suffered for some years from that painful form of heart disease known as angina. Therefore he had a genuine right to have those tablets in his possession. Nevertheless, I was convinced that someone had gone to the chocolate box, opening the full one first by mistake, and had abstracted the contents of the last chocolate, cramming in instead as many little trinitrine tablets as it would hold. The chocolates were large ones. Between twenty or thirty tablets, I felt sure, could have been inserted. But who had done this? There were two guests in the house. John Wilson had the means. Saint Alard had the motive. Remember, he was a fanatic, and there is no fanatic like a religious fanatic. Could he, by any means, have got hold of John Wilson’s trinitrine? Another little idea came to me. Ah, you smile at my little ideas! Why had Wilson run out of trinitrine? Surely he would bring an adequate supply from England. I called once more at the house in the Avenue Louise. Wilson was out, but I saw the girl who did his room, Félice. I demanded of her immediately whether it was not true that M. Wilson had lost a bottle from his washstand some little time ago. The girl responded eagerly. It was quite true. She, Félice, had been blamed for it. The English gentleman had evidently thought that she had broken it, and did not like to say so. Whereas she had never even touched it. Without doubt it was Jeannette—always nosing round where she had no business to be— I calmed the flow of words, and took my leave. I knew now all that I wanted to know. It remained for me to prove my case. That, I felt, would not be easy. I might be sure that Saint Alard had removed the bottle of trinitrine from John Wilson’s washstand, but to convince others, I would have to produce evidence. And I had none to produce! Never mind. I knew—that was the great thing. You remember our difficulty in the Styles case, Hastings? There again, I knew—but it took me a long time to find the last link which made my chain of evidence against the murderer complete. I asked for an interview with Mademoiselle Mesnard. She came at once. I demanded of her the address of M. de Saint Alard. A look of trouble came over her face. "Why do you want it, monsieur?" "Mademoiselle, it is necessary." She seemed doubtful—troubled. "He can tell you nothing. He is a man whose thoughts are not in this world. He hardly notices what goes on around him." "Possibly, mademoiselle. Nevertheless, he was an old friend of M. Déroulard’s. There may be things he can tell me—things of the past—old grudges—old love- affairs." The girl flushed and bit her lip. "As you please—but—but I feel sure now that I have been mistaken. It was good of you to accede to my demand, but I was upset—almost distraught at the time. I see now that there is no mystery to solve. Leave it, I beg of you, monsieur." I eyed her closely. "Mademoiselle," I said, "it is sometimes difficult for a dog to find a scent, but once he has found it, nothing on earth will make him leave it! That is if he is a good dog! And I, mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, am a very good dog." Without a word she turned away. A few minutes later she returned with the address written on a sheet of paper. I left the house. François was waiting for me outside. He looked at me anxiously. "There is no news, monsieur?" "None as yet, my friend." "Ah! Pauvre Monsieur Déroulard!" he sighed. "I too was of his way of thinking.

"One of the greatest characters I ever met. You couldn’t push him, you know. You couldn’t make him change his mind–obstinate as a pig–but you couldn’t help respecting him. One of the bravest chaps I have ever known." I considered, and said yes, I thought he well might be. "But hell to manage during a war," he said. "Mind you, I commanded that regiment later, and I sized him up from the beginning. I’ve met his kind often, travelling about the world on their own. They’re eccentric, pig-headed, almost geniuses but not quite, so they are usually failures. They’re the best conversationalists in the world–but only when they feel like it, mind. At other times they won’t even answer you–won’t speak." Every word he was saying was absolutely true. "You’re a good deal younger than he is, aren’t you?" "Ten years younger." "He went abroad when you were still a kid–is that right?" "Yes. I didn’t ever know him really very well. But he came home on leave." "What happened to him eventually? The last I heard of him he was ill in hospital." I explained the circumstances of my brother’s life, and how he had been finally sent home to die but had succeeded in living for some years afterwards in spite of all that the doctors had prophesied. "Naturally," he said. "Billy wouldn’t die until he felt like it. Put him in a hospital train, I remember, arm in a sling, badly wounded…He got an idea in his head he didn’t want to go to hospital. Every time they put him in one side he got out the other–had a terrible job with him. They got him there at last, but on the third day he managed to walk out of the hospital without anyone seeing him. He had a battle called after him–did you know that?’…I said I had had some vague idea. "Got across his commanding officer. He would, of course. A conventional chap–bit of a stuffed shirt–not Miller’s kind at all. He was in charge of mules at that time–wonderful hand with mules Billy was. Anyway, he said suddenly this was the place to give battle to the Germans, and his mules were halting there–nothing would do better. His commanding officer said he would have him up for mutiny–he was to obey orders or else! Billy just sat down and said he wouldn’t move, and his mules wouldn’t either. Quite right about the mules: they wouldn’t move–not unless Miller wanted them to. Anyway, he was scheduled for court martial. But just then a great force of Germans arrived." "And they had a battle?" I asked. "Certainly they did–and won it. The most decisive victory so far in the campaign. Well then, of course, the Colonel, old Whatsisname–Rush–something–was mad with rage, mad as could be. There he had been with a battle on his hands entirely due to an insubordinate officer whom he was going to court martial! Only, he couldn’t court martial him as things turned out, so there it was. Anyway, there was a lot of face-saving all round–but it’s always remembered as Miller’s Battle." "Did you like him?" he once asked abruptly. It was a difficult question. "Part of the time I did," I said. "I don’t think I have ever known him for long enough to have what you might call family affection for him. Sometimes I despaired of him, sometimes I was maddened by him, sometimes–well I was fascinated by him–charmed." "He could charm women very easily," said Colonel Dwyer. "Came and ate out of his hand, they did. Wanted to marry him, usually. You know, marry him and reform him, train him and settle him down to a nice steady job. I gather he’s not still alive?" "No, he died some years ago." "Pity! Or is it?" "I’ve often wondered," I said. What actually is the border between failure and success? By all outward showing, my brother Monty’s life had been a disaster. He had not succeeded at anything he had attempted. But was that perhaps only from the financial view? Had one not to admit that, despite financial failure, he had for the greater part of his life enjoyed himself?

A headquarters for what I should call evil. Later in Hollowquay there was something else. D’you remember Jonathan Kane at all?" "It’s a name," said Tommy. "I don’t remember anything personally." "Well, he was said to be what was admired at one time—what came to be known later as a fascist. That was the time before we knew what Hitler was going to be like and all the rest of them. The time when we thought that something like fascism might be a splendid idea to reform the world with. This chap Jonathan Kane had followers. A lot of followers. Young followers, middle-aged followers, a lot of them. He had plans, he had sources of power, he knew the secrets of a lot of people. He had the kind of knowledge that gave him power. Plenty of blackmail about as always. We want to know what he knew, we want to know what he did, and I think it’s possible that he left both plans and followers behind him. Young people who were enmeshed and perhaps still are in favour of his ideas. There have been secrets, you know, there are always secrets that are worth money. I’m not telling you anything exact because I don’t know anything exact. The trouble with me is that nobody really knows. We think we know everything because of what we’ve been through. Wars, turmoil, peace, new forms of government. We think we know it all, but do we? Do we know anything about germ warfare? Do we know everything about gases, about means of inducing pollution? The chemists have their secrets, the Navy, the Air Force—all sorts of things. And they’re not all in the present, some of them were in the past. Some of them were on the point of being developed but the development didn’t take place. There wasn’t time for it. But it was written down, it was committed to paper or committed to certain people, and those people had children and their children had children and maybe some of the things came down. Left in wills, left in documents, left with solicitors to be delivered at a certain time. "Some people don’t know what it is they’ve got hold of, some of them have just destroyed it as rubbish. But we’ve got to find out a little more than we do because things are happening all the time. In different countries, in different places, in wars, in Vietnam, in guerrilla wars, in Jordan, in Israel, even in the uninvolved countries. In Sweden and Switzerland—anywhere. There are these things and we want clues to them. And there’s some idea that some of the clues could be found in the past. Well, you can’t go back into the past, you can’t go to a doctor and say, "Hypnotize me and let me see what happened in 1914," or in 1918 or earlier still perhaps. In 1890 perhaps. Something was being planned, something was never completely developed. Ideas. Just look far back. They were thinking of flying, you know, in the Middle Ages. They had some ideas about it. The ancient Egyptians, I believe, had certain ideas. They were never developed. But once the ideas passed on, once you come to the time when they get into the hands of someone who has the means and the kind of brain that can develop them, anything may happen—bad or good. We have a feeling lately that some of the things that have been invented—germ warfare, for example—are difficult to explain except through the process of some secret development, thought to be unimportant but it hasn’t been unimportant. Somebody in whose hands it’s got has made some adaptation of it which can produce very, very frightening results. Things that can change a character, can perhaps turn a good man into a fiend, and usually for the same reason. For money. Money and what money can buy, what money can get. The power that money can develop. Well, young Beresford, what do you say to all that?" "I think it’s a very frightening prospect," said Tommy. "That, yes. But do you think I’m talking nonsense? Do you think this is just an old man’s fantasies?" "No, sir," said Tommy. "I think you’re a man who knows things. You always have been a man who knew things." "H’m. That’s why they wanted me, wasn’t it?

"After all, Miss Springer had her times off like all the other members of the staff. She could have arranged a meeting with anyone if she had wanted to do so at any spot she chose. Why choose the gymnasium here in the middle of the night?" "You have no objection to a search being made of the school premises, Miss Bulstrode?" asked the Chief Constable. "None at all. You’re looking for the pistol or revolver or whatever it is, I suppose?" "Yes. It was a small pistol of foreign make." "Foreign," said Miss Bulstrode thoughtfully. "To your knowledge, do any of your staff or any of the pupils have such a thing as a pistol in their possession?" "Certainly not to my knowledge," said Miss Bulstrode. "I am fairly certain that none of the pupils have. Their possessions are unpacked for them when they arrive and such a thing would have been seen and noted, and would, I may say, have aroused considerable comment. But please, Inspector Kelsey, do exactly as you like in that respect. I see your men have been searching the grounds today." The Inspector nodded. "Yes." He went on: "I should also like interviews with the other members of your staff. One or other of them may have heard some remark made by Miss Springer that will give us a clue. Or may have observed some oddity of behaviour on her part." He paused, then went on, "The same thing might apply to the pupils." Miss Bulstrode said: "I had formed the plan of making a short address to the girls this evening after prayers. I would ask that if any of them has any knowledge that might possibly bear upon Miss Springer’s death that they should come and tell me of it." "Very sound idea," said the Chief Constable. "But you must remember this," said Miss Bulstrode, "one or other of the girls may wish to make herself important by exaggerating some incident or even by inventing one. Girls do very odd things: but I expect you are used to dealing with that form of exhibitionism." "I’ve come across it," said Inspector Kelsey. "Now," he added, "please give me a list of your staff, also the servants." III "I’ve looked through all the lockers in the Pavilion, sir." "And you didn’t find anything?" said Kelsey. "No, sir, nothing of importance. Funny things in some of them, but nothing in our line." "None of them were locked, were they?" "No, sir, they can lock. There were keys in them, but none of them were locked." Kelsey looked round the bare floor thoughtfully. The tennis and lacrosse sticks had been replaced tidily on their stands. "Oh well," he said, "I’m going up to the house now to have a talk with the staff." "You don’t think it was an inside job, sir?" "It could have been," said Kelsey. "Nobody’s got an alibi except those two mistresses, Chadwick and Johnson and the child Jane that had the earache. Theoretically, everyone else was in bed and asleep, but there’s no one to vouch for that. The girls all have separate rooms and naturally the staff do. Any one of them, including Miss Bulstrode herself, could have come out and met Springer here, or could have followed her here. Then, after she’d been shot, whoever it was could dodge back quietly through the bushes to the side door, and be nicely back in bed again when the alarm was given. It’s motive that’s difficult. Yes," said Kelsey, "it’s motive. Unless there’s something going on here that we don’t know anything about, there doesn’t seem to be any motive." He stepped out of the Pavilion and made his way slowly back to the house. Although it was past working hours, old Briggs, the gardener, was putting in a little work on a flower bed and he straightened up as the Inspector passed. "You work late hours," said Kelsey, smiling. "Ah," said Briggs. "Young ’uns don’t know what gardening is. Come on at eight and knock off at five—that’s what they think it is. You’ve got to study your weather, some days you might as well not be out in the garden at all, and there’s other days as you can work from seven in the morning until eight at night. That is if you love the place and have pride in the look of it." "You ought to be proud of this one," said Kelsey. "I’ve never seen anyplace better kept these days."

"Dear, dear." The lawyer clicked his thumb irritably. "I have been remiss. I had forgotten, of course, that you had not read the newspaper reports. I may say that none of the Argyle family had any idea that he was married. Immediately after his arrest his wife appeared at Sunny Point in great distress. Mr. Argyle was very good to her. She was a young woman who had worked as a dance hostess in the Drymouth Palais de Danse. I probably forgot to tell you about her because she remarried a few weeks after Jack’s death. Her present husband is an electrician, I believe, in Drymouth." "I must go and see her," said Calgary. He added, reproachfully, "She is the first person I should have gone to see." "Certainly, certainly. I will give you the address. I really cannot think why I did not mention it to you when you first came to me." Calgary was silent. "She was such a—well—negligible factor," said the lawyer apologetically. "Even the newspapers did not play her up much—she never visited her husband in prison—or took any further interest in him—" Calgary had been deep in thought. He said now: "Can you tell me exactly who was in that house on the night Mrs. Argyle was killed?" Marshall gave him a sharp glance. "Leo Argyle, of course, and the youngest daughter, Hester. Mary Durrant and her invalid husband were there on a visit. He had just come out of hospital. Then there was Kirsten Lindstrom—whom you probably met—she is a Swedish trained nurse and masseuse who originally came to help Mrs. Argyle with her war nursery and has remained on ever since. Michael and Tina were not there—Michael works as a car salesman in Drymouth and Tina has a job in the County Library at Redmyn and lives in a flat there." Marshall paused before going on. "There was also Miss Vaughan, Mr. Argyle’s secretary. She had left the house before the body was discovered." "I met her also," said Calgary. "She seems very—attached to Mr. Argyle." "Yes—yes. I believe there may shortly be an engagement announced." "Ah!" "He has been very lonely since his wife died," said the lawyer, with a faint note of reproof in his voice. "Quite so," said Calgary. Then he said: "What about motive, Mr. Marshall?" "My dear Dr. Calgary, I really cannot speculate as to that!" "I think you can. As you have said yourself the facts are ascertainable." "There was no direct monetary benefit to anyone. Mrs. Argyle had entered into a series of discretionary Trusts, a formula which as you know is much adopted nowadays. These Trusts were in favour of all the children. They are administered by three Trustees, of whom I am one, Leo Argyle is one and the third is an American lawyer, a distant cousin of Mrs. Argyle’s. The very large sum of money involved is administered by these three Trustees and can be adjusted so as to benefit those beneficiaries of the Trust who need it most." "What about Mr. Argyle? Did he profit in a monetary sense by his wife’s death?" "Not to any great extent. Most of her fortune, as I have told you, had gone into Trusts. She left him the residue of her estate, but that did not amount to a large sum." "And Miss Lindstrom?" "Mrs. Argyle had bought a very handsome annuity for Miss Lindstrom some years previously." Marshall added irritably, "Motive? There doesn’t seem to me a ha’porth of motive about. Certainly no financial motive." "And in the emotional field? Was there any special—friction?" "There, I’m afraid, I can’t help you." Marshall spoke with finality. "I wasn’t an observer of the family life." "Is there anyone who could?" Marshall considered for a moment or two. Then he said, almost reluctantly: "You might go and see the local doctor. Dr.—er—MacMaster, I think his name is. He’s retired now, but still lives in the neighbourhood. He was medical attendant to the war nursery. He must have known and seen a good deal of the life at Sunny Point. Whether you can persuade him to tell you anything is up to you.

It is late now. Most people have retired for the night. Does anyone pass the door—think?" Arbuthnot frowned in the effort of remembrance. "Difficult to say," he said. "You see, I wasn’t paying any attention." "But you have the soldier’s observation for detail. You notice without noticing, so to speak." The Colonel thought again, but shook his head. "I couldn’t say. I don’t remember anyone passing except the conductor. Wait a minute—and there was a woman, I think." "You saw her? Was she old—young?" "Didn’t see her. Wasn’t looking that way. Just a rustle and a sort of smell of scent." "Scent? A good scent?" "Well, rather fruity, if you know what I mean. I mean you’d smell it a hundred yards away. But mind you," the Colonel went on hastily, "this may have been earlier in the evening. You see, as you said just now, it was just one of those things you notice without noticing, so to speak. Some time that evening I said to myself, "Woman—scent—got it on pretty thick." But when it was I can’t be sure, except that—why, yes, it must have been after Vincovci." "Why?" "Because I remember—sniffing, you know—just when I was talking about the utter washout Stalin’s Five Year Plan was turning out. I know the idea—woman—brought the idea of the position of women in Russia into my mind. And I know we hadn’t got on to Russia until pretty near the end of our talk." "You can’t pin it down more definitely than that?" "N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half hour." "It was after the train had stopped?" The other nodded. "Yes, I’m almost sure it was." "Well, we will pass from that. Have you ever been in America, Colonel Arbuthnot?" "Never. Don’t want to go." "Did you ever know a Colonel Armstrong?" "Armstrong—Armstrong—I’ve known two or three Armstrongs. There was Tommy Armstrong in the 60th—you don’t mean him? And Selby Armstrong—he was killed on the Somme." "I mean the Colonel Armstrong who married an American wife and whose only child was kidnapped and killed." "Ah, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don’t think I actually ever came across the fellow, though, of course, I knew of him. Toby Armstrong. Nice fellow. Everybody liked him. He had a very distinguished career. Got the V.C." "The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of Colonel Armstrong’s child." Arbuthnot’s face grew rather grim. "Then in my opinion the swine deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to have seen him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there." "In fact, Colonel Arbuthnot, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?" "Well, you can’t go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Corsicans or the Mafia," said the Colonel. "Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system." Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two. "Yes," he said. "I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel Arbuthnot, I do not think there is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that in any way struck you—or shall we say strikes you now looking back—as suspicious?" Arbuthnot considered for a moment or two. "No," he said. "Nothing at all. Unless—" he hesitated. "But yes, continue, I pray of you." "Well, it’s nothing really," said the Colonel slowly. "But you said anything." "Yes, yes. Go on." "Oh, it’s nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door of the one beyond mine—the end one, you know—" "Yes, No. 16." "Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive sort of way. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course, I know there’s nothing in that—but it just struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it’s quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you want to see anything.

"There’s too much tendency to attribute to God the evils that man does of his own free will. I might concede you the Devil. God doesn’t really need to punish us, Miss Barton. We’re so very busy punishing ourselves." "What I can’t make out is why should anyone want to do such a thing?" I shrugged my shoulders. "A warped mentality." "It seems very sad." "It doesn’t seem to me sad. It seems to me just damnable. And I don’t apologize for the word. I mean just that." The pink had gone out of Miss Barton’s cheeks. They were very white. "But why, Mr. Burton, why? What pleasure can anyone get out of it?" "Nothing you and I can understand, thank goodness." Emily Barton lowered her voice. "They say that Mrs. Cleat—but I really cannot believe it." I shook my head. She went on in an agitated manner: "Nothing of this kind has ever happened before—never in my memory. It has been such a happy little community. What would my dear mother have said? Well, one must be thankful that she has been spared." I thought from all I had heard that old Mrs. Barton had been sufficiently tough to have taken anything, and would probably have enjoyed this sensation. Emily went on: "It distresses me deeply." "You’ve not—er—had anything yourself?" She flushed crimson. "Oh, no—oh, no, indeed. Oh! that would be dreadful." I apologized hastily, but she went away looking rather upset. I went into the house. Joanna was standing by the drawing room fire which she had just lit, for the evenings were still chilly. She had an open letter in her hand. She turned her head quickly as I entered. "Jerry! I found this in the letter box—dropped in by hand. It begins, "You painted trollop…." "What else does it say?" Joanna gave a wide grimace. "Same old muck." She dropped it on to the fire. With a quick gesture that hurt my back I jerked it off again just before it caught. "Don’t," I said. "We may need it." "Need it?" "For the police." V Superintendent Nash came to see me the following morning. From the first moment I saw him I took a great liking to him. He was the best type of C.I.D. county superintendent. Tall, soldierly, with quiet reflective eyes and a straightforward unassuming manner. He said: "Good morning, Mr. Burton, I expect you can guess what I’ve come to see you about." "Yes, I think so. This letter business." He nodded. "I understand you had one of them?" "Yes, soon after we got here." "What did it say exactly?" I thought a minute, then conscientiously repeated the wording of the letter as closely as possible. The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signs of any kind of emotion. When I had finished, he said: "I see. You didn’t keep the letter, Mr. Burton?" "I’m sorry. I didn’t. You see, I thought it was just an isolated instance of spite against newcomers to the place." The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly. He said briefly: "A pity." "However," I said, "my sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her putting it in the fire." "Thank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you." I went across to my desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it. It was not, I thought, very suitable for Partridge’s eyes. I gave it to Nash. He read it through. Then he looked up and asked me: "Is this the same in appearance as the last one?" "I think so—as far as I can remember." "The same difference between the envelope and the text?" "Yes," I said. "The envelope was typed. The letter itself had printed words pasted on to a sheet of paper." Nash nodded and put it in his pocket. Then he said: "I wonder, Mr. Burton, if you would mind coming down to the station with me? We could have a conference there and it would save a good deal of time and overlapping." "Certainly," I said. "You would like me to come now?" "If you don’t mind." There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it. I said: "Do you think you’ll be able to get to the bottom of this?" Nash nodded with easy confidence.

"Do you know who this belongs to, Miss Lingard?" "Oh, yes, it’s Colonel Bury’s. He had it made out of a bullet that hit him—or rather, didn’t hit him, if you know what I mean—in the South African War." "Do you know when he had it last?" "Well, he had it this afternoon when they were playing bridge, because I noticed him writing with it on the score when I came in to tea." "Who was playing bridge?" "Colonel Bury, Lady Chevenix-Gore, Mr. Trent and Miss Cardwell." "I think," said Poirot gently, "we will keep this and return it to the colonel ourselves." "Oh, please do. I am so forgetful, I might not remember to so." "Perhaps, mademoiselle, you would be so good as to ask Colonel Bury to come here now?" "Certainly. I will go and find him at once." She hurried away. Poirot got up and began walking aimlessly round the room. "We begin," he said, "to reconstruct the afternoon. It is interesting. At half past two Sir Gervase goes over accounts with Captain Lake. He is slightly preoccupied. At three, he discusses the book he is writing with Miss Lingard. He is in great distress of mind. Miss Lingard associates that distress of mind with Hugo Trent on the strength of a chance remark. At teatime his behaviour is normal. After tea, Godfrey Burrows tells us he was in good spirits over something. At five minutes to eight he comes downstairs, goes to his study, scrawls "Sorry" on a sheet of paper, and shoots himself!" Riddle said slowly: "I see what you mean. It isn’t consistent." "Strange alteration of moods in Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore! He is preoccupied—he is seriously upset—he is normal—he is in high spirits! There is something very curious here! And then that phrase he used, "Too late." That I should get here "Too late." Well, it is true that. I did get here too late—to see him alive." "I see. You really think—?" "I shall never know now why Sir Gervase sent for me! That is certain!" Poirot was still wandering round the room. He straightened one or two objects on the mantelpiece; he examined a card table that stood against a wall, he opened the drawer of it and took out the bridge-markers. Then he wandered over to the writing table and peered into the wastepaper basket. There was nothing in it but a paper bag. Poirot took it out, smelt it, murmured "Oranges" and flattened it out, reading the name on it. "Carpenter and Sons, Fruiterers, Hamborough St. Mary." He was just folding it neatly into squares when Colonel Bury entered the room. IX The Colonel dropped into a chair, shook his head, sighed and said: "Terrible business, this, Riddle. Lady Chevenix-Gore is being wonderful—wonderful. Grand woman! Full of courage!" Coming softly back to his chair, Poirot said: "You have known her very many years, I think?" "Yes, indeed, I was at her coming out dance. Wore rosebuds in her hair, I remember. And a white, fluffy dress . . . Wasn’t anyone to touch her in the room!" His voice was full of enthusiasm. Poirot held out the pencil to him. "This is yours, I think?" "Eh? What? Oh, thank you, had it this afternoon when we were playing bridge. Amazing, you know, I held a hundred honours in spades three times running. Never done such a thing before." "You were playing bridge before tea, I understand?" said Poirot. "What was Sir Gervase’s frame of mind when he came in to tea?" "Usual—quite usual. Never dreamed he was thinking of making away with himself. Perhaps he was a little more excitable than usual, now I come to think of it." "When was the last time you saw him?" "Why, then! Teatime. Never saw the poor chap alive again." "You didn’t go to the study at all after tea?" "No, never saw him again." "What time did you come down to dinner?" "After the first gong went." "You and Lady Chevenix-Gore came down together?" "No, we—er—met in the hall.

Miss Marple paused, drew a long breath, and then went on. "You’ll be saying this has nothing to do with what went on at Keston Spa Hydro – but it has in a way. It explains why I felt no doubt in my mind the first moment I saw the Sanders together that he meant to do away with her." "Eh?" said Sir Henry, leaning forward. Miss Marple turned a placid face to him. "As I say, Sir Henry, I felt no doubt in my own mind. Mr Sanders was a big, good-looking, florid-faced man, very hearty in his manner and popular with all. And nobody could have been pleasanter to his wife than he was. But I knew! He meant to make away with her." "My dear Miss Marple –" "Yes, I know. That’s what my nephew, Raymond West, would say. He’d tell me I hadn’t a shadow of proof. But I remember Walter Hones, who kept the Green Man. Walking home with his wife one night she fell into the river – and he collected the insurance money! And one or two other people that are walking about scot-free to this day – one indeed in our own class of life. Went to Switzerland for a summer holiday climbing with his wife. I warned her not to go – the poor dear didn’t get angry with me as she might have done – she only laughed. It seemed to her funny that a queer old thing like me should say such things about her Harry. Well, well, there was an accident – and Harry is married to another woman now. But what could I do? I knew , but there was no proof." "Oh! Miss Marple," cried Mrs Bantry. "You don’t really mean –" "My dear, these things are very common – very common indeed. And gentlemen are especially tempted, being so much the stronger. So easy if a thing looks like an accident. As I say, I knew at once with the Sanders. It was on a tram. It was full inside and I had had to go on top. We all three got up to get off and Mr Sanders lost his balance and fell right against his wife, sending her headfirst down the stairs. Fortunately the conductor was a very strong young man and caught her." "But surely that must have been an accident." "Of course it was an accident – nothing could have looked more accidental! But Mr Sanders had been in the Merchant Service, so he told me, and a man who can keep his balance on a nasty tilting boat doesn’t lose it on top of a tram if an old woman like me doesn’t. Don’t tell me!" "At any rate we can take it that you made up your mind, Miss Marple," said Sir Henry. "Made it up then and there." The old lady nodded. "I was sure enough, and another incident in crossing the street not long afterwards made me surer still. Now I ask you, what could I do, Sir Henry? Here was a nice contented happy little married woman shortly going to be murdered." "My dear lady, you take my breath away." "That’s because, like most people nowadays, you won’t face facts. You prefer to think such a thing couldn’t be. But it was so, and I knew it. But one is so sadly handicapped! I couldn’t, for instance, go to the police. And to warn the young woman would, I could see, be useless. She was devoted to the man. I just made it my business to find out as much as I could about them. One has a lot of opportunities doing one’s needlework round the fire. Mrs Sanders (Gladys, her name was) was only too willing to talk. It seems they had not been married very long. Her husband had some property that was coming to him, but for the moment they were very badly off. In fact, they were living on her little income. One has heard that tale before. She bemoaned the fact that she could not touch the capital. It seems that somebody had had some sense somewhere! But the money was hers to will away – I found that out. And she and her husband had made wills in favour of each other directly after their marriage. Very touching.

Espionage. Espionage by the enemy with certain objects in view, some of which were accomplished. Perhaps some which weren’t quite accomplished. But we don’t know–well–we don’t know who was mixed up in it. From the enemy point of view. I mean, there were people here, I should think, people perhaps among security forces. People who were traitors but whose job it was to appear to be loyal servants of the State." "Yes," said Tuppence. "I’ll go for that one. That seems to be very likely." "And Mary Jordan’s job was to get in touch with them." "To get in touch with Commander X?" "I should think so, yes. Or with friends of Commander X and to find out about things. But apparently it was necessary for her to come here to get it." "Do you mean that the Parkinsons–I suppose we’re back at the Parkinsons again before we know where we are–were in it? That the Parkinsons were part of the enemy?" "It seems very unlikely," said Tommy. "Well, then, I can’t see what it all means." "I think the house might have something to do with it," said Tommy. "The house? Well, other people came and lived here afterwards, didn’t they?" "Yes, they did. But I don’t suppose they were people quite like–well, quite like you, Tuppence." "What do you mean by quite like me?" "Well, wanting old books and looking through them and finding out things. Being a regular mongoose, in fact. They just came and lived here and I expect the upstairs rooms and the books were probably servants" rooms and nobody went into them. There may be something that was hidden in this house. Hidden perhaps by Mary Jordan. Hidden in a place ready to deliver to someone who would come for them, or deliver them by going herself to London or somewhere on some excuse. Visit to a dentist. Seeing an old friend. Quite easy to do. She had something she had acquired, or got to know, hidden in this house. You’re not saying it’s still hidden in this house?" "No," said Tommy, "I shouldn’t have thought so. But one doesn’t know. Somebody is afraid we may find it or have found it and they want to get us out of the house, or they want to get hold of whatever it is they think we’ve found but that they’ve never found, though perhaps they’ve looked for it in past years and then thought it had been hidden somewhere else outside." "Oh, Tommy," said Tuppence, "that makes it all much more exciting, really, doesn’t it?" "It’s only what we think," said Tommy. "Now don’t be such a wet blanket," said Tuppence. "I’m going to look outside as well as inside–" "What are you going to do, dig up the kitchen garden?" "No," said Tuppence. "Cupboards, the cellar, things like that. Who knows? Oh, Tommy!" "Oh, Tuppence!" said Tommy. "Just when we were looking forward to a delightful, peaceful old age." "No peace for the pensioners," said Tuppence gaily. "That’s an idea too." "What?" "I must go and talk to some old age pensioners at their club. I hadn’t thought of them up to now." "For goodness" sake, look after yourself," said Tommy. "I think I’d better stay at home and keep an eye on you. But I’ve got to do some more research in London tomorrow." "I’m going to do some research here," said Tuppence. Chapter 2 Research by Tuppence "I hope," said Tuppence, "that I’m not interrupting you, coming along like this? I thought I’d better ring up first in case you were out, you know, or busy. But, I mean, it’s nothing particular so I could go away again at once if you liked. I mean, my feelings wouldn’t be hurt or anything like that." "Oh, I’m delighted to see you, Mrs Beresford," said Mrs Griffin. She moved herself three inches along her chair so as to settle her back more comfortably and looked with what seemed to be distinct pleasure into Tuppence’s somewhat anxious face. "It’s a great pleasure, you know, when somebody new comes and lives in this place. We’re so used to all our neighbours that a new face, or if I may say so a couple of new faces, is a treat. An absolute treat! I hope indeed that you’ll both come to dinner one day.

WIRELESS "Above all, avoid worry and excitement," said Dr Meynell, in the comfortable fashion affected by doctors. Mrs Harter, as is often the case with people hearing these soothing but meaningless words, seemed more doubtful than relieved. "There is a certain cardiac weakness," continued the doctor fluently, "but nothing to be alarmed about. I can assure you of that. All the same," he added, "it might be as well to have an elevator installed. Eh? What about it?" Mrs Harter looked worried. Dr Meynell, on the contrary, looked pleased with himself. The reason he liked attending rich patients rather than poor ones was that he could exercise his active imagination in prescribing for their ailments. "Yes, an elevator," said Dr Meynell, trying to think of something else even more dashing - and failing. "Then we shall avoid all undue exertion. Daily exercise on the level on a fine day, but avoid walking up hills. And, above all, plenty of distraction for the mind. Don't dwell on your health." To the old lady's nephew, Charles Ridgeway, the doctor was slightly more explicit. "Do not misunderstand me," he said. "Your aunt may live for years, probably will. At the same time, shock or overexertion might carry her off like that!" He snapped his fingers. "She must lead a very quiet life. No exertion. No fatigue. But, of course, she must not be allowed to brood. She must be kept cheerful and the mind well distracted." "Distracted," said Charles Ridgeway thoughtfully. Charles was a thoughtful young man. He was also a young man who believed in furthering his own inclinations whenever possible. That evening he suggested the installation of a radio set. Mrs Harter, already seriously upset at the thought of the elevator, was disturbed and unwilling. Charles was persuasive. "I do not know that I care for these new-fangled things," said Mrs Harter piteously. "The waves, you know - the electric waves. They might affect me." Charles, in a superior and kindly fashion, pointed out the futility of this idea. Mrs Harter, whose knowledge of the subject was of the vaguest but who was tenacious of her own opinion, remained unconvinced. "All that electricity," she murmured timorously. "You may say what you like, Charles, but some people are affected by electricity. I always have a terrible headache before a thunderstorm. I know that." She nodded her head triumphantly. Charles was a patient young man. He was also persistent. "My dear Aunt Mary," he said, "let me make the thing clear to you." He was something of an authority on the subject. He delivered quite a lecture on the theme; warming to his task, he spoke of bright-emitter tubes, of dull-emitter tubes, of high frequency and low frequency, of amplification and of condensers. Mrs Harter, submerged in a sea of words that she did not understand, surrendered. "Of course, Charles," she murmured, "if you really think -" "My dear Aunt Mary," said Charles enthusiastically, "it is the very thing for you, to keep you from moping and all that." The elevator prescribed by Dr Meynell was installed shortly afterwards and was very nearly the death of Mrs Harter since, like many other old ladies, she had a rooted objection to strange men in the house. She suspected them one and all of having designs on her old silver. After the elevator the radio set arrived. Mrs Harter was left to contemplate the, to her, repellent object - a large, ungainly-looking box, studded with knobs. It took all Charles's enthusiasm to reconcile her to it, but Charles was in his element, turning knobs and discoursing eloquently. Mrs Harter sat in her high-backed chair, patient and polite, with a rooted conviction in her own mind that these new-fangled notions were neither more nor less than unmitigated nuisances. "Listen, Aunt Mary, we are on to Berlin! Isn't that splendid? Can you hear the fellow?" "I can't hear anything except a good deal of buzzing and clicking," said Mrs Harter. Charles continued to twirl knobs. "Brussels," he announced with enthusiasm. "It is really?" said Mrs Harter with no more than a trace of interest Charles again turned knobs and an unearthly howl echoed forth into the room.

Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. "No, no, Mr Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you will find it. If Mr Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now." "But do you think –" "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all." John looked perplexed. "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast." Everyone was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy. I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all. And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly: "Yes, I’ve got the most beastly headache." "Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de te^te." He jumped up and took her cup. "No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs. "No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?" "No, I never take it in coffee." "Sacré!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup. Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat’s. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly—but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted my attention. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. "Mr Wells to see you, sir," she said to John. I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs Inglethorp had written the night before. John rose immediately. "Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother’s lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner—you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?" We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot: "There will be an inquest then?" Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. "What is it? You are not attending to what I say." "It is true, my friend. I am much worried." "Why?" "Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee." "What? You cannot be serious?" "But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right." "What instinct?" "The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee cups.

And yet, after all, it was typical of Joe. Her enthusiasm always was red hot. It was a toss up which camp he found her in, that was all. She might just as easily have been a white hot pacifist, embracing martyrdom with fervour. She said now accusingly to Sebastian: "You don’t agree! You think everything’s going to be just the same." "There have always been wars, and they have never made any great difference." "Yes, but this is a different kind of war altogether." He smiled. He could not help it. "My dear Joe, the things that happen to us personally are always different." "Oh! I’ve no patience with you. It’s people like you –" She stopped. "Yes," said Sebastian encouragingly. "People like me –" "You usen’t to be like that. You used to have ideas. Now –" "Now," said Sebastian gravely, "I am sunk in money. I’m a capitalist. Everyone knows what a hoggish creature the capitalist is." "Don’t be absurd. But I do think that money is rather – well, stifling." "Yes," said Sebastian, "that’s true enough. But that’s a question of effect on an individual. I will quite agree with you that poverty is a blessed state. Talking in terms of art, it’s probably as valuable as manure in a garden. But it’s nonsense to say that because I’ve got money, I’m unfit to make prognostications as to the future, and especially as to the state obtaining after the war. Just because I’ve got money I’m all the more likely to be a good judge. Money has got a lot to do with war." "Yes, but because you think of everything in terms of money, you say that there always will be wars." "I didn’t say anything of the kind. I think war will eventually be abolished – I’d give it roughly another two hundred years." "Ah! you do admit that by then we may have purer ideals." "I don’t think it’s got anything to do with ideals. It’s probably a question of transport. Once you get flying going on a commercial scale and you fuse countries together. Air charabancs to the Sahara, Wednesdays and Saturdays. That kind of thing. Countries getting mixed up and matey. Trade revolutionized. For all practical purposes, you make the world smaller. You reduce it in time to the level of a nation with counties in it. I don’t think what’s always alluded to as the Brotherhood of Man will ever develop from fine ideas – it will be a simple matter of common sense." "Oh, Sebastian!" "I’m annoying you. I’m sorry, Joe dear." "You don’t believe in anything." "Well, it’s you who are the atheist, you know. Though, as a matter of fact, that word has gone out of fashion. We say nowadays that we believe in Something! Personally I’m quite satisfied with Jehovah. But I know what you meant when you said that, and you’re wrong. I believe in beauty, in creation, in things like Vernon’s music. I can’t see any real defence for them economically, and yet I’m perfectly sure that they matter more than anything else in the world. I’m even prepared (sometimes) to drop money over them. That’s a lot for a Jew!" Joe laughed in spite of herself. Then she asked: "What was the Princess in the Tower really like? Honestly, Sebastian?" "Oh, rather like a giant toddling – an unconvincing performance and yet a performance on a different scale from anything else." "You think that some day –" "I’m sure of it. There’s nothing I’m so sure of as that. If only he isn’t killed in this bloody war." Joe shivered. "It’s so awful," she murmured. "I’ve been working in the hospitals in Paris. Some of the things one sees!" "I know. If he’s only maimed it doesn’t matter – not like a violinist who is finished if he loses his right hand. No, they can mess up his body any way they like – so long as his brain is left untouched. That sounds brutal, but you know what I mean –" "I know. But sometimes – even then –" She broke off and then went on, speaking in a new tone of voice. "Sebastian, I’m married." If something in him winced he didn’t show it. "Are you, my dear? Did La Marre get a divorce?" "No. I left him.

"I have indeed been in the wrong over that. About that letter, there was, I thought, the odour of the fish. Instead a mere stupidity. Alas, I grow old and suspicious like the blind watchdog who growls when there is nothing there." "If I’m going to cooperate with you, we must look about for some other "creamy" crime," I said with a laugh. "You remember your remark of the other day? If you could order a crime as one orders a dinner, what would you choose?" I fell in with his humour. "Let me see now. Let’s review the menu. Robbery? Forgery? No, I think not. Rather too vegetarian. It must be murder—red-blooded murder—with trimmings, of course." "Naturally. The hors d’oeuvres." "Who shall the victim be—man or woman? Man, I think. Some bigwig. American millionaire. Prime Minister. Newspaper proprietor. Scene of the crime—well, what’s wrong with the good old library? Nothing like it for atmosphere. As for the weapon—well, it might be a curiously twisted dagger—or some blunt instrument—a carved stone idol—" Poirot sighed. "Or, of course," I said, "there’s poison—but that’s always so technical. Or a revolver shot echoing in the night. Then there must be a beautiful girl or two—" "With auburn hair," murmured my friend. "Your same old joke. One of the beautiful girls, of course, must be unjustly suspected—and there’s some misunderstanding between her and the young man. And then, of course, there must be some other suspects—an older woman—dark, dangerous type—and some friend or rival of the dead man’s—and a quiet secretary—dark horse—and a hearty man with a bluff manner—and a couple of discharged servants or gamekeepers or somethings—and a damn fool of a detective rather like Japp—and well—that’s about all." "That is your idea of the cream, eh?" "I gather you don’t agree." Poirot looked at me sadly. "You have made there a very pretty résumé of nearly all the detective stories that have ever been written." "Well," I said. "What would you order?" Poirot closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice came purringly from between his lips. "A very simple crime. A crime with no complications. A crime of quiet domestic life…very unimpassioned—very intime." "How can a crime be intime?" "Supposing," murmured Poirot, "that four people sit down to play bridge and one, the odd man out, sits in a chair by the fire. At the end of the evening the man by the fire is found dead. One of the four, while he is dummy, has gone over and killed him, and intent on the play of the hand, the other three have not noticed. Ah, there would be a crime for you! Which of the four was it?" "Well," I said. "I can’t see any excitement in that!" Poirot threw me a glance of reproof. "No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail, no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no untraceable Eastern poisons. You have the melodramatic soul, Hastings. You would like, not one murder, but a series of murders." "I admit," I said, "that a second murder in a book often cheers things up. If the murder happens in the first chapter, and you have to follow up everybody’s alibi until the last page but one—well, it does get a bit tedious." The telephone rang and Poirot rose to answer. "’Allo," he said. "’Allo. Yes, it is Hercule Poirot speaking." He listened for a minute or two and then I saw his face change. His own side of the conversation was short and disjointed. "Mais oui…." "Yes, of course…." "But yes, we will come…." "Naturally…." "It may be as you say…." "Yes, I will bring it. A tout à l’heure then." He replaced the receiver and came across the room to me. "That was Japp speaking, Hastings." "Yes?" "He had just got back to the Yard. There was a message from Andover…." "Andover?" I cried excitedly.

"I believe I do!" "Memory is a wonderful gift. With it the past is never the past—I should imagine, madame, that to you the past unrolls itself, every incident clear as yesterday. Is that so?" She looked at him quickly. Her eyes were wide and dark. It was only for a moment, then she had resumed her woman-of-the-world manner, but Hercule Poirot did not doubt. That shot had gone home. Mrs. Lorrimer rose. "I’m afraid I shall have to leave now. I am so sorry—but I really mustn’t be late." "Of course not—of course not. I apologize for trespassing on your time." "I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you more." "But you have helped me," said Hercule Poirot. "I hardly think so." She spoke with decision. "But yes. You have told me something I wanted to know." She asked no question as to what that something was. He held out his hand. "Thank you, madame, for your forbearance." As she shook hands with him she said: "You are an extraordinary man, M. Poirot." "I am as the good God made me, madame." "We are all that, I suppose." "Not all, madame. Some of us have tried to improve on His pattern. Mr. Shaitana, for instance." "In what way do you mean?" "He had a very pretty taste in objets de vertu and bric-à-brac—he should have been content with that. Instead, he collected other things." "What sort of things?" "Well—shall we say—sensations?" "And don’t you think that was dans son caractère?" Poirot shook his head gravely. "He played the part of the devil too successfully. But he was not the devil. Au fond, he was a stupid man. And so—he died." "Because he was stupid?" "It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, madame." There was a silence. Then Poirot said: "I take my departure. A thousand thanks for your amiability, madame. I will not come again unless you send for me." Her eyebrows rose. "Dear me, M. Poirot, why should I send for you?" "You might. It is just an idea. If so, I will come. Remember that." He bowed once more and left the room. In the street he said to himself: "I am right … I am sure I am right … It must be that!" Twelve ANNE MEREDITH Mrs. Oliver extricated herself from the driving seat of her little two-seater with some difficulty. To begin with, the makers of modern motorcars assume that only a pair of sylphlike knees will ever be under the steering wheel. It is also the fashion to sit low. That being so, for a middle-aged woman of generous proportions it requires a good deal of superhuman wriggling to get out from under the steering wheel. In the second place, the seat next to the driving seat was encumbered by several maps, a handbag, three novels and a large bag of apples. Mrs. Oliver was partial to apples and had indeed been known to eat as many as five pounds straight off whilst composing the complicated plot of The Death in the Drain Pipe—coming to herself with a start and an incipient stomachache an hour and ten minutes after she was due at an important luncheon party given in her honour. With a final determined heave and a sharp shove with a knee against a recalcitrant door, Mrs. Oliver arrived a little too suddenly on the sidewalk outside the gate of Wendon Cottage, showering apple cores freely round her as she did so. She gave a deep sigh, pushed back her country hat to an unfashionable angle, looked down with approval at the tweeds she had remembered to put on, frowned a little when she saw that she had absentmindedly retained her London high- heeled patent leather shoes, and pushing open the gate of Wendon Cottage walked up the flagged path to the front door. She rang the bell and executed a cheerful little rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker—a quaint conceit in the form of a toad’s head. As nothing happened she repeated the performance. After a further pause of a minute and a half, Mrs. Oliver stepped briskly round the side of the house on a voyage of exploration.

said Miss Marple. "And then of course, when his wife died rather suddenly—" "She died here, on this island?" "No. No, I think they were in Martinique or Tobago at the time." "I see." "But I gathered from some other people who were there at the time, and who came on here and talked about things, that the doctor wasn’t very satisfied." "Indeed," said Miss Marple, with interest. "It was only gossip," of course, "but—well, Mr. Dyson certainly married again very quickly." She lowered her voice again. "Only a month I believe." "Only a month," said Miss Marple. The two women looked at each other. "It seemed—unfeeling," said Miss Prescott. "Yes," said Miss Marple. "It certainly did." She added delicately, "Was there—any money?" "I don’t really know. He makes his little joke—perhaps you’ve heard him—about his wife being his "lucky piece’—" "Yes, I’ve heard him," said Miss Marple. "And some people think that means that he was lucky to marry a rich wife. Though, of course," said Miss Prescott with the air of one being entirely fair, "she’s very good-looking too, if you care for that type. And I think myself that it was the first wife who had the money." "Are the Hillingdons well off?" "Well, I think they’re well off. I don’t mean fabulously rich, I just mean well off. They have two boys at public school and a very nice place in England, I believe, and they travel most of the winter." The Canon appearing at this moment to suggest a brisk walk, Miss Prescott rose to join her brother. Miss Marple remained sitting there. A few minutes later Gregory Dyson passed her striding along towards the hotel. He waved a cheerful hand as he passed. "Penny for your thoughts," he called out. Miss Marple smiled gently, wondering how he would have reacted if she had replied: "I was wondering if you were a murderer." It really seemed most probable that he was. It all fitted in so nicely—This story about the death of the first Mrs. Dyson—Major Palgrave had certainly been talking about a wife killer—with special reference to the "Brides in the Bath Case." Yes—it fitted—the only objection was that it fitted almost too well. But Miss Marple reproved herself for this thought—who was she to demand Murders Made to Measure? A voice made her jump—a somewhat raucous one. "Seen Greg any place, Miss—er—" Lucky, Miss Marple thought, was not in a good temper. "He passed by just now—going towards the hotel." "I’ll bet!" Lucky uttered an irritated ejaculation and hurried on. "Forty, if she’s a day, and looks it this morning," thought Miss Marple. Pity invaded her—pity for the Luckys of the world—who were so vulnerable to Time— At the sound of a noise behind her, she turned her chair round— Mr. Rafiel, supported by Jackson, was making his morning appearance and coming out of his bungalow— Jackson settled his employer in his wheelchair and fussed round him. Mr. Rafiel waved his attendant away impatiently and Jackson went off in the direction of the hotel. Miss Marple lost no time—Mr. Rafiel was never left alone for long—Probably Esther Walters would come and join him. Miss Marple wanted a word alone with Mr. Rafiel and now, she thought, was her chance. She would have to be quick about what she wanted to say. There could be no leading up to things. Mr. Rafiel was not a man who cared for the idle twittering conversation of old ladies. He would probably retreat again into his bungalow, definitely regarding himself the victim of persecution. Miss Marple decided to plump for downrightness. She made her way to where he was sitting, drew up a chair, sat down, and said: "I want to ask you something, Mr. Rafiel." "All right, all right," said Mr. Rafiel, "let’s have it. What do you want—a subscription, I suppose? Missions in Africa or repairing a church, something of that kind?" "Yes," said Miss Marple. "I am interested in several objects of that nature, and I shall be delighted if you will give me a subscription for them. But that wasn’t actually what I was going to ask you.

He is the young Bull—yes, one might say the Bull dedicated to Poseidon . . . A perfect specimen of healthy manhood." "Looks fit enough, doesn’t he?" Frobisher sighed. His shrewd little eyes stole sideways, considering Hercule Poirot. Presently he said: "I know who you are, you know." "Ah that, it is no secret!" Poirot waved a royal hand. He was not incognito, the gesture seemed to say. He was travelling as Himself. After a minute or two Frobisher asked: "Did the girl get you down—over this business?" "The business—?" "The business of young Hugh . . . Yes, I see you know all about it. But I can’t quite see why she went to you . . . Shouldn’t have thought this sort of thing was in your line—meantersay it’s more a medical show." "All kinds of things are in my line . . . You would be surprised." "I mean I can’t see quite what she expected you could do." "Miss Maberly," said Poirot, "is a fighter." Colonel Frobisher nodded a warm assent. "Yes, she’s a fighter all right. She’s a fine kid. She won’t give up. All the same, you know, there are some things that you can’t fight. . . ." His face looked suddenly old and tired. Poirot dropped his voice still lower. He murmured discreetly: "There is—insanity, I understand, in the family?" Frobisher nodded. "Only crops up now and again," he murmured. "Skips a generation or two. Hugh’s grandfather was the last." Poirot threw a quick glance in the direction of the other three. Diana was holding the conversation well, laughing and bantering Hugh. You would have said that the three of them had not a care in the world. "What form did the madness take?" Poirot asked softly. "The old boy became pretty violent in the end. He was perfectly all right up to thirty—normal as could be. Then he began to go a bit queer. It was some time before people noticed it. Then a lot of rumours began going around. People started talking properly. Things happened that were hushed up. But—well," he raised his shoulders, "ended up as mad as a hatter, poor devil! Homicidal! Had to be certified." He paused for a moment and then added: "He lived to be quite an old man, I believe . . . That’s what Hugh is afraid of, of course. That’s why he doesn’t want to see a doctor. He’s afraid of being shut up and living shut up for years. Can’t say I blame him. I’d feel the same." "And Admiral Chandler, how does he feel?" "It’s broken him up completely," Frobisher spoke shortly. "He is very fond of his son?" "Wrapped up in the boy. You see, his wife was drowned in a boating accident when the boy was only ten years old. Since then he’s lived for nothing but the child." "Was he very devoted to his wife?" "Worshipped her. Everybody worshipped her. She was—she was one of the loveliest women I’ve ever known." He paused a moment and then said jerkily, "Care to see her portrait?" "I should like to see it very much." Frobisher pushed back his chair and rose. Aloud he said: "Going to show M. Poirot one or two things, Charles. He’s a bit of a connoisseur." The Admiral raised a vague hand. Frobisher tramped along the terrace and Poirot followed him. For a moment Diana’s face dropped its mask of gaiety and looked an agonized question. Hugh, too, raised his head, and looked steadily at the small man with the big black moustache. Poirot followed Frobisher into the house. It was so dim at first coming in out of the sunlight that he could hardly distinguish one article from another. But he realized that the house was full of old and beautiful things. Colonel Frobisher led the way to the Picture Gallery. On the panelled walls hung portraits of dead and gone Chandlers. Faces stern and gay, men in court dress or in Naval uniform. Women in satin and pearls. Finally Frobisher stopped under a portrait at the end of the gallery.

In her second season she had three strings to her bow, the heir to a dukedom, a rising politician, and a South African millionaire. And then, to everyone’s surprise, she married Alan Everard – a struggling young painter whom no one had ever heard of. It is a tribute to her personality, I think, that everyone went on calling her Isobel Loring. Nobody ever alluded to her as Isobel Everard. It would be: "I saw Isobel Loring this morning. Yes – with her husband, young Everard, the painter fellow." People said Isobel had "done for herself’. It would, I think, have "done" for most men to be known as "Isobel Loring’s husband’. But Everard was different. Isobel’s talent for success hadn’t failed her after all. Alan Everard painted Colour. I suppose everyone knows the picture: a stretch of road with a trench dug down it, the turned earth, reddish in colour, a shining length of brown glazed drainpipe and the huge navvy, resting for a minute on his spade – a Herculean figure in stained corduroys with a scarlet necker-chief. His eyes look out at you from the canvas, without intelligence, without hope, but with a dumb unconscious pleading, the eyes of a magnificent brute beast. It is a flaming thing – a symphony of orange and red. A lot has been written about its symbolism, about what it is meant to express. Alan Everard himself says he didn’t mean it to express anything. He was, he said, nauseated by having had to look at a lot of pictures of Venetian sunsets, and a sudden longing for a riot of purely English colour assailed him. After that, Everard gave the world that epic painting of a public house – Romance ; the black street with rain falling – the half-open door, the lights and shining glasses, the little foxy-faced man passing through the doorway, small, mean, insignificant, with lips parted and eyes eager, passing in to forget. On the strength of these two pictures Everard was acclaimed as a painter of "working men’. He had his niche. But he refused to stay in it. His third and most brilliant work, a full-length portrait of Sir Rufus Herschman. The famous scientist is painted against a background of retorts and crucibles and laboratory shelves. The whole has what may be called a Cubist effect, but the lines of perspective run strangely. And now he had completed his fourth work – a portrait of his wife. We had been invited to see and criticize. Everard himself scowled and looked out of the window; Isobel Loring moved amongst the guests, talking technique with unerring accuracy. We made comments. We had to. We praised the painting of the pink satin. The treatment of that, we said, was really marvellous. Nobody had painted satin in quite that way before. Mrs Lemprière, who is one of the most intelligent art critics I know, took me aside almost at once. "Georgie," she said, "what has he done to himself? The thing’s dead. It’s smooth. It’s – oh! it’s damnable." "Portrait of a Lady in Pink Satin?" I suggested. "Exactly. And yet the technique’s perfect. And the care! There’s enough work there for sixteen pictures." "Too much work?" I suggested. "Perhaps that’s it. If there ever was anything there, he’s killed it. An extremely beautiful woman in a pink satin dress. Why not a coloured photograph?" "Why not?" I agreed. "Do you suppose he knows?" "Don’t you see the man’s on edge? It comes, I daresay, of mixing up sentiment and business. He’s put his whole soul into painting Isobel, because she is Isobel, and in sparing her, he’s lost her. He’s been too kind. You’ve got to – to destroy the flesh before you can get at the soul sometimes." I nodded reflectively. Sir Rufus Herschman had not been flattered physically, but Everard had succeeded in putting on the canvas a personality that was unforgettable. "And Isobel’s got such a very forceful personality," continued Mrs Lemprière. "Perhaps Everard can’t paint women," I said. "Perhaps not," said Mrs Lemprière thoughtfully. "Yes, that may be the explanation."

"Mon ami," said Tommy, "you do not understand the psychology of an American woman who has just returned from Paris. There were, I should say, about nineteen trunks in the room." "What I meantersay is, a trunk’s a handy thing if you’ve got a dead body about you want to get rid of–not that she is dead, for a minute." "We searched the only two there were big enough to contain a body. What is the next fact in chronological order?" "You’ve missed one out–when the Missus and the bloke dressed up as a hospital nurse passed the waiter in the passage." "It must have been just before we came up in the lift," said Tommy. "They must have had a narrow escape of meeting us face to face. Pretty quick work, that. I –" He stopped. "What is it, sir?" "Be silent, mon ami. I have the kind of little idea–colossal, stupendous–that always comes sooner or later to Hercule Poirot. But if so–if that’s it–Oh, Lord, I hope I’m in time." He raced out of the Park, Albert hard on his heels, inquiring breathlessly as he ran, "What’s up, sir? I don’t understand." "That’s all right," said Tommy. "You’re not supposed to. Hastings never did. If your grey cells weren’t of a very inferior order to mine, what fun do you think I should get out of this game? I’m talking damned rot–but I can’t help it. You’re a good lad, Albert. You know what Tuppence is worth–she’s worth a dozen of you and me." Thus talking breathlessly as he ran, Tommy reentered the portals of the Blitz. He caught sight of Evans, and drew him aside with a few hurried words. The two men entered the lift, Albert with them. "Third floor," said Tommy. At the door of No. 318 they paused. Evans had a pass key, and used it forthwith. Without a word of warning, they walked straight into Mrs Van Snyder’s bedroom. The lady was still lying on the bed, but was now arrayed in a becoming negligee. She stared at them in surprise. "Pardon my failure to knock," said Tommy pleasantly. "But I want my wife. Do you mind getting off that bed?" "I guess you’ve gone plumb crazy," cried Mrs Van Snyder. Tommy surveyed her thoughtfully, his head on one side. "Very artistic," he pronounced, "but it won’t do. We looked under the bed–but not in it. I remember using that hiding-place myself when young. Horizontally across the bed, underneath the bolster. And that nice wardrobe trunk all ready to take away the body in later. But we were a bit too quick for you just now. You’d had time to dope Tuppence, put her under the bolster, and be gagged and bound by your accomplices next door, and I’ll admit we swallowed your story all right for the moment. But when one came to think it out–with order and method–impossible to drug a girl, dress her in boys" clothes, gag and bind another woman, and change one’s own appearance–all in five minutes. Simply a physical impossibility. The hospital nurse and the boy were to be a decoy. We were to follow that trail, and Mrs Van Snyder was to be pitied as a victim. Just help the lady off the bed, will you, Evans? You have your automatic? Good." Protesting shrilly, Mrs Van Snyder was hauled from her place of repose. Tommy tore off the coverings and the bolster. There, lying horizontally across the top of the bed was Tuppence, her eyes closed, and her face waxen. For a moment Tommy felt a sudden dread, then he saw the slight rise and fall of her breast. She was drugged–not dead. He turned to Albert and Evans. "And now, Messieurs," he said dramatically, "the final coup!" With a swift, unexpected gesture he seized Mrs Van Snyder by her elaborately dressed hair. It came off in his hand. "As I thought," said Tommy. "No. 16!" II It was about half an hour later when Tuppence opened her eyes and found a doctor and Tommy bending over her. Over the events of the next quarter of an hour a decent veil had better be drawn, but after that period the doctor departed with the assurance that all was now well.

You know, like somebody who catches a butterfly or something, only she’d have needed a butterfly-net. She sort of rounded me up and pushed me on to a settee and then she began to talk to me, starting about a goddaughter of mine." "Ah yes. A goddaughter you are fond of ?" "I haven’t seen her for a good many years," said Mrs Oliver, "I can’t keep up with all of them, I mean. And then she asked me a most worrying question. She wanted me – oh dear, how very difficult it is for me to tell this –" "No, it isn’t, said Poirot kindly. "It is quite easy. Everyone tells everything to me sooner or later. I’m only a foreigner, you see, so it does not matter. It is easy because I am a foreigner." "Well, it is rather easy to say things to you," said Mrs Oliver. "You see, she asked me about the girl’s father and mother. She asked me whether her mother had killed her father or her father had killed her mother." "I beg your pardon," said Poirot. "Oh, I know it sounds mad. Well, I thought it was mad." "Whether your goddaughter’s mother had killed her father, or whether her father had killed her mother." "That’s right," said Mrs Oliver. "But – was that a matter of fact? Had her father killed her mother or her mother killed her father?" "Well, they were both found shot," said Mrs Oliver. "On the top of a cliff. I can’t remember if it was in Cornwall or in Corsica. Something like that." "Then it was true, then, what she said?" "Oh yes, that part of it was true. It happened years ago. Well, but I mean – why come to me?" "All because you were a crime writer," said Poirot. "She no doubt said you knew all about crime. This was a real thing that happened?" "Oh yes. It wasn’t something like what would A do – or what would be the proper procedure if your mother had killed your father or your father had killed yourmother. No, it was something that really happened. I suppose really I’d better tell you all about it. I mean, I can’t remember all about it but it was quite well known at the time. It was about – oh, I should think it was about twelve years ago at least. And, as I say, I can remember the names of the people because I did know them. The wife had been at school with me and I’d known her quite well. We’d been friends. It was a well-known case – you know, it was in all the papers and things like that. Sir Alistair Ravenscroft and Lady Ravenscroft. A very happy couple and he was a colonel or a general and she’d been with him and they’d been all over the world. Then they bought this house somewhere – I think it was abroad but I can’t remember. And then there were suddenly accounts of this case in the papers. Whether somebody else had killed them or whether they’d been assassinated or something, or whether they killed each other. I think it was a revolver that had been in the house for ages and – well, I’d better tell you as much as I can remember." Pulling herself slightly together, Mrs Oliver managed to give Poirot a more or less clear résumé of what she had been told. Poirot from time to time checked on a point here or there. "But why?" he said finally, "why should this woman want to know this?" "Well, that’s what I want to find out," said Mrs Oliver. "I could get hold of Celia, I think. I mean, she still lives in London. Or perhaps it’s Cambridge she lives in, or Oxford – I think she’s got a degree and either lectures here or teaches somewhere, or does something like that. And – very modern, you know. Goes about with long-haired people in queer clothes. I don’t think she takes drugs. She’s quite all right and – just very occasionally I hear from her. I mean, she sends a card at Christmas and things like that. Well, one doesn’t think of one’s god-children all the time, and she’s quite twenty-five or -six." "Not married?" "No. Apparently she is going to marry – or that is the idea – Mrs – What’s the name of that woman again?

Oh, dear, I hope I’ve filled this in right. I always find these forms so confusing. GERARD. (Helping MISS PRYCE) The nationality here. You, too, are British. (The ARAB BOY rings the lift bell and returns to the desk. LADY WESTHOLME waits impatiently.) MISS PRYCE. Oh, well—yes, certainly—at least—really, you know—(Confidentially) I’m Welsh—but still, it’s all the same. (She drops her handbag.) GERARD. (Picking up the handbag) Allow me. MISS PRYCE. (Taking the bag) Oh, thank you. (To the CLERK) Have you—is there—I believe you have a room booked for me—one with a view towards the Dead Sea, I asked for. CLERK. The name? MISS PRYCE. Oh, dear me—how stupid of me. Pryce. Miss Pryce. Miss Amabel Pryce. (The lift descends and the door opens. LADY WESTHOLME exits to the lift.) CLERK. (To the ARAB BOY) Number four-eighty-four. (He hands him a key.) (The ARAB BOY moves to the lift. MISS PRYCE drops her handbag. GERARD picks up the bag.) MISS PRYCE. So stupid of me. (She takes the bag.) Thank you so much. (The ARAB BOY exits to the lift.) (She hurries to the lift. Wait for me! Wait for me! (MISS PRYCE exits to the lift. The door closes and the lift ascends.) GERARD. (To the CLERK) Doctor Theodore Gerard. (He fills in a form.) CLERK. Oh, yes, Doctor Gerard. Number one-eight-four. (He hands him a key.) (GERARD moves to the lift and waits. GENEVRA looks at GERARD. The lift descends and the door opens. SARAH KING enters from the lift. She is an attractive, decided-looking girl of twenty-three. She passes GERARD, hesitates, then smiles at him. GERARD bows.) GERARD. How do you do? SARAH. I’m so pleased to see you. I never thanked you for helping me the other night at the station in Cairo. GERARD. That was nothing—a pleasure. You are enjoying Jerusalem, Miss—er . . . ? SARAH. King—Doctor Sarah King. GERARD. (Gaily) Ah, we are colleagues. (He takes a card from his pocket and hands it to her.) Doctor Gerard. SARAH. Colleagues? (She looks at the card.) Doctor Theodore Gerard. Oh. (Reverently) Are you the Doctor Gerard? But yes, you must be. GERARD. I am Doctor Theodore Gerard. So, as I say, we are colleagues. SARAH. Yes, but you’re distinguished and I am only starting. GERARD. (Smiling) Oh, well, I hope it will not be like your English proverb—wait a minute so that I get it right. (Slowly) "Doctors differ and patients die." SARAH. Fancy your knowing that! Just as well we haven’t any patients. Have you just come in on the afternoon train? GERARD. Yes. With a very important English lady. (He grimaces) Lady Westholme. Since God is not in Jerusalem, she is forced to put up with the King Solomon Hotel. SARAH. (Laughing) Lady Westholme is a political big bug. In her own eyes at any rate. She’s always heckling the Government about housing or equal pay for women. She was an undersecretary or something—but she lost her seat at the last election. GERARD. Not the type that interests you? SARAH. No—but—(She drops her voice and draws GERARD up Left) there’s someone over there who does. Don’t look at once. It’s an American family. They were on the train with me yesterday. I talked to the son. (GERARD looks at LENNOX) Not that one—a younger one. He was rather nice. Extraordinary-looking old woman, isn’t she? Her family seem absolutely devoted to her. GERARD.

"Oh, think! I do not know how to think, Hori. Everything is confused in my head. People are confused. Everybody is different from what I thought they were. Satipy I always thought was bold, resolute, domineering. But now she is weak, vacillating, even timid. Then which is the real Satipy? People cannot change like that in a day." "Not in a day–no." "And Kait–she who was always meek and submissive and let everybody bully her. Now she dominates us all! Even Sobek seems afraid of her. And even Yahmose is different–he gives orders and expects them to be obeyed!" "And all this confuses you, Renisenb?" "Yes. Because I do not understand. I feel sometimes that even Henet may be quite different from what she appears to be!" Renisenb laughed as though at an absurdity, but Hori did not join her. His face remained grave and thoughtful. "You have never thought very much about people, have you, Renisenb? If you had you would realize–" He paused and then went on. "You know that in all tombs there is always a false door?" Renisenb stared. "Yes, of course." "Well, people are like that too. They create a false door–to deceive. If they are conscious of weakness, of inefficiency, they make an imposing door of self-assertion, of bluster, of overwhelming authority–and, after a time, they get to believe in it themselves. They think, and everybody thinks, that they are like that. But behind that door, Renisenb, is bare rock…And so when reality comes and touches them with the feather of truth–their true self reasserts itself. For Kait gentleness and submission brought her all she desired–a husband and children. Stupidity made life easier for her–but when reality in the form of danger threatened, her true nature appeared. She did not change, Renisenb–that strength and that ruthlessness were always there." Renisenb said childishly: "But I do not like it, Hori. It makes me afraid. Everyone being different from what I thought them. And what about myself? I am always the same." "Are you?" He smiled at her. "Then why have you sat here all these hours, your forehead puckered, brooding and thinking? Did the old Renisenb–the Renisenb who went away with Khay–ever do that?" "Oh no. There was no need–" Renisenb stopped. "You see? You have said it yourself. That is the word of reality–need! You are not the happy, unthinking child you have always appeared to be, accepting everything at its face value. You are not just one of the women of the household. You are Renisenb who wants to think for herself, who wonders about other people…" Renisenb said slowly: "I have been wondering about Nofret…" "What have you been wondering?" "I have been wondering why I cannot forget her…She was bad and cruel and tried to do us harm and she is dead–why can I not leave it at that?" "Can you not leave it at that?" "No. I try to–but–" Renisenb paused. She passed her hand across her eyes perplexedly. "Sometimes I feel I know about Nofret, Hori." "Know? What do you mean?" "I can’t explain. But it comes to me every now and then–almost as though she were here, beside me. I feel–almost–as though I were her–I seem to know what she felt. She was very unhappy, Hori, I know that now, though I didn’t at the time. She wanted to hurt us all because she was so unhappy." "You cannot know that, Renisenb." "No, of course I cannot know it, but it is what I feel. That misery, that bitterness, that black hate–I saw it in her face once, and I did not understand! She must have loved someone and then something went wrong–perhaps he died…or went away–but it left her like that–wanting to hurt, to wound. Oh! you may say what you like, I know I am right!

"Pull yourself together, Elspeth, and tell him exactly what happened." "It’s dreadful," said Miss Johnson, "it’s really dreadful. Such a thing has never happened before in all my experience. Never! I couldn’t have believed it, I really couldn’t’ve believed it. Miss Springer too!" Inspector Kelsey was a perceptive man. He was always willing to deviate from the course of routine if a remark struck him as unusual or worth following up. "It seems to you, does it," he said, "very strange that it was Miss Springer who was murdered?" "Well yes, it does, Inspector. She was so—well, so tough, you know. So hearty. Like the sort of woman one could imagine taking on a burglar single-handed—or two burglars." "Burglars? H’m," said Inspector Kelsey. "Was there anything to steal in the Sports Pavilion?" "Well, no, really I can’t see what there can have been. Swim suits of course, sports paraphernalia." "The sort of thing a sneak thief might have taken," agreed Kelsey. "Hardly worth breaking in for, I should have thought. Was it broken into, by the way?" "Well, really, I never thought to look," said Miss Johnson. "I mean, the door was open when we got there and—" "It had not been broken into," said Miss Bulstrode. "I see," said Kelsey. "A key was used." He looked at Miss Johnson. "Was Miss Springer well-liked?" he asked. "Well, really, I couldn’t say. I mean, after all, she’s dead." "So, you didn’t like her," said Kelsey perceptively, ignoring Miss Johnson’s finer feelings. "I don’t think anyone could have liked her very much," said Miss Johnson. "She had a very positive manner, you know. Never minded contradicting people flatly. She was very efficient and took her work very seriously I should say, wouldn’t you, Miss Bulstrode?" "Certainly," said Miss Bulstrode. Kelsey returned from the bypath he had been pursuing. "Now, Miss Johnson, let’s hear just what happened." "Jane, one of our pupils, had earache. She woke up with a rather bad attack of it and came to me. I got some remedies and when I’d got her back to bed, I saw the window curtains were flapping and thought perhaps it would be better for once if her window was not opened at night as it was blowing rather in that direction. Of course the girls always sleep with their windows open. We have difficulties sometimes with the foreigners, but I always insist that—" "That really doesn’t matter now," said Miss Bulstrode. "Our general rules of hygiene would not interest Inspector Kelsey." "No, no, of course not," said Miss Johnson. "Well, as I say I went to shut the window and what was my surprise to see a light in the Sports Pavilion. It was quite distinct, I couldn’t mistake it. It seemed to be moving about." "You mean it was not the electric light turned on but the light of a torch or flashlight?" "Yes, yes, that’s what it must have been. I thought at once "Dear me, what’s anyone doing out there at this time of night?" Of course I didn’t think of burglars. That would have been a very fanciful idea, as you said just now." "What did you think of?" asked Kelsey. Miss Johnson shot a glance at Miss Bulstrode and back again. "Well, really, I don’t know that I had any ideas in particular. I mean, well—well really, I mean I couldn’t think—" Miss Bulstrode broke in. "I should imagine that Miss Johnson had the idea that one of our pupils might have gone out there to keep an assignation with someone," she said. "Is that right, Elspeth?" Miss Johnson gasped. "Well, yes, the idea did come into my head just for the moment. One of our Italian girls, perhaps. Foreigners are so much more precocious than English girls." "Don’t be so insular," said Miss Bulstrode. "We’ve had plenty of English girls trying to make unsuitable assignations. It was a very natural thought to have occurred to you and probably the one that would have occurred to me." "Go on," said Inspector Kelsey.

"Your husband said something to you," he reminded her. "Something that made you snatch up the gun." Rising from the sofa, he went to the table by the armchair and put his cigarette out. "Well, come on, let’s act it out," he continued. "There’s the table, there’s the gun." He took Laura’s cigarette from her, and put it in the ashtray. "Now then, you were quarrelling. You picked up the gun–pick it up–" "I don’t want to!" Laura cried. "Don’t be a little fool," Starkwedder growled. "It’s not loaded. Come on, pick it up. Pick it up." Laura picked up the gun, hesitantly. "You snatched it up," he reminded her. "You didn’t pick it up gingerly like that. You snatched it up, and you shot him. Show me how you did it." Holding the gun awkwardly, Laura backed away from him. "I–I–" she began. "Go on. Show me," Starkwedder shouted at her. Laura tried to aim the gun. "Go on, shoot!" he repeated, still shouting. "It isn’t loaded." When she still hesitated, he snatched the gun from her in triumph. "I thought so," he exclaimed. "You’ve never fired a revolver in your life. You don’t know how to do it." Looking at the gun, he continued, "You don’t even know enough to release the safety catch." He dropped the gun on the footstool, then walked to the back of the sofa, and turned to face her. After a pause, he said quietly, "You didn’t shoot your husband." "I did," Laura insisted. "Oh no, you didn’t," Starkwedder repeated with conviction. Sounding frightened, Laura asked, "Then why should I say I did?" Starkwedder took a deep breath and then exhaled. Coming round the sofa, he threw himself down on it heavily. "The answer to that seems pretty obvious to me. Because it was Julian Farrar who shot him," he retorted. "No!" Laura exclaimed, almost shouting. "Yes!" "No!" she repeated. "I say yes," he insisted. "If it was Julian," Laura asked him, "why on earth should I say I did it?" Starkwedder looked at her levelly. "Because," he said, "you thought–and thought quite rightly–that I’d cover up for you. Oh yes, you were certainly right about that." He lounged back into the sofa before continuing, "Yes, you played me along very prettily. But I’m through, do you hear? I’m through. I’m damned if I’m going to tell a pack of lies to save Major Julian Farrar’s skin." There was a pause. For a few moments Laura said nothing. Then she smiled and calmly walked over to the table by the armchair to pick up her cigarette. Turning back to Starkwedder, she said, "Oh yes, you are! You’ll have to! You can’t back out now! You’ve told your story to the police. You can’t change it." "What?" Starkwedder gasped, taken aback. Laura sat in the armchair. "Whatever you know, or think you know," she pointed out to him, "you’ve got to stick to your story. You’re an accessory after the fact–you said so yourself." She drew on her cigarette. Starkwedder rose and faced her. Dumbfounded, he exclaimed, "Well, I’m damned! You little bitch!" He glared at her for a few moments without saying anything further, then suddenly turned on his heel, went swiftly to the french windows, and left. Laura watched him striding across the garden. She made a movement as though to follow and call him back, but then apparently thought better of it. With a troubled look on her face, she slowly turned away from the windows. Chapter 12 Later that day, towards the end of the afternoon, Julian Farrar paced nervously up and down in the study. The french windows to the terrace were open, and the sun was about to set, throwing a golden light onto the lawn outside. Farrar had been summoned by Laura Warwick, who apparently needed to see him urgently. He kept glancing at his watch as he awaited her. Farrar seemed very upset and distraught.

"Listen," I said. "I’ve brought a little cousin of mine along. Joanna was coming up but was prevented. But she said I could leave it all to you. You see what the girl looks like now?" "My God, I do," said Mary Grey with feeling. "Well, I want her turned out right in every particular from head to foot. Carte blanche. Stockings, shoes, undies, everything! By the way, the man who does Joanna’s hair is close round here, isn’t he?" "Antoine? Round the corner. I’ll see to that too." "You’re a woman in a thousand." "Oh, I shall enjoy it—apart from the money—and that’s not to be sneezed at in these days—half my damned brutes of women never pay their bills. But as I say, I shall enjoy it." She shot a quick professional glance at Megan standing a little way away. "She’s got a lovely figure." "You must have X-ray eyes," I said. "She looks completely shapeless to me." Mary Grey laughed. "It’s these schools," she said. "They seem to take a pride in turning out girls who preen themselves on looking like nothing on earth. They call it being sweet and unsophisticated. Sometimes it takes a whole season before a girl can pull herself together and look human. Don’t worry, leave it all to me." "Right," I said. "I’ll come back and fetch her about six." II Marcus Kent was pleased with me. He told me that I surpassed his wildest expectations. "You must have the constitution of an elephant," he said, "to make a comeback like this. Oh well, wonderful what country air and no late hours or excitements will do for a man if he can only stick it." "I grant you your first two," I said. "But don’t think that the country is free from excitements. We’ve had a good deal in my part." "What sort of excitement?" "Murder," I said. Marcus Kent pursed up his mouth and whistled. "Some bucolic love tragedy? Farmer lad kills his lass?" "Not at all. A crafty, determined lunatic killer." "I haven’t read anything about it. When did they lay him by the heels?" "They haven’t, and it’s a she!" "Whew! I’m not sure that Lymstock’s quite the right place for you, old boy." I said firmly: "Yes, it is. And you’re not going to get me out of it." Marcus Kent has a low mind. He said at once: "So that’s it! Found a blonde?" "Not at all," I said, with a guilty thought of Elsie Holland. "It’s merely that the psychology of crime interests me a good deal." "Oh, all right. It certainly hasn’t done you any harm so far, but just make sure that your lunatic killer doesn’t obliterate you." "No fear of that," I said. "What about dining with me this evening? You can tell me all about your revolting murder." "Sorry. I’m booked." "Date with a lady—eh? Yes, you’re definitely on the mend." "I suppose you could call it that," I said, rather tickled at the idea of Megan in the role. I was at Mirotin’s at six o’clock when the establishment was officially closing. Mary Grey came to meet me at the top of the stairs outside the showroom. She had a finger to her lips. "You’re going to have a shock! If I say it myself, I’ve put in a good bit of work." I went into the big showroom. Megan was standing looking at herself in a long mirror. I give you my word I hardly recognized her! For the minute it took my breath away. Tall and slim as a willow with delicate ankles and feet shown off by sheer silk stockings and well-cut shoes. Yes, lovely feet and hands, small bones—quality and distinction in every line of her. Her hair had been trimmed and shaped to her head and it was glowing like a glossy chestnut. They’d had the sense to leave her face alone. She was not made-up, or if she was it was so light and delicate that it did not show. Her mouth needed no lipstick. Moreover there was about her something that I had never seen before, a new innocent pride in the arch of her neck. She looked at me gravely with a small shy smile. "I do look—rather nice, don’t I?"

There was no disguising that heartfelt note of thankfulness. I felt immeasurably relieved. The sound of the gong startled me as I went along the passage. I had completely forgotten the passage of time. The accident had upset everything. Only the cook had gone on as usual and produced dinner at the usual time. Most of us had not changed and Colonel Luttrell did not appear. But Mrs Franklin, looking quite attractive in a pale pink evening dress, was downstairs for once and seemed in good health and spirits. Franklin, I thought, was moody and absorbed. After dinner, to my annoyance, Allerton and Judith disappeared into the garden together. I sat around a while, listening to Franklin and Norton discussing tropical diseases. Norton was a sympathetic and interested listener, even if he knew little of the subject under discussion. Mrs Franklin and Boyd Carrington were talking at the other end of the room. He was showing her some patterns of curtains or cretonnes. Elizabeth Cole had a book and seemed deeply absorbed in it. I fancied that she was slightly embarrassed and ill at ease with me. Perhaps not unnaturally so after the confidences of the afternoon. I was sorry about it, all the same, and hoped she did not regret all she had told me. I should have liked to have made it clear to her that I should respect her confidence and not repeat it. However she gave me no chance. After a while I went up to Poirot. I found Colonel Luttrell sitting in the circle of light thrown by the one small electric lamp that was turned on. He was talking and Poirot was listening. I think the Colonel was speaking to himself rather than to his listener. "I remember so well – yes, it was at a hunt ball. She wore white stuff, called tulle, I think it was. Floated all round her. Such a pretty girl – bowled me over then and there. I said to myself: "That’s the girl I’m going to marry." And by Jove I brought it off. Awfully pretty way she had with her – saucy, you know, plenty of backchat. Always gave as good as she got, bless her." He chuckled. I saw the scene in my mind’s eye. I could imagine Daisy Luttrell with a young saucy face and that smart tongue – so charming then, so apt to turn shrewish with the years. But it was as that young girl, his first real love, that Colonel Luttrell was thinking of her tonight. His Daisy. And again I felt ashamed of what we had said such a few hours previously. Of course, when Colonel Luttrell had at last taken himself off to bed, I blurted out the whole thing to Poirot. He listened very quietly. I could make nothing of the expression on his face. "So that is what you thought, Hastings – that the shot was fired on purpose?" "Yes. I feel ashamed now –" Poirot waved aside my present feelings. "Did the thought occur to you of your own accord, or did someone else suggest it to you?" "Allerton said something of the kind," I said resentfully. "He would, of course." "Anyone else?" "Boyd Carrington suggested it." "Ah! Boyd Carrington." "And after all, he’s a man of the world and has experience of these things." "Oh, quite so, quite so. He did not see the thing happen, though?" "No, he’d gone for a walk. Bit of exercise before changing for dinner." "I see." I said uneasily: "I don’t think I really believed that theory. It was only –" Poirot interrupted me. "You need not be so remorseful about your suspicions, Hastings. It was an idea quite likely to occur to anyone given the circumstances. Oh, yes, it was all quite natural." There was something in Poirot’s manner I did not quite understand. A reserve. His eyes were watching me with a curious expression. I said slowly: "Perhaps. But seeing now how devoted he really is to her –" Poirot nodded. "Exactly. That is often the case, remember. Underneath the quarrels, the misunderstandings, the apparent hostility of everyday life, a real and true affection can exist." I agreed. I remembered the gentle affectionate look in little Mrs Luttrell’s eyes as she looked up at her husband stooping over her bed. No more vinegar, no impatience, no ill temper.

Despard nodded. "He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out of her. That sort of thing would have amused him." "It might have been a dangerous story—to you—in the hands of a man like Shaitana." Despard shrugged his shoulders. "I wasn’t afraid of Shaitana." Poirot didn’t answer. Despard said quietly: "That again you have to take my word for. It’s true enough, I suppose, that I had a kind of motive for Shaitana’s death. Well, the truth’s out now—take it or leave it." Poirot held out a hand. "I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South America happened exactly as you have described." Despard’s face lit up. "Thanks," he said laconically. And he clasped Poirot’s hand warmly. Twenty-two EVIDENCE FROM COMBEACRE Superintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre. Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire voice. "That’s how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The doctor was satisfied. Everyone was satisfied. Why not?" "Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite clear." "Syrup of Figs—that’s what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then there was this hat paint she’d been using—or rather the young lady, her companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs. Benson herself said, "Put it in that old bottle—the Syrup of Figs bottle." That’s all right. The servants heard her. The young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaid—they all agree on that. The paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends." "Not relabelled?" "No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that." "Go on." "On this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realized what she’d done and they sent off at once for the doctor. He was out on a case, and it was some time before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died." "She herself believed it to be an accident?" "Oh, yes—everyone thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got mixed- up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but she swears she didn’t." Superintendent Battle was silent—thinking. Such an easy business. A bottle taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a mistake like that to its source. Handled with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easy—so simple. But, all the same, murder! The perfect crime. But why? That still puzzled him—why? "This young lady-companion, this Miss Meredith, she didn’t come into money at Mrs. Benson’s death?" he asked. Inspector Harper shook his head. "No. She’d only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine. Young ladies didn’t stay long as a rule." Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn’t stay long. A difficult woman, evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her predecessors had done. No need to kill—unless it were sheer unreasoning vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true. "Who did get Mrs. Benson’s money?" "I couldn’t say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn’t be very much—not when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one of these annuities." Nothing there then. But Mrs. Benson had died. And Anne Meredith had not told him that she had been at Combeacre. It was all profoundly unsatisfactory. He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was quite clear and emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Miss—couldn’t remember her name—nice girl but rather helpless—had been very upset and distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Benson’s last companion—a nice modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had been—not difficult—but a trifle severe towards young people. She was the rigid type of Christian. Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few months—that was all—and her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression. A nice little thing seemed to be the accepted description. Mrs. Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A disagreeable woman—but that was all. Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered her employer.

"An interesting family history," said Poirot thoughtfully. "But now his father is dying, and he, as the eldest son, succeeds?" "Exactly. A curse has gone rusty—unable to stand the strain of modern life." Poirot shook his head, as though deprecating the other’s jesting tone. Roger Lemesurier looked at his watch again, and declared that he must be off. The sequel to the story came on the morrow, when we learned of the tragic death of Captain Vincent Lemesurier. He had been travelling north by the Scotch mail-train, and during the night must have opened the door of the compartment and jumped out on the line. The shock of his father’s accident coming on top of the shell-shock was deemed to have caused temporary mental aberration. The curious superstition prevalent in the Lemesurier family was mentioned, in connection with the new heir, his father’s brother, Ronald Lemesurier, whose only son had died on the Somme. I suppose our accidental meeting with young Vincent on the last evening of his life quickened our interest in anything that pertained to the Lemesurier family, for we noted with some interest two years later the death of Ronald Lemesurier, who had been a confirmed invalid at the time of his succession to the family estates. His brother John succeeded him, a hale, hearty man with a boy at Eton. Certainly an evil destiny overshadowed the Lemesuriers. On his very next holiday the boy managed to shoot himself fatally. His father’s death, which occurred quite suddenly after being stung by a wasp, gave the estate over to the youngest brother of the five—Hugo, whom we remembered meeting on the fatal night at the Carlton. Beyond commenting on the extraordinary series of misfortunes which befell the Lemesuriers, we had taken no personal interest in the matter, but the time was now close at hand when we were to take a more active part. II One morning "Mrs. Lemesurier" was announced. She was a tall, active woman, possibly about thirty years of age, who conveyed by her demeanour a great deal of determination and strong common sense. She spoke with a faint transatlantic accent. "M. Poirot? I am pleased to meet you. My husband, Hugo Lemesurier, met you once many years ago, but you will hardly remember the fact." "I recollect it perfectly, madame. It was at the Carlton." "That’s quite wonderful of you. M. Poirot, I’m very worried." "What about, Madame?" "My elder boy—I’ve two boys, you know. Ronald’s eight, and Gerald’s six." "Proceed, madame: why should you be worried about little Ronald?" "M. Poirot, within the last six months he has had three narrow escapes from death: once from drowning—when we were all down at Cornwall this summer; once when he fell from the nursery window; and once from ptomaine poisoning." Perhaps Poirot’s face expressed rather too eloquently what he thought, for Mrs. Lemesurier hurried on with hardly a moment’s pause: "Of course I know you think I’m just a silly fool of a woman, making mountains out of molehills." "No, indeed, madame. Any mother might be excused for being upset at such occurrences, but I hardly see where I can be of any assistance to you. I am not le bon Dieu to control the waves; for the nursery window I should suggest some iron bars; and for the food—what can equal a mother’s care?" "But why should these things happen to Ronald and not to Gerald?" "The chance, madame—le hasard!" "You think so?" "What do you think, madame—you and your husband?" A shadow crossed Mrs. Lemesurier’s face. "It’s no good going to Hugo—he won’t listen. As perhaps you may have heard, there’s supposed to be a curse on the family—no eldest son can succeed. Hugo believes in it. He’s wrapped up in the family history, and he’s superstitious to the last degree. When I go to him with my fears, he just says it’s the curse, and we can’t escape it. But I’m from the States, M. Poirot, and over there we don’t believe much in curses. We like them as belonging to a real high-toned old family—it gives a sort of cachet, don’t you know.

Nothing unusual about Alex Portal. The usual good sound English stock. But his wife was different. She was, Mr Satterthwaite knew, an Australian. Portal had been out in Australia two years ago, had met her out there and had married her and brought her home. She had never been to England previous to her marriage. All the same, she wasn’t at all like any other Australian woman Mr Satterthwaite had met. He observed her now, covertly. Interesting woman–very. So still, and yet so–alive. Alive! That was just it! Not exactly beautiful–no, you wouldn’t call her beautiful, but there was a kind of calamitous magic about her that you couldn’t miss–that no man could miss. The masculine side of Mr Satterthwaite spoke there, but the feminine side (for Mr Satterthwaite had a large share of femininity) was equally interested in another question. Why did Mrs Portal dye her hair? No other man would probably have known that she dyed her hair, but Mr Satterthwaite knew. He knew all those things. And it puzzled him. Many dark women dye their hair blonde; he had never before come across a fair woman who dyed her hair black. Everything about her intrigued him. In a queer intuitive way, he felt certain that she was either very happy or very unhappy–but he didn’t know which, and it annoyed him not to know. Furthermore there was the curious effect she had upon her husband. "He adores her," said Mr Satterthwaite to himself, "but sometimes he’s–yes, afraid of her! That’s very interesting. That’s uncommonly interesting." Portal drank too much. That was certain. And he had a curious way of watching his wife when she wasn’t looking. "Nerves," said Mr Satterthwaite. "The fellow’s all nerves. She knows it too, but she won’t do anything about it." He felt very curious about the pair of them. Something was going on that he couldn’t fathom. He was roused from his meditations on the subject by the solemn chiming of the big clock in the corner. "Twelve o’clock," said Evesham. "New Year’s Day. Happy New Year–everybody. As a matter of fact that clock’s five minutes fast…I don’t know why the children wouldn’t wait up and see the New Year in?" "I don’t suppose for a minute they’ve really gone to bed," said his wife placidly. "They’re probably putting hairbrushes or something in our beds. That sort of thing does so amuse them. I can’t think why. We should never have been allowed to do such a thing in my young days." "Autre temps, autres moeurs," said Conway, smiling. He was a tall soldierly-looking man. Both he and Evesham were much of the same type–honest upright kindly men with no great pretensions to brains. "In my young days we all joined hands in a circle and sang "Auld Lang Syne"," continued Lady Laura. ""Should auld acquaintance be forgot"–so touching, I always think the words are." Evesham moved uneasily. "Oh! drop it, Laura," he muttered. "Not here." He strode across the wide hall where they were sitting, and switched on an extra light. "Very stupid of me," said Lady Laura, sotto voce. "Reminds him of poor Mr Capel, of course. My dear, is the fire too hot for you?" Eleanor Portal made a brusque movement. "Thank you. I’ll move my chair back a little." What a lovely voice she had–one of those low murmuring echoing voices that stay in your memory, thought Mr Satterthwaite. Her face was in shadow now. What a pity. From her place in the shadow she spoke again. "Mr–Capel?" "Yes. The man who originally owned this house. He shot himself you know–oh! very well, Tom dear, I won’t speak of it unless you like. It was a great shock for Tom, of course, because he was here when it happened. So were you, weren’t you, Sir Richard?" "Yes, Lady Laura." An old grandfather clock in the corner groaned, wheezed, snorted asthmatically, and then struck twelve. "Happy New Year, Tom," grunted Evesham perfunctorily. Lady Laura wound up her knitting with some deliberation.

He had discovered the lonely god; nobody else, he felt, had a right to interfere. But after the first flash of indignation, he was forced to smile at himself. For this second worshipper was such a little bit of a thing, such a ridiculous, pathetic creature, in a shabby black coat and skirt that had seen its best days. She was young, a little over twenty he should judge, with fair hair and blue eyes, and a wistful droop to her mouth. Her hat especially appealed to his chivalry. She had evidently trimmed it herself, and it made such a brave attempt to be smart that its failure was pathetic. She was obviously a lady, though a poverty-stricken one, and he immediately decided in his own mind that she was a governess and alone in the world. He soon found out that her days for visiting the god were Tuesdays and Fridays, and she always arrived at ten o’clock, as soon as the Museum was open. At first he disliked her intrusion, but little by little it began to form one of the principal interests of his monotonous life. Indeed, the fellow devotee was fast ousting the object of devotion from his position of preeminence. The days that he did not see the "Little Lonely Lady," as he called her to himself, were blank. Perhaps she, too, was equally interested in him, though she endeavoured to conceal the fact with studious unconcern. But little by little a sense of fellowship was slowly growing between them, though as yet they had exchanged no spoken word. The truth of the matter was, the man was too shy! He argued to himself that very likely she had not even noticed him (some inner sense gave the lie to that instantly), that she would consider it a great impertinence, and, finally, that he had not the least idea what to say. But Fate, or the little god, was kind and sent him an inspiration—or what he regarded as such. With infinite delight in his own cunning, he purchased a woman’s handkerchief, a frail little affair of cambric and lace which he almost feared to touch, and, thus armed, he followed her as she departed and stopped her in the Egyptian room. "Excuse me, but is this yours?" He tried to speak with airy unconcern, and signally failed. The Lonely Lady took it, and made a pretence of examining it with minute care. "No, it is not mine." She handed it back, and added, with what he felt guiltily was a suspicious glance: "It’s quite a new one. The price is still on it." But he was unwilling to admit that he had been found out. He started on an overplausible flow of explanation. "You see, I picked it up under that big case. It was just by the farthest leg of it." He derived great relief from this detailed account. "So, as you had been standing there, I thought it must be yours and came after you with it." She said again: "No, it isn’t mine," and added, as if with a sense of ungraciousness, "thank you." The conversation came to an awkward standstill. The girl stood there, pink and embarrassed, evidently uncertain how to retreat with dignity. He made a desperate effort to take advantage of his opportunity. "I—I didn’t know there was anyone else in London who cared for our little lonely god till you came." She answered eagerly, forgetting her reserve: "Do you call him that too?" Apparently, if she had noticed his pronoun, she did not resent it. She had been startled into sympathy, and his quiet "Of course!" seemed the most natural rejoinder in the world. Again there was a silence, but this time it was a silence born of understanding. It was the Lonely Lady who broke it in a sudden remembrance of the conventionalities. She drew herself up to her full height, and with an almost ridiculous assumption of dignity for so small a person, she observed in chilling accents: "I must be going now. Good morning." And with a slight, stiff inclination of her head, she walked away, holding herself very erect. By all acknowledged standards Frank Oliver ought to have felt rebuffed, but it is a regrettable sign of his rapid advance in depravity that he merely murmured to himself: "Little darling!" He was soon to repent of his temerity, however. For ten days his little lady never came near the Museum. He was in despair!

Tommy said slowly: "I don’t know that I really would want to do that . . . Tuppence and I, you see, aren’t on those terms. We go into things—together!" In his mind was that phrase, uttered years ago, at the close of an earlier war. A joint venture. . . . That was what his life with Tuppence had been and would always be—a Joint Venture. . . . Four When Tuppence entered the lounge at Sans Souci just before dinner, the only occupant of the room was the monumental Mrs. O’Rourke, who was sitting by the window looking like some gigantic Buddha. She greeted Tuppence with a lot of geniality and verve. "Ah now, if it isn’t Mrs. Blenkensop! You’re like myself; it pleases you to be down to time and get a quiet minute or two before going into the dining room, and a pleasant room this is in good weather with the windows open in the way that you’ll not be noticing the smell of cooking. Terrible that is, in all of these places, and more especially if it’s onion or cabbage that’s on the fire. Sit here now, Mrs. Blenkensop, and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself this fine day and how you like Leahampton." There was something about Mrs. O’Rourke that had an unholy fascination for Tuppence. She was rather like an ogress dimly remembered from early fairy tales. With her bulk, her deep voice, her unabashed beard and moustache, her deep twinkling eyes, and the impression she gave of being more than life-size, she was indeed not unlike some childhood’s fantasy. Tuppence replied that she thought she was going to like Leahampton very much, and be happy there. "That is," she added in a melancholy voice, "as happy as I can be anywhere with this terrible anxiety weighing on me all the time." "Ah now, don’t you be worrying yourself," Mrs. O’Rourke advised comfortably. "Those boys of yours will come back to you safe and sound. Not a doubt of it. One of them’s in the Air Force, so I think you said?" "Yes, Raymond." "And is he in France now, or in England?" "He’s in Egypt at the moment, but from what he said in his last letter—not exactly said—but we have a little private code if you know what I mean?—certain sentences mean certain things. I think that’s quite justified, don’t you?" Mrs. O’Rourke replied promptly: "Indeed I do. ’Tis a mother’s privilege." "Yes, you see I feel I must know just where he is." Mrs. O’Rourke nodded the Buddha-like head. "I feel for you entirely, so I do. If I had a boy out there I’d be deceiving the censor in the very same way, so I would. And your other boy, the one in the Navy?" Tuppence entered obligingly upon a saga of Douglas. "You see," she cried, "I feel so lost without my three boys. They’ve never been all away together from me before. They’re all so sweet to me. I really do think they treat me more as a friend than a mother." She laughed self- consciously. "I have to scold them sometimes and make them go out without me." ("What a pestilential woman I sound," thought Tuppence to herself.) She went on aloud: "And really I didn’t know quite what to do or where to go. The lease of my house in London was up and it seemed so foolish to renew it, and I thought if I came somewhere quiet, and yet with a good train service—" She broke off. Again the Buddha nodded. "I agree with you entirely. London is no place at the present. Ah! the gloom of it! I’ve lived there myself for many a year now. I’m by way of being an antique dealer, you know. You may know my shop in Cornaby Street, Chelsea? Kate Kelly’s the name over the door. Lovely stuff I had there too—oh, lovely stuff—mostly glass—Waterford, Cork—beautiful. Chandeliers and lustres and punchbowls and all the rest of it. Foreign glass, too. And small furniture—nothing large—just small period pieces—mostly walnut and oak. Oh, lovely stuff—and I had some good customers.

They passed inside into the cool of the hall. Mary shivered a little. Elinor looked at her sharply. She said: "What is it?" Mary said: "Oh, nothing—just a shiver. It was coming in—out of the sun…." Elinor said in a low voice: "That’s queer. That’s what I felt this morning." Nurse Hopkins said in a loud, cheerful voice and with a laugh: "Come, now, you’ll be pretending there are ghosts in the house next. I didn’t feel anything!" Elinor smiled. She led the way into the morning room on the right of the front door. The blinds were up and the windows open. It looked cheerful. Elinor went across the hall and brought back from the pantry a big plate of sandwiches. She handed it to Mary, saying: "Have one?" Mary took one. Elinor stood watching her for a moment as the girl’s even white teeth bit into the sandwich. She held her breath for a minute, then expelled it in a little sigh. Absentmindedly she stood for a minute with the plate held to her waist, then at the sight of Nurse Hopkins" slightly parted lips and hungry expression she flushed and quickly proffered the plate to the older woman. Elinor took a sandwich herself. She said apologetically: "I meant to make some coffee, but I forgot to get any. There’s some beer on that table, though, if anyone likes that?" Nurse Hopkins said sadly: "If only I’d thought to bring along some tea now." Elinor said absently: "There’s a little tea still in the canister in the pantry." Nurse Hopkins" face brightened. "Then I’ll just pop out and put the kettle on. No milk, I suppose?" Elinor said: "Yes, I brought some." "Well, then, that’s all right," said Nurse Hopkins and hurried out. Elinor and Mary were alone together. A queer tension crept into the atmosphere. Elinor, with an obvious effort, tried to make conversation. Her lips were dry. She passed her tongue over them. She said, rather stiffly: "You—like your work in London?" "Yes, thank you. I—I’m very grateful to you—" A sudden harsh sound broke from Elinor. A laugh so discordant, so unlike her that Mary stared at her in surprise. Elinor said: "You needn’t be so grateful!" Mary, rather embarrassed, said: "I didn’t mean—that is—" She stopped. Elinor was staring at her—a glance so searching, so, yes, strange that Mary flinched under it. She said: "Is—is anything wrong?" Elinor got up quickly. She said, turning away: "What should be wrong?" Mary murmured. "You—you looked—" Elinor said with a little laugh: "Was I staring? I’m so sorry. I do sometimes—when I’m thinking of something else." Nurse Hopkins looked in at the door and remarked brightly, "I’ve put the kettle on," and went out again. Elinor was taken with a sudden fit of laughter. "Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on—we’ll all have tea! Do you remember playing that, Mary, when we were children?" "Yes, indeed I do." Elinor said: "When we were children… It’s a pity, Mary isn’t it, that one can never go back…?" Mary said: "Would you like to go back?" Elinor said with force: "Yes… yes…." Silence fell between them for a little while. Then Mary said, her face flushing: "Miss Elinor, you mustn’t think—" She stopped, warned by the sudden stiffening of Elinor’s slender figure, the uplifted line of her chin. Elinor said in a cold, steel-like voice: "What mustn’t I think?" Mary murmured: "I—I’ve forgotten what I was going to say." Elinor’s body relaxed—as at a danger past. Nurse Hopkins came in with a tray. On it was a brown teapot, and milk and three cups. She said, quite unconscious of anticlimax: "Here’s the tea!" She put the tray in front of Elinor. Elinor shook her head. "I won’t have any." She pushed the tray along towards Mary. Mary poured out two cups. Nurse Hopkins sighed with satisfaction. "It’s nice and strong." Elinor got up and moved over to the window.

What will they do with her then?" Nobody was able to answer her question because nobody had the proper information. Chapter 2 London Sir Stafford Nye’s flat was a very pleasant one. It looked out upon Green Park. He switched on the coffee percolator and went to see what the post had left him this morning. It did not appear to have left him anything very interesting. He sorted through the letters, a bill or two, a receipt and letters with rather uninteresting postmarks. He shuffled them together and placed them on the table where some mail was already lying, accumulating from the last two days. He’d have to get down to things soon, he supposed. His secretary would be coming in some time or other this afternoon. He went back to the kitchen, poured coffee into a cup and brought it to the table. He picked up the two or three letters that he had opened late last night when he arrived. One of them he referred to, and smiled a little as he read it. "Eleven-thirty," he said. "Quite a suitable time. I wonder now. I expect I’d better just think things over, and get prepared for Chetwynd." Somebody pushed something through the letter-box. He went out into the hall and got the morning paper. There was very little news in the paper. A political crisis, an item of foreign news which might have been disquieting, but he didn’t think it was. It was merely a journalist letting off steam and trying to make things rather more important than they were. Must give the people something to read. A girl had been strangled in the park. Girls were always being strangled. One a day, he thought callously. No child had been kidnapped or raped this morning. That was a nice surprise. He made himself a piece of toast and drank his coffee. Later, he went out of the building, down into the street, and walked through the park in the direction of Whitehall. He was smiling to himself. Life, he felt, was rather good this morning. He began to think about Chetwynd. Chetwynd was a silly fool if there ever was one. A good façade, important-seeming, and a nicely suspicious mind. He’d rather enjoy talking to Chetwynd. He reached Whitehall a comfortable seven minutes late. That was only due to his own importance compared with that of Chetwynd, he thought. He walked into the room. Chetwynd was sitting behind his desk and had a lot of papers on it and a secretary there. He was looking properly important, as he always did when he could make it. "Hullo, Nye," said Chetwynd, smiling all over his impressively handsome face. "Glad to be back? How was Malaya?" "Hot," said Stafford Nye. "Yes. Well, I suppose it always is. You meant atmospherically, I suppose, not politically?" "Oh, purely atmospherically," said Stafford Nye. He accepted a cigarette and sat down. "Get any results to speak of?" "Oh, hardly. Not what you’d call results. I’ve sent in my report. All a lot of talky-talky as usual. How’s Lazenby?" "Oh, a nuisance as he always is. He’ll never change," said Chetwynd. "No, that would seem too much to hope for. I haven’t served on anything with Bascombe before. He can be quite fun when he likes." "Can he? I don’t know him very well. Yes. I suppose he can." "Well, well, well. No other news, I suppose?" "No, nothing. Nothing I think that would interest you." "You didn’t mention in your letter quite why you wanted to see me." "Oh, just to go over a few things, that’s all. You know, in case you’d brought any special dope home with you. Anything we ought to be prepared for, you know. Questions in the House. Anything like that." "Yes, of course." "Came home by air, didn’t you? Had a bit of trouble, I gather." Stafford Nye put on the face he had been determined to put on beforehand. It was slightly rueful, with a faint tinge of annoyance. "Oh, so you heard about that, did you?" he said. "Silly business." "Yes. Yes, must have been."

She picked up her eyebrow tweezers and pulled out a hair. "And what does Carrie Louise do next but marry this man Lewis Serrocold. Another crank! Another man with ideals! Oh I don’t say he isn’t devoted to her—I think he is—but he’s bitten by that same bug of wanting to improve everybody’s lives for them. And really, you know, nobody can do that but yourself." "I wonder," said Miss Marple. "Only, of course, there’s a fashion in these things, just like there is in clothes. (My dear, have you seen what Christian Dior is trying to make us wear in the way of skirts?) Where was I? Oh yes, fashion. Well, there’s a fashion in philanthropy too. It used to be education in Gulbrandsen’s day. But that’s out of date now. The State has stepped in. Everyone expects education as a matter of right—and doesn’t think much of it when they get it! Juvenile delinquency—that’s what is the rage nowadays. All these young criminals and potential criminals. Everyone’s mad about them. You should see Lewis Serrocold’s eyes sparkle behind those thick glasses of his. Crazy with enthusiasm! One of those men of enormous willpower who like living on a banana and a piece of toast and put all their energies into a cause. And Carrie Louise eats it up—just as she always did. But I don’t like it, Jane. They’ve had meetings of the trustees and the whole place has been turned over to this new idea. It’s a training establishment now for these juvenile criminals, complete with psychiatrists and psychologists and all the rest of it. There Lewis and Carrie Louise are, living there, surrounded by these boys—who aren’t perhaps quite normal. And the place stiff with occupational therapists and teachers and enthusiasts, half of them quite mad. Cranks, all the lot of them, and my little Carrie Louise in the middle of it all!" She paused—and stared helplessly at Miss Marple. Miss Marple said in a faintly puzzled voice: "But you haven’t told me yet, Ruth, what you are really afraid of." "I tell you, I don’t know! And that’s what worries me. I’ve just been down there—for a flying visit. And I felt all along that there was something wrong. In the atmosphere—in the house—I know I’m not mistaken. I’m sensitive to atmosphere, always have been. Did I ever tell you how I urged Julius to sell out of Amalgamated Cereals before the crash came? And wasn’t I right? Yes, something is wrong down there. But I don’t know why or what—if it’s these dreadful young jailbirds—or if it’s nearer home. I can’t say what it is. There’s Lewis just living for his ideas and not noticing anything else, and Carrie Louise, bless her, never seeing or hearing or thinking anything except what’s a lovely sight, or a lovely sound, or a lovely thought. It’s sweet but it isn’t practical. There is such a thing as evil—and I want you, Jane, to go down there right away and find out just exactly what’s the matter." "Me?" exclaimed Miss Marple. "Why me?" "Because you’ve got a nose for that sort of thing. You always had. You’ve always been a sweet innocent looking creature, Jane, and all the time underneath nothing has ever surprised you, you always believe the worst." "The worst is so often true," murmured Miss Marple. "Why you have such a poor idea of human nature, I can’t think—living in that sweet peaceful village of yours, so old world and pure." "You have never lived in a village, Ruth. The things that go on in a pure peaceful village would probably surprise you." "Oh I daresay. My point is that they don’t surprise you. So you will go down to Stonygates and find out what’s wrong, won’t you?" "But, Ruth dear, that would be a most difficult thing to do." "No, it wouldn’t. I’ve thought it all out. If you won’t be absolutely mad at me, I’ve prepared the ground already." Mrs. Van Rydock paused, eyed Miss Marple rather uneasily, lighted a cigarette, and plunged rather nervously into explanation.

You see Pedro had been called to the telephone and hadn’t got back yet, so I had nothing to do but look around and feel bored. I’m pretty good at noticing things and from where I was sitting there wasn’t much else to see but the empty table next to us." Race asked: "Who came back first to the table?" "The girl in green and the old boy. They sat down and then the fair man and the girl in black came back and after them the haughty piece of goods and the good-looking dark boy. Some dancer, he was. When they were all back and the waiter was warming up a dish like mad on the spirit lamp, the old boy leaned forward and made a kind of speech and then they all picked up their glasses again. And then it happened." Christine paused and added brightly, "Awful, wasn’t it? Of course I thought it was a stroke. My aunt had a stroke and she went down just like that. Pedro came back just then and I said, "Look, Pedro, that man’s had a stroke." And all Pedro would say was, "Just passing out—just passing out—that’s all" which was about what he was doing. I had to keep my eye on him. They don’t like you passing out at a place like the Luxembourg. That’s why I don’t like Dagoes. When they’ve drunk too much they’re not a bit refined anymore—a girl never knows what unpleasantness she may be let in for." She brooded for a moment and then glancing at a showy looking bracelet on her right wrist, she added, "Still, I must say they’re generous enough." Gently distracting her from the trials and compensations of a girl’s existence Kemp took her through her story once more. "That’s our last chance of outside help gone," he said to Race when they had left Miss Shannon’s flat. "And it would have been a good chance if it had come off. That girl’s the right kind of witness. Sees things and remembers them accurately. If there had been anything to see, she’d have seen it. So the answer is that there wasn’t anything to see. It’s incredible. It’s a conjuring trick! George Barton drinks champagne and goes and dances. He comes back, drinks from the same glass that no one has touched and Hey Presto it’s full of cyanide. It’s crazy—I tell you—it couldn’t have happened except that it did." He stopped a minute. "That waiter. The little boy. Giuseppe never mentioned him. I might look into that. After all, he’s the one person who was near the table whilst they were all away dancing. There might be something in it." Race shook his head. "If he’d put anything in Barton’s glass, that girl would have seen him. She’s a born observer of detail. Nothing to think about inside her head and so she uses her eyes. No, Kemp, there must be some quite simple explanation if only we could get it." "Yes, there’s one. He dropped it in himself." "I’m beginning to believe that that is what happened—that it’s the only thing that can have happened. But if so, Kemp, I’m convinced he didn’t know it was cyanide." "You mean someone gave it to him? Told him it was for indigestion or blood pressure—something like that?" "It could be." "Then who was the someone? Not either of the Farradays." "That would certainly seem unlikely." "And I’d say Mr. Anthony Browne is equally unlikely. That leaves us two people—an affectionate sister-in-law—" "And a devoted secretary." Kemp looked at him. "Yes—she could have planted something of the kind on him—I’m due now to go to Kidderminster House—What about you? Going round to see Miss Marle?" "I think I’ll go and see the other one—at the office. Condolences of an old friend. I might take her out to lunch." "So that is what you think." "I don’t think anything yet. I’m casting about for spoor." "You ought to see Iris Marle, all the same." "I’m going to see her—but I’d rather go to the house first when she isn’t there. Do you know why, Kemp?" "I’m sure I couldn’t say." "Because there’s someone there who twitters—twitters like a little bird . . . A little bird told me—was a saying of my youth.

Vernon was like the Queen of Sheba – no spirit was left in him. He was beaten by the relentless logic of facts. A terrible woman, Nell’s mother – implacable. But he saw her point. He and Nell would have to wait. He must, as Mrs Vereker said, give her every chance of changing her mind. Not that she would, bless her lovely heart. He essayed one last venture. "My uncle might increase my salary. He has spoken to me several times on the advantages of early marriages. He seems very keen on the subject." "Oh!" Mrs Vereker was thoughtful for a minute or two. "Has he any daughters of his own?" "Yes, five, and the two eldest are married already." Mrs Vereker smiled. A simple boy. He had quite misunderstood the point of her question. Still, she had found out what she wanted to know. "We’ll leave it like that, then," she said. A clever woman! 4 Vernon left the house in a restless mood. He wanted badly to talk to someone sympathetic. He thought of Joe, then shook his head. He and Joe had almost quarrelled about Nell. Joe despised Nell as what she called a "regular empty- headed society girl’. She was unfair and prejudiced. As a passport to Joe’s favour, you had to have short hair, wear art smocks and live in Chelsea. Sebastian, on the whole, was the best person. Sebastian was always willing to see your point of view, and he was occasionally unusually useful with his matter-of-fact common-sense point of view. A very sound fellow, Sebastian. Rich, too. How queer things were! If only he had Sebastian’s money, he could probably marry Nell tomorrow. Yet, with all that money, Sebastian couldn’t get hold of the girl he wanted. Rather a pity. He wished Joe would marry Sebastian instead of some rotter or other who called himself artistic. Sebastian, alas, was not at home. Vernon was entertained by Mrs Levinne. Strangely enough, he found a kind of comfort in her bulky presence. Funny, fat, old Mrs Levinne with her jet and her diamonds and her greasy black hair, managed to be more understanding than his own mother. "You mustn’t be unhappy, my dear," she said. "I can see you are. It’s some girl, I suppose? Ah well, well, Sebastian is just the same about Joe. I tell him he must be patient. Joe’s just kicking up her heels at present. She’ll settle down soon and begin to find out what it is she really does want." "It would be awfully jolly if she married Sebastian. I wish she would. It would keep us all together." "Yes – I’m very fond of Joe myself. Not that I think she’s really the wife for Sebastian – they’d be too far away to understand each other. I’m old- fashioned, my dear. I’d like my boy to marry one of our own people. It always works out best. The same interests, and the same instincts, and Jewish women are good mothers. Well, well, it may come, if Joe is really in earnest about not marrying him. And the same thing with you, Vernon. There are worse things than marrying a cousin." "Me? Marry Joe?" Vernon stared at her in utter astonishment. Mrs Levinne laughed, a fat, good- natured chuckle that shook her various chins. "Joe? No, indeed. It’s your cousin Enid I’m talking about. That’s the idea at Birmingham, isn’t it?" "Oh, no – at least – I’m sure it isn’t." Mrs Levinne laughed again. "I can see that you at any rate have never thought of it till this minute. But it would be a wise plan, you know – that is, if the other girl won’t have you. Keeps the money in the family." Vernon went away with his brain tingling. All sorts of things fell into line. Uncle Sydney’s chaff and hints. The way Enid was always being thrust at him. That, of course, was what Mrs Vereker had been hinting at. They wanted him to marry Enid! Enid! Another memory came back to him. His mother and some old friend of hers whispering together. Something about first cousins. A sudden idea occurred to him.

"I’ve been after you for a long time, Pedler—and at last I’ve got you." "Everybody seems to have gone completely mad," declared Sir Eustace airily. "These young people have been threatening me with revolvers and accusing me of the most shocking things. I don’t know what it’s all about." "Don’t you? It means that I’ve found the "Colonel." It means that on January 8th last you were not at Cannes, but at Marlow. It means that when your tool, Madame Nadina, turned against you, you planned to do away with her—and at last we shall be able to bring the crime home to you." "Indeed? And from whom did you get all this interesting information? From the man who is even now being looked for by the police? His evidence will be very valuable." "We have other evidence. There is someone else who knew that Nadina was going to meet you at the Mill House." Sir Eustace looked surprised. Colonel Race made a gesture with his hand. Arthur Minks alias the Rev. Edward Chichester alias Miss Pettigrew stepped forward. He was pale and nervous, but he spoke clearly enough: "I saw Nadina in Paris the night before she went over to England. I was posing at the time as a Russian Count. She told me of her purpose. I warned her, knowing what kind of man she had to deal with, but she did not take my advice. There was a wireless message on the table. I read it. Afterwards I thought I would have a try for the diamonds myself. In Johannesburg Mr. Rayburn accosted me. He persuaded me to come over to his side." Sir Eustace looked at him. He said nothing, but Minks seemed visibly to wilt. "Rats always leave a sinking ship," observed Sir Eustace. "I don’t care for rats. Sooner or later, I destroy vermin." "There’s just one thing I’d like to tell you, Sir Eustace," I remarked. "That tin you threw out of the window didn’t contain the diamonds. It had common pebbles in it. The diamonds are in a perfectly safe place. As a matter of fact they’re in the big giraffe’s stomach. Suzanne hollowed it out, put the diamonds in with cotton wool, so that they wouldn’t rattle, and plugged it up again." Sir Eustace looked at me for some time. His reply was characteristic: "I always did hate that blinking giraffe," he said. "It must have been instinct." Thirty-four We were not able to return to Johannesburg that night. The shells were coming over pretty fast, and I gathered that we were now more or less cut off, owing to the rebels having obtained possession of a new part of the suburbs. Our place of refuge was a farm some twenty miles or so from Johannesburg—right out on the veld. I was dropping with fatigue. All the excitement and anxiety of the last two days had left me little better than a limp rag. I kept repeating to myself, without being able to believe it, that our troubles were really over. Harry and I were together and we should never be separated again. Yet all through I was conscious of some barrier between us—a constraint on his part, the reason of which I could not fathom. Sir Eustace had been driven off in an opposite direction accompanied by a strong guard. He waved his hand airily to us on departing. I came out on to the stoep early on the following morning and looked across the veld in the direction of Johannesburg. I could see the great dumps glistening in the pale morning sunshine, and I could hear the low rumbling mutter of the guns. The Revolution was not over yet. The farmer’s wife came out and called me in to breakfast. She was a kind, motherly soul, and I was already very fond of her. Harry had gone out at dawn and had not yet returned, so she informed me. Again I felt a stir of uneasiness pass over me. What was this shadow of which I was so conscious between us? After breakfast I sat out on the stoep, a book in my hand which I did not read. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I never saw Colonel Race ride up and dismount from his horse. It was not until he said "Good morning, Anne," that I became aware of his presence. "Oh," I said, with a flush, "it’s you." "Yes. May I sit down?"

You’ve only got to come back and call me when you get in." But now where was Tuppence? "The little devil," said Tommy. "She’s gone out somewhere." He went on into the room upstairs where he had found her before. Looking at another child’s book, he supposed. Getting excited again about some silly words that a silly child had underlined in red ink. On the trail of Mary Jordan, whoever she was. Mary Jordan, who hadn’t died a natural death. He couldn’t help wondering. A long time ago, presumably, the people who’d had the house and sold it to them had been named Jones. They hadn’t been there very long, only three or four years. No, this child of the Robert Louis Stevenson book dated from further back than that. Anyway, Tuppence wasn’t here in this room. There seemed to be no loose books lying about with signs of having had interest shown in them. "Ah, where the hell can she be?" said Thomas. He went downstairs again, shouting once or twice. There was no answer. He examined one of the pegs in the hall. No signs of Tuppence’s mackintosh. Then she’d gone out. Where had she gone? And where was Hannibal? Tommy varied the use of his vocal cords and called out for Hannibal. "Hannibal–Hannibal–Hanny-boy. Come on, Hannibal." No Hannibal. Well, at any rate, she’s got Hannibal with her, thought Tommy. He didn’t know if it was worse or better that Tuppence should have Hannibal. Hannibal would certainly allow no harm to come to Tuppence. The question was, might Hannibal do some damage to other people? He was friendly when taken visiting people, but people who wished to visit Hannibal, to enter any house in which he lived, were always definitely suspect in Hannibal’s mind. He was ready at all risks to both bark and bite if he considered it necessary. Anyway, where was everybody? He walked a little way along the street, could see no signs of any small black dog with a medium-sized woman in a bright red mackintosh walking in the distance. Finally, rather angrily, he came back to the house. Rather an appetizing smell met him. He went quickly to the kitchen, where Tuppence turned from the stove and gave him a smile of welcome. "You’re ever so late," she said. "This is a casserole. Smells rather good, don’t you think? I put some rather unusual things in it this time. There were some herbs in the garden, at least I hope they were herbs." "If they weren’t herbs," said Tommy, "I suppose they were Deadly Nightshade, or Digitalis leaves pretending to be something else but really foxglove. Where on earth have you been?" "I took Hannibal for a walk." Hannibal, at this moment, made his own presence felt. He rushed at Tommy and gave him such a rapturous welcome as nearly to fell him to the ground. Hannibal was a small black dog, very glossy, with interesting tan patches on his behind and each side of his cheeks. He was a Manchester terrier of very pure pedigree and he considered himself to be on a much higher level of sophistication and aristocracy than any other dog he met. "Oh, good gracious. I took a look round. Where’ve you been? It wasn’t very nice weather." "No, it wasn’t. It was very sort of foggy and misty. Ah–I’m quite tired, too." "Where did you go? Just down the street for the shops?" "No, it’s early closing day for the shops. No…Oh no, I went to the cemetery." "Sounds gloomy," said Tommy. "What did you want to go to the cemetery for?" "I went to look at some of the graves." "It still sounds rather gloomy," said Tommy. "Did Hannibal enjoy himself?" "Well, I had to put Hannibal on the lead. There was something that looked like a verger who kept coming out of the church and I thought he wouldn’t like Hannibal because–well, you never know, Hannibal mightn’t like him and I didn’t want to prejudice people against us the moment we’d arrived." "What did you want to look in the cemetery for?" "Oh, to see what sort of people were buried there. Lots of people, I mean it’s very, very full up. It goes back a long way.

"Ah, yes. Young Hester." He asked curiously: "What did she say to you?" "She spoke of the innocent," said Calgary. "She said it wasn’t the guilty who mattered but the innocent. I understand now what she meant…." Marshall cast a sharp glance at him. "I think possibly you do." "She meant just what you are saying," said Arthur Calgary. "She meant that once more the family would be under suspicion—" Marshall interrupted. "Hardly once more," he said. "There was never time for the family to come under suspicion before. Jack Argyle was clearly indicated from the first." Calgary waved the interruption aside. "The family would come under suspicion," he said, "and it might remain under suspicion for a long time—perhaps for ever. If one of the family was guilty it is possible that they themselves would not know which one. They would look at each other and—wonder … Yes, that’s what would be the worst of all. They themselves would not know which…." There was silence. Marshall watched Calgary with a quiet, appraising glance, but he said nothing. "That’s terrible, you know …" said Calgary. His thin, sensitive face showed the play of emotion on it. "Yes, that’s terrible … To go on year after year not knowing, looking at one another, perhaps the suspicion affecting one’s relationships with people. Destroying love, destroying trust…." Marshall cleared his throat. "Aren’t you—er—putting it rather too vividly?" "No," said Calgary, "I don’t think I am. I think, perhaps, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Marshall, I see this more clearly than you do. I can imagine, you see, what it might mean." Again there was silence. "It means," said Calgary, "that it is the innocent who are going to suffer … And the innocent should not suffer. Only the guilty. That’s why—that’s why I can’t wash my hands of it. I can’t go away and say "I’ve done the right thing, I’ve made what amends I can—I’ve served the cause of justice," because you see what I have done has not served the cause of justice. It has not brought conviction to the guilty, it has not delivered the innocent from the shadow of guilt." "I think you’re working yourself up a little, Dr. Calgary. What you say has some foundation of truth, no doubt, but I don’t see exactly what—well, what you can do about it." "No. Nor do I," said Calgary frankly. "But it means that I’ve got to try. That’s really why I’ve come to you, Mr. Marshall. I want—I think I’ve a right to know—the background." "Oh, well," said Mr. Marshall, his tone slightly brisker. "There’s no secret about all that. I can give you any facts you want to know. More than facts I am not in a position to give you. I’ve never been on intimate terms with the household. Our firm has acted for Mrs. Argyle over a number of years. We have cooperated with her over establishing various trusts and seeing to legal business. Mrs. Argyle herself I knew reasonably well and I also knew her husband. Of the atmosphere at Sunny Point, of the temperaments and characters of the various people living there, I only know as you might say, at second- hand through Mrs. Argyle herself." "I quite understand all that," said Calgary, "but I’ve got to make a start somewhere. I understand that the children were not her own. That they were adopted?" "That is so. Mrs. Argyle was born Rachel Konstam, the only daughter of Rudolph Konstam, a very rich man. Her mother was American and also a very rich woman in her own right. Rudolph Konstam had many philanthropic interests and brought his daughter up to take an interest in these benevolent schemes. He and his wife died in an aeroplane crash and Rachel then devoted the large fortune she inherited from her father and mother to what we may term, loosely, philanthropical enterprises. She took a personal interest in these benefactions and did a certain amount of settlement work herself. It was in doing the latter that she met Leo Argyle, who was an Oxford Don, with a great interest in economics and social reform. To understand Mrs.

They had nearly finished dinner when Nell saw Vernon’s face change. It stiffened and grew anxious. "What is it?" "Nothing," he said hastily. But she turned and looked behind her. At a small table against the wall was Jane. Something cold seemed for a moment to rest on Nell’s heart. Then she said easily: "Why, it’s Jane. Let’s go and speak to her." "No, I’d rather not." She was a little surprised by the vehemence of his tone. He saw that and went on: "I’m stupid, darling. I want to have you and nothing but you – not other people butting in. Have you finished? Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the beginning of the play." They paid the bill and went. Jane nodded to them carelessly and Nell waved her hand to her. They arrived at the theatre ten minutes early. Later, as Nell was slipping the gown from her white shoulders, Vernon said suddenly: "Nell, do you think I shall ever write music again?" "Of course. Why not?" "Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think I want to." She looked at him in surprise. He was sitting on a chair, frowning into space. "I thought it was the only thing you cared about." "Cared about – cared about – that doesn’t express it in the least. It isn’t the things you care about that matter. It’s the things you can’t get rid of – the things that won’t let you go – that haunt you – like a face that you can’t help seeing even when you don’t want to …" "Darling Vernon – don’t –" She came and knelt down beside him. He clutched her to him convulsively. "Nell – darling Nell – nothing matters but you … Kiss me …" But he reverted presently to the topic. He said irrelevantly, "Guns make a pattern, you know. A musical pattern, I mean. Not the sound one hears. I mean the pattern the sound makes in space. I suppose that’s nonsense – but I know what I mean." And again a minute or two later: "If one could only get hold of it properly." Ever so slightly, she moved her body away from him. It was as though she challenged her rival. She never admitted it openly, but secretly she feared Vernon’s music. If only he didn’t care so much. And tonight, at anyrate, she was triumphant. He drew her back holding her close, showering kisses on her. But long after Nell was asleep Vernon lay staring into the darkness, seeing against his will, Jane’s face and the outline of her body in its dull green satin sheath as he had seen it against the crimson curtain at the restaurant. He said to himself very softly under his breath: "Damn Jane." But he knew that you couldn’t get rid of Jane as easily as that. He wished he hadn’t seen her. There was something so damnably disturbing about Jane. He forgot her the next day. It was their last, and it went terribly quickly. All too soon, it was over. 3 It had been like a dream. Now the dream was over. Nell was back at the hospital. It seemed to her she had never been away. She waited desperately for the post – for Vernon’s first letter. It came – more ardent and unrestrained than usual, as though even censorship had been forgotten. Nell wore it against her heart and the indelible pencil came off on her skin. She wrote and told him so. Life went on as usual. Dr Lang went out to the front and was replaced by an elderly doctor with a beard who said "Thank ye, thank ye, Sister," every time he was offered a towel or was helped on with his white linen coat. They had a slack time with most of the beds empty and Nell found the enforced idleness trying. One day, to her surprise and delight, Sebastian walked in. He was home on leave and had come down to look her up. Vernon had asked him to. "You’ve seen him then?" Sebastian said yes, his lot had taken over from Vernon. "And he’s all right?" "Oh, yes, he’s all right!" Something in the way he said it caused her alarm. She pressed him. Sebastian frowned in perplexity. "It’s difficult to explain, Nell. You see, Vernon’s an odd beggar – always has been. He doesn’t like looking things in the face."

"Monsieur Hercule Poirot?" He made his own assessment of the visitor. An elderly man, a foreigner, very dapper in his dress, unsuitably attired as to the feet in patent leather shoes which were, so Mr. Fullerton guessed shrewdly, too tight for him. Faint lines of pain were already etching themselves round the corners of his eyes. A dandy, a fop, a foreigner and recommended to him by, of all people, Inspector Henry Raglan, C.I.D., and also vouched for by Superintendent Spence (retired), formerly of Scotland Yard. "Superintendent Spence, eh?" said Mr. Fullerton. Fullerton knew Spence. A man who had done good work in his time, had been highly thought of by his superiors. Faint memories flashed across his mind. Rather a celebrated case, more celebrated actually than it had showed any signs of being, a case that had seemed cut and dried. Of course! It came to him that his nephew Robert had been connected with it, had been Junior Counsel. A psychopathic killer, it had seemed, a man who had hardly bothered to try and defend himself, a man whom you might have thought really wanted to be hanged (because it had meant hanging at that time). No fifteen years, or indefinite number of years in prison. No. You paid the full penalty—and more’s the pity they’ve given it up, so Mr. Fullerton thought in his dry mind. The young thugs nowadays thought they didn’t risk much by prolonging assault to the point where it became mortal. Once your man was dead, there’d be no witness to identify you. Spence had been in charge of the case, a quiet, dogged man who had insisted all along that they’d got the wrong man. And they had got the wrong man, and the person who found the evidence that they’d got the wrong man was some sort of an amateurish foreigner. Some retired detective chap from the Belgian police force. A good age then. And now—senile, probably, thought Mr. Fullerton, but all the same he himself would take the prudent course. Information, that’s what was wanted from him. Information which, after all, could not be a mistake to give, since he could not see that he was likely to have any information that could be useful in this particular matter. A case of child homicide. Mr. Fullerton might think he had a fairly shrewd idea of who had committed that homicide, but he was not so sure as he would like to be, because there were at least three claimants in the matter. Any one of three young ne’er-do- wells might have done it. Words floated through his head. Mentally retarded. Psychiatrist’s report. That’s how the whole matter would end, no doubt. All the same, to drown a child during a party—that was rather a different cup of tea from one of the innumerable school children who did not arrive home and who had accepted a lift in a car after having been repeatedly warned not to do so, and who had been found in a nearby copse or gravel pit. A gravel pit now. When was that? Many, many years ago now. All this took about four minutes" time and Mr. Fullerton then cleared his throat in a slightly asthmatic fashion, and spoke. "Monsieur Hercule Poirot," he said again. "What can I do for you? I suppose it’s the business of this young girl, Joyce Reynolds. Nasty business, very nasty business. I can’t see actually where I can assist you. I know very little about it all." "But you are, I believe, the legal adviser to the Drake family?" "Oh yes, yes. Hugo Drake, poor chap. Very nice fellow. I’ve known them for years, ever since they bought Apple Trees and came here to live. Sad thing, polio—he contracted it when they were holidaying abroad one year. Mentally, of course, his health was quite unimpaired. It’s sad when it happens to a man who has been a good athlete all his life, a sportsman, good at games and all the rest of it. Yes. Sad business to know you’re a cripple for life." "You were also, I believe, in charge of the legal affairs of Mrs. Llewellyn- Smythe?" "The aunt, yes.

Poirot considered. "Eh bien, mon ami, I accept. Le sport, it is the passion of you English. Now—the facts." "On Saturday last, as is his usual custom, Mr. Davenheim took the 12:40 train from Victoria to Chingside, where his palatial country seat, The Cedars, is situated. After lunch, he strolled round the grounds, and gave various directions to the gardeners. Everybody agrees that his manner was absolutely normal and as usual. After tea he put his head into his wife’s boudoir, saying that he was going to stroll down to the village and post some letters. He added that he was expecting a Mr. Lowen, on business. If he should come before he himself returned, he was to be shown into the study and asked to wait. Mr. Davenheim then left the house by the front door, passed leisurely down the drive, and out at the gate, and—was never seen again. From that hour, he vanished completely." "Pretty—very pretty—altogether a charming little problem," murmured Poirot. "Proceed, my good friend." "About a quarter of an hour later a tall, dark man with a thick black moustache rang the front doorbell, and explained that he had an appointment with Mr. Davenheim. He gave the name of Lowen, and in accordance with the banker’s instructions was shown into the study. Nearly an hour passed. Mr. Davenheim did not return. Finally Mr. Lowen rang the bell, and explained that he was unable to wait any longer, as he must catch his train back to town. Mrs. Davenheim apologized for her husband’s absence, which seemed unaccountable, as she knew him to have been expecting the visitor. Mr. Lowen reiterated his regrets and took his departure. "Well, as everyone knows, Mr. Davenheim did not return. Early on Sunday morning the police were communicated with, but could make neither head nor tail of the matter. Mr. Davenheim seemed literally to have vanished into thin air. He had not been to the post office; nor had he been seen passing through the village. At the station they were positive he had not departed by any train. His own motor had not left the garage. If he had hired a car to meet him in some lonely spot, it seems almost certain that by this time, in view of the large reward offered for information, the driver of it would have come forward to tell what he knew. True, there was a small race meeting at Entfield, five miles away, and if he had walked to that station he might have passed unnoticed in the crowd. But since then his photograph and a full description of him have been circulated in every newspaper, and nobody has been able to give any news of him. We have, of course, received many letters from all over England, but each clue, so far, has ended in disappointment. "On Monday morning a further sensational discovery came to light. Behind a portière in Mr. Davenheim’s study stands a safe, and that safe had been broken into and rifled. The windows were fastened securely on the inside, which seems to put an ordinary burglary out of court, unless, of course, an accomplice within the house fastened them again afterwards. On the other hand, Sunday having intervened, and the household being in a state of chaos, it is likely that the burglary was committed on the Saturday, and remained undetected until Monday." "Précisément," said Poirot dryly. "Well, is he arrested, ce pauvre M. Lowen?" Japp grinned. "Not yet. But he’s under pretty close supervision." Poirot nodded. "What was taken from the safe? Have you any idea?" "We’ve been going into that with the junior partner of the firm and Mrs. Davenheim. Apparently there was a considerable amount in bearer bonds, and a very large sum in notes, owing to some large transaction having been just carried through. There was also a small fortune in jewellery. All Mrs. Davenheim’s jewels were kept in the safe. The purchasing of them had become a passion with her husband of late years, and hardly a month passed that he did not make her a present of some rare and costly gem." "Altogether a good haul," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Now, what about Lowen?

"Any of them worth pulling in?" "I don’t think so. Small-fry all of them. Links. Just links here and there in the chain. A spot where cars are converted, and turned over quickly; a respectable pub where messages get passed; a secondhand clothes shop where appearance can be altered, a theatrical costumier in the East End, also very useful. They’re paid, these people. Quite well paid but they don’t really know anything!" The dreamy Superintendent Andrews said again: "We’re up against some good brains. We haven’t got near them yet. We know some of their affiliations and that’s all. As I say, the Harris crowd are in it and Marks is in on the financial end. The foreign contacts are in touch with Weber but he’s only an agent. We’ve nothing actually on any of these people. We know that they all have ways of maintaining contact with each other, and with the different branches of the concern, but we don’t know exactly how they do it. We watch them and follow them, and they know we’re watching them. Somewhere there’s a great central exchange. What we want to get at is the planners." Comstock said: "It’s like a giant network. I agree that there must be an operational headquarters somewhere. A place where each operation is planned and detailed and dovetailed completely. Somewhere, someone plots it all, and produces a working blueprint of Operation Mailbag or Operation Payroll. Those are the people we’re out to get." "Possibly they are not even in this country," said Father quietly. "No, I dare say that’s true. Perhaps they’re in an igloo somewhere, or in a tent in Morocco or in a chalet in Switzerland." "I don’t believe in these masterminds," said McNeill, shaking his head: "they sound all right in a story. There’s got to be a head, of course, but I don’t believe in a Master Criminal. I’d say there was a very clever little Board of Directors behind this. Centrally planned, with a Chairman. They’ve got on to something good, and they’re improving their technique all the time. All the same—" "Yes?" said Sir Ronald encouragingly. "Even in a right tight little team, there are probably expendables. What I call the Russian Sledge principle. From time to time, if they think we might be getting hot on the scent, they throw off one of them, the one they think they can best afford." "Would they dare to do that? Wouldn’t it be rather risky?" "I’d say it could be done in such a way that whoever it was wouldn’t even know he had been pushed off the sledge. He’d just think he’d fallen off. He’d keep quiet because he’d think it was worth his while to keep quiet. So it would be, of course. They’ve got plenty of money to play with, and they can afford to be generous. Family looked after, if he’s got one, whilst he’s in prison. Possibly an escape engineered." "There’s been too much of that," said Comstock. "I think, you know," said Sir Ronald, "that it’s not much good going over and over our speculations again. We always say much the same thing." McNeill laughed. "What is it you really wanted us for, sir?" "Well—" Sir Ronald thought a moment, "we’re all agreed on the main things," he said slowly. "We’re agreed on our main policy, on what we’re trying to do. I think it might be profitable to have a look around for some of the small things, the things that don’t matter much, that are just a bit out of the usual run. It’s hard to explain what I mean, but like that business some years ago in the Culver case. An ink stain. Do you remember? An ink stain round a mouse hole. Now why on earth should a man empty a bottle of ink into a mouse hole? It didn’t seem important. It was hard to get at the answer. But when we did hit on the answer, it led somewhere. That’s—roughly—the sort of thing I was thinking about. Odd things. Don’t mind saying if you come across something that strikes you as a bit out of the usual. Petty if you like, but irritating, because it doesn’t quite fit in. I see Father’s nodding his head."

I just wandered about, getting in everyone’s way. CARLA. I can’t think why I don’t remember anything. After all, I was five. Old enough to remember something. ANGELA. Oh, you weren’t there. You’d gone away to stay with your godmother, old Lady Thorpe, about a week before. CARLA. Ah! ANGELA. Miss Williams took me into Caroline’s room. She was lying down, looking very white and ill. I was frightened. She said I wasn’t to think about it—I was to go to Miss Williams" sister in London, and then on to school in Zurich as planned. I said I didn’t want to leave her—and then Miss Williams chipped in and said in that authoritative way of hers—(she mimics Miss Williams) "The best way you can help your sister, Angela, is to do what she wants you to do without making any fuss." (She sips her brandy) CARLA. (amused) I know just what you mean. There’s something about Miss Williams which makes you feel you’ve just got to go along with her. ANGELA. The police asked me a few questions, but I didn’t know why. I just thought there had been some kind of accident, and that Amyas had taken poison by mistake. I was abroad when they arrested Caroline, and they kept it from me as long as they could. Caroline wouldn’t let me go and see her in prison. She did everything she could to keep me out of it all. That was just like Caroline. She always tried to stand between me and the world. CARLA. She must have been very fond of you. ANGELA. It wasn’t that. (She touches her scar) It was because of this. CARLA. That happened when you were a baby. ANGELA. Yes. You’ve heard about it. It’s the sort of thing that happens—an older child gets mad with jealousy and chucks something. To a sensitive person, like Caroline, the horror of what she had done never quite left her. Her whole life was one long effort to make up to me for the way she had injured me. Very bad for me, of course. CARLA. Did you ever feel vindictive about it? ANGELA. Towards Caroline? Because she had spoiled my beauty? (She laughs) I never had much to spoil. No, I never gave it a second thought. (CARLA picks up her bag from the seat beside her, takes out a letter and hands it to Angela) CARLA. She left a letter for me—I’d like you to read it. (There is a pause as ANGELA reads the letter. CARLA stubs out her cigarette) I’m so confused about her. Everyone seems to have seen her differently. ANGELA. She had a lot of contradictions in her nature. (She turns a page and reads) ". . . want you to know that I did not kill your father." Sensible of her. You might have wondered. (She folds the letter and puts it on the table) CARLA. You mean—you believe she wasn’t guilty? ANGELA. Of course she wasn’t guilty. Nobody who knew Caroline could have thought for one moment that she was guilty. CARLA. (slightly hysterical) But they do—they all do—except you. ANGELA. More fool they. Oh, the evidence was damning enough, I grant you, but anybody who knew Caroline well should know that she couldn’t commit murder. She hadn’t got it in her. CARLA. What about . . . ? ANGELA. (pointing to her scar) This? How can I explain? (She stubs out her cigarette) Because of what she did to me, Caroline was always watching herself for violence. I think she decided that if she was violent in speech she would have no temptation to violence in action. She’d say things like, "I’d like to cut So-and-so in pieces and boil him in oil." Or she’d say to Amyas, "If you go on like this, I shall murder you." Amyas and she had the most fantastic quarrels, they said the most outrageous things to each other. They both loved it. CARLA. They liked quarreling? ANGELA. Yes. They were that kind of couple.

It is possible—I only say possible—that in that she may have described the whole business. She would not regard it as a breach of faith, since the letter would not be read till a week later and in another country at that." "Amazing, if that is so!" "We must not build too much upon it, Hastings. It is a chance, that is all. No, we must work now from the other end." "What do you call the other end?" "A careful study of those who profit in any degree by Lord Edgware’s death." I shrugged my shoulders. "Apart from his nephew and his wife—" "And the man the wife wanted to marry," added Poirot. "The Duke? He is in Paris." "Quite so. But you cannot deny that he is an interested party. Then there are the people in the house—the butler—the servants. Who knows what grudges they may have had? But I think myself our first point of attack should be a further interview with Mademoiselle Jane Wilkinson. She is shrewd. She may be able to suggest something." Once more we made our way to the Savoy. We found the lady surrounded by boxes and tissue paper, whilst exquisite black draperies were strewn over the back of every chair. Jane had a rapt and serious expression and was just trying on yet another small black hat before the glass. "Why, M. Poirot. Sit down. That is, if there’s anything to sit on. Ellis, clear something, will you?" "Madame. You look charming." Jane looked serious. "I don’t want exactly to play the hypocrite, M. Poirot. But one must observe appearances, don’t you think? I mean, I think I ought to be careful. Oh! by the way, I’ve had the sweetest telegram from the Duke." "From Paris?" "Yes, from Paris. Guarded, of course, and supposed to be condolences, but put so that I can read between the lines." "My felicitations, Madame." "M. Poirot." She clasped her hands, her husky voice dropped. She looked like an angel about to give vent to thoughts of exquisite holiness. "I’ve been thinking. It all seems so miraculous, if you know what I mean. Here I am—all my troubles over. No tiresome business of divorce. No bothers. Just my path cleared and all plain sailing. It makes me feel almost religious—if you know what I mean." I held my breath. Poirot looked at her, his head a little on one side. She was quite serious. "That is how it strikes you, Madame, eh?" "Things happen right for me," said Jane in a sort of awed whisper. "I’ve thought and I’ve thought lately—if Edgware was to die. And there—he’s dead! It’s—it’s almost like an answer to prayer." Poirot cleared his throat. "I cannot say I look at it quite like that, Madame. Somebody killed your husband." She nodded. "Why, of course." "Has it not occurred to you to wonder who that someone was?" She stared at him. "Does it matter? I mean—what’s that to do with it? The Duke and I can be married in about four or five months…." With difficulty Poirot controlled himself. "Yes, Madame, I know that. But apart from that has it not occurred to you to ask yourself who killed your husband?" "No." She seemed quite surprised by the idea. We could see her thinking about it. "Does it not interest you to know?" asked Poirot. "Not very much, I’m afraid," she admitted. "I suppose the police will find out. They’re very clever, aren’t they?" "So it is said. I, too, am going to make it my business to find out." "Are you? How funny." "Why funny?" "Well, I don’t know." Her eyes strayed back to the clothes. She slipped on a satin coat and studied herself in the glass. "You do not object, eh?" said Poirot, his eyes twinkling. "Why, of course not, M. Poirot. I should just love you to be clever about it all. I wish you every success." "Madame—I want more than your wishes. I want your opinion." "Opinion?" said Jane absently, as she twisted her head over her shoulder. "What on?" "Who do you think likely to have killed Lord Edgware?"

"Come along, Nanny." IV In the end The Mystery of the Mill House got finished somehow or other, in spite of the difficulties of Cuckoo’s obbligato outside the door. Poor Cuckoo! Shortly afterwards she consulted a doctor and moved to a hospital where she had an operation for cancer of the breast. She was a good deal older than she had said she was, and there was no question of her returning to work as a nurse. She went to live, I believe, with a sister. I had decided that the next nurse should not be selected at Mrs Boucher’s Bureau, or from anyone of that ilk. What I needed was a Mother’s Help, so a Mother’s Help I advertised for. From the moment which brought Site into our family, our luck seemed to change for the better. I interviewed Site in Devonshire. She was a strapping girl, with a large bust, broad hips, a flushed face and dark hair. She had a deep contralto voice, with a particularly lady-like and refined accent, so much so that you couldn’t help feeling that she was acting a part on the stage. She had been a Mother’s Help to two or three different establishments for some years now, and radiated competence in the way she spoke of the infant world. She seemed good-natured, good-tempered, and full of enthusiasm. She asked a low salary, and seemed quite willing to do anything, go anywhere–as they say in the advertisements. So Site returned with us to London, and became the comfort of my life. Naturally her name at that time was not Site–it was Miss White–but after a few months of being with us Miss White became in Rosalind’s rapid pronunciation "Swite’. For a while we called her Swite; then Rosalind made another contraction, and thereafter she was known as Site. Rosalind was very fond of her, and Site liked Rosalind. She liked all small children, but she kept her dignity and was a strict disciplinarian in her own way. She would not stand for any disobedience or rudeness. Rosalind missed her role as controller and director of Cuckoo. I suspect now that she transferred these activities to me–taking me in her same beneficent charge, finding things for me that I had lost, pointing out to me that I had forgotten to stamp an envelope, and so on. Certainly, by the time that she was five years old, I was conscious that she was much more efficient than I was. On the other hand she had no imagination. If we were playing a game with each other, in which two figures took part–for instance, a man taking a dog for a walk (I may say that I would be the dog and she would be the man)–there might come a moment when the dog had to be put on a lead. "We haven’t got a lead," Rosalind would say. "We’ll have to change that part." "You can pretend you have a lead," I suggested. "How can I pretend I have a lead when I’ve nothing in my hand?" "Well, take the waist-belt of my dress and pretend that’s a lead." "It’s not a dog lead, it’s the waist-belt of a dress." Things had to be real to Rosalind. Unlike me, she never read fairy stories as a child. "But they’re not real," she would protest. "They’re about people who aren’t there–they don’t really happen. Tell me about Red Teddy at the picnic." The curious thing is that by the time she was fourteen she adored fairy stories, and would read books of them again and again. Site fitted into our household extremely well. Dignified and competent as she looked, she did not really know much more about cooking than I did. She had been an assistant always. We had to be assistants to each other in our present way of living. Although we each had dishes that we made well–I made cheese souffle, Bearnaise sauce, and old English syllabub, Site made jam tartlets and could pickle herrings–we were neither of us adept at producing what I believe is termed "a balanced meal’. To assemble a joint, a vegetable such as carrots, or brussels sprouts, potatoes, and a pudding afterwards, we would suffer from the fact that we did not know exactly how long these various things took to cook. The brussels sprouts would be reduced to a soggy mess, while the carrots were still hard.