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I tell you I’d willingly strangle that woman myself." He added: "She was with you, wasn’t she, when the police came for her? How did she take it?" "It was horrible," said Sophia in a low voice. "She was scared out of her wits." "Serve her right." "Don’t be vindictive," said Clemency. "Oh, I know, dearest, but you can’t understand. It wasn’t your father. I loved my father. Don’t you understand? I loved him!" "I should understand by now," said Clemency. Roger said to her, half-jokingly: "You’ve no imagination, Clemency. Suppose it had been I who had been poisoned—?" I saw the quick droop of her lids, her half-clenched hands. She said sharply: "Don’t say things like that even in fun." "Never mind, darling, we’ll soon be away from all this." We moved towards the house. Roger and Sophia walked ahead and Clemency and I brought up the rear. She said: "I suppose now—they’ll let us go?" "Are you so anxious to get off?" I asked. "It’s wearing me out." I looked at her in surprise. She met my glance with a faint desperate smile and a nod of the head. "Haven’t you seen, Charles, that I’m fighting all the time? Fighting for my happiness. For Roger’s. I’ve been so afraid the family would persuade him to stop in England. That we’d go on tangled up in the midst of them, stifled with family ties. I was afraid Sophia would offer him an income and that he’d stay in England because it would mean greater comfort and amenities for me. The trouble with Roger is that he will not listen. He gets ideas in his head—and they’re never the right ideas. He doesn’t know anything. And he’s enough of a Leonides to think that happiness for a woman is bound up with comfort and money. But I will fight for my happiness—I will. I will get Roger away and give him the life that suits him where he won’t feel a failure. I want him to myself—away from them all—right away—" She had spoken in a low hurried voice with a kind of desperation that startled me. I had not realized how much on edge she was. I had not realized, either, quite how desperate and possessive was her feeling for Roger. It brought back to my mind that odd quotation of Edith de Haviland’s. She had quoted the line "this side idolatry" with a peculiar intonation. I wondered if she had been thinking of Clemency. Roger, I thought, had loved his father better than he would ever love anyone else, better even than his wife, devoted though he was to her. I realized for the first time how urgent was Clemency’s desire to get her husband to herself. Love for Roger, I saw, made up her entire existence. He was her child, as well as her husband and her lover. A car drove up to the front door. "Hallo," I said. "Here’s Josephine back." Josephine and Magda got out of the car. Josephine had a bandage round her head but otherwise looked remarkably well. She said at once: "I want to see my goldfish," and started towards us and the pond. "Darling," cried Magda, "you’d better come in first and lie down a little, and perhaps have a little nourishing soup." "Don’t fuss, Mother," said Josephine. "I’m quite all right, and I hate nourishing soup." Magda looked irresolute. I knew that Josephine had really been fit to depart from the hospital for some days, and that it was only a hint from Taverner that had kept her there. He was taking no chances on Josephine’s safety until his suspects were safe under lock and key. I said to Magda: "I dare say fresh air will do her good. I’ll go and keep an eye on her." I caught Josephine up before she got to the pond. "All sorts of things have been happening while you’ve been away," I said. Josephine did not reply. She peered with her shortsighted eyes into the pond. "I don’t see Ferdinand," she said. "Which is Ferdinand?" "The one with four tails." "That kind is rather amusing. I like that bright gold one." "It’s quite a common one." "I don’t much care for that moth-eaten white one." Josephine cast me a scornful glance. "That’s a shebunkin.

Megan was not looking shy or upset at all. Her head was still like a glossy chestnut, and she wore that air of pride and self-respect that she had acquired yesterday. She was in her old clothes again but she had managed to make them look different. It’s wonderful what knowledge of her own attractiveness will do for a girl. Megan, I realized suddenly, had grown up. I suppose I must really have been rather nervous, otherwise I should not have opened the conversation by saying affectionately, "Hallo, catfish!" It was hardly, in the circumstances, a lover-like greeting. It seemed to suit Megan. She grinned and said, "Hallo!" "Look here," I said. "You didn’t get into a row about yesterday, I hope?" Megan said with assurance, "Oh, no," and then blinked, and said vaguely, "Yes, I believe I did. I mean, they said a lot of things and seemed to think it had been very odd—but then you know what people are and what fusses they make all about nothing." I was relieved to find that shocked disapproval had slipped off Megan like water off a duck’s back. "I came round this morning," I said, "because I’ve a suggestion to make. You see I like you a lot, and I think you like me—" "Frightfully," said Megan with rather disquieting enthusiasm. "And we get on awfully well together, so I think it would be a good idea if we got married." "Oh," said Megan. She looked surprised. Just that. Not startled. Not shocked. Just mildly surprised. "You mean you really want to marry me?" she asked with the air of one getting a thing perfectly clear. "More than anything in the world," I said—and I meant it. "You mean, you’re in love with me?" "I’m in love with you." Her eyes were steady and grave. She said: "I think you’re the nicest person in the world—but I’m not in love with you." "I’ll make you love me." "That wouldn’t do. I don’t want to be made." She paused and then said gravely: "I’m not the sort of wife for you. I’m better at hating than at loving." She said it with a queer intensity. I said, "Hate doesn’t last. Love does." "Is that true?" "It’s what I believe." Again there was a silence. Then I said: "So it’s "No," is it?" "Yes, it’s no." "And you don’t encourage me to hope?" "What would be the good of that?" "None whatever," I agreed, "quite redundant, in fact—because I’m going to hope whether you tell me to or not." II Well, that was that. I walked away from the house feeling slightly dazed but irritatingly conscious of Rose’s passionately interested gaze following me. Rose had had a good deal to say before I could escape. That she’d never felt the same since that awful day! That she wouldn’t have stayed except for the children and being sorry for poor Mr. Symmington. That she wasn’t going to stay unless they got another maid quick—and they wouldn’t be likely to do that when there had been a murder in the house! That it was all very well for that Miss Holland to say she’d do the housework in the meantime. Very sweet and obliging she was—Oh yes, but it was mistress of the house that she was fancying herself going to be one fine day! Mr. Symmington, poor man, never saw anything—but one knew what a widower was, a poor helpless creature made to be the prey of a designing woman. And that it wouldn’t be for want of trying if Miss Holland didn’t step into the dead mistress’s shoes! I assented mechanically to everything, yearning to get away and unable to do so because Rose was holding firmly on to my hat whilst she indulged in her flood of spite. I wondered if there was any truth in what she said. Had Elsie Holland envisaged the possibility of becoming the second Mrs. Symmington? Or was she just a decent kindhearted girl doing her best to look after a bereaved household? The result would quite likely be the same in either case. And why not? Symmington’s young children needed a mother—Elsie was a decent soul—beside being quite indecently beautiful—a point which a man might appreciate—even such a stuffed fish as Symmington!

Hm. You’ll have to think again, won’t you?" Neele nodded. His face was bitter and his jaw was grimly set. Poisoned! Right under his nose. Taxine in Rex Fortescue’s breakfast coffee, cyanide in Adele Fortescue’s tea. Still an intimate family affair. Or so it seemed. Adele Fortescue, Jennifer Fortescue, Elaine Fortescue and the newly arrived Lance Fortescue had had tea together in the library. Lance had gone up to see Miss Ramsbottom, Jennifer had gone to her own sitting room to write letters, Elaine had been the last to leave the library. According to her Adele had then been in perfect health and had just been pouring herself out a last cup of tea. A last cup of tea! Yes, it had indeed been her last cup of tea. And after that a blank twenty minutes, perhaps, until Mary Dove had come into the room and discovered the body. And during that twenty minutes— Inspector Neele swore to himself and went out into the kitchen. Sitting in a chair by the kitchen table, the vast figure of Mrs. Crump, her belligerence pricked like a balloon, hardly stirred as he came in. "Where’s that girl? Has she come back yet?" "Gladys? No—she’s not back—Won’t be, I suspect, until eleven o’clock." "She made the tea, you say, and took it in." "I didn’t touch it, sir, as God’s my witness. And what’s more I don’t believe Gladys did anything she shouldn’t. She wouldn’t do a thing like that—not Gladys. She’s a good enough girl, sir—a bit foolish like, that’s all—not wicked." No, Neele did not think that Gladys was wicked. He did not think that Gladys was a poisoner. And in any case the cyanide had not been in the teapot. "But what made her go off suddenly—like this? It wasn’t her day out, you say." "No, sir, tomorrow’s her day out." "Does Crump—" Mrs. Crump’s belligerence suddenly revived. Her voice rose wrathfully. "Don’t you go fastening anything on Crump. Crump’s out of it. He went off at three o’clock—and thankful I am now that he did. He’s as much out of it as Mr. Percival himself." Percival Fortescue had only just returned from London—to be greeted by the astounding news of this second tragedy. "I wasn’t accusing Crump," said Neele mildly. "I just wondered if he knew anything about Gladys’s plans." "She had her best nylons on," said Mrs. Crump. "She was up to something. Don’t tell me! Didn’t cut any sandwiches for tea, either. Oh yes, she was up to something. I’ll give her a piece of my mind when she comes back." When she comes back— A faint uneasiness possessed Neele. To shake it off he went upstairs to Adele Fortescue’s bedroom. A lavish apartment—all rose brocade hanging and a vast gilt bed. On one side of the room was a door into a mirror-lined bathroom with a sunk orchid-pink porcelain bath. Beyond the bathroom, reached by a communicating door, was Rex Fortescue’s dressing room. Neele went back into Adele’s bedroom, and through the door on the farther side of the room into her sitting room. The room was furnished in Empire style with a rose pile carpet. Neele only gave it a cursory glance for that particular room had had his close attention on the preceding day—with special attention paid to the small elegant desk. Now, however, he stiffened to sudden attention. On the centre of the rose pile carpet was a small piece of caked mud. Neele went over to it and picked it up. The mud was still damp. He looked round—there were no footprints visible—only this one isolated fragment of wet earth. IV Inspector Neele looked round the bedroom that belonged to Gladys Martin. It was past eleven o’clock—Crump had come in half an hour ago—but there was still no sign of Gladys. Inspector Neele looked round him. Whatever Gladys’s training had been, her own natural instincts were slovenly.

Poirot said: "I go back always to the same thing: the character of the dead man. What manner of a man was Simeon Lee?" "There isn’t much mystery about that," said Sugden, staring. "Tell me, then. That is to say, tell me from the local point of view what was known of the man." Superintendent Sugden drew a doubtful finger along his jawbone. He looked perplexed. He said: "I’m not a local man myself. I come from Reeveshire, over the border—next county. But of course old Mr Lee was a well-known figure in these parts. I know all about him by hearsay." "Yes? And that hearsay was—what?" Sugden said: "Well, he was a sharp customer; there weren’t many who could get the better of him. But he was generous with his money. Openhanded as they make ’em. Beats me how Mr George Lee can be the exact opposite, and be his father’s son." "Ah! But there are two distinct strains in the family. Alfred, George, and David resemble—superficially at least—their mother’s side of the family. I have been looking at some portraits in the gallery this morning." "He was hot-tempered," continued Superintendent Sugden, "and of course he had a bad reputation with women—that was in his younger days. He’s been an invalid for many years now. But even there he always behaved generously. If there was trouble, he always paid up handsomely and got the girl married off as often as not. He may have been a bad lot, but he wasn’t mean. He treated his wife badly, ran after other women, and neglected her. She died of a broken heart, so they say. It’s a convenient term, but I believe she was really very unhappy, poor lady. She was always sickly and never went about much. There’s no doubt that Mr Lee was an odd character. Had a revengeful streak in him, too. If anyone did him a nasty turn he always paid it back, so they say, and didn’t mind how long he had to wait to do it." "The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small," murmured Poirot. Superintendent Sugden said heavily: "Mills of the devil, more likely! Nothing saintly about Simeon Lee. The kind of man you might say had sold his soul to the devil and enjoyed the bargain! And he was proud, too, proud as Lucifer." "Proud as Lucifer!" said Poirot. "It is suggestive, what you say there." Superintendent Sugden said, looking puzzled: "You don’t mean that he was murdered because he was proud?" "I mean," said Poirot, "that there is such a thing as inheritance. Simeon Lee transmitted that pride to his sons—" He broke off. Hilda Lee had come out of the house and was standing looking along the terrace. III "I wanted to find you, M. Poirot." Superintendent Sugden had excused himself and gone back into the house. Looking after him, Hilda said: "I didn’t know he was with you. I thought he was with Pilar. He seems a nice man, quite considerate." Her voice was pleasant, a low, soothing cadence to it. Poirot asked: "You wanted to see me, you say?" She inclined her head. "Yes. I think you can help me." "I shall be delighted to do so, madame." She said: "You are a very intelligent man, M. Poirot. I saw that last night. There are things which you will, I think, find out quite easily. I want you to understand my husband." "Yes, madame?" "I shouldn’t talk like this to Superintendent Sugden. He wouldn’t understand. But you will." Poirot bowed. "You honour me, madame." Hilda went calmly on: "My husband, for many years, ever since I married him, has been what I can only describe as a mental cripple." "Ah!" "When one suffers some great hurt physically, it causes shock and pain, but slowly it mends, the flesh heals, the bone knits. There may be, perhaps, a little weakness, a slight scar, but nothing more. My husband, M. Poirot, suffered a great hurt mentally at his most susceptible age. He adored his mother and he saw her die.

At the club, you say? Couple of years ago? Know your name of course." "This," said Poirot, "is Mr. Rowland Cloade." Major Porter jerked his head in honour of the introduction. "How d’ye do?" he said. "’Fraid I can’t ask you to have a glass of sherry. Matter of fact my wine merchant has lost his stock in the Blitz. Got some gin. Filthy stuff, I always think. Or what about some beer?" They accepted beer. Major Porter produced a cigarette case. "Smoke?" Poirot accepted a cigarette. The Major struck a match and lighted Poirot’s cigarette. "You don’t, I know," said the Major to Rowley: "Mind if I light my pipe?" He did so with a good deal of sucking and blowing. "Now then," he said when all these preliminaries had been accomplished. "What’s all this about?" He looked from one to the other of them. Poirot said: "You may have read in the paper of the death of a man at Warmsley Vale?" Porter shook his head. "May have. Don’t think so." "His name was Arden. Enoch Arden?" Porter still shook his head. "He was found at the Stag Inn with the back of his head smashed in." Porter frowned. "Let me see—yes, did see something about it, I believe—some days ago." "Yes. I have here a photograph—it is a press photograph and not very clear, I’m afraid! What we should like to know, Major Porter, is whether you have ever seen this man before?" He handed over the best reproduction of the dead man’s face he had been able to find. Major Porter took it and frowned at it. "Wait a sec." The Major took out his spectacles, adjusted them on his nose and studied the photograph more closely—then he gave a sudden start. "God bless my soul!" he said. "Well, I’m damned!" "You know the man, Major?" "Of course I know him. It’s Underhay—Robert Underhay." "You’re sure of that?" There was triumph in Rowley’s voice. "Of course I’m sure. Robert Underhay! I’d swear to it anywhere." Two The telephone rang and Lynn went to answer it. Rowley’s voice spoke. "Lynn?" "Rowley?" Her voice sounded depressed. He said: "What are you up to? I never see you these days." "Oh, well—it’s all chores—you know. Running round with a basket, waiting for fish and queueing up for a bit of quite disgusting cake. All that sort of thing. Home life." "I want to see you. I’ve got something to tell you." "What sort of thing?" He gave a chuckle. "Good news. Meet me by Rolland Copse. We’re ploughing up there." Good news? Lynn put the receiver down. What to Rowley Cloade would be good news? Finance? Had he sold that young bull at a better price than he had hoped to get? No, she thought, it must be more than that. As she walked up the field to Rolland Copse, Rowley left the tractor and came to meet her. "Hallo, Lynn." "Why, Rowley—you look—different, somehow?" He laughed. "I should think I do. Our luck’s turned, Lynn!" "What do you mean?" "Do you remember old Jeremy mentioning a chap called Hercule Poirot?" "Hercule Poirot?" Lynn frowned. "Yes, I do remember something—" "Quite a long time ago. When the war was on. They were in that mausoleum of a club of his and there was an air raid." "Well?" Lynn demanded impatiently. "Fellow has the wrong clothes and all that. French chap—or Belgian. Queer fellow but he’s the goods all right." Lynn knit her brows. "Wasn’t he—a detective?" "That’s right. Well, you know, this fellow who was done in at the Stag. I didn’t tell you but an idea was getting around that he might just possibly be Rosaleen Cloade’s first husband." Lynn laughed. "Simply because he called himself Enoch Arden? What an absurd idea!" "Not so absurd, my girl. Old Spence got Rosaleen down to have a look at him. And she swore quite firmly that he wasn’t her husband." "So that finished it?" "It might have," said Rowley. "But for me!"

Now, why did they take it out through the farther gate? It seems quite clear to me that the lorry came from the village. Now, there aren’t many people who own a lorry in the village—not more than two or three at most. Kelvin, the landlord of the Three Anchors, has one." " "What was Kelvin’s original profession?" asked Newman. " "It is curious that you should ask me that, Mr Newman. In his young days Kelvin was a professional diver." "Newman and I looked at each other. The puzzle seemed to be fitting itself together piece by piece. " "You didn’t recognize Kelvin as one of the men on the beach?" asked the Inspector. "Newman shook his head. " "I am afraid I can’t say anything as to that," he said regretfully. "I really hadn’t time to see anything." "The Inspector very kindly allowed me to accompany him to the Three Anchors. The garage was up a side street. The big doors were closed, but by going up a little alley at the side we found a small door that led into it, and the door was open. A very brief examination of the tyres sufficed for the Inspector. "We have got him, by Jove!" he exclaimed. "Here is the mark as large as life on the rear left wheel. Now, Mr Kelvin, I don’t think you will be clever enough to wriggle out of this." " Raymond West came to a halt. "Well?" said Joyce. "So far I don’t see anything to make a problem about—unless they never found the gold." "They never found the gold certainly," said Raymond. "And they never got Kelvin either. I expect he was too clever for them, but I don’t quite see how he worked it. He was duly arrested—on the evidence of the tyre mark. But an extraordinary hitch arose. Just opposite the big doors of the garage was a cottage rented for the summer by a lady artist." "Oh, these lady artists!" said Joyce, laughing. "As you say, "Oh, these lady artists!" This particular one had been ill for some weeks, and, in consequence, had two hospital nurses attending her. The nurse who was on night duty had pulled her armchair up to the window, where the blind was up. She declared that the motor lorry could not have left the garage opposite without her seeing it, and she swore that in actual fact it never left the garage that night." "I don’t think that is much of a problem," said Joyce. "The nurse went to sleep, of course. They always do." "That has—er—been known to happen," said Mr Petherick, judiciously; "but it seems to me that we are accepting facts without sufficient examination. Before accepting the testimony of the hospital nurse, we should inquire very closely into her bona fides. The alibi coming with such suspicious promptness is inclined to raise doubts in one’s mind." "There is also the lady artist’s testimony," said Raymond. "She declared that she was in pain, and awake most of the night, and that she would certainly have heard the lorry, it being an unusual noise, and the night being very quiet after the storm." "H’m," said the clergyman, "that is certainly an additional fact. Had Kelvin himself any alibi?" "He declared that he was at home and in bed from ten o’clock onwards, but he could produce no witnesses in support of that statement." "The nurse went to sleep," said Joyce, "and so did the patient. Ill people always think they have never slept a wink all night." Raymond West looked inquiringly at Dr Pender. "Do you know, I feel very sorry for that man Kelvin. It seems to me very much a case of "Give a dog a bad name." Kelvin had been in prison. Apart from the tyre mark, which certainly seems too remarkable to be coincidence, there doesn’t seem to be much against him except his unfortunate record." "You, Sir Henry?" Sir Henry shook his head. "As it happens," he said, smiling, "I know something about this case. So clearly I mustn’t speak." "Well, go on, Aunt Jane; haven’t you got anything to say?" "In a minute, dear," said Miss Marple. "I am afraid I have counted wrong. Two purl, three plain, slip one, two purl—yes, that’s right. What did you say, dear?" "What is your opinion?"

Give Goldie a hemp seed from me. Your loving, Daddy. My Own Precious Darling: I do miss you so much, but I am sure you are having a very happy time with dear Grannie who is so good to you, and that you are being a good little girl and doing everything you can to please her. It is lovely hot sunshine out here and beautiful flowers. Will you be a very clever little girl and write to Rouncy for me? Grannie will address the envelope. Tell her to pick the Christmas roses and send them to Grannie. Tell her to give Tommy a big saucer of milk on Christmas Day. A lot of kisses, my precious lamb, pigeony pumpkin, from, Mother. Lovely letters. Two lovely, lovely letters. Why did a lump rise in Celia’s throat? The Christmas roses – in the bed under the hedge – Mummy arranging them in a bowl with moss – Mummy saying, "Look at their beautiful wide-open faces." Mummy’s voice … Tommy, the big white cat. Rouncy, munching, always munching. Home, she wanted to go home. Home, with Mummy in it … Precious lamb, pigeony pumpkin – that’s what Mummy called her with a laugh in her voice and a sharp, short sudden hug. Oh, Mummy – Mummy … Grannie, coming up the stairs, said: "What’s this? Crying? What are you crying for? You’ve got no fish to sell." That was Grannie’s joke. She always made it. Celia hated it. It made her want to cry more. When she was unhappy, she didn’t want Grannie. She didn’t want Grannie at all. Grannie made it worse, somehow. She slipped past Grannie down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sarah was baking bread. Sarah looked up at her. "Had a letter from your mammy?" Celia nodded. The tears overflowed again. Oh, empty, lonely world. Sarah went on kneading bread. "She’ll be home soon, love, she’ll be home soon. You watch for the leaves on the trees." She began to roll the dough on the board. Her voice was remote, soothing. She detached a small lump of the dough. "Make some little loaves of your own, honey. I’ll bake them along of mine." Celia’s tears stopped. "Twists and cottages?" "Twists and cottages." Celia set to work. For twists you rolled out three long sausages and then plaited them in and out, pinching the ends well. Cottages were a big round ball and a smaller ball on top and then – ecstatic moment – you drove your thumb sharply in, making a big round hole. She made five twists and six cottages. "It’s ill for a child away from her mammy," murmured Sarah under her breath. Her own eyes filled with tears. It was not till Sarah died some fourteen years later that it was discovered that the superior and refined niece who occasionally came to visit her aunt was in reality Sarah’s daughter, the "fruit of sin’, as in Sarah’s young days the term went. The mistress she served for over sixty years had had no idea of the fact, desperately concealed from her. The only thing she could remember was an illness of Sarah’s that had delayed her return from one of her rare holidays. That and the fact that she was unusually thin on her return. What agonies of concealment, of tight lacing, of secret desperation Sarah had gone through must forever remain a mystery. She kept her secret till death revealed it. COMMENT BY J.L. It’s odd how words – casual, unconnected words – can make a thing live in your imagination. I’m convinced that I see all these people much more clearly than Celia did as she was telling me about them. I can visualize that old grandmother – so vigorous, so much of her generation, with her Rabelaisian tongue, her bullying of her servants, her kindness to the poor sewing woman. I can see further back still to her mother – that delicate, lovable creature "enjoying her month’. Note, too, the difference of description between male and female. The wife dies of a decline, the husband of galloping consumption. The ugly word tuberculosis never intrudes. Women decline, men gallop to death. Note, too, for it is amusing, the vigour of these consumptive parents" progeny.

Two THE JEWEL ROBBERY AT THE GRAND METROPOLITAN "The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan" was first published as "The Curious Disappearance of the Opalsen Pearls" in The Sketch, March 14, 1923. Poirot," I said, "a change of air would do you good." "You think so, mon ami?" "I am sure of it." "Eh—eh?" said my friend, smiling. "It is all arranged, then?" "You will come?" "Where do you propose to take me?" "Brighton. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine in the City put me on to a very good thing, and—well, I have money to burn, as the saying goes. I think a weekend at the Grand Metropolitan would do us all the good in the world." "Thank you, I accept most gratefully. You have the good heart to think of an old man. And the good heart, it is in the end worth all the little grey cells. Yes, yes, I who speak to you am in danger of forgetting that sometimes." I did not relish the implication. I fancy that Poirot is sometimes a little inclined to underestimate my mental capacities. But his pleasure was so evident that I put my slight annoyance aside. "Then, that’s all right," I said hastily. Saturday evening saw us dining at the Grand Metropolitan in the midst of a gay throng. All the world and his wife seemed to be at Brighton. The dresses were marvellous, and the jewels—worn sometimes with more love of display than good taste—were something magnificent. "Hein, it is a good sight, this!" murmured Poirot. "This is the home of the Profiteer, is it not so, Hastings?" "Supposed to be," I replied. "But we’ll hope they aren’t all tarred with the Profiteering brush." Poirot gazed round him placidly. "The sight of so many jewels makes me wish I had turned my brains to crime, instead of to its detection. What a magnificent opportunity for some thief of distinction! Regard, Hastings, that stout woman by the pillar. She is, as you would say, plastered with gems." I followed his eyes. "Why," I exclaimed, "it’s Mrs. Opalsen." "You know her?" "Slightly. Her husband is a rich stockbroker who made a fortune in the recent oil boom." After dinner we ran across the Opalsens in the lounge, and I introduced Poirot to them. We chatted for a few minutes, and ended by having our coffee together. Poirot said a few words in praise of some of the costlier gems displayed on the lady’s ample bosom, and she brightened up at once. "It’s a perfect hobby of mine, Mr. Poirot. I just love jewellery. Ed knows my weakness, and every time things go well he brings me something new. You are interested in precious stones?" "I have had a good deal to do with them one time and another, madame. My profession has brought me into contact with some of the most famous jewels in the world." He went on to narrate, with discreet pseudonyms, the story of the historic jewels of a reigning house, and Mrs. Opalsen listened with bated breath. "There now," she exclaimed, as he ended. "If it isn’t just like a play! You know, I’ve got some pearls of my own that have a history attached to them. I believe it’s supposed to be one of the finest necklaces in the world—the pearls are so beautifully matched and so perfect in colour. I declare I really must run up and get it!" "Oh, madame," protested Poirot, "you are too amiable. Pray do not derange yourself!" "Oh, but I’d like to show it to you." The buxom dame waddled across to the lift briskly enough. Her husband, who had been talking to me, looked at Poirot inquiringly. "Madame your wife is so amiable as to insist on showing me her pearl necklace," explained the latter. "Oh, the pearls!" Opalsen smiled in a satisfied fashion. "Well, they are worth seeing. Cost a pretty penny too! Still, the money’s there all right; I could get what I paid for them any day—perhaps more. May have to, too, if things go on as they are now.

said Mrs. Perry. "You do have an imagination, don’t you? I never thought of that one." "I suppose someone must have known all about her," said Tuppence. "I mean house agents. People like that." "Oh, I suppose so," said Mrs. Perry. "But I rather liked not knowing, if you understand what I mean." "Oh yes," said Tuppence, "I do understand." "It’s got an atmosphere, you know, this house. I mean there’s a feeling in it, a feeling that anything might have happened." "Didn’t she have any people come in to clean for her or anything like that?" "Difficult to get anyone here. There’s nobody near at hand." The outside door opened. The big man who had been digging in the garden came in. He went to the scullery tap and turned it, obviously washing his hands. Then he came through into the sitting room. "This is my husband," said Mrs. Perry. "Amos. We’ve got a visitor, Amos. This is Mrs. Beresford." "How do you do?" said Tuppence. Amos Perry was a tall, shambling-looking man. He was bigger and more powerful than Tuppence had realized. Although he had a shambling gait and walked slowly, he was a big man of muscular build. He said, "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Beresford." His voice was pleasant and he smiled, but Tuppence wondered for a brief moment whether he was really what she would have called "all there." There was a kind of wondering simplicity about the look in his eyes and she wondered, too, whether Mrs. Perry had wanted a quiet place to live in because of some mental disability on the part of her husband. "Ever so fond of the garden, he is," said Mrs. Perry. At his entrance the conversation dimmed down. Mrs. Perry did most of the talking but her personality seemed to have changed. She talked with rather more nervousness and with particular attention to her husband. Encouraging him, Tuppence thought, rather in a way that a mother might prompt a shy boy to talk, to display the best of himself before a visitor, and to be a little nervous that he might be inadequate. When she’d finished her tea, Tuppence got up. She said, "I must be going. Thank you, Mrs. Perry, very much for your hospitality." "You’ll see the garden before you go." Mr. Perry rose. "Come on, I’ll show you." She went with him outdoors and he took her down to the corner beyond where he had been digging. "Nice, them flowers, aren’t they?" he said. "Got some old-fashioned roses here—See this one, striped red and white." ""Commandant Beaurepaire," " said Tuppence. "Us calls it "York and Lancaster" here," said Perry. "Wars of the Roses. Smells sweet, don’t it?" "Smells lovely." "Better than them new-fashioned Hybrid Teas." In a way the garden was rather pathetic. The weeds were imperfectly controlled, but the flowers themselves were carefully tied up in an amateurish fashion. "Bright colours," said Mr. Perry. "I like bright colours. We often get folk to see our garden," he said. "Glad you came." "Thank you very much," said Tuppence. "I think your garden and your house are very nice indeed." "You ought to see t’other side of it." "Is it to let or to be sold? Your wife says there’s nobody living there now." "We don’t know. We’ve not seen anyone and there’s no board up and nobody’s ever come to see over it." "It would be a nice house, I think, to live in." "You wanting a house?" "Yes," said Tuppence, making up her mind quickly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, we are looking round for some small place in the country, for when my husband retires. That’ll be next year probably, but we like to look about in plenty of time." "It’s quiet here if you like quiet." "I suppose," said Tuppence, "I could ask the local house agents. Is that how you got your house?" "Saw an advertisement first we did in the paper. Then we went to the house agents, yes." "Where was that—in Sutton Chancellor? That’s your village, isn’t it?" "Sutton Chancellor?

He came over and rummaged in the drawer. "Yes. Here it is all right." "Then you see," said Inspector Bland, "what that means? The only people who could have got into the boathouse were first, the person who had completed the Murder Hunt and found the key (which as far as we know, did not happen). Second, Mrs. Oliver or some member of the household to whom she may have lent her key, and, third, someone whom Marlene herself admitted to the room." "Well, that latter point covers pretty well everyone, doesn’t it?" "Very far from it," said Inspector Bland. "If I understand the arrangement of this Murder Hunt correctly, when the girl heard anyone approaching the door she was to lie down and enact the part of the Victim, and wait to be discovered by the person who had found the last clue—the key. Therefore, as you must see for yourself, the only people whom she would have admitted, had they called to her from outside and asked her to do so, were the people who had actually arranged the Murder Hunt. Any inmate, that is, of this house—that is to say, yourself, Lady Stubbs, Miss Brewis, Mrs. Oliver—possibly M. Poirot whom I believe she had met this morning. Who else, Sir George?" Sir George considered for a moment or two. "The Legges, of course," he said. "Alec and Sally Legge. They’ve been in it from the start. And Michael Weyman, he’s an architect staying here in the house to design a tennis pavilion. And Warburton, the Mastertons—oh, and Mrs. Folliat of course." "That is all—nobody else?" "That’s the lot." "So you see, Sir George, it is not a very wide field." Sir George’s face went scarlet. "I think you’re talking nonsense—absolute nonsense! Are you suggesting—what you are suggesting?" "I’m only suggesting," said Inspector Bland, "that there’s a great deal we don’t know as yet. It’s possible, for instance, that Marlene, for some reason, came out of the boathouse. She may even have been strangled somewhere else, and her body brought back and arranged on the floor. But even if so, whoever arranged her was again someone who was thoroughly cognisant with all the details of the Murder Hunt. We always come back to that." He added in a slightly changed voice, "I can assure you, Sir George, that we’re doing all we can to find Lady Stubbs. In the meantime I’d like to have a word with Mr. and Mrs. Alec Legge and Mr. Michael Weyman." "Amanda." "I’ll see what I can do about it, Inspector," said Miss Brewis. "I expect Mrs. Legge is still telling fortunes in the tent. A lot of people have come in with the half-price admission since five o’clock, and all the sideshows are busy. I can probably get hold of Mr. Legge or Mr. Weyman for you—whichever you want to see first." "It doesn’t matter in what order I see them," said Inspector Bland. Miss Brewis nodded and left the room. Sir George followed her, his voice rising plaintively. "Look here, Amanda, you’ve got to…." Inspector Bland realized that Sir George depended a great deal upon the efficient Miss Brewis. Indeed, at this moment, Bland found the master of the house rather like a small boy. Whilst waiting, Inspector Bland picked up the telephone, demanded to be put through to the police station at Helmmouth and made certain arrangements with them concerning the yacht Espérance. "You realize, I suppose," he said to Hoskins, who was obviously quite incapable of realizing anything of the sort, "that there’s just one perfectly possible place where this damn" woman might be—and that’s on board de Sousa’s yacht?" "How d’you make that out, sir?" "Well, the woman has not been seen to leave by any of the usual exits, she’s togged up in a way that makes it unlikely that she’s legging it through the fields or woods, but it is just possible that she met de Sousa by appointment down at the boathouse and that he took her by launch to the yacht, returning to the fête afterwards." "And why would he do that, sir?" demanded Hoskins, puzzled.

LEONARD. I was hard up. I told you so. MYERS. And yet you came into this particular travel agency—with a blonde—a strawberry blonde—I understand—and . . . JUDGE. A strawberry blonde, Mr. Myers? MYERS. A term for a lady with reddish fair hair, my lord. JUDGE. I thought I knew all about blondes, but a strawberry blonde . . . Go on, Mr. Myers. MYERS. (To LEONARD) Well? LEONARD. My wife isn’t a blonde and it was only a bit of fun, anyway. MYERS. You admit that you asked for particulars, not of cheap trips, but of the most expensive and luxurious cruises. How did you expect to pay for such a thing? LEONARD. I didn’t. MYERS. I suggest that you knew that in a week’s time you would have inherited a large sum of money from a trusting elderly lady. LEONARD. I didn’t know anything of the kind. I just was feeling fed up—and there were the posters in the window—palm trees and coconuts and blue seas, and I went in and asked. The clerk gave me a sort of supercilious look—I was a bit shabby—but it riled me. And so I put on a bit of an act—(He suddenly grins as though enjoying remembrance of the scene.) and began asking for the swankiest tours there were—all de luxe and a cabin on the boat deck. MYERS. You really expect the Jury to believe that? LEONARD. I don’t expect anyone to believe anything. But that’s the way it was. It was make-believe and childish if you like—but it was fun and I enjoyed it. (He looks suddenly pathetic.) I wasn’t thinking of killing anybody or of inheriting money. MYERS. So it was just a remarkable coincidence that Miss French should be killed, leaving you her heir, only a few days later. LEONARD. I’ve told you—I didn’t kill her. MYERS. Your story is that on the night of the fourteenth, you left Miss French’s house at four minutes to nine, that you walked home and you arrived there at twenty-five minutes past nine, and stayed there the rest of the evening. LEONARD. Yes. MYERS. You have heard the woman Romaine Heilger rebut that story in Court. You have heard her say that you came in not at twenty-five minutes past nine but at ten minutes past ten. LEONARD. It’s not true! MYERS. That your clothes were bloodstained, that you definitely admitted to her that you had killed Miss French. LEONARD. It’s not true, I tell you. Not one word of it is true. MYERS. Can you suggest any reason why this young woman, who has been passing as your wife, should deliberately give evidence she has given if it were not true? LEONARD. No, I can’t. That’s the awful thing. There’s no reason at all. I think she must have gone mad. MYERS. You think she must have gone mad? She seemed extremely sane, and self- possessed. But insanity is the only reason you can suggest. LEONARD. I don’t understand it. Ah, God, what’s happened—what’s changed her? MYERS. Very effective, I’m sure. But in this Court we deal with facts. And the fact is, Mr. Vole, that we have only your word for it that you left Emily French’s house at the time you say you did, and that you arrived home at five and twenty minutes past nine, and that you did not go out again. LEONARD. (Wildly) Someone must have seen me—in the street—or going into the house. MYERS. One would certainly think so—but the only person who did see you come home that night says it was at ten minutes past ten. And that person says that you had blood on your clothes. LEONARD. I cut my wrist. MYERS. A very easy thing to do in case any questions should arise. LEONARD. (Breaking down) You twist everything. You twist everything I say. You make me sound like a different kind of person from what I am. MYERS. You cut your wrist deliberately. LEONARD. No, I didn’t.

He and I lunched together at an hotel. I know now that the whole thing lay clearly unravelled before him. He had got the last thread he needed to lead him to the truth. But at the time I had no suspicion of the fact. I overestimated his general self-confidence, and I took it for granted that the things which puzzled me must be equally puzzling to him. My chief puzzle was what the man Charles Kent could have been doing at Fernly. Again and again I put the question to myself and could get no satisfactory reply. At last I ventured a tentative query to Poirot. His reply was immediate. "Mon ami, I do not think, I know." "Really?" I said incredulously. "Yes, indeed. I suppose now that to you it would not make sense if I said that he went to Fernly that night because he was born in Kent?" I stared at him. "It certainly doesn’t seem to make sense to me," I said drily. "Ah!" said Poirot pityingly. "Well, no matter. I have still my little idea." Nineteen FLORA ACKROYD As I was returning from my round the following morning, I was hailed by Inspector Raglan. I pulled up, and the inspector mounted on the step. "Good morning, Dr. Sheppard," he said. "Well, that alibi is all right enough." "Charles Kent’s?" "Charles Kent’s. The barmaid at the Dog and Whistle, Sally Jones, she remembers him perfectly. Picked out his photograph from among five others. It was just a quarter to ten when he came into the bar, and the Dog and Whistle is well over a mile from Fernly Park. The girl mentions that he had a lot of money on him—she saw him take a handful of notes out of his pocket. Rather surprised her, it did, seeing the class of fellow he was, with a pair of boots clean dropping off him. That’s where that forty pounds went right enough." "The man still refuses to give an account of his visit to Fernly?" "Obstinate as a mule he is. I had a chat with Hayes at Liverpool over the wire this morning." "Hercule Poirot says he knows the reason the man went there that night," I observed. "Does he?" cried the inspector eagerly. "Yes," I said maliciously. "He says he went there because he was born in Kent." I felt a distinct pleasure in passing on my own discomfiture. Raglan stared at me for a moment or two uncomprehendingly. Then a grin overspread his weaselly countenance and he tapped his forehead significantly. "But gone here," he said. "I’ve thought so for some time. Poor old chap, so that’s why he had to give up and come down here. In the family, very likely. He’s got a nephew who’s quite off his crumpet." "Poirot has?" I said, very surprised. "Yes. Hasn’t he ever mentioned him to you? Quite docile, I believe, and all that, but mad as a hatter, poor lad." "Who told you that?" Again a grin showed itself on Inspector Raglan’s face. "Your sister, Miss Sheppard, she told me all about it." Really, Caroline is amazing. She never rests until she knows the last details of everybody’s family secrets. Unfortunately, I have never been able to instil into her the decency of keeping them to herself. "Jump in, Inspector," I said, opening the door of the car. "We’ll go up to The Larches together, and acquaint our Belgian friend with the latest news." "Might as well, I suppose. After all, even if he is a bit barmy, it was a useful tip he gave me about those fingerprints. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about the man Kent, but who knows—there may be something useful behind it." Poirot received us with his usual smiling courtesy. He listened to the information we had brought him, nodding his head now and then. "Seems quite O.K., doesn’t it?" said the inspector rather gloomily. "A chap can’t be murdering someone in one place when he’s drinking in the bar in another place a mile away." "Are you going to release him?" "Don’t see what else we can do. We can’t very well hold him for obtaining money on false pretences. Can’t prove a ruddy thing."

A prejudice in favour of the deceased. I heard what you said just now to my friend Hastings. "A nice bright girl with no men friends." You said that in mockery of the newspapers. And it is very true—when a young girl is dead, that is the kind of thing that is said. She was bright. She was happy. She was sweet-tempered. She had not a care in the world. She had no undesirable acquaintances. There is a great charity always to the dead. Do you know what I should like this minute? I should like to find someone who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know she is dead! Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to me—the truth." Megan Barnard looked at him for a few minutes in silence whilst she smoked. Then, at last, she spoke. Her words made me jump. "Betty," she said, "was an unmitigated little ass!" Eleven MEGAN BARNARD As I said, Megan Barnard’s words, and still more the crisp businesslike tone in which they were uttered, made me jump. Poirot, however, merely bowed his head gravely. "A la bonne heure," he said. "You are intelligent, mademoiselle." Megan Barnard said, still in the same detached tone: "I was extremely fond of Betty. But my fondness didn’t blind me from seeing exactly the kind of silly little fool she was—and even telling her so upon occasions! Sisters are like that." "And did she pay any attention to your advice?" "Probably not," said Megan cynically. "Will you, mademoiselle, be precise." The girl hesitated for a minute or two. Poirot said with a slight smile: "I will help you. I heard what you said to Hastings. That your sister was a bright, happy girl with no men friends. It was—un peu—the opposite that was true, was it not?" Megan said slowly: "There wasn’t any harm in Betty. I want you to understand that. She’d always go straight. She’s not the weekending kind. Nothing of that sort. But she liked being taken out and dancing and—oh, cheap flattery and compliments and all that sort of thing." "And she was pretty—yes?" This question, the third time I had heard it, met this time with a practical response. Megan slipped off the table, went to her suitcase, snapped it open and extracted something which she handed to Poirot. In a leather frame was a head and shoulders of a fair-haired, smiling girl. Her hair had evidently recently been permed, it stood out from her head in a mass of rather frizzy curls. The smile was arch and artificial. It was certainly not a face that you could call beautiful, but it had an obvious and cheap prettiness. Poirot handed it back, saying: "You and she do not resemble each other, mademoiselle." "Oh! I’m the plain one of the family. I’ve always known that." She seemed to brush aside the fact as unimportant. "In what way exactly do you consider your sister was behaving foolishly? Do you mean, perhaps, in relation to Mr. Donald Fraser?" "That’s it, exactly. Don’s a very quiet sort of person—but he—well, naturally he’d resent certain things—and then—" "And then what, mademoiselle?" His eyes were on her very steadily. It may have been my fancy but it seemed to me that she hesitated a second before answering. "I was afraid that he might—chuck her altogether. And that would have been a pity. He’s a very steady and hard-working man and would have made her a good husband." Poirot continued to gaze at her. She did not flush under his glance but returned it with one of her own equally steady and with something else in it—something that reminded me of her first defiant, disdainful manner. "So it is like that," he said at last. "We do not speak the truth any longer." She shrugged her shoulders and turned towards the door. "Well," she said. "I’ve done what I could to help you." Poirot’s voice arrested her. "Wait, mademoiselle. I have something to tell you. Come back." Rather unwillingly, I thought, she obeyed. Somewhat to my surprise, Poirot plunged into the whole story of the A B C letters, the murder of Andover, and the railway guide found by the bodies.

"Yes, indeed," said Miss Marple. "You feel that more with me than you do with your grandmother, I expect?" Gina nodded. "It’s cute of you saying that. Grandam, you know, gives one a curiously ageless feeling." "It is a long time since I’ve seen her. I wonder if I shall find her much changed." "Her hair’s grey, of course," said Gina vaguely. "And she walks with a stick because of her arthritis. It’s got much worse lately. I suppose that—" she broke off, and then asked, "Have you been to Stonygates before?" "No, never. I’ve heard a great deal about it, of course." "It’s pretty ghastly really," said Gina cheerfully. "A sort of Gothic monstrosity. What Steve calls Best Victorian Lavatory period. But it’s fun, too, in a way. Only, of course, everything’s madly earnest, and you tumble over psychiatrists everywhere underfoot. Enjoying themselves madly. Rather like scoutmasters, only worse. The young criminals are rather pets, some of them. One showed me how to diddle locks with a bit of wire and one angelic- faced boy gave me a lot of points about coshing people." Miss Marple considered this information thoughtfully. "It’s the thugs I like best," said Gina. "I don’t fancy the queers so much. Of course, Lewis and Dr. Maverick think they’re all queers—I mean they think it’s repressed desires and disordered home life and their mothers getting off with soldiers and all that. I don’t really see it myself because some people have had awful home lives and yet have managed to turn out quite all right." "I’m sure it is all a very difficult problem," said Miss Marple. Gina laughed, again showing her magnificent teeth. "It doesn’t worry me much. I suppose some people have these sorts of urges to make the world a better place. Lewis is quite dippy about it all—he’s going to Aberdeen next week because there’s a case coming up in the police court—a boy with five previous convictions." "The young man who met me at the station? Mr. Lawson. He helps Mr. Serrocold, he told me. Is he his secretary?" "Oh Edgar hasn’t brains enough to be a secretary. He’s a case, really. He used to stay at hotels and pretend he was a V.C. or a fighter pilot and borrow money and then do a flit. I think he’s just a rotter. But Lewis goes through a routine with them all. Makes them feel one of the family and gives them jobs to do and all that to encourage their sense of responsibility. I daresay we shall be murdered by one of them one of these days." Gina laughed merrily. Miss Marple did not laugh. They turned in through some imposing gates where a commissionaire was standing on duty in a military manner and drove up a drive flanked with rhododendrons. The drive was badly kept and the grounds seemed neglected. Interpreting her companion’s glance, Gina said, "No gardeners during the war, and since we haven’t bothered. But it does look rather terrible." They came round a curve and Stonygates appeared in its full glory. It was, as Gina had said, a vast edifice of Victorian Gothic—a kind of temple to plutocracy. Philanthropy had added to it in various wings and outbuildings which, while not positively dissimilar in style, had robbed the structure as a whole of any cohesion or purpose. "Hideous, isn’t it?" said Gina affectionately. "There’s Grandam on the terrace. I’ll stop here and you can go and meet her." Miss Marple advanced along the terrace towards her old friend. From a distance, the slim little figure looked curiously girlish in spite of the stick on which she leaned and her slow and obviously rather painful progress. It was as though a young girl was giving an exaggerated imitation of old age. "Jane," said Mrs. Serrocold. "Dear Carrie Louise." Yes, unmistakably Carrie Louise. Strangely unchanged, strangely youthful still, although, unlike her sister, she used no cosmetics or artificial aids to youth. Her hair was grey, but it had always been of a silvery fairness and the colour had changed very little. Her skin had still a rose leaf pink and white appearance, though now it was a crumpled rose leaf.

It was a sordid story, a story of backstairs meeting, of ceaseless lying and intrigue. "I love him so," Vivien repeated again and again, with a sudden moan, and each time the words made Clare feel physically sick. At last the stammering recital came to an end. Vivien muttered a shamefaced: "Well?" "What am I going to do?" asked Clare. "I can’t tell you. I must have time to think." "You won’t give me away to Gerald?" "It may be my duty to do so." "No, no." Vivien’s voice rose to a hysterical shriek. "He’ll divorce me. He won’t listen to a word. He’ll find out from that hotel, and Cyril will be dragged into it. And then his wife will divorce him. Everything will go—his career, his health—he’ll be penniless again. He’d never forgive me—never." "If you’ll excuse my saying so," said Clare, "I don’t think much of this Cyril of yours." Vivien paid no attention. "I tell you he’ll hate me—hate me. I can’t bear it. Don’t tell Gerald. I’ll do anything you like, but don’t tell Gerald." "I must have time to decide," said Clare gravely. "I can’t promise anything offhand. In the meantime, you and Cyril mustn’t meet again." "No, no, we won’t. I swear it." "When I know what’s the right thing to do," said Clare, "I’ll let you know." She got up. Vivien went out of the house in a furtive, slinking way, glancing back over her shoulder. Clare wrinkled her nose in disgust. A beastly affair. Would Vivien keep her promise not to see Cyril? Probably not. She was weak—rotten all through. That afternoon Clare went for a long walk. There was a path which led along the downs. On the left the green hills sloped gently down to the sea far below, while the path wound steadily upward. This walk was known locally as the Edge. Though safe enough if you kept to the path, it was dangerous to wander from it. Those insidious gentle slopes were dangerous. Clare had lost a dog there once. The animal had gone racing over the smooth grass, gaining momentum, had been unable to stop and had gone over the edge of the cliff to be dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks below. The afternoon was clear and beautiful. From far below there came the ripple of the sea, a soothing murmur. Clare sat down on the short green turf and stared out over the blue water. She must face this thing clearly. What did she mean to do? She thought of Vivien with a kind of disgust. How the girl had crumpled up, how abjectly she had surrendered! Clare felt a rising contempt. She had no pluck—no grit. Nevertheless, much as she disliked Vivien, Clare decided that she would continue to spare her for the present. When she got home she wrote a note to her, saying that although she could make no definite promise for the future, she had decided to keep silence for the present. Life went on much the same in Daymer’s End. It was noticed locally that Lady Lee was looking far from well. On the other hand, Clare Halliwell bloomed. Her eyes were brighter, she carried her head higher, and there was a new confidence and assurance in her manner. She and Lady Lee often met, and it was noticed on these occasions that the younger woman watched the older with a flattering attention to her slightest word. Sometimes Miss Halliwell would make remarks that seemed a little ambiguous—not entirely relevant to the matter in hand. She would suddenly say that she had changed her mind about many things lately—that it was curious how a little thing might alter one’s point of view entirely. One was apt to give way too much to pity—and that was really quite wrong. When she said things of that kind she usually looked at Lady Lee in a peculiar way, and the latter would suddenly grow quite white, and look almost terrified. But as the year drew on, these little subtleties became less apparent. Clare continued to make the same remarks, but Lady Lee seemed less affected by them. She began to recover her looks and spirits. Her old gay manner returned. One morning, when she was taking her dog for a walk, Clare met Gerald in a lane.

Bunch quoted softly: "Lamp? Yes. Violets? Yes. Bottle of Aspirin. You meant that Bunny had been going to buy a new bottle that day, and so she ought not to have needed to take Letitia’s?" "Not unless her own bottle had been taken or hidden. It had to appear as though Letitia Blacklock was the one meant to be killed." "Yes, I see. And then "Delicious Death." The cake—but more than the cake. The whole party setup. A happy day for Bunny before she died. Treating her rather like a dog you were going to destroy. That’s what I find the most horrible thing of all—the sort of—of spurious kindness." "She was quite a kindly woman. What she said at the last in the kitchen was quite true. "I didn’t want to kill anybody." What she wanted was a great deal of money that didn’t belong to her! And before that desire—(and it had become a kind of obsession—the money was to pay her back for all the suffering life had inflicted on her)—everything else went to the wall. People with a grudge against the world are always dangerous. They seem to think life owes them something. I’ve known many an invalid who has suffered far worse and been cut off from life much more than Charlotte Blacklock—and they’ve managed to lead happy contented lives. It’s what in yourself that makes you happy or unhappy. But, oh dear, I’m afraid I’m straying away from what we were talking about. Where were we?" "Going over your list," said Bunch. "What did you mean by "Making enquiries?" Inquiries about what?" Miss Marple shook her head playfully at Inspector Craddock. "You ought to have seen that, Inspector Craddock. You showed me that letter from Letitia Blacklock to her sister. It had the word "enquiries" in it twice—each time spelt with an e. But in the note I asked Bunch to show you, Miss Blacklock had written "inquiries" with an i. People don’t often alter their spelling as they get older. It seemed to me very significant." "Yes," Craddock agreed. "I ought to have spotted that." Bunch was continuing. "Severe afflictions bravely borne. That’s what Bunny said to you in the café and of course Letitia hadn’t had any affliction. Iodine. That put you on the track of goitre?" "Yes, dear. Switzerland, you know, and Miss Blacklock giving the impression that her sister had died of consumption. But I remembered then that the greatest authorities on goitre and the most skillful surgeons operating on it are Swiss. And it linked up with those really preposterous pearls that Letitia Blacklock always wore. Not really her style—but just right for concealing the scar." "I understand now her agitation the night the string broke," said Craddock. "It seemed at the time quite disproportionate." "And after that, it was Lotty you wrote, not Letty as we thought," said Bunch. "Yes, I remembered that the sister’s name was Charlotte, and that Dora Bunner had called Miss Blacklock Lotty once or twice—and that each time she did so, she had been very upset afterwards." "And what about Berne and Old Age Pensions?" "Rudi Scherz had been an orderly in a hospital in Berne." "And Old Age Pension." "Oh, my dear Bunch, I mentioned that to you in the Bluebird though I didn’t really see the application then. How Mrs. Wotherspoon drew Mrs. Bartlett’s Old Age Pension as well as her own—though Mrs. Bartlett had been dead for years—simply because one old woman is so like another old woman—yes, it all made a pattern and I felt so worked up I went out to cool my head a little and think what could be done about proving all this. Then Miss Hinchcliffe picked me up and we found Miss Murgatroyd…." Miss Marple’s voice dropped. It was no longer excited and pleased. It was quiet and remorseless. "I knew then something had got to be done. Quickly! But there still wasn’t any proof. I thought out a possible plan and I talked to Sergeant Fletcher." "And I have had Fletcher on the carpet for it!" said Craddock. "He’d no business to go agreeing to your plans without reporting first to me." "He didn’t like it, but I talked him into it," said Miss Marple.

"And now, you see, we’re not!" said Charmian. "What’s more, Ansteys—that’s the family place, and Edward and I both love it—will probably have to be sold. And Edward and I feel we just can’t bear that! But if we don’t find Uncle Mathew’s money, we shall have to sell." Edward said, "You know, Charmian, we still haven’t come to the vital point." "Well, you talk, then." Edward turned to Miss Marple. "It’s like this, you see. As Uncle Mathew grew older, he got more and more suspicious. He didn’t trust anybody." "Very wise of him," said Miss Marple. "The depravity of human nature is unbelievable." "Well, you may be right. Anyway, Uncle Mathew thought so. He had a friend who lost his money in a bank, and another friend who was ruined by an absconding solicitor, and he lost some money himself in a fraudulent company. He got so that he used to hold forth at great length that the only safe and sane thing to do was to convert your money into solid bullion and bury it." "Ah," said Miss Marple. "I begin to see." "Yes. Friends argued with him, pointed out that he’d get no interest that way, but he held that that didn’t really matter. The bulk of your money, he said, should be "kept in a box under the bed or buried in the garden." Those were his words." Charmian went on. "And when he died, he left hardly anything at all in securities, though he was very rich. So we think that that’s what he must have done." Edward explained. "We found that he had sold securities and drawn out large sums of money from time to time, and nobody knows what he did with them. But it seems probable that he lived up to his principles, and that he did buy gold and bury it." "He didn’t say anything before he died? Leave any paper? No letter?" "That’s the maddening part of it. He didn’t. He’d been unconscious for somedays, but he rallied before he died. He looked at us both and chuckled—a faint, weak little chuckle. He said, "You’ll be all right, my pretty pair of doves." And then he tapped his eye—his right eye—and winked at us. And then—he died. Poor old Uncle Mathew." "He tapped his eye," said Miss Marple thoughtfully. Edward said eagerly. "Does that convey anything to you? It made me think of an Arsene Lupin story where there was something hidden in a man’s glass eye. But Uncle Mathew didn’t have a glass eye." Miss Marple shook her head. "No—I can’t think of anything at the moment." Charmian said disappointedly, "Jane told us you’d say at once where to dig!" Miss Marple smiled. "I’m not quite a conjurer, you know. I didn’t know your uncle, or what sort of man he was, and I don’t know the house or the grounds." Charmian said, "If you did know them?" "Well, it must be quite simple, really, mustn’t it?" said Miss Marple. "Simple!" said Charmian. "You come down to Ansteys and see if it’s simple!" It is possible that she did not mean the invitation to be taken seriously, but Miss Marple said briskly, "Well, really, my dear, that’s very kind of you. I’ve always wanted to have the chance of looking for buried treasure. And," she added, looking at them with a beaming, late-Victorian smile, "with a love interest, too!" "You see!" said Charmian, gesturing dramatically. They had just completed a grand tour of Ansteys. They had been round the kitchen garden—heavily trenched. They had been through the little woods, where every important tree had been dug round, and had gazed sadly on the pitted surface of the once smooth lawn. They had been up to the attic, where old trunks and chests had been rifled of their contents. They had been down to the cellars, where flagstones had been heaved unwillingly from their sockets. They had measured and tapped walls, and Miss Marple had been shown every antique piece of furniture that contained or could be suspected of containing a secret drawer.

"I see," said Jane. She tried to imitate the light-hearted manner of Pauline. She wanted very much to come to the question of money, but did not quite see how best to introduce the subject. But Pauline saved her the trouble. "We will pay you well, of course," she said carelessly. "I cannot remember now exactly how much Feodor Alexandrovitch suggested. We were speaking in francs or kronen." "Colonel Kranin," said Jane, "said something about two thousand pounds." "That was it," said Pauline, brightening. "I remember now. It is enough, I hope? Or would you rather have three thousand?" "Well," said Jane, "if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather have three thousand." "You are business-like, I see," said the Grand Duchess kindly. "I wish I was. But I have no idea of money at all. What I want I have to have, that is all." It seemed to Jane a simple but admirable attitude of mind. "And of course, as you say, there is danger," Pauline continued thoughtfully. "Although you do not look to me as though you minded danger. I do not myself. I hope you do not think that it is because I am a coward that I want you to take my place? You see, it is most important for Ostrova that I should marry and have at least two sons. After that, it does not matter what happens to me." "I see," said Jane. "And you accept?" "Yes," said Jane resolutely. "I accept." Pauline clapped her hands vehemently several times. Princess Poporensky appeared immediately. "I have told her all, Anna," announced the Grand Duchess. "She will do what we want, and she is to have three thousand pounds. Tell Feodor to make a note of it. She is really very like me, is she not? I think she is better looking, though." The princess waddled out of the room, and returned with Count Streptitch. "We have arranged everything, Feodor Alexandrovitch," the Grand Duchess said. He bowed. "Can she play her part, I wonder?" he queried, eyeing Jane doubtfully. "I’ll show you," said the girl suddenly. "You permit, ma’am?" she said to the Grand Duchess. The latter nodded delightedly. Jane stood up. "But this is splendid, Anna," she said. "I never imagined we should succeed so well. Come, let us see ourselves, side by side." And, as Pauline had done, she drew the other girl to the glass. "You see? A perfect match!" Words, manner and gesture, it was an excellent imitation of Pauline’s greeting. The princess nodded her head, and uttered a grunt of approbation. "It is good, that," she declared. "It would deceive most people." "You are very clever," said Pauline appreciatively. "I could not imitate anyone else to save my life." Jane believed her. It had already struck her that Pauline was a young woman who was very much herself. "Anna will arrange details with you," said the Grand Duchess. "Take her into my bedroom, Anna, and try some of my clothes on her." She nodded a gracious farewell, and Jane was convoyed away by the Princess Poporensky. "This is what Her Highness will wear to open the bazaar," explained the old lady, holding up a daring creation of white and black. "This is in three days" time. It may be necessary for you to take her place there. We do not know. We have not yet received information." At Anna’s bidding, Jane slipped off her own shabby garments, and tried on the frock. It fitted her perfectly. The other nodded approvingly. "It is almost perfect – just a shade long on you, because you are an inch or so shorter than Her Highness." "That is easily remedied," said Jane quickly. "The Grand Duchess wears low- heeled shoes, I noticed. If I wear the same kind of shoes, but with high heels, it will adjust things nicely." Anna Michaelovna showed her the shoes that the Grand Duchess usually wore with the dress. Lizard skin with a strap across. Jane memorized them, and arranged to get a pair just like them, but with different heels. "It would be well," said Anna Michaelovna, "for you to have a dress of distinctive colour and material quite unlike Her Highness’s.

"They dressed the body of the tramp in a suit of Renauld’s and left his ragged coat and trousers by the door of the shed, not daring to take them into the house. And then, to give credence to the tale Madame Renauld was to tell, they drove the aeroplane dagger through his heart. That night Renauld will first bind and gag his wife, and then, taking a spade, will dig a grave in that particular plot of ground where he knows a—how do you call it?—bunkair? is to be made. It is essential that the body should be found—Madame Daubreuil must have no suspicions. On the other hand, if a little time elapses, any dangers as to identity will be greatly lessened. Then, Renauld will don the tramp’s rags, and shuffle off to the station, where he will leave, unnoticed, by the 12:10 train. Since the crime will be supposed to have taken place two hours later, no suspicion can possibly attach to him. "You see now his annoyance at the inopportune visit of the girl, Bella. Every moment of delay is fatal to his plans. He gets rid of her as soon as he can, however. Then, to work! He leaves the front door slightly ajar to create the impression that assassins left that way. He binds and gags Madame Renauld, correcting his mistake of twenty-two years ago, when the looseness of the bonds caused suspicion to fall upon his accomplice, but leaving her primed with essentially the same story as he had invented before, proving the unconscious recoil of the mind against originality. The night is chilly, and he slips on an overcoat over his underclothing, intending to cast it into the grave with the dead man. He goes out by the window, smoothing over the flower bed carefully, and thereby furnishing the most positive evidence against himself. He goes out on to the lonely golf links, and he digs—And then—" "Yes?" "And then," said Poirot gravely, "the justice that he has so long eluded overtakes him. An unknown hand stabs him in the back … Now, Hastings, you understand what I mean when I talk of two crimes. The first crime, the crime that Monsieur Renauld, in his arrogance, asked us to investigate, is solved. But behind it lies a deeper riddle. And to solve that will be difficult—since the criminal, in his wisdom, has been content to avail himself of the devices prepared by Renauld. It has been a particularly perplexing and baffling mystery to solve." "You’re marvellous, Poirot," I said, with admiration. "Absolutely marvellous. No one on earth but you would have done it!" I think my praise pleased him. For once in his life he looked almost embarrassed. "That poor Giraud," said Poirot, trying unsuccessfully to look modest. "Without doubt it is not all stupidity. He has had la mauvaise chance once or twice. That dark hair coiled round the dagger, for instance. To say the least, it was misleading." "To tell you the truth, Poirot," I said slowly, "even now I don’t quite see—whose hair was it?" "Madame Renauld’s, of course. That is where la mauvaise chance came in. Her hair, dark originally, is almost completely silvered. It might just as easily have been a grey hair—and then, by no conceivable effort could Giraud have persuaded himself it came from the head of Jack Renauld! But it is all of a piece. Always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory! "Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her. How should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Anzora? Ah! voilà une femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only made one slip. On his unexpected return: "It does not matter—now." And no one noticed—no one realized the significance of those words. What a terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now.

"And then, when I was turning to go back to the house, she stopped me. She said: "You’ll be home soon enough. I shouldn’t go back too soon if I were you . . ." And then I knew—that there was something beastly waiting for me . . . and . . . as soon as I got back Esther met me, and told me—that she’d found out she didn’t really care. . . ." Macfarlane grunted sympathetically. "And Mrs. Haworth?" he asked. "I never saw her again—until tonight." "Tonight?" "Yes. At the doctor johnny’s nursing home. They had a look at my leg, the one that got messed up in that torpedo business. It’s worried me a bit lately. The old chap advised an operation—it’ll be quite a simple thing. Then as I left the place, I ran into a girl in a red jumper over her nurse’s things, and she said: "I wouldn’t have that operation, if I were you . . ." Then I saw it was Mrs. Haworth. She passed on so quickly I couldn’t stop her. I met another nurse, and asked about her. But she said there wasn’t anyone of that name in the home . . . Queer. . . ." "Sure it was her?" "Oh! yes, you see—she’s very beautiful . . ." He paused, and then added: "I shall have the old op, of course—but—but in case my number should be up—" "Rot!" "Of course it’s rot. But all the same I’m glad I told you about this gipsy business . . . You know, there’s more of it if only I could remember. . . ." Macfarlane walked up the steep moorland road. He turned in at the gate of the house near the crest of the hill. Setting his jaw squarely, he pulled the bell. "Is Mrs. Haworth in?" "Yes, sir. I’ll tell her." The maid left him in a low long room, with windows that gave on the wildness of the moorland. He frowned a little. Was he making a colossal ass of himself? Then he started. A low voice was singing overhead: "The gipsy woman Lives on the moor—" The voice broke off. Macfarlane’s heart beat a shade faster. The door opened. The bewildering, almost Scandinavian fairness of her came as a shock. In spite of Dickie’s description, he had imagined her gipsy dark . . . And he suddenly remembered Dickie’s words, and the peculiar tone of them. "You see, she’s very beautiful . . ." Perfect unquestionable beauty is rare, and perfect unquestionable beauty was what Alistair Haworth possessed. He caught himself up, and advanced towards her. "I’m afraid you don’t know me from Adam. I got your address from the Lawes. But—I’m a friend of Dickie Carpenter’s." She looked at him closely for a minute or two. Then she said: "I was going out. Up on the moor. Will you come too?" She pushed open the window, and stepped out on the hillside. He followed her. A heavy, rather foolish-looking man was sitting in a basket chair smoking. "My husband! We’re going out on the moor, Maurice. And then Mr. Macfarlane will come back to lunch with us. You will, won’t you?" "Thanks very much." He followed her easy stride up the hill, and thought to himself: "Why? Why, on God’s earth, marry that?" Alistair made her way to some rocks. "We’ll sit here. And you shall tell me—what you came to tell me." "You knew?" "I always know when bad things are coming. It is bad, isn’t it? About Dickie?" "He underwent a slight operation—quite successfully. But his heart must have been weak. He died under the anaesthetic." What he expected to see on her face, he scarcely knew—hardly that look of utter eternal weariness . . . He heard her murmur: "Again—to wait—so long—so long . . ." She looked up: "Yes, what were you going to say?" "Only this.

It fitted in, he thought, with the description of her in court. And he experienced in this moment the strongest doubts he had yet felt of the course to which he had committed himself. Everything so far had pointed unswervingly to Caroline Crale’s guilt. Now, even her own words testified against her. On the other side was only the unshaken conviction of Angela Warren. Angela had known her well, undoubtedly, but might not her certainty be the fanatical loyalty of an adolescent girl, up in arms for a dearly loved sister? As though she had read his thoughts Angela Warren said: "No, Mr. Poirot—I know Caroline wasn’t guilty." Poirot said briskly: "The Bon Dieu knows I do not want to shake you on that point. But let us be practical. You say your sister was not guilty. Very well, then, what really happened?" Angela nodded thoughtfully. She said: "That is difficult, I agree. I suppose that, as Caroline said, Amyas committed suicide." "Is that likely from what you know of his character?" "Very unlikely." "But you do not say, as in the first case, that you know it is impossible?" "No, because, as I said just now, most people do do impossible things—that is to say things that seem out of character. But I presume, if you know them intimately, it wouldn’t be out of character." "You knew your brother-in-law well?" "Yes, but not like I knew Caro. It seems to me quite fantastic that Amyas should have killed himself—but I suppose he could have done so. In fact, he must have done so." "You cannot see any other explanation?" Angela accepted the suggestion calmly, but not without a certain stirring of interest. "Oh, I see what you mean…I’ve never really considered that possibility. You mean one of the other people killed him? That it was a deliberate cold-blooded murder…." "It might have been, might it not?" "Yes, it might have been…But it certainly seems very unlikely." "More unlikely than suicide?" "That’s difficult to say…On the face of it, there was no reason for suspecting anybody else. There isn’t now when I look back…." "All the same, let us consider the possibility. Who of those intimately concerned would you say was—shall we say—the most likely person?" "Let me think. Well, I didn’t kill him. And the Elsa creature certainly didn’t. She was mad with rage when he died. Who else was there? Meredith Blake? He was always very devoted to Caroline, quite a tame cat about the house. I suppose that might give him a motive in a way. In a book he might have wanted to get Amyas out of the way so that he himself could marry Caroline. But he could have achieved that just as well by letting Amyas go off with Elsa and then in due time consoling Caroline. Besides I really can’t see Meredith as a murderer. Too mild and too cautious. Who else was there?" Poirot suggested: "Miss Williams? Philip Blake?" Angela’s grave face relaxed into a smile for a minute. "Miss Williams? One can’t really make oneself believe that one’s governess could commit a murder! Miss Williams was always so unyielding and so full of rectitude." She paused a minute and then went on: "She was devoted to Caroline, of course. Would have done anything for her. And she hated Amyas. She was a great feminist and disliked men. Is that enough for murder? Surely not." "It would hardly seem so," agreed Poirot. Angela went on: "Philip Blake?" She was silent for some few moments. Then she said quietly: "I think, you know, if we’re just talking of likelihoods, he’s the most likely person." Poirot said: "You interest me very much, Miss Warren. May I ask why you say that?" "Nothing at all definite. But from what I remember of him, I should say he was a person of rather limited imagination." "And a limited imagination predisposes you to murder?" "It might lead you to take a crude way of settling your difficulties. Men of that type get a certain satisfaction from action of some kind or other. Murder is a very crude business, don’t you think so?" "Yes—I think you are right…It is definitely a point of view, that.

If Colonel Protheroe had—had confided in you in any way—mentioned anything…." "His confidences, such as they were, were heard by the whole village street yesterday morning," I said dryly. "Yes. Yes, of course. And you don’t think—about Archer?" "The police will know all about Archer soon enough," I said. "If I’d heard him threaten Colonel Protheroe myself, that would be a different matter. But you may be sure that if he actually has threatened him, half the people in the village will have heard him, and the news will get to the police all right. You, of course, must do as you like about the matter." But Hawes seemed curiously unwilling to do anything himself. The man’s whole attitude was nervous and queer. I recalled what Haydock had said about his illness. There, I supposed, lay the explanation. He took his leave unwillingly, as though he had more to say, and didn’t know how to say it. Before he left, I arranged with him to take the service for the Mothers" Union, followed by the meeting of District Visitors. I had several projects of my own for the afternoon. Dismissing Hawes and his troubles from my mind I started off for Mrs. Lestrange. On the table in the hall lay the Guardian and the Church Times unopened. As I walked, I remembered that Mrs. Lestrange had had an interview with Colonel Protheroe the night before his death. It was possible that something had transpired in that interview which would throw light upon the problem of his murder. I was shown straight into the little drawing room, and Mrs. Lestrange rose to meet me. I was struck anew by the marvellous atmosphere that this woman could create. She wore a dress of some dead black material that showed off the extraordinary fairness of her skin. There was something curiously dead about her face. Only the eyes were burningly alive. There was a watchful look in them today. Otherwise she showed no signs of animation. "It was very good of you to come, Mr. Clement," she said, as she shook hands. "I wanted to speak to you the other day. Then I decided not to do so. I was wrong." "As I told you then, I shall be glad to do anything that can help you." "Yes, you said that. And you said it as though you meant it. Very few people, Mr. Clement, in this world have ever sincerely wished to help me." "I can hardly believe that, Mrs. Lestrange." "It is true. Most people—most men, at any rate, are out for their own hand." There was a bitterness in her voice. I did not answer, and she went on: "Sit down, won’t you?" I obeyed, and she took a chair facing me. She hesitated a moment and then began to speak very slowly and thoughtfully, seeming to weigh each word as she uttered it. "I am in a very peculiar position, Mr. Clement, and I want to ask your advice. That is, I want to ask your advice as to what I should do next. What is past is past and cannot be undone. You understand?" Before I could reply, the maid who had admitted me opened the door and said with a scared face: "Oh! Please, ma’am, there is a police inspector here, and he says he must speak to you, please." There was a pause. Mrs. Lestrange’s face did not change. Only her eyes very slowly closed and opened again. She seemed to swallow once or twice, then she said in exactly the same clear, calm voice: "Show him in, Hilda." I was about to rise, but she motioned me back again with an imperious hand. "If you do not mind—I should be much obliged if you would stay." I resumed my seat. "Certainly, if you wish it," I murmured, as Slack entered with a brisk regulation tread. "Good afternoon, madam," he began. "Good afternoon, Inspector." At this moment, he caught sight of me and scowled. There is no doubt about it, Slack does not like me. "You have no objection to the Vicar’s presence, I hope?" I suppose that Slack could not very well say he had. "No-o," he said grudgingly. "Though, perhaps, it might be better—" Mrs. Lestrange paid no attention to the hint. "What can I do for you, Inspector?" she asked. "It’s this way, madam.

She turned to the uneasily hovering butler. "Crump, will you take Sergeant Hay out and show him whatever he wants to see." The two men departed together. Mary Dove said to Neele: "Will you come in here?" She opened the door of a room and preceded him into it. It was a characterless apartment, clearly labelled "Smoking Room," with panelling, rich upholstery, large stuffed chairs, and a suitable set of sporting prints on the walls. "Please sit down." He sat and Mary Dove sat opposite him. She chose, he noticed, to face the light. An unusual preference for a woman. Still more unusual if a woman had anything to hide. But perhaps Mary Dove had nothing to hide. "It is very unfortunate," she said, "that none of the family is available. Mrs. Fortescue may return at any minute. And so may Mrs. Val. I have sent wires to Mr. Percival Fortescue at various places." "Thank you, Miss Dove." "You say that Mr. Fortescue’s death was caused by something he may have eaten for breakfast? Food poisoning, you mean?" "Possibly." He watched her. She said composedly, "It seems unlikely. For breakfast this morning there were bacon and scrambled eggs, coffee, toast and marmalade. There was also a cold ham on the sideboard, but that had been cut yesterday, and no one felt any ill effects. No fish of any kind was served, no sausages—nothing like that." "I see you know exactly what was served." "Naturally. I order the meals. For dinner last night—" "No." Inspector Neele interrupted her. "It would not be a question of dinner last night." "I thought the onset of food poisoning could sometimes be delayed as much as twenty-four hours." "Not in this case . . . Will you tell me exactly what Mr. Fortescue ate and drank before leaving the house this morning?" "He had early tea brought to his room at eight o’clock. Breakfast was at a quarter past nine. Mr. Fortescue, as I have told you, had scrambled eggs, bacon, coffee, toast and marmalade." "Any cereal?" "No, he didn’t like cereals." "The sugar for the coffee—it is lump sugar or granulated?" "Lump. But Mr. Fortescue did not take sugar in his coffee." "Was he in the habit of taking any medicines in the morning? Salts? A tonic? Some digestive remedy?" "No, nothing of that kind." "Did you have breakfast with him also?" "No. I do not take meals with the family." "Who was at breakfast?" "Mrs. Fortescue. Miss Fortescue. Mrs. Val Fortescue. Mr. Percival Fortescue, of course, was away." "And Mrs. and Miss Fortescue ate the same things for breakfast?" "Mrs. Fortescue has only coffee, orange juice and toast, Mrs. Val and Miss Fortescue always eat a hearty breakfast. Besides eating scrambled eggs and cold ham, they would probably have a cereal as well. Mrs. Val drinks tea, not coffee." Inspector Neele reflected for a moment. The opportunities seemed at least to be narrowing down. Three people and three people only had had breakfast with the deceased, his wife, his daughter and his daughter-in-law. Either of them might have seized an opportunity to add taxine to his cup of coffee. The bitterness of the coffee would have masked the bitter taste of the taxine. There was the early morning tea, of course, but Bernsdorff had intimated that the taste would be noticeable in tea. But perhaps, first thing in the morning, before the senses were alert . . . He looked up to find Mary Dove watching him. "Your questions about tonic and medicines seem to me rather odd, Inspector," she said. "It seems to imply that either there was something wrong with a medicine, or that something had been added to it. Surely neither of those processes could be described as food poisoning." Neele eyed her steadily. "I did not say—definitely—that Mr. Fortescue died of food poisoning. But some kind of poisoning. In fact—just poisoning." She repeated softly: "Poisoning. . . ." She appeared neither startled nor dismayed, merely interested. Her attitude was of one sampling a new experience.

He snapped again, angrily: "Are you serious, Lance?" "Dead serious." "It won’t work, you know. You’ll soon get fed up." "Not me. Think what a lovely change it’ll be for me. A city office, typists coming and going. I shall have a blonde secretary like Miss Grosvenor—is it Grosvenor? I suppose you’ve snaffled her. But I shall get one just like her. "Yes, Mr. Lancelot; no, Mr. Lancelot. Your tea, Mr. Lancelot." " "Oh, don’t play the fool," snapped Percival. "Why are you so angry, my dear brother? Don’t you look forward to having me sharing your city cares?" "You haven’t the least conception of the mess everything’s in." "No. You’ll have to put me wise to all that." "First you’ve got to understand that for the last six months—no, more, a year, Father’s not been himself. He’s done the most incredibly foolish things, financially. Sold out good stock, acquired various wildcat holdings. Sometimes he’s really thrown away money hand over fist. Just, one might say, for the fun of spending it." "In fact," said Lance, "it’s just as well for the family that he had taxine in his tea." "That’s a very ugly way of putting it, but in essence you’re quite right. It’s about the only thing that saved us from bankruptcy. But we shall have to be extremely conservative and go very cautiously for a bit." Lance shook his head. "I don’t agree with you. Caution never does anyone any good. You must take a few risks, strike out. You must go for something big." "I don’t agree," said Percy. "Caution and economy. Those are our watchwords." "Not mine," said Lance. "You’re only the junior partner, remember," said Percival. "All right, all right. But I’ve got a little say-so all the same." Percival walked up and down the room agitatedly. "It’s no good, Lance. I’m fond of you and all that—" "Are you?" Lance interpolated. Percival did not appear to hear him. ". . . but I really don’t think we’re going to pull together at all. Our outlooks are totally different." "That may be an advantage," said Lance. "The only sensible thing," said Percival, "is to dissolve the partnership." "You’re going to buy me out—is that the idea?" "My dear boy, it’s the only sensible thing to do, with our ideas so different." "If you find it hard to pay Elaine out her legacy, how are you going to manage to pay me my share?" "Well, I didn’t mean in cash," said Percival. "We could—er—divide up the holdings." "With you keeping the gilt-edged and me taking the worst of the speculative off you, I suppose?" "They seem to be what you prefer," said Percival. Lance grinned suddenly. "You’re right in a way, Percy, old boy. But I can’t indulge my own taste entirely. I’ve got Pat here to think of." Both men looked towards her. Pat opened her mouth, then shut it again. Whatever game Lance was playing, it was best that she should not interfere. That Lance was driving at something special, she was quite sure, but she was still a little uncertain as to what his actual object was. "Line ’em up, Percy," said Lance, laughing. "Bogus Diamond Mines, Inaccessible Rubies, the Oil Concessions where no oil is. Do you think I’m quite as big a fool as I look?" Percival said: "Of course, some of these holdings are highly speculative, but remember, they may turn out immensely valuable." "Changed your tune, haven’t you?" said Lance, grinning. "Going to offer me father’s latest wildcat acquisition as well as the old Blackbird Mine and things of that kind. By the way, has the inspector been asking you about this Blackbird Mine?" Percival frowned. "Yes, he did. I can’t imagine what he wanted to know about it. I couldn’t tell him much. You and I were children at the time. I just remember vaguely that Father went out there and came back saying the whole thing was no good." "What was it—a gold mine?" "I believe so. Father came back pretty certain that there was no gold there.

She opened The Power House and began to read. By lunch time she had read half of it. There was omelette for lunch and baked beans round it, and after it there was a dish of hot salmon with rice, and tinned apricots. Joan did not eat very much. Afterwards she went to her bedroom and lay down. If she had a touch of the sun from walking too fast in the heat, a sleep would do her good. She closed her eyes but sleep did not come. She felt particularly wide awake and intelligent. She got up and took three aspirins and lay down again. Every time she shut her eyes she saw Rodney’s back going away from her up the platform. It was insupportable! She pulled aside the curtain to let in some light and got The Power House. A few pages before the end she dropped asleep. She dreamt that she was going to play in a tournament with Rodney. They had difficulty in finding the balls but at last they got to the court. When she started to serve she found that she was playing against Rodney and the Randolph girl. She served nothing but double faults. She thought, Rodney will help me, but when she looked for him she could not find him. Everyone had left and it was getting dark. I’m all alone, thought Joan. I’m all alone. She woke up with a start. "I’m all alone," she said aloud. The influence of the dream was still upon her. It seemed to her that the words she had just said were terribly frightening. She said again, "I’m all alone." The Indian put his head in. "Memsahib call?" "Yes," she said. "Get me some tea." "Memsahib want tea? Only three o’clock." "Never mind, I want tea." She heard him going away and calling out, "Chai-chai!" She got up from the bed and went over to the fly-spotted mirror. It was reassuring to see her own normal, pleasant-looking face. "I wonder," said Joan addressing her reflection, "whether you can be going to be ill? You’re behaving very oddly." Perhaps she had got a touch of the sun? When the tea came she was feeling quite normal again. In fact the whole business was really very funny. She, Joan Scudamore, indulging in nerves! But of course it wasn’t nerves, it was a touch of the sun. She wouldn’t go out again until the sun was well down. She ate some biscuits and drank two cups of tea. Then she finished The Power House. As she closed the book, she was assailed by a definite qualm. She thought, Now I’ve got nothing to read. Nothing to read, no writing materials, no sewing with her. Nothing at all to do, but wait for a problematical train that mightn’t come for days. When the Indian came in to clear tea away she said to him: "What do you do here?" He seemed surprised by the question. "I look after travellers, Memsahib." "I know." She controlled her impatience. "But that doesn’t take you all your time?" "I give them breakfast, lunch, tea." "No, no, I don’t mean that. You have helpers?" "Arab boy – very stupid, very lazy, very dirty – I see to everything myself, not trust boy. He bring bath water – throw away bath water – he help cook." "There are three of you, then, you, the cook, the boy? You must have a lot of time when you aren’t working. Do you read?" "Read? Read what?" "Books." "I not read." "Then what do you do when you’re not working?" "I wait till time do more work." It’s no good, thought Joan. You can’t talk to them. They don’t know what you mean. This man, he’s here always, month after month. Sometimes, I suppose, he gets a holiday, and goes to a town and gets drunk and sees friends. But for weeks on end he’s here. Of course he’s got the cook and the boy … The boy lies in the sun and sleeps when he isn’t working. Life’s as simple as that for him. They’re no good to me, not any of them. All the English this man knows is eating and drinking and "Nice weather." The Indian went out. Joan strolled restlessly about the room. "I mustn’t be foolish. I must make some kind of plan. Arrange a course of – of thinking for myself.

"Thank you, mademoiselle. And you, monsieur"—he bowed to the inspector—"for your courtesy." The inspector seemed somewhat entertained by this excessive politeness. Célestine departed in a flood of tears, accompanied by the woman and the plainclothes official. Then, with a brief apology to Mrs. Opalsen, the inspector set to work to ransack the room. He pulled out drawers, opened cupboards, completely unmade the bed, and tapped the floor. Mr. Opalsen looked on sceptically. "You really think you will find them?" "Yes, sir. It stands to reason. She hadn’t time to take them out of the room. The lady’s discovering the robbery so soon upset her plans. No, they’re here right enough. One of the two must have hidden them—and it’s very unlikely for the chambermaid to have done so." "More than unlikely—impossible!" said Poirot quietly. "Eh?" The inspector stared. Poirot smiled modestly. "I will demonstrate. Hastings, my good friend, take my watch in your hand—with care. It is a family heirloom! Just now I timed Mademoiselle’s movements—her first absence from the room was of twelve seconds, her second of fifteen. Now observe my actions. Madame will have the kindness to give me the key of the jewel case. I thank you. My friend Hastings will have the kindness to say "Go!" " "Go!" I said. With almost incredible swiftness, Poirot wrenched open the drawer of the dressing table, extracted the jewel case, fitted the key in the lock, opened the case, selected a piece of jewellery, shut and locked the case, and returned it to the drawer, which he pushed to again. His movements were like lightning. "Well, mon ami?" he demanded of me breathlessly. "Forty-six seconds," I replied. "You see?" He looked round. "There would have not been time for the chambermaid even to take the necklace out, far less hide it." "Then that settles it on the maid," said the inspector with satisfaction, and returned to his search. He passed into the maid’s bedroom next door. Poirot was frowning thoughtfully. Suddenly he shot a question at Mr. Opalsen. "This necklace—it was, without doubt, insured?" Mr. Opalsen looked a trifle surprised at the question. "Yes," he said hesitatingly, "that is so." "But what does that matter?" broke in Mrs. Opalsen tearfully. "It’s my necklace I want. It was unique. No money could be the same." "I comprehend, madame," said Poirot soothingly. "I comprehend perfectly. To la femme sentiment is everything—is it not so? But, monsieur, who has not the so fine susceptibility, will doubtless find some slight consolation in the fact." "Of course, of course," said Mr. Opalsen rather uncertainly. "Still—" He was interrupted by a shout of triumph from the inspector. He came in dangling something from his fingers. With a cry, Mrs. Opalsen heaved herself up from her chair. She was a changed woman. "Oh, oh, my necklace!" She clasped it to her breast with both hands. We crowded round. "Where was it?" demanded Opalsen. "Maid’s bed. In among the springs of the wire mattress. She must have stolen it and hidden it there before the chambermaid arrived on the scene." "You permit, madame?" said Poirot gently. He took the necklace from her and examined it closely; then handed it back with a bow. "I’m afraid, madame, you’ll have to hand it over to us for the time being," said the inspector. "We shall want it for the charge. But it shall be returned to you as soon as possible." Mr. Opalsen frowned. "Is that necessary?" "I’m afraid so, sir. Just a formality." "Oh, let him take it, Ed!" cired his wife. "I’d feel safer if he did. I shouldn’t sleep a wink thinking someone else might try to get hold of it. That wretched girl! And I would never have believed it of her." "There, there, my dear, don’t take on so." I felt a gentle pressure on my arm. It was Poirot. "Shall we slip away, my friend?

Very tweedy and countrified." "Yes. Got some country connections, too. Isaac could have told you something about her, I expect. I heard she’d come back to live here. Not so very long ago, either. Things tie up, you know." "I expect you know things about this place that I don’t," said Tommy. "I shouldn’t think so. Isaac could have told you a lot, though. He knew things. Old stories, as you say, but he had a memory. And they talked it over. Yes, in these clubs for old people, they talk things over. Tall stories–some of them not true, some of them based on fact. Yes, it’s all very interesting. And–I suppose he knew too much." "It’s a shame about Isaac," said Tommy. "I’d like to get even with whoever did him in. He was a nice old boy and he was good to us and did as much as he could to help us here. Come on, anyway, let’s go on looking round." Chapter 15 Hannibal Sees Active Service with Mr Crispin Albert tapped on the bedroom door and in answer to Tuppence’s "Come in" advanced his head round the side of it. "The lady as came the other morning," he said. "Miss Mullins. She’s here. Wants to speak to you for a minute or two. Suggestions about the garden, I understand. I said as you was in bed and I wasn’t sure if you were receiving." "The words you use, Albert," said Tuppence. "All right. I am receiving." "I was just going to bring your morning coffee up." "Well, you can bring that up and another cup. That’s all. There’ll be enough for two, won’t there?" "Oh yes, madam." "Very well, then. Bring it up, put it on the table over there, and then bring Miss Mullins up." "What about Hannibal?" said Albert. "Shall I take him down and shut him up in the kitchen?" "He doesn’t like being shut up in the kitchen. No. Just push him into the bathroom and shut the door of it when you’ve done so." Hannibal, resenting the insult which was being put upon him, allowed with a bad grace Albert’s pushing him into the bathroom and adjustment to the door. He gave several loud fierce barks. "Shut up!" Tuppence shouted to him. "Shut up!" Hannibal consented to shut up as far as barking went. He lay down with his paws in front of him and his nose pressed to the crack under the door and uttered long, non-cooperative growls. "Oh, Mrs Beresford," cried Miss Mullins, "I’m afraid I am intruding, but I really thought you’d like to look at this book I have on gardening. Suggestions for planting at this time of year. Some very rare and interesting shrubs and they do quite well in this particular soil although some people say they won’t…Oh dear–oh no, oh, it’s very kind of you. Yes, I would like a cup of coffee. Please let me pour it out for you, it’s so difficult when you’re in bed. I wonder, perhaps–" Miss Mullins looked at Albert, who obligingly drew up a chair. "That be all right for you, miss?" he demanded. "Oh yes, very nice indeed. Dear me, is that another bell downstairs?" "Milk, I expect," said Albert. "Or might be the grocer. It’s his morning. Excuse me, won’t you." He went out of the room, shutting the door behind him. Hannibal gave another growl. "That’s my dog," said Tuppence, "he’s very annoyed at not being allowed to join the party but he makes so much noise." "Do you take sugar, Mrs Beresford?" "One lump," said Tuppence. Miss Mullins poured out a cup of coffee. Tuppence said, "Otherwise black." Miss Mullins put down the coffee beside Tuppence and went to pour out a cup for herself. Suddenly she stumbled, clutched at an occasional table, and went down on her knees with an exclamation of dismay. "Have you hurt yourself?" demanded Tuppence. "No, oh no, but I’ve broken your vase. I caught my foot in something–so clumsy–and your beautiful vase is smashed. Dear Mrs Beresford, what will you think of me?

Letitia Blacklock had assured him that there was no jewellery of value in the house. If these pearls were, by any chance, genuine, they must be worth a fabulous sum. And if Randall Goedler had given them to her—then they might be worth any sum you cared to name. They looked false—they must be false, but—if they were real? Why not? She might herself be unaware of their value. Or she might choose to protect her treasure by treating it as though it were a cheap ornament worth a couple of guineas at most. What would they be worth if real? A fabulous sum … Worth doing murder for—if anybody knew about them. With a start, the Inspector wrenched himself away from his speculations. Miss Marple was missing. He must go to the Vicarage. III He found Bunch and her husband waiting for him, their faces anxious and drawn. "She hasn’t come back," said Bunch. "Did she say she was coming back here when she left Boulders?" asked Julian. "She didn’t actually say so," said Craddock slowly, throwing his mind back to the last time he had seen Jane Marple. He remembered the grimness of her lips and the severe frosty light in those usually gentle blue eyes. Grimness, an inexorable determination … to do what? To go where? "She was talking to Sergeant Fletcher when I last saw her," he said. "Just by the gate. And then she went through it and out. I took it she was going straight home to the Vicarage. I would have sent her in the car—but there was so much to attend to, and she slipped away very quietly. Fletcher may know something! Where’s Fletcher?" But Sergeant Fletcher, it seemed, as Craddock learned when he rang up Boulders, was neither to be found there nor had he left any message where he had gone. There was some idea that he had returned to Milchester for some reason. The Inspector rang up headquarters in Milchester, but no news of Fletcher was to be found there. Then Craddock turned to Bunch as he remembered what she had told him over the telephone. "Where’s that paper? You said she’d been writing something on a bit of paper." Bunch brought it to him. He spread it out on the table and looked down on it. Bunch leant over his shoulder and spelled it out as he read. The writing was shaky and not easy to read: Lamp. Then came the word "Violets." Then after a space: Where is bottle of aspirin? The next item in this curious list was more difficult to make out. "Delicious death," Bunch read. "That’s Mitzi’s cake." "Making enquiries," read Craddock. "Inquiries? What about, I wonder? What’s this? Severe affliction bravely borne … What on earth—!" "Iodine," read the Inspector. "Pearls. Ah, pearls." "And then Lotty—no, Letty. Her e’s look like o’s. And then Berne. And what’s this? Old Age Pension. …" They looked at each other in bewilderment. Craddock recapitulated swiftly: "Lamp. Violets. Where is bottle of aspirin? Delicious Death. Making enquiries. Severe affliction bravely borne. Iodine. Pearls. Letty. Berne. Old Age Pension." Bunch asked: "Does it mean anything? Anything at all? I can’t see any connection." Craddock said slowly: "I’ve just a glimmer—but I don’t see. It’s odd that she should have put down that about pearls." "What about pearls? What does it mean?" "Does Miss Blacklock always wear that three-tier choker of pearls?" "Yes, she does. We laugh about it sometimes. They’re so dreadfully false- looking, aren’t they? But I suppose she thinks it’s fashionable." "There might be another reason," said Craddock slowly. "You don’t mean that they’re real. Oh! they couldn’t be!" "How often have you had an opportunity of seeing real pearls of that size, Mrs. Harmon?" "But they’re so glassy." Craddock shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, they don’t matter now. It’s Miss Marple that matters. We’ve got to find her." They’d got to find her before it was too late—but perhaps it was already too late?

But it is all of a piece. Always the facts must be twisted to fit the theory! "Without doubt, when Madame Renauld recovers, she will speak. The possibility of her son being accused of the murder never occurred to her. How should it, when she believed him safely at sea on board the Anzora? Ah! voilà une femme, Hastings! What force, what self-command! She only made one slip. On his unexpected return: "It does not matter—now." And no one noticed—no one realized the significance of those words. What a terrible part she has had to play, poor woman. Imagine the shock when she goes to identify the body and, instead of what she expects, sees the actual lifeless form of the husband she has believed miles away by now. No wonder she fainted! But since then, despite her grief and her despair, how resolutely she has played her part and how the anguish of it must wring her. She cannot say a word to set us on the track of the real murderers. For her son’s sake, no one must know that Paul Renauld was Georges Conneau, the criminal. Final and most bitter blow, she has admitted publicly that Madame Daubreuil was her husband’s mistress—for a hint of blackmail might be fatal to her secret. How cleverly she dealt with the examining magistrate when he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband’s past life. "Nothing so romantic, I am sure, monsieur." It was perfect, the indulgent tone, the soupçon of sad mockery. At once Monsieur Hautet felt himself foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally!" Poirot lost himself in contemplation. "One thing more, Poirot, what about the piece of lead-piping?" "You do not see? To disfigure the victim’s face so that it would be unrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two foot long was quite as good as a clue of two inches? You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed Monsieur Renauld? Someone who was near the villa just before twelve o’clock that night, someone who would benefit by his death—the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!" I started, I had not realized that point. "Of course," I said, "Mrs. Renauld’s dagger was the second one we found in the tramp. There were two, then?" "Certainly, and since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact, I had a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological—heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son—Jack Renauld, when all is said or done, is the son of Georges Conneau." His tone was grave and earnest, and I was impressed in spite of myself. "What is your little idea that you mentioned just now?" I asked. For answer, Poirot consulted his turnip-faced watch, and then asked: "What time is the afternoon boat from Calais?" "About five, I believe." "That will do very well. We shall just have time." "You are going to England?" "Yes, my friend." "Why?" "To find a possible—witness." "Who?" With a rather peculiar smile upon his face, Poirot replied: "Miss Bella Duveen." "But how will you find her—what do you know about her?" "I know nothing about her—but I can guess a good deal. We may take it for granted that her name is Bella Duveen, and since that name was faintly familiar to Monsieur Stonor, though evidently not in connexion with the Renauld family, it is probable that she is on the stage. Jack Renauld was a young man with plenty of money, and twenty years of age. The stage is sure to have been the home of his first love. It tallies, too, with Monsieur Renauld’s attempt to placate her with a cheque.

Then we came to houses and gardens full of flowers–not so many as there would have been later in the year…And there I was–in what I sometimes thought of as Mem-Sahib Land. II They were so nice to me in Baghdad. Everyone was kind and pleasant–and I felt ashamed of myself for the caged feeling from which I suffered. Alwiyah is now part of a continuous city, full of buses and other means of transport, but was then divided by some miles from the city itself. To get there, somebody would have to drive you in. It was always a fascinating ride. One day I was taken to see Buffalo Town, which you can still see from the train as you come into Baghdad from the north. To the uninitiated eye it looks a place of horror–a slum, a vast enclosure full of buffaloes and their excreta. The stench is terrific, and the shacks made of petrol cans lead one to believe that it is an extreme example of poverty and degradation. Actually this is far from being the case. Owners of buffaloes are very well to do. Although they may live in squalor, a buffalo is worth £100 or more–probably far more nowadays. The owners of them consider themselves lucky people, and as the women squelch about in the mud, handsome bracelets of silver and turquoise can be seen decorating their ankles. I learnt soon enough that nothing in the Near East is what it appears to be. One’s rules of life and conduct, observation and behaviour, have all to be reversed and relearnt. When you see a man gesticulating at you violently to go away, you retreat rapidly–actually he is inviting you to approach. On the other hand, if he beckons you, he is telling you to go away. Two men at opposite ends of the field, yelling fiercely at each other, would appear to be threatening each other with sudden death. Not at all. They are two brothers passing the time of day, and raising their voices because they are too lazy to approach each other. My husband Max once told me that he had determined on his first visit, shocked at the way everybody shouted at Arabs, that he would never shout at them. However, before he had been working long with the workmen he discovered that any remark uttered in an ordinary tone of voice was unheard–not so much through deafness as a belief that anyone talking like that was talking to himself, and that any man who really wished to make a remark would take the trouble to make it in a loud enough voice for you to hear. The people of Alwiyah offered me charming hospitality. I played tennis, I drove to races, I was shown sights, taken to shop–and I felt that I might just as well be in England. Geographically I might be in Baghdad, spiritually I was in England still; and my idea of travelling had been to get away from England and see other countries. I decided that something must be done. I wanted to visit Ur. I made inquiries, and was delighted to find that here I was encouraged, not rebuffed. My journey was arranged for me, as I discovered later, with a good many unnecessary additional adornments. "You must take a bearer with you, of course," said Mrs C. "We’ll reserve your train journey for you, and we’ll wire to Ur junction to tell Mr and Mrs Woolley that you will be arriving and would like to be shown things. You can spend a couple of nights in the rest-house there, and then Eric will meet you when you come back." I said it was very kind of them to take so much trouble and felt guiltily that it was a good thing they did not know that I was also taking trouble with my arrangements for when I came back. In due course I set off. I eyed my bearer with slight alarm. He was a tall, thin man, with an air of having accompanied Mem-Sahibs all over the Near East and knowing a great deal more about what was good for them than they knew themselves. Splendidly attired, he settled me in my bare and not particularly comfortable carriage, salaamed, and left me, explaining that at a suitable station he would return to usher me to the platform dining-room. The first thing I did when left to my own devices was extremely ill-judged: I threw open the window. The stuffiness of the compartment was more than I could bear; I longed for fresh air.

"Yes, everywhere!" She smiled a slow, twisted smile, and murmured some words that he did not catch, words that she had chosen for the original obituary notice of Tim Nugent’s death. "While the light lasts I shall remember, and in the darkness I shall not forget." Her eyes widened as they followed the ascending spiral of smoke, and she repeated in a low, monotonous voice: "Everywhere, everywhere." Chapter 4 The Red Signal "The Red Signal" was first published in Grand Magazine, June 1924. "No, but how too thrilling," said pretty Mrs Eversleigh, opening her lovely, but slightly vacant eyes very wide. "They always say women have a sixth sense; do you think it’s true, Sir Alington?" The famous alienist smiled sardonically. He had an unbounded contempt for the foolish pretty type, such as his fellow guest. Alington West was the supreme authority on mental disease, and he was fully alive to his own position and importance. A slightly pompous man of full figure. "A great deal of nonsense is talked, I know that, Mrs Eversleigh. What does the term mean – a sixth sense?" "You scientific men are always so severe. And it really is extraordinary the way one seems to positively know things sometimes – just know them, feel them, I mean – quite uncanny – it really is. Claire knows what I mean, don’t you, Claire?" She appealed to her hostess with a slight pout, and a tilted shoulder. Claire Trent did not reply at once. It was a small dinner party, she and her husband, Violet Eversleigh, Sir Alington West, and his nephew, Dermot West, who was an old friend of Jack Trent’s. Jack Trent himself, a somewhat heavy florid man, with a good-humoured smile, and a pleasant lazy laugh, took up the thread. "Bunkum, Violet! Your best friend is killed in a railway accident. Straight away you remember that you dreamt of a black cat last Tuesday – marvellous, you felt all along that something was going to happen!" "Oh, no, Jack, you’re mixing up premonitions with intuition now. Come, now, Sir Alington, you must admit that premonitions are real?" "To a certain extent, perhaps," admitted the physician cautiously. "But coincidence accounts for a good deal, and then there is the invariable tendency to make the most of a story afterwards – you’ve always got to take that into account." "I don’t think there is any such thing as premonition," said Claire Trent, rather abruptly. "Or intuition, or a sixth sense, or any of the things we talk about so glibly. We go through life like a train rushing through the darkness to an unknown destination." "That’s hardly a good simile, Mrs Trent," said Dermot West, lifting his head for the first time and taking part in the discussion. There was a curious glitter in the clear grey eyes that shone out rather oddly from the deeply tanned face. "You’ve forgotten the signals, you see." "The signals?" "Yes, green if its all right, and red – for danger!" "Red – for danger – how thrilling!" breathed Violet Eversleigh. Dermot turned from her rather impatiently. "That’s just a way of describing it, of course. Danger ahead! The red signal! Look out!" Trent stared at him curiously. "You speak as though it were an actual experience, Dermot, old boy." "So it is – has been, I mean." "Give us the yarn." "I can give you one instance. Out in Mesopotamia – just after the Armistice, I came into my tent one evening with the feeling strong upon me. Danger! Look out! Hadn’t the ghost of a notion what it was all about. I made a round of the camp, fussed unnecessarily, took all precautions against an attack by hostile Arabs. Then I went back to my tent. As soon as I got inside, the feeling popped up again stronger than ever. Danger! In the end, I took a blanket outside, rolled myself up in it and slept there." "Well?" "The next morning, when I went inside the tent, first thing I saw was a great knife arrangement – about half a yard long – struck down through my bunk, just where I would have lain. I soon found out about it – one of the Arab servants. His son had been shot as a spy.

But now, well now, perhaps, she might even feel slightly grateful. She might have realized that she, herself, might even have been under a stone slab in a respectable churchyard, instead of living a presumably happy life with Mr. Anderson. "You look very well," she said, "and very gay." "So do you, Miss Marple." "Well, of course, I am rather older now. And one has so many ailments. I mean, not desperate ones, nothing of that kind, but I mean one has always some kind of rheumatism or some kind of ache and pain somewhere. One’s feet are not what one would like feet to be. And there’s usually one’s back or a shoulder or painful hands. Oh, dear, one shouldn’t talk about these things. What a very nice house you have." "Yes, we haven’t been in it very long. We moved in about four months ago." Miss Marple looked round. She had rather thought that that was the case. She thought, too, that when they had moved in they had moved in on quite a handsome scale. The furniture was expensive, it was comfortable, comfortable and just this side of luxury. Good curtains, good covers, no particular artistic taste displayed, but then she would not have expected that. She thought she knew the reason for this appearance of prosperity. She thought it had come about on the strength of the late Mr. Rafiel’s handsome legacy to Esther. She was glad to think that Mr. Rafiel had not changed his mind. "I expect you saw the notice of Mr. Rafiel’s death," said Esther, speaking almost as if she knew what was in Miss Marple’s mind. "Yes. Yes, indeed I did. It was about a month ago now, wasn’t it? I was so sorry. Very distressed really, although, well, I suppose one knew—he almost admitted it himself, didn’t he? He hinted several times that it wouldn’t be very long. I think he was quite a brave man about it all, don’t you?" "Yes, he was a very brave man, and a very kind one really," said Esther. "He told me, you know, when I first worked for him, that he was going to give me a very good salary but that I would have to save out of it because I needn’t expect to have anything more from him. Well, I certainly didn’t expect to have anything more from him. He was very much a man of his word, wasn’t he? But apparently he changed his mind." "Yes," said Miss Marple. "Yes. I am very glad of that. I thought perhaps—not that he, of course, said anything—but I wondered." "He left me a very big legacy," said Esther. "A surprisingly large sum of money. It came as a very great surprise. I could hardly believe it at first." "I think he wanted it to be a surprise to you. I think he was perhaps that kind of man," said Miss Marple. She added: "Did he leave anything to—oh, what was his name?—the man attendant, the nurse-attendant?" "Oh, you mean Jackson? No, he didn’t leave anything to Jackson, but I believe he made him some handsome presents in the last year." "Have you ever seen anything more of Jackson?" "No. No, I don’t think I’ve met him once since the time out in the islands. He didn’t stay with Mr. Rafiel after they got back to England. I think he went to Lord somebody who lives in Jersey or Guernsey." "I would like to have seen Mr. Rafiel again," said Miss Marple. "It seems odd after we’d all been mixed up so. He and you and I and some others. And then, later, when I’d come home, when six months had passed—it occurred to me one day how closely associated we had been in our time of stress, and yet how little I really knew about Mr. Rafiel. I was thinking it only the other day, after I’d seen the notice of his death. I wished I could know a little more. Where he was born, you know, and his parents. What they were like. Whether he had any children, or nephews or cousins or any family. I would so like to know." Esther Anderson smiled slightly.

She said, leaning forward and speaking in a hoarse conspiratorial whisper: "You won’t tell my husband, will you, that I came and consulted you about—well, about we know what?" "My lips are sealed." "I mean—of course I’d no idea at the time—that Robert Underhay, poor man, so tragic—was actually in Warmsley Vale. That seems to me still a most extraordinary coincidence!" "It would have been simpler," agreed Poirot, "if the Ouija board had directed you straight to the Stag." Aunt Kathie cheered up a little at the mention of the Ouija board. "The way things come about in the spirit world seem quite incalculable," she said. "But I do feel, M. Poirot, that there is a purpose in it all. Don’t you feel that in life? That there is always a purpose?" "Yes, indeed, Madame. Even that I should sit here, now, in your drawing room, there is a purpose in that." "Oh, is there?" Mrs. Cloade looked rather taken aback. "Is there, really? Yes, I suppose so…You’re on your way back to London, of course?" "Not at present. I stay for a few days at the Stag." "At the Stag? Oh—at the Stag! But that’s where—oh, M. Poirot, do you think you are wise?" "I have been guided to the Stag," said Poirot solemnly. "Guided? What do you mean?" "Guided by you." "Oh, but I never meant—I mean, I had no idea. It’s all so dreadful, don’t you think so?" Poirot shook his head sadly, and said: "I have been talking to Mr. Rowley Cloade and Miss Marchmont. They are getting married, I hear, quite soon?" Aunt Kathie was immediately diverted. "Dear Lynn, she is such a sweet girl—and so very good at figures. Now, I have no head for figures—no head at all. Having Lynn home is an absolute blessing. If I get in a terrible muddle she always straightens things out for me. Dear girl, I do hope she will be happy. Rowley, of course, is a splendid person, but possibly—well, a little dull. I mean dull to a girl who has seen as much of the world as Lynn has. Rowley, you see, has been here on his farm all through the war—oh, quite rightly, of course—I mean the Government wanted him to—that side of it is quite all right—not white feathers or things like that as they did in the Boer War—but what I mean is, it’s made him rather limited in his ideas." "Six years" engagement is a good test of affection." "Oh, it is! But I think these girls, when they come home, they get rather restless—and if there is someone else about—someone, perhaps, who has led an adventurous life—" "Such as David Hunter?" "There isn’t anything between them," Aunt Kathie said anxiously. "Nothing at all. I’m quite sure of that! It would have been dreadful if there had been, wouldn’t there, with his turning out a murderer? His own brother-in-law, too! Oh, no, M. Poirot, please don’t run away with the idea that there’s any kind of an understanding between Lynn and David. Really, they seemed to quarrel more than anything else every time they met. What I felt is that—oh, dear, I think that’s my husband coming. You will remember, won’t you, M. Poirot, not a word about our first meeting? My poor dear husband gets so annoyed if he thinks that—oh, Lionel dear, here is M. Poirot who so cleverly brought that Major Porter down to see the body." Dr. Cloade looked tired and haggard. His eyes, pale blue, with pin-point pupils, wandered vaguely round the room. "How do you do, M. Poirot; on your way back to town?" "Mon Dieu, another who packs me back to London!" thought Poirot. Aloud he said patiently: "No, I remain at the Stag for a day or so." "The Stag?" Lionel Cloade frowned. "Oh? Police want to keep you here for a bit?" "No. It is my own choice." "Indeed?" The doctor suddenly flashed a quick intelligent look.

Those bloody hens are in the larder." "And for this," said Hercule Poirot with feeling, "I pay seven guineas a week!" The door banged to with a crash. Through the window came the loud squawking of irate hens. Then the door opened again and Maureen Summerhayes came in and fell upon the basin with a cry of joy. "Couldn’t think where I’d left it. Would you mind frightfully, Mr Er—hum—I mean, would it bother you if I sliced the beans in here? The smell in the kitchen is too frightful." "Madame, I should be enchanted." It was not, perhaps, the exact phrase, but it was near enough. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that Poirot had seen any chance of a conversation of more than six seconds" duration. Mrs Summerhayes flung herself down in a chair and began slicing beans with frenzied energy and considerable awkwardness. "I do hope," she said, "that you’re not too frightfully uncomfortable? If there’s anything you want altered, do say so." Poirot had already come to the opinion that the only thing in Long Meadows he could even tolerate was his hostess. "You are too kind, madame," he replied politely. "I only wish it were within my powers to provide you with suitable domestics." "Domestics!" Mrs Summerhayes gave a squeal. "What a hope! Can’t even get hold of a daily. Our really good one was murdered. Just my luck." "That would be Mrs McGinty," said Poirot quickly. "Mrs McGinty it was. God, how I miss that woman! Of course it was all a big thrill at the time. First murder we’ve ever had right in the family, so to speak, but as I told Johnnie, it was a downright bit of bad luck for us. Without McGinty I just can’t cope." "You were attached to her?" "My dear man, she was reliable. She came. Monday afternoons and Thursday mornings—just like a clock. Now I have that Burp woman from up by the station. Five children and a husband. Naturally she’s never here. Either the husband’s taken queer, or the old mother, or the children have some foul disease or other. With old McGinty, at least it was only she herself who came over queer, and I must say she hardly ever did." "And you found her always reliable and honest? You had trust in her?" "Oh, she’d never pinch anything—not even food. Of course she snooped a bit. Had a look at one’s letters and all that. But one expects that sort of thing. I mean they must live such awfully drab lives, mustn’t they?" "Had Mrs McGinty had a drab life?" "Ghastly, I expect," said Mrs Summerhayes vaguely. "Always on your knees scrubbing. And then piles of other people’s washing-up waiting for you on the sink when you arrive in the morning. If I had to face that every day, I’d be positively relieved to be murdered. I really would." The face of Major Summerhayes appeared at the window. Mrs Summerhayes sprang up, upsetting the beans, and rushed across to the window, which she opened to the fullest extent. "That damned dog’s eaten the hens" food again, Maureen." "Oh damn, now he’ll be sick!" "Look here," John Summerhayes displayed a colander full of greenery, "is this enough spinach?" "Of course not." "Seems a colossal amount to me." "It’ll be about a teaspoonful when it’s cooked. Don’t you know by now what spinach is like?" "Oh Lord!" "Has the fish come?" "Not a sign of it." "Hell, we’ll have to open a tin of something. You might do that, Johnnie. One of the ones in the corner cupboard. That one we thought was a bit bulged. I expect it’s quite all right really." "What about the spinach?" "I’ll get that." She leaped through the window, and husband and wife moved away together. "Nom d’un nom d’un nom!" said Hercule Poirot. He crossed the room and closed the window as nearly as he could. The voice of Major Summerhayes came to him borne on the wind. "What about this new fellow, Maureen? Looks a bit peculiar to me. What’s his name again?"

"What do you mean by significant, M. Poirot?" "I mean that there is in this room no personal touch…I find that interesting." "She was hardly a woman of sentiment," said Fournier dryly. Poirot rose. "Come," he said, "let us see this maid—this highly confidential maid." Elise Grandier was a short stout woman of middle age with a florid face and small shrewd eyes that darted quickly from Fournier’s face to that of his companion and then back again. "Sit down, Mademoiselle Grandier," said Fournier. "Thank you, Monsieur." She sat down composedly. "M. Poirot and I have returned today from London. The inquest—the inquiry, that is, into the death of Madame—took place yesterday. There is no doubt whatsoever. Madame was poisoned." The Frenchwoman shook her head gravely. "It is terrible what you say there, Monsieur. Madame poisoned? Who would ever have dreamt of such a thing?" "That is perhaps where you can help us, Mademoiselle." "Certainly, Monsieur, I will naturally do all I can to aid the police. But I know nothing—nothing at all." "You know that Madame had enemies?" said Fournier sharply. "That is not true. Why should Madame have enemies?" "Come, come, Mademoiselle Grandier," said Fournier dryly. "The profession of a moneylender—it entails certain unpleasantnesses." "It is true that sometimes the clients of Madame were not very reasonable," agreed Elise. "They made scenes, eh? They threatened her?" The maid shook her head. "No, no, you are wrong there. It was not they who threatened. They whined—they complained—they protested they could not pay—all that, yes." Her voice held a very lively contempt. "Sometimes, perhaps, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, "they could not pay." Elise Grandier shrugged her shoulders. "Possibly. That is their affair! They usually paid in the end." Her tone held a certain amount of satisfaction. "Madame Giselle was a hard woman," said Fournier. "Madame was justified." "You have no pity for the victims?" "Victims—victims…" Elise spoke with impatience. "You do not understand. Is it necessary to run into debt, to live beyond your means, to run and borrow, and then expect to keep the money as a gift? It is not reasonable, that! Madame was always fair and just. She lent—and she expected repayment. That is only fair. She herself had no debts. Always she paid honourably what she owed. Never, never were there any bills outstanding. And when you say that Madame was a hard woman it is not the truth! Madame was kind. She gave to the Little Sisters of the Poor when they came. She gave money to charitable institutions. When the wife of Georges, the concierge, was ill, Madame paid for her to go to a hospital in the country." She stopped, her face flushed and angry. She repeated, "You do not understand. No, you do not understand Madame at all." Fournier waited a moment for her indignation to subside and then said: "You made the observation that Madame’s clients usually managed to pay in the end. Were you aware of the means Madame used to compel them?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I know nothing, Monsieur—nothing at all." "You knew enough to burn Madame’s papers." "I was following her instructions. If ever, she said, she were to meet with an accident, or if she were taken ill and died somewhere away from home, I was to destroy her business papers." "The papers in the safe downstairs?" asked Poirot. "That is right. Her business papers." "And they were in the safe downstairs?" His persistence brought the red up in Elise’s cheeks. "I obeyed Madame’s instructions," she said. "I know that," said Poirot, smiling. "But the papers were not in the safe. That is so, is it not? That safe, it is far too old-fashioned—quite an amateur might have opened it. The papers were kept elsewhere—in Madame’s bedroom, perhaps?" Elise paused a moment and then answered: "Yes, that is so. Madame always pretended to clients that papers were kept in the safe, but in reality the safe was a blind. Everything was in Madame’s bedroom." "Will you show us where?" Elise rose and the two men followed her.

said the other imperturbably. This unexpected ally quite bewildered me. "Admirable, Monsieur Giraud?" asked the magistrate, studying him cautiously out of the corner of his eye. "Precisely." "And why?" "Because we know now that the assassin, or an accomplice of the assassin, has been near the villa only an hour ago. It will be strange if, with that knowledge, we do not shortly lay hands upon him." There was a note of menace in his voice. He continued: "He risked a good deal to gain possession of that dagger. Perhaps he feared that fingerprints might be discovered on it." Poirot turned to Bex. "You said there were none?" Giraud shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps he could not be sure." Poirot looked at him. "You are wrong, Monsieur Giraud. The assassin wore gloves. So he must have been sure." "I do not say it was the assassin himself. It may have been an accomplice who was not aware of that fact." The magistrate’s clerk was gathering up the papers on the table. M. Hautet addressed us: "Our work here is finished. Perhaps, Monsieur Renauld, you will listen while your evidence is read over to you. I have purposely kept all the proceedings as informal as possible. I have been called original in my methods, but I maintain that there is much to be said for originality. The case is now in the clever hands of the renowned Monsieur Giraud. He will without doubt distinguish himself. Indeed, I wonder that he has not already laid his hands upon the murderers! Madame, again let me assure you of my heartfelt sympathy. Messieurs, I wish you all good day." And, accompanied by his clerk and the commissary, he took his departure. Poirot tugged out that large turnip of a watch of his and observed the time. "Let us return to the hotel for lunch, my friend," he said. "And you shall recount to me in full the indiscretions of this morning. No one is observing us. We need make no adieux." We went quietly out of the room. The examining magistrate had just driven off in his car. I was going down the steps when Poirot’s voice arrested me: "One little moment, my friend." Dexterously he whipped out his yard measure and proceeded, quite solemnly, to measure an overcoat hanging in the hall, from the collar to the hem. I had not seen it hanging there before, and guessed that it belonged to either Mr. Stonor or Jack Renauld. Then, with a little satisfied grunt, Poirot returned the measure to his pocket and followed me out into the open air. Twelve POIROT ELUCIDATES CERTAIN POINTS "Why did you measure that overcoat?" I asked, with some curiosity, as we walked down the hot white road at a leisurely pace. "Parbleu! to see how long it was," replied my friend imperturbably. I was vexed. Poirot’s incurable habit of making a mystery out of nothing never failed to irritate me. I relapsed into silence, and followed a train of thought of my own. Although I had not noticed them specially at the time, certain words Mrs. Renauld had addressed to her son now recurred to me, fraught with a new significance. "So you did not sail?" she had said, and then had added: "After all, it does not matter—now." What had she meant by that? The words were enigmatical—significant. Was it possible that she knew more than we supposed? She had denied all knowledge of the mysterious mission with which her husband was to have entrusted his son. But was she really less ignorant than she pretended? Could she enlighten us if she chose, and was her silence part of a carefully thought out and preconceived plan? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I was right. Mrs. Renauld knew more than she chose to tell. In her surprise at seeing her son, she had momentarily betrayed herself. I felt convinced that she knew, if not the assassins, at least the motive for the assassination. But some very powerful considerations must keep her silent. "You think profoundly, my friend," remarked Poirot, breaking in upon my reflections. "What is it that intrigues you so?"

And a pretty packet went on ’em. That and the bottle—had a hard time with him, his wife did. Yu’ve seen her, maybe—lives at the Lodge now, she du." "Yes, I have just left her there now." "Her be a Folliat, tu, second cousin from over Tiverton way. A great one for the garden, she is, all them there flowering shrubs she had put in. Even when it was took over during the war, and the two young gentlemen was gone to the war, she still looked after they shrubs and kept ’em from being overrun." "It was hard on her, both her sons being killed." "Ah, she’ve had a hard life, she have, what with this and that. Trouble with her husband, and trouble with the young gentlemen, tu. Not Mr. Henry. He was as nice a young gentleman as yu could wish, took after his grandfather, fond of sailing and went into the Navy as a matter of course, but Mr. James, he caused her a lot of trouble. Debts and women it were, and then, tu, he were real wild in his temper. Born one of they as can’t go straight. But the war suited him, as yu might say—give him his chance. Ah! There’s many who can’t go straight in peace who dies bravely in war." "So now," said Poirot, "there are no more Folliats at Nasse." The old man’s flow of talk died abruptly. "Just as yu say, sir." Poirot looked curiously at the old man. "Instead you have Sir George Stubbs. What is thought locally of him?" "Us understands," said the old man, "that he be powerful rich." His tone sounded dry and almost amused. "And his wife?" "Ah, she’s a fine lady from London, she is. No use for gardens, not her. They du say, tu, as her du be wanting up here." He tapped his temple significantly. "Not as her isn’t always very nice spoken and friendly. Just over a year they’ve been here. Bought the place and had it all done up like new. I remember as though ’twere yesterday them arriving. Arrived in the evening, they did, day after the worst gale as I ever remember. Trees down right and left—one down across the drive and us had to get it sawn away in a hurry to get the drive clear for the car. And the big oak up along, that come down and brought a lot of others down with it, made a rare mess, it did." "Ah, yes, where the Folly stands now?" The old man turned aside and spat disgustedly. "Folly ’tis called and Folly ’tis—newfangled nonsense. Never was no Folly in the old Folliats" time. Her ladyship’s idea that Folly was. Put up not three weeks after they first come, and I’ve no doubt she talked Sir George into it. Rare silly it looks stuck up there among the trees, like a heathen temple. A nice summerhouse now, made rustic like with stained glass. I’d have nothing against that." Poirot smiled faintly. "The London ladies," he said, "they must have their fancies. It is sad that the day of the Folliats is over." "Don’t ee never believe that, sir." The old man gave a wheezy chuckle. "Always be Folliats at Nasse." "But the house belongs to Sir George Stubbs." "That’s as may be—but there’s still a Folliat here. Ah! Rare and cunning the Folliats are!" "What do you mean?" The old man gave him a sly sideways glance. "Mrs. Folliat be living up tu Lodge, bain’t she?" he demanded. "Yes," said Poirot slowly. "Mrs. Folliat is living at the Lodge and the world is very wicked, and all the people in it are very wicked." The old man stared at him. "Ah," he said. "Yu’ve got something there, maybe." He shuffled away again. "But what have I got?" Poirot asked himself with irritation as he slowly walked up the hill back to the house. II Hercule Poirot made a meticulous toilet, applying a scented pomade to his moustaches and twirling them to a ferocious couple of points.

That chap she was living with might have got jealous of another man—or he’d got himself another girl and she got jealous and they had a row. Sex in the tropics. That sort of stuff. What do you say?" "No," said Miss Marple, shaking her head. "The authorities don’t think so, either." "They would say more to you," pointed out Miss Marple, "than they would say to me." "All the same, I bet you know more about it than I do. You’ve listened to the tittle-tattle." "Certainly I have," said Miss Marple. "Nothing much else to do, have you, except listen to tittle-tattle?" "It is often informative and useful." "D’you know," said Mr. Rafiel, studying her attentively. "I made a mistake about you. I don’t often make mistakes about people. There’s a lot more to you than I thought there was. All these rumours about Major Palgrave and the stories he told. You think he was bumped off, don’t you?" "I very much fear so," said Miss Marple. "Well, he was," said Mr. Rafiel. Miss Marple drew a deep breath. "That is definite, is it?" she asked. "Yes, it’s definite enough. I had it from Daventry. I’m not breaking a confidence because the facts of the autopsy will have to come out. You told Graham something, he went to Daventry, Daventry went to the Administrator, the CID were informed, and between them they agreed that things looked fishy, so they dug up old Palgrave and had a look." "And they found?" Miss Marple paused interrogatively. "They found he’d had a lethal dose of something that only a doctor could pronounce properly. As far as I remember it sounds vaguely like di-flor, hexagonal-ethylcarbenzol. That’s not the right name. But that’s roughly what it sounds like. The police doctor put it that way so that nobody should know, I suppose, what it really was. The stuff’s probably got some quite simple nice easy name like Evipan or Veronal or Easton’s Syrup or something of that kind. This is its official name to baffle laymen with. Anyway, a sizeable dose of it, I gather, would produce death, and the signs would be much the same as those of high blood pressure aggravated by over-indulgence in alcohol on a gay evening. In fact, it all looked perfectly natural and nobody questioned it for a moment. Just said "poor old chap" and buried him quick. Now they wonder if he ever had high blood pressure at all. Did he ever say he had to you?" "No." "Exactly! And yet everyone seems to have taken it as a fact." "Apparently he told people he had." "It’s like seeing ghosts," said Mr. Rafiel. "You never meet the chap who’s seen the ghost himself. It’s always the second cousin of his aunt, or a friend, or a friend of a friend. But leave that for a moment. They thought he had blood pressure, because there was a bottle of tablets controlling blood pressure found in his room but—and now we’re coming to the point—I gather that this girl who was killed went about saying that that bottle was put there by somebody else, and that actually it belonged to that fellow Greg." "Mr. Dyson has got blood pressure. His wife mentioned it," said Miss Marple. "So it was put in Palgrave’s room to suggest that he suffered from blood pressure and to make his death seem natural." "Exactly," said Miss Marple. "And the story was put about, very cleverly, that he had frequently mentioned to people that he had high blood pressure. But you know, it’s very easy to put about a story. Very easy. I’ve seen a lot of it in my time." "I bet you have," said Mr. Rafiel. "It only needs a murmur here and there," said Miss Marple. "You don’t say it of your own knowledge, you just say that Mrs. B. told you that Colonel C. told her. It’s always at second hand or third hand or fourth hand and it’s very difficult to find out who was the original whisperer. Oh yes, it can be done. And the people you say it to go on and repeat it to others as if they know it of their own knowledge." "Somebody’s been clever," said Mr. Rafiel thoughtfully.

II An hour later I was sitting opposite Mr. Havering in a first-class carriage on the Midland Railway, speeding rapidly away from London. "To begin with, Captain Hastings, you must understand that Hunter’s Lodge, where we are going, and where the tragedy took place, is only a small shooting box in the heart of the Derbyshire moors. Our real home is near Newmarket, and we usually rent a flat in town for the season. Hunter’s Lodge is looked after by a housekeeper who is quite capable of doing all we need when we run down for an occasional weekend. Of course, during the shooting season, we take down some of our own servants from Newmarket. My uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace (as you may know, my mother was a Miss Pace of New York), has, for the last three years, made his home with us. He never got on well with my father, or my elder brother, and I suspect that my being somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather increased than diminished his affection towards me. Of course I am a poor man, and my uncle was a rich one—in other words, he paid the piper! But, though exacting in many ways, he was not really hard to get on with, and we all three lived very harmoniously together. Two days ago, my uncle, rather wearied with some recent gaieties of ours in town, suggested that we should run down to Derbyshire for a day or two. My wife telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the housekeeper, and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I was forced to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This morning I received this telegram." He handed it over to me: "Come at once uncle Harrington murdered last night bring good detective if you can but do come—Zoe." "Then, as yet you know no details?" "No, I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Without doubt the police are in charge." It was about three o’clock when we arrived at the little station of Elmer’s Dale. From there a five-mile drive brought us to a small grey stone building in the midst of the rugged moors. "A lonely place," I observed with a shiver. Havering nodded. "I shall try and get rid of it. I could never live here again." We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us. "Japp!" I ejaculated. The Scotland Yard inspector grinned at me in a friendly fashion before addressing my companion. "Mr. Havering, I think? I’ve been sent down from London to take charge of this case, and I’d like a word with you, if I may, sir." "My wife—" "I’ve seen your good lady, sir—and the housekeeper. I won’t keep you a moment, but I am anxious to get back to the village now that I’ve seen all there is to see here." "I know nothing as yet as to what—" "Ex-actly," said Japp soothingly. "But there are just one or two little points I’d like your opinion about all the same. Captain Hastings here, he knows me, and he’ll go on up to the house and tell them you’re coming. What have you done with the little man, by the way, Captain Hastings?" "He’s ill in bed with influenza." "Is he now? I’m sorry to hear that. Rather the case of the cart without the horse, you being here without him, isn’t it?" And on his rather ill-timed jest I went on to the house. I rang the bell, as Japp had closed the door behind him. After some moments it was opened to me by a middle-aged woman in black. "Mr. Havering will be here in a moment," I explained. "He has been detained by the inspector. I have come down with him from London to look into the case. Perhaps you can tell me briefly what occurred last night." "Come inside, sir." She closed the door behind me, and we stood in the dimly- lighted hall. "It was after dinner last night, sir, that the man came. He asked to see Mr. Pace, sir, and, seeing that he spoke the same way, I thought it was an American gentleman friend of Mr. Pace’s and I showed him into the gun room, and then went to tell Mr. Pace.

We were so happy. Every day passed so contentedly. We knew – we both knew. There was no hurry – there was all the time in the world. Some day he would tell me he loved me, and I should tell him that I too – Ah! But you can guess! And now it is all changed. A black cloud has come between us – we are constrained, when we meet we do not know what to say. It is, perhaps, the same with him as with me . . . We are each saying to ourselves, "If I were sure!" That is why, Sir Henry, I beg of you to say to me, "You may be sure, whoever killed your uncle, it was not Charles Templeton!" Say it to me! Oh, say it to me! I beg – I beg!" "And, damn it all," said Sir Henry, bringing down his fist with a bang on the table, "I couldn’t say it to her. They’ll drift farther and farther apart, those two – with suspicion like a ghost between them – a ghost that can’t be laid." He leant back in his chair, his face looked tired and grey. He shook his head once or twice despondently. "And there’s nothing more can be done, unless –" He sat up straight again and a tiny whimsical smile crossed his face – "unless Miss Marple can help us. Can’t you, Miss Marple? I’ve a feeling that letter might be in your line, you know. The one about the Church Social. Doesn’t it remind you of something or someone that makes everything perfectly plain? Can’t you do something to help two helpless young people who want to be happy?" Behind the whimsicality there was something earnest in his appeal. He had come to think very highly of the mental powers of this frail old- fashioned maiden lady. He looked across at her with something very like hope in his eyes. Miss Marple coughed and smoothed her lace. "It does remind me a little of Annie Poultny," she admitted. "Of course the letter is perfectly plain – both to Mrs Bantry and myself. I don’t mean the Church Social letter, but the other one. You living so much in London and not being a gardener, Sir Henry, would not have been likely to notice." "Eh?" said Sir Henry. "Notice what?" Mrs Bantry reached out a hand and selected a catalogue. She opened it and read aloud with gusto: "Dr Helmuth Spath. Pure lilac, a wonderfully fine flower, carried on exceptionally long and stiff stem. Splendid for cutting and garden decoration. A novelty of striking beauty. "Edgar Jackson. Beautifully shaped chrysanthemum-like flower of a distinct brick-red colour. "Amos Perry. Brilliant red, highly decorative. "Tsingtau. Brilliant orange- red, showy garden plant and lasting cut flower. "Honesty –" "With a capital H, you remember," murmured Miss Marple. "Honesty. Rose and white shades, enormous perfect shaped flower." Mrs Bantry flung down the catalogue, and said with immense explosive force: " Dahlias! " "And their initial letters spell "death", explained Miss Marple. "But the letter came to Dr Rosen himself," objected Sir Henry. "That was the clever part of it," said Miss Marple. "That and the warning in it. What would he do, getting a letter from someone he didn’t know, full of names he didn’t know. Why, of course, toss it over to his secretary." "Then, after all –" " Oh, no! " said Miss Marple. " Not the secretary. Why, that’s what makes it so perfectly clear that it wasn’t him. He’d never have let that letter be found if so. And equally he’d never have destroyed a letter to himself with a German stamp on it. Really, his innocence is – if you’ll allow me to use the word – just shining." "Then who –" "Well, it seems almost certain – as certain as anything can be in this world. There was another person at the breakfast table, and she would – quite naturally under the circumstances – put out her hand for the letter and read it. And that would be that. You remember that she got a gardening catalogue by the same post –" "Greta Rosen," said Sir Henry, slowly.

Canon Pennyfather’s face cleared and he nodded his head appreciatively. He had recognized where he was. In Bertram’s Hotel, of course; where he was going to spend the night on his way to—now where was he on his way to? Chadminster? No, no, he had just come from Chadminster. He was going to—of course—to the Congress at Lucerne. He stepped forward, beaming, to the reception desk and was greeted warmly by Miss Gorringe. "So glad to see you, Canon Pennyfather. How well you are looking." "Thank you—thank you—I had a severe cold last week but I’ve got over it now. You have a room for me. I did write?" Miss Gorringe reassured him. "Oh yes, Canon Pennyfather, we got your letter. We’ve reserved No. 19 for you, the room you had last time." "Thank you—thank you. For—let me see—I shall want it for four days. Actually I am going to Lucerne and I shall be away for one night, but please keep the room. I shall leave most of my things here and only take a small bag to Switzerland. There won’t be any difficulty over that?" Again Miss Gorringe reassured him. "Everything’s going to be quite all right. You explained very clearly in your letter." Other people might not have used the word "clearly." "Fully" would have been better, since he had certainly written at length. All anxieties set at rest, Canon Pennyfather breathed a sigh of relief and was conveyed, together with his baggage, to Room 19. In Room 28 Mrs. Carpenter had removed her crown of violets from her head and was carefully adjusting her nightdress on the pillow of her bed. She looked up as Elvira entered. "Ah, there you are, my dear. Would you like me to help you with your unpacking?" "No, thank you," said Elvira politely. "I shan’t unpack very much, you know." "Which of the bedrooms would you like to have? The bathroom is between them. I told them to put your luggage in the far one. I thought this room might be a little noisy." "That was very kind of you," said Elvira in her expressionless voice. "You’re sure you wouldn’t like me to help you?" "No, thanks, really I wouldn’t. I think I might perhaps have a bath." "Yes, I think that’s a very good idea. Would you like to have the first bath? I’d rather finish putting my things away." Elvira nodded. She went into the adjoining bathroom, shut the door behind her and pushed the bolts across. She went into her own room, opened her suitcase and flung a few things on the bed. Then she undressed, put on a dressing gown, went into the bathroom and turned the taps on. She went back into her own room and sat down on the bed by the telephone. She listened a moment or two in case of interruption, then lifted the receiver. "This is Room 29. Can you give me Regent 1129 please?" Chapter Four Within the confines of Scotland Yard a conference was in progress. It was by way of being an informal conference. Six or seven men were sitting easily around a table and each of those six men was a man of some importance in his own line. The subject that occupied the attention of these guardians of the law was a subject that had grown terrifically in importance during the last two or three years. It concerned a branch of crime whose success had been overwhelmingly disquieting. Robbery on a big scale was increasing. Bank holdups, snatches of payrolls, thefts of consignments of jewels sent through the mail, train robberies. Hardly a month passed but some daring and stupendous coup was attempted and brought off successfully. Sir Ronald Graves, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, was presiding at the head of the table. According to his usual custom he did more listening than talking. No formal reports were being presented on this occasion. All that belonged to the ordinary routine of CID work. This was a high level consultation, a general pooling of ideas between men looking at affairs from slightly different points of view. Sir Ronald Graves" eyes went slowly round his little group, then he nodded his head to a man at the end of the table. "Well, Father," he said, "let’s hear a few homely wisecracks from you."

Jack suddenly piped up. "I know a very funny story about a bishop," he said. He was hastily hushed by his relations, who never knew what Jack might come out with that he had overheard. Christmas we used to spend in Cheshire, going up to the Watts’. Jimmy usually got his yearly holiday about then, and he and Madge used to go to St. Moritz for three weeks. He was a very good skater, and so it was the kind of holiday he liked most. Mother and I used to go up to Cheadle, and since their newly- built house, called Manor Lodge, was not ready yet, we spent Christmas at Abney Hall, with the old Wattses and their four children and Jack. It was a wonderful house to have Christmas in if you were a child. Not only was it enormous Victorian Gothic, with quantities of rooms, passages, unexpected steps, back staircases, front staircases, alcoves, niches–everything in the world that a child could want–but it also had three different pianos that you could play, as well as an organ. All it lacked was the light of day; it was remarkably dark, except for the big drawing-room with its green satin walls and its big windows. Nan Watts and I were fast friends by now. We were not only friends but drinking companions–we both liked the same drink, cream, ordinary plain, neat cream. Although I had consumed an enormous amount of Devonshire cream since I lived in Devonshire, raw cream was really more of a treat. When Nan stayed with me at Torquay, we used to visit one of the dairies in the town, where we would have a glass of half milk and half cream. When I stayed with her at Abney we used to go down to the home farm and drink cream by the half-pint. We continued these drinking bouts all through our lives, and I still remember buying our cartons of cream in Sunningdale and coming up to the golf course and sitting outside the club house waiting for our respective husbands to finish their rounds of golf, each drinking our pinta cream. Abney was a glutton’s paradise. Mrs Watts had what was called her store-room off the hall. It was not like Grannie’s store-room, a kind of securely-locked treasure house from which things were taken out. There was free access to it, and all round the walls were shelves covered with every kind of dainty. One side was entirely chocolates, boxes of them, all different, chocolate creams in labelled boxes…There were biscuits, gingerbread, preserved fruits, jams and so on. Christmas was the supreme Festival, something never to be forgotten. Christmas stockings in bed. Breakfast, when everyone had a separate chair heaped with presents. Then a rush to church and back to continue present opening. At two o’clock Christmas Dinner, the blinds drawn down and glittering ornaments and lights. First, oyster soup (not relished by me), turbot, then boiled turkey, roast turkey, and a large roast sirloin of beef. This was followed by plum pudding, mince pies, and a trifle full of sixpences, pigs, rings, bachelors" buttons and all the rest of it. After that, again, innumerable kinds of dessert. In a story I once wrote, The Affair of the Christmas Pudding, I have described just such a feast. It is one of those things that I am sure will never be seen again in this generation; indeed I doubt nowadays if anyone’s digestion would stand it. However, our digestions stood it quite well then. I usually had to vie in eating prowess with Humphrey Watts, the Watts son next to James in age. I suppose he must have been twenty-one or twenty-two to my twelve or thirteen. He was a very handsome young man, as well as being a good actor and a wonderful entertainer and teller of stories. Good as I always was at falling in love with people, I don’t think I fell in love with him, though it is amazing to me that I should not have done so. I suppose I was still at the stage where my love affairs had to be romantically impossible–concerned with public characters, such as the Bishop of London and King Alfonso of Spain, and of course with various actors.

His thoughts could have been translated thus: "Anastasia Sophia Marie Alexandra Olga Elizabeth. Hang it all, I’ve missed out one. I wonder now - " He was unable to go to sleep immediately, being tantalized with his failure to grasp the situation. What was it all about? What was the connection between the escaping Grand Duchess, the sealed packet and the black-bearded man? What was the Grand Duchess escaping from? Were the two foreigners aware that the sealed packet was in his possession? What was it likely to contain? Pondering these matters, with an irritated sense that he was no nearer their solution, Mr. Rowland fell asleep. He was awakened by the faint jangle of a bell. Not of those men who awake to instant action, it took him just a minute and a half to realize the situation. Then he jumped up, thrust on some slippers, and, opening the door with the utmost caution, slipped out into the corridor. A faint moving patch of shadow at the far end of the passage showed him the direction taken by his quarry. Moving as noiselessly as possible, Mr. Rowland followed the trail. He was just in time to see the black-bearded man disappear into a bathroom. That was puzzling, particularly so as there was a bathroom just opposite his own room. Moving up close to the door, which was ajar, George peered through the crack. The man was on his knees by the side of the bath, doing something to the skirting board immediately behind it. He remained there for about five minutes, then he rose to his feet, and George beat a prudent retreat. Safe in the shadow of his own door, he watched the other pass and regain his own room. "Good," said George to himself. "The mystery of the bathroom will be investigated tomorrow morning." He got into bed and slipped his hand under the pillow to assure himself that the precious packet was still there. In another minute, he was scattering the bedclothes in a panic. The packet was gone! It was a sadly chastened George who sat consuming eggs and bacon the following morning. He had failed Elizabeth. He had allowed the precious packet she had entrusted to his charge to be taken from him, and the "Mystery of the Bathroom" was miserably inadequate. Yes, undoubtedly George had made a mutt of himself. After breakfast he strolled upstairs again. A chambermaid was standing in the passage looking perplexed. "Anything wrong, my dear?" said George kindly. "It’s the gentleman here, sir. He asked to be called at half-past eight, and I can’t get any answer and the door’s locked." "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.

I looked up with a start. Haydock was watching me with keen eyes. "There’s something else, isn’t there?" he said. I nodded. I had been uncertain whether to speak or not when I came in, but now I decided to do so. I like Haydock as well as any man I know. He is a splendid fellow in every way. I felt that what I had to tell might be useful to him. I recited my interviews with Miss Hartnell and Miss Wetherby. He was silent for a long time after I’d spoken. "It’s quite true, Clement," he said at last. "I’ve been trying to shield Mrs. Lestrange from any inconvenience that I could. As a matter of fact, she’s an old friend. But that’s not my only reason. That medical certificate of mine isn’t the put-up job you all think it was." He paused, and then said gravely: "This is between you and me, Clement. Mrs. Lestrange is doomed." "What?" "She’s a dying woman. I give her a month at longest. Do you wonder that I want to keep her from being badgered and questioned?" He went on: "When she turned into this road that evening it was here she came—to this house." "You haven’t said so before." "I didn’t want to create talk. Six to seven isn’t my time for seeing patients, and everyone knows that. But you can take my word for it that she was here." "She wasn’t here when I came for you, though. I mean, when we discovered the body." "No," he seemed perturbed. "She’d left—to keep an appointment." "In what direction was the appointment? In her own house?" "I don’t know, Clement. On my honour, I don’t know." I believed him, but— "And supposing an innocent man is hanged?" I said. "No," he said. "No one will be hanged for the murder of Colonel Protheroe. You can take my word for that." But that is just what I could not do. And yet the certainty in his voice was very great. "No one will be hanged," he repeated. "This man, Archer—" He made an impatient movement. "Hasn’t got brains enough to wipe his fingerprints off the pistol." "Perhaps not," I said dubiously. Then I remembered something, and taking the little brownish crystal I had found in the wood from my pocket, I held it out to him and asked him what it was. "H’m," he hesitated. "Looks like picric acid. Where did you find it?" "That," I replied, "is Sherlock Holmes’s secret." He smiled. "What is picric acid?" "Well, it’s an explosive." "Yes, I know that, but it’s got another use, hasn’t it?" He nodded. "It’s used medically—in solution for burns. Wonderful stuff." I held out my hand, and rather reluctantly he handed it back to me. "It’s of no consequence probably," I said. "But I found it in rather an unusual place." "You won’t tell me where?" Rather childishly, I wouldn’t. He had his secrets. Well, I would have mine. I was a little hurt that he had not confided in me more fully. Twenty-six I was in a strange mood when I mounted the pulpit that night. The church was unusually full. I cannot believe that it was the prospect of Hawes preaching which had attracted so many. Hawes’s sermons are dull and dogmatic. And if the news had got round that I was preaching instead, that would not have attracted them either. For my sermons are dull and scholarly. Neither, I am afraid, can I attribute it to devotion. Everybody had come, I concluded, to see who else was there, and possibly exchange a little gossip in the church porch afterwards. Haydock was in church, which is unusual, and also Lawrence Redding. And to my surprise, beside Lawrence I saw the white strained face of Hawes. Anne Protheroe was there, but she usually attends Evensong on Sundays, though I had hardly thought she would today. I was far more surprised to see Lettice. Churchgoing was compulsory on Sunday morning—Colonel Protheroe was adamant on that point, but I had never seen Lettice at evening service before. Gladys Cram was there, looking rather blatantly young and healthy against a background of wizened spinsters, and I fancied that a dim figure at the end of the church who had slipped in late, was Mrs. Lestrange.

But after all, self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as Europeans do—(To Right; sits fireplace fender.) (There is a pause. LOMBARD looks around at EVERYONE with amusement. WARGRAVE clears throat disapprovingly.) WARGRAVE. Our enquiry rests there. (ROGERS crosses to Left 1 door) Now, Rogers, who else is there on this island besides ourselves and you and your wife? ROGERS. Nobody, sir. Nobody at all. WARGRAVE. You’re sure of that? ROGERS. Quite sure, sir. WARGRAVE. Thank you. (ROGERS moves as if to go) Don’t go, Rogers. (To EVERYBODY) I am not yet clear as to the purpose of our unknown host in getting us to assemble here. But in my opinion he’s not sane in the accepted sense of the word. He may be dangerous. In my opinion, it would be well for us to leave this place as soon as possible. I suggest that we leave tonight. (General agreement. MACKENZIE sits up Left.) ROGERS. I beg your pardon, sir, but there’s no boat on the island. WARGRAVE. No boat at all? ROGERS. No, sir. WARGRAVE. Why don’t you telephone to the mainland? ROGERS. There’s no telephone. Fred Narracott, he comes over every morning, sir. He brings the milk and the bread and the post and the papers, and takes the orders. (A chorus of "I agree," "Quite so," "Only thing to be done.") MARSTON. (Picks up drink from windowseat; crosses down Right to front of Right sofa. Raising his voice) A bit unsporting, what? Ought to ferret out the mystery before we go. Whole thing’s like a detective story. Positively thrilling. WARGRAVE. (Acidly) At my time of life, I have no desire for thrills. (Sits down Left.) (BLORE to Left end sofa. MARSTON grins; stretches out his legs.) (WARN Curtain.) MARSTON. The legal life’s narrowing. I’m all for crime. (Raises his glass) Here’s to it. (Drinks it off at a gulp, appears to choke, gasps, has a violent convulsion and slips on to sofa. Glass falls from his hand.) ARMSTRONG. (Runs over to him, bends down, feels pulse, raises eyelid) My God, he’s dead! (MACKENZIE to Left end sofa. The OTHERS can hardly take it in. ARMSTRONG sniffs lips, then sniffs glass. Nods.) MACKENZIE. Dead? D’you mean the fellow just choked and—died? ARMSTRONG. You can call it choking if you like. He died of asphyxiation, right enough. MACKENZIE. Never knew a man could die like that—just a choking fit. EMILY. (With meaning) In the middle of life we are in death. (She sounds inspired.) ARMSTRONG. A man doesn’t die of a mere choking fit, General MacKenzie. Marston’s death isn’t what we call a natural death. VERA. Was there something in the whisky? ARMSTRONG. Yes. By the smell of it, cyanide. Probably Potassium Cyanide. Acts pretty well instantaneously. LOMBARD. Then he must have put the stuff in the glass himself. BLORE. Suicide, eh? That’s a rum go. VERA. You’d never think he’d commit suicide. He was so alive. He was enjoying himself. (EMILY comes down and picks up remains of Indian from behind chair Right Centre.) EMILY. Oh! Look—here’s one of the little Indians off the mantelpiece—broken. (Holds it up.) CURTAIN ACT TWO Scene I The same. The following morning. The windows are open and the room has been tidied. It is a fine morning. There are only eight Indians on the mantelpiece. Suitcases are piled up on the balcony. ALL are waiting for the boat to arrive.

"You didn’t think anything was wrong because she wasn’t up that afternoon?" "Oh, no, I never dreamed of such a thing. Mr. Symmington was hanging up his coat in the hall and I said, "Tea’s not quite ready, but the kettle’s nearly boiling," and he nodded and called out, "Mona, Mona!’—and then as Mrs. Symmington didn’t answer he went upstairs to her bedroom, and it must have been the most terrible shock to him. He called me and I came, and he said, "Keep the children away," and then he phoned Dr. Griffith and we forgot all about the kettle and it burnt the bottom out! Oh dear, it was dreadful, and she’d been so happy and cheerful at lunch." Nash said abruptly: "What is your own opinion of that letter she received, Miss Holland?" Elsie Holland said indignantly: "Oh, I think it was wicked—wicked!" "Yes, yes, I don’t mean that. Did you think it was true?" Elsie Holland said firmly: "No, indeed I don’t. Mrs. Symmington was very sensitive—very sensitive indeed. She had to take all sorts of things for her nerves. And she was very—well, particular." Elsie flushed. "Anything of that sort—nasty, I mean—would have given her a great shock." Nash was silent for a moment, then he asked: "Have you had any of these letters, Miss Holland?" "No. No, I haven’t had any." "Are you sure? Please"—he lifted a hand—"don’t answer in a hurry. They’re not pleasant things to get, I know. And sometimes people don’t like to admit they’ve had them. But it’s very important in this case that we should know. We’re quite aware that the statements in them are just a tissue of lies, so you needn’t feel embarrassed." "But I haven’t, superintendent. Really I haven’t. Not anything of the kind." She was indignant, almost tearful, and her denials seemed genuine enough. When she went back to the children, Nash stood looking out of the window. "Well," he said, "that’s that! She says she hasn’t received any of these letters. And she sounds as though she’s speaking the truth." "She did certainly. I’m sure she was." "H’m," said Nash. "Then what I want to know is, why the devil hasn’t she?" He went on rather impatiently, as I stared at him. "She’s a pretty girl, isn’t she?" "Rather more than pretty." "Exactly. As a matter of fact, she’s uncommonly good-looking. And she’s young. In fact she’s just the meat an anonymous letter writer would like. Then why has she been left out?" I shook my head. "It’s interesting, you know. I must mention it to Graves. He asked if we could tell him definitely of anyone who hadn’t had one." "She’s the second person," I said. "There’s Emily Barton, remember." Nash gave a faint chuckle. "You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told, Mr. Burton. Miss Barton had one all right—more than one." "How do you know?" "That devoted dragon she’s lodging with told me—her late parlourmaid or cook. Florence Elford. Very indignant she was about it. Would like to have the writer’s blood." "Why did Miss Emily say she hadn’t had any?" "Delicacy. Their language isn’t nice. Little Miss Barton has spent her life avoiding the coarse and unrefined." "What did the letters say?" "The usual. Quite ludicrous in her case. And incidentally insinuated that she poisoned off her old mother and most of her sisters!" I said incredulously: "Do you mean to say there’s really this dangerous lunatic going about and we can’t spot her right away?" "We’ll spot her," said Nash, and his voice was grim. "She’ll write just one letter too many." "But, my goodness, man, she won’t go on writing these things—not now." He looked at me. "Oh yes she will. You see, she can’t stop now. It’s a morbid craving. The letters will go on, make no mistake about that." Nine I I went and found Megan before leaving the house. She was in the garden and seemed almost back to her usual self. She greeted me quite cheerfully.

"Yes, that could certainly be significant." "And you, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, turning suddenly to Claudia. "Did Norma ever speak to you about Louise Carpenter?" "Yes—it was after the suicide. She said something about her being a wicked woman. She said it in rather a childish way, if you know what I mean." "You were here in the flats yourself on the night—or more correctly the early morning when Mrs. Carpenter’s suicide occurred?" "I was not here that night, no! I was away from home. I remember arriving back here the next day and hearing about it." She half turned to Restarick…"You remember? It was the twenty-third. I had gone to Liverpool." "Yes, of course. You were to represent me at the Hever Trust meeting." Poirot said: "But Norma slept here that night?" "Yes." Claudia seemed uncomfortable. "Claudia?" Restarick laid his hand on her arm. "What is it you know about Norma? There’s something. Something that you’re holding back." "Nothing! What should I know about her?" "You think she’s off her head, don’t you?" said Dr. Stillingfleet in a conversational voice. "And so does the girl with the black hair. And so do you," he added, turning suddenly on Restarick. "All of us behaving nicely and avoiding the subject and thinking the same thing! Except, that is, the chief inspector. He’s not thinking anything. He’s collecting the facts: mad or a murderess. What about you, Madam?" "Me?" Mrs. Oliver jumped. "I—don’t know." "You reserve judgment? I don’t blame you. It’s difficult. On the whole, most people agree on what they think. They use different terms for it—that’s all. Bats in the Belfry. Wanting in the top storey. Off her onion. Mental. Delusions. Does anyone think that girl is sane?" "Miss Battersby," said Poirot. "Who the devil is Miss Battersby?" "A schoolmistress." "If I ever have a daughter I shall send her to that school…Of course I’m in a different category. I know. I know everything about that girl!" Norma’s father stared at him. "Who is this man?" he demanded of Neele. "What can he possibly mean by saying that he knows everything about my daughter?" "I know about her," said Stillingfleet, "because she’s been under my professional care for the last ten days." "Dr. Stillingfleet," said Chief Inspector Neele, "is a highly qualified and reputable psychiatrist." "And how did she come into your clutches—without someone getting my consent first?" "Ask Moustaches," said Dr. Stillingfleet, nodding towards Poirot. "You—you…" Restarick could hardly speak he was so angry. Poirot spoke placidly. "I had your instructions. You wanted care and protection for your daughter when she was found. I found her—and I was able to interest Dr. Stillingfleet in her case. She was in danger, Mr. Restarick, very grave danger." "She could hardly be in any more danger than she is now! Arrested on a charge of murder!" "Technically she is not yet charged," murmured Neele. He went on: "Dr. Stillingfleet, do I understand that you are willing to give your professional opinion as to Miss Restarick’s mental condition, and as to how well she knows the nature and meaning of her acts?" "We can save the M’Naughten act for court," said Stillingfleet. "What you want to know now is, quite simply, if the girl is mad or sane? All right, I’ll tell you. That girl is sane—as sane as any one of you sitting here in this room!" Twenty-four I They stared at him. "Didn’t expect that, did you?" Restarick said angrily: "You’re wrong. That girl doesn’t even know what she’s done. She’s innocent—completely innocent. She can’t be held responsible for what she doesn’t know she’s done." "You let me talk for a while. I know what I’m talking about. You don’t. That girl is sane and responsible for her actions. In a moment or two we’ll have her in and let her speak for herself.

"Toodle-oodle-oo!" said Mr. Coleman. "Here’s Sairey Gamp." The lady who was sitting at the head of the table rose and came to greet me. I had my first glimpse of Louise Leidner. Five TELL YARIMJAH I don’t mind admitting that my first impression on seeing Mrs. Leidner was one of downright surprise. One gets into the way of imagining a person when one hears them talked about. I’d got it firmly into my head that Mrs. Leidner was a dark, discontented kind of woman. The nervy kind, all on edge. And then, too, I’d expected her to be—well, to put it frankly—a bit vulgar. She wasn’t a bit like what I’d imagined her! To begin with, she was very fair. She wasn’t a Swede, like her husband, but she might have been as far as looks went. She had that blonde Scandinavian fairness that you don’t very often see. She wasn’t a young woman. Midway between thirty and forty, I should say. Her face was rather haggard, and there was some grey hair mingled with the fairness. Her eyes, though, were lovely. They were the only eyes I’ve ever come across that you might truly describe as violet. They were very large, and there were faint shadows underneath them. She was very thin and fragile- looking, and if I say that she had an air of intense weariness and was at the same time very much alive, it sounds like nonsense—but that’s the feeling I got. I felt, too, that she was a lady through and through. And that means something—even nowadays. She put out her hand and smiled. Her voice was low and soft with an American drawl in it. "I’m so glad you’ve come, nurse. Will you have some tea? Or would you like to go to your room first?" I said I’d have tea, and she introduced me to the people sitting round the table. "This is Miss Johnson—and Mr. Reiter. Mrs. Mercado. Mr. Emmott. Father Lavigny. My husband will be in presently. Sit down here between Father Lavigny and Miss Johnson." I did as I was bid and Miss Johnson began talking to me, asking about my journey and so on. I liked her. She reminded me of a matron I’d had in my probationer days whom we had all admired and worked hard for. She was getting on for fifty, I should judge, and rather mannish in appearance, with iron-grey hair cropped short. She had an abrupt, pleasant voice, rather deep in tone. She had an ugly rugged face with an almost laughably turned-up nose which she was in the habit of rubbing irritably when anything troubled or perplexed her. She wore a tweed coat and skirt made rather like a man’s. She told me presently that she was a native of Yorkshire. Father Lavigny I found just a bit alarming. He was a tall man with a great black beard and pince-nez. I had heard Mrs. Kelsey say that there was a French monk there, and I now saw that Father Lavigny was wearing a monk’s robe of some white woollen material. It surprised me rather, because I always understood that monks went into monasteries and didn’t come out again. Mrs. Leidner talked to him mostly in French, but he spoke to me in quite fair English. I noticed that he had shrewd, observant eyes which darted about from face to face. Opposite me were the other three. Mr. Reiter was a stout, fair young man with glasses. His hair was rather long and curly, and he had very round blue eyes. I should think he must have been a lovely baby, but he wasn’t much to look at now! In fact he was just a little like a pig. The other young man had very short hair cropped close to his head. He had a long, rather humorous face and very good teeth, and he looked very attractive when he smiled. He said very little, though, just nodded if spoken to or answered in monosyllables. He, like Mr. Reiter, was an American. The last person was Mrs.

"Yes, he was taken to Milchester General on the 28th. The hold-up at Little Paddocks was on the 29th. That lets him out of any possible connection with it. But his wife, of course, knew nothing about the accident. She may have been thinking all along that he was concerned in it. She’d hold her tongue—naturally—after all he was her husband." "It was a fairly gallant bit of work, wasn’t it, sir?" said Craddock slowly. "Rescuing that child from the lorry? Yes. Plucky. Don’t suppose it was cowardice that made Haymes desert. Well, all that’s past history. For a man who’d blotted his copybook, it was a good death." "I’m glad for her sake," said the Inspector. "And for that boy of theirs." "Yes, he needn’t be too ashamed of his father. And the young woman will be able to marry again now." Craddock said slowly: "I was thinking of that, sir … It opens up—possibilities." "You’d better break the news to her as you’re on the spot." "I will, sir. I’ll push along there now. Or perhaps I’d better wait until she’s back at Little Paddocks. It may be rather a shock—and there’s someone else I rather want to have a word with first." Nineteen RECONSTRUCTION OF THE CRIME I "I’ll put a lamp by you before I go," said Bunch. "It’s so dark in here. There’s going to be a storm, I think." She lifted the small reading lamp to the other side of the table where it would throw light on Miss Marple’s knitting as she sat in a wide highbacked chair. As the flex pulled across the table, Tiglath Pileser the cat leapt upon it and bit and clawed it violently. "No, Tiglath Pileser, you mustn’t … He really is awful. Look, he’s nearly bitten it through—it’s all frayed. Don’t you understand, you idiotic puss, that you may get a nasty electric shock if you do that?" "Thank you, dear," said Miss Marple, and put out a hand to turn on the lamp. "It doesn’t turn on there. You have to press that silly little switch halfway along the flex. Wait a minute. I’ll take these flowers out of the way." She lifted a bowl of Christmas roses across the table. Tiglath Pileser, his tail switching, put out a mischievous paw and clawed Bunch’s arm. She spilled some of the water out of the vase. It fell on the frayed area of flex and on Tiglath Pileser himself, who leapt to the floor with an indignant hiss. Miss Marple pressed the small pear-shaped switch. Where the water had soaked the frayed flex there was a flash and a crackle. "Oh, dear," said Bunch. "It’s fused. Now I suppose all the lights in here are off." She tried them. "Yes, they are. So stupid being all on the same thingummibob. And it’s made a burn on the table, too. Naughty Tiglath Pileser—it’s all his fault. Aunt Jane—what’s the matter? Did it startle you?" "It’s nothing, dear. Just something I saw quite suddenly which I ought to have seen before…." "I’ll go and fix the fuse and get the lamp from Julian’s study." "No, dear, don’t bother. You’ll miss your bus. I don’t want any more light. I just want to sit quietly and—think about something. Hurry dear, or you won’t catch your bus." When Bunch had gone, Miss Marple sat quite still for about two minutes. The air of the room was heavy and menacing with the gathering storm outside. Miss Marple drew a sheet of paper towards her. She wrote first: Lamp? and underlined it heavily. After a moment or two, she wrote another word. Her pencil travelled down the paper, making brief cryptic notes…. II In the rather dark living room of Boulders with its low ceiling and latticed window panes, Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd were having an argument. "The trouble with you, Murgatroyd," said Miss Hinchcliffe, "is that you won’t try." "But I tell you, Hinch, I can’t remember a thing."

To talk to Bridget without the assistance of her mother took all Chief-Inspector Davy’s adroitness and cajolery. He was, it must be admitted, ably seconded by Bridget. After a certain amount of stereotyped questions and answers and expressions of horror on the part of Bridget’s mother at hearing of Elvira’s narrow escape from death, Bridget said, "You know it’s time for that committee meeting, Mum. You said it was very important." "Oh dear, dear," said Bridget’s mother. "You know they’ll get into a frightful mess without you, Mummy." "Oh they will, they certainly will. But perhaps I ought—" "Now that’s quite all right, Madam," said Chief-Inspector Davy, putting on his kindly old father look. "You don’t want to worry. Just you get off. I’ve finished all the important things. You’ve told me really everything I wanted to know. I’ve just one or two routine inquiries about people in Italy which I think your daughter, Miss Bridget, might be able to help me with." "Well, if you think you can manage, Bridget—" "Oh, I can manage, Mummy," said Bridget. Finally, with a great deal of fuss, Bridget’s mother went off to her committee. "Oh, dear," said Bridget, sighing, as she came back after closing the front door. "Really! I do think mothers are difficult." "So they tell me," said Chief-Inspector Davy. "A lot of young ladies I come across have a lot of trouble with their mothers." "I’d have thought you’d put it the other way round," said Bridget. "Oh I do, I do," said Davy. "But that’s not how the young ladies see it. Now you can tell me a little more." "I couldn’t really speak frankly in front of Mummy," explained Bridget. "But I do feel, of course, that it is really important that you should know as much as possible about all this. I do know Elvira was terribly worried about something and afraid. She wouldn’t exactly admit she was in danger, but she was." "I thought that might have been so. Of course I didn’t like to ask you too much in front of your mother." "Oh no," said Bridget, "we don’t want Mummy to hear about it. She gets in such a frightful state about things and she’d go and tell everyone. I mean, if Elvira doesn’t want things like this to be known…." "First of all," said Chief-Inspector Davy, "I want to know about a box of chocolates in Italy. I gather there was some idea that a box was sent to her which might have been poisoned." Bridget’s eyes opened wide. "Poisoned," she said. "Oh no. I don’t think so. At least…." "There was something?" "Oh yes. A box of chocolates came and Elvira did eat a lot of them and she was rather sick that night. Quite ill." "But she didn’t suspect poison?" "No. At least—oh yes, she did say that someone was trying to poison one of us and we looked at the chocolates to see, you know, if anything had been injected into them." "And had it?" "No, it hadn’t," said Bridget. "At least, not as far as we could see." "But perhaps your friend, Miss Elvira, might still have thought so?" "Well, she might—but she didn’t say anymore." "But you think she was afraid of someone?" "I didn’t think so at the time or notice anything. It was only here, later." "What about this man, Guido?" Bridget giggled. "He had a terrific crush on Elvira," she said. "And you and your friend used to meet him places?" "Well, I don’t mind telling you," said Bridget. "After all you’re the police. It isn’t important to you, that sort of thing and I expect you understand. Countess Martinelli was frightfully strict—or thought she was. And of course we had all sorts of dodges and things. We all stood in with each other. You know." "And told the right lies, I suppose?" "Well, I’m afraid so," said Bridget. "But what can one do when anyone is so suspicious?" "So you did meet Guido and all that. And used he to threaten Elvira?" "Oh, not seriously, I don’t think." "Then perhaps there was someone else she used to meet?"

She is vague, you know, very vague indeed. And she wanders off sometimes—and doesn’t seem to know where she is." "Yes, it is sad when people worry. There is so much to worry one." "I don’t really think there is much to worry Anthea." "She worries about income tax, perhaps, money affairs," suggested Miss Marple. "No, no, not that so much but—oh, she worries so much about the garden. She remembers the garden as it used to be, and she’s very anxious, you know, to—well, to spend money in putting things right again. Clotilde has had to tell her that really one can’t afford that nowadays. But she keeps talking of the hothouses, the peaches that used to be there. The grapes—and all that." "And the Cherry Pie on the walls?" suggested Miss Marple, remembering a remark. "Fancy your remembering that. Yes. Yes, it’s one of the things one does remember. Such a charming smell, heliotrope. And such a nice name for it, Cherry Pie. One always remembers that. And the grapevine. The little, small, early sweet grapes. Ah well, one must not remember the past too much." "And the flower borders too, I suppose," said Miss Marple. "Yes. Yes, Anthea would like to have a big well kept herbaceous border again. Really not feasible now. It is as much as one can do to get local people who will come and mow the lawns every fortnight. Every year one seems to employ a different firm. And Anthea would like pampas grass planted again. And the Mrs. Simpkin pinks. White, you know. All along the stone edge border. And a fig tree that grew just outside the greenhouse. She remembers all these and talks about them." "It must be difficult for you." "Well, yes. Arguments, you see, hardly appeal in any way. Clotilde, of course, is very downright about things. She just refuses point-blank and says she doesn’t want to hear another word about it." "It is difficult," said Miss Marple, "to know how to take things. Whether one should be firm. Rather authoritative. Perhaps, even, well, just a little—a little fierce, you know, or whether one should be sympathetic. Listen to things and perhaps hold out hopes which one knows are not justified. Yes, it’s difficult." "But it’s easier for me because you see I go away again, and then come back now and then to stay. So it’s easy for me to pretend things may be easier soon and that something may be done. But really, the other day when I came home and I found that Anthea had tried to engage a most expensive firm of landscape gardeners to renovate the garden, to build up the greenhouse again—which is quite absurd because even if you put vines in they would not bear for another two or three years. Clotilde knew nothing about it and she was extremely angry when she discovered the estimate for this work on Anthea’s desk. She was really quite unkind." "So many things are difficult," said Miss Marple. It was a useful phrase which she used often. "I shall have to go rather early tomorrow morning. I think," said Miss Marple. "I was making enquiries at the Golden Boar where I understand the coach party assembles tomorrow morning. They are making quite an early start. Nine o’clock, I understand." "Oh dear. I hope you will not find it too fatiguing." "Oh, I don’t think so. I gather we are going to a place called—now wait a minute, what was it called?—Stirling St. Mary. Something like that. And it does not seem to be very far away. There’s an interesting church to see on the way and a castle. In the afternoon there is a quite pleasant garden, not too many acres; but some special flowers. I feel sure that after this very nice rest that I have had here, I shall be quite all right. I understand now that I would have been very tired if I had had these days of climbing up cliffsides and all the rest of it." "Well, you must rest this afternoon, so as to be fresh for tomorrow," said Mrs. Glynne, as they went into the house. "Miss Marple has been to visit the church," said Mrs. Glynne to Clotilde.

They all sat up in varying degrees of astonishment. Lord Caterham began to chuckle. "I’m really beginning to enjoy myself. Show him in, Tredwell. Show him in at once." Twelve ANTHONY TELLS HIS STORY "Mr. Anthony Cade," announced Tredwell. "Enter suspicious stranger from village inn," said Anthony. He made his way towards Lord Caterham with a kind of instinct rare in strangers. At the same time he summed up the other three men in his own mind thus: "1, Scotland Yard. 2, local dignitary—probably chief constable. 3, harassed gentleman on the verge of apoplexy—possibly connected with the Government." "I must apologize," continued Anthony, still addressing Lord Caterham. "For forcing my way in like this, I mean. But it was rumoured round the Jolly Dog, or whatever the name of your local pub may be, that you had had a murder up here, and as I thought I might be able to throw some light upon it I came along." For a moment or two, no one spoke. Superintendent Battle because he was a man of ripe experience who knew how infinitely better it was to let everyone else speak if they could be persuaded upon to do so, Colonel Melrose because he was habitually taciturn, George because he was in the habit of having notice given to him of the question, Lord Caterham because he had not the least idea of what to say. The silence of the other three, however, and the fact that he had been directly addressed, finally forced speech upon the last named. "Er—quite so—quite so," he said nervously. "Won’t—you—er—sit down?" "Thank you," said Anthony. George cleared his throat portentously. "Er—when you say you can throw light upon this matter, you mean?—" "I mean," said Anthony, "that I was trespassing upon Lord Caterham’s property (for which I hope he will forgive me) last night at about 11:45, and that I actually heard the shot fired. I can at any rate fix the time of the crime for you." He looked round at the three in turn, his eyes resting longest on Superintendent Battle, the impassivity of whose face he seemed to appreciate. "But I hardly think that that’s news to you," he added gently. "Meaning by that, Mr. Cade?" asked Battle. "Just this. I put on shoes when I got up this morning. Later, when I asked for my boots, I couldn’t have them. Some nice young constable had called round for them. So I naturally put two and two together, and hurried up here to clear my character if possible." "A very sensible move," said Battle noncommittally. Anthony’s eyes twinkled a little. "I appreciate your reticence, Inspector. It is Inspector, isn’t it?" Lord Caterham interposed. He was beginning to take a fancy to Anthony. "Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard. This is Colonel Melrose, our chief constable, and Mr. Lomax." Anthony looked sharply at George. "Mr. George Lomax?" "Yes." "I think, Mr. Lomax," said Anthony, "that I had the pleasure of receiving a letter from you yesterday." George stared at him. "I think not," he said coldly. But he wished that Miss Oscar were here. Miss Oscar wrote all his letters for him, and remembered who they were to and what they were about. A great man like George could not possibly remember all these annoying details. "I think, Mr. Cade," he hinted, "that you were about to give us some—er—explanation of what you were doing in the grounds last night at 11:45?" His tone said plainly: "And whatever it may be, we are not likely to believe it." "Yes, Mr. Cade, what were you doing?" said Lord Caterham with lively interest. "Well," said Anthony regretfully, "I’m afraid it’s rather a long story." He drew out his cigarette case. "May I?" Lord Caterham nodded, and Anthony lit a cigarette, and braced himself for the ordeal. He was aware, none better, of the peril in which he stood. In the short space of twenty-four hours, he had become embroiled in two separate crimes. His actions in connexion with the first would not bear looking into for a second.

Mr. Cayley gobbled angrily. "Nonsense—nonsense—this foolish modern spirit. Letting children do exactly as they please. A child should be made to sit down quietly and—and nurse a doll—or read, or something." "She’s not three yet," said Tuppence, smiling. "You can hardly expect her to be able to read." "Well, something must be done about it. I shall speak to Mrs. Perenna. The child was singing, singing in her bed before seven o’clock this morning. I had had a bad night and just dropped off towards morning—and it woke me right up." "It’s very important that Mr. Cayley should get as much sleep as possible," said Mrs. Cayley anxiously. "The doctor said so." "You should go to a nursing home," said Tuppence. "My dear lady, such places are ruinously expensive and besides it’s not the right atmosphere. There is a suggestion of illness that reacts unfavourably on my subconscious." "Bright society, the doctor said," Mrs. Cayley explained helpfully. "A normal life. He thought a guesthouse would be better than just taking a furnished house. Mr. Cayley would not be so likely to brood, and would be stimulated by exchanging ideas with other people." Mr. Cayley’s method of exchanging ideas was, so far as Tuppence could judge, a mere recital of his own ailments and symptoms and the exchange consisted in the sympathetic or unsympathetic reception of them. Adroitly, Tuppence changed the subject. "I wish you would tell me," she said, "of your own views on life in Germany. You told me you had travelled there a good deal in recent years. It would be interesting to have the point of view of an experienced man of the world like yourself. I can see you are the kind of man, quite unswayed by prejudice, who could really give a clear account of conditions there." Flattery, in Tuppence’s opinion, should always be laid on with a trowel where a man was concerned. Mr. Cayley rose at once to the bait. "As you say, dear lady, I am capable of taking a clear unprejudiced view. Now, in my opinion—" What followed constituted a monologue. Tuppence, throwing in an occasional "Now that’s very interesting" or "What a shrewd observer you are," listened with an attention that was not assumed for the occasion. For Mr. Cayley, carried away by the sympathy of his listener, was displaying himself as a decided admirer of the Nazi system. How much better it would have been, he hinted, if did not say, for England and Germany to have allied themselves against the rest of Europe. The return of Miss Minton and Betty, the celluloid duck duly obtained, broke in upon the monologue, which had extended unbroken for nearly two hours. Looking up, Tuppence caught rather a curious expression on Mrs. Cayley’s face. She found it hard to define. It might be merely pardonable wifely jealousy at the monopoly of her husband’s attention by another woman. It might be alarm at the fact that Mr. Cayley was being too outspoken in his political views. It certainly expressed dissatisfaction. Tea was the next move and hard on that came the return of Mrs. Sprot from London exclaiming: "I do hope Betty’s been good and not troublesome? Have you been a good girl, Betty?" To which Betty replied laconically by the single word: "Dam!" This, however, was not to be regarded as an expression of disapproval at her mother’s return, but merely as a request for blackberry preserve. It elicited a deep chuckle from Mrs. O’Rourke and a reproachful: "Please, Betty, dear," from the young lady’s parent. Mrs. Sprot then sat down, drank several cups of tea, and plunged into a spirited narrative of her purchases in London, the crowd on the train, what a soldier recently returned from France had told the occupants of her carriage, and what a girl behind the stocking counter had told her of a stocking shortage to come. The conversation was, in fact, completely normal. It was prolonged afterwards on the terrace outside, for the sun was now shining and the wet day a thing of the past.

"It’s quite beastly, Sophia," I said. "But it’s no good minding about it. After all, it’s what we’ve been hoping all along, isn’t it? It’s what you said that first night at Mario’s. You said it would be all right if the right person had killed your grandfather. Brenda was the right person, wasn’t she? Brenda or Laurence?" "Don’t, Charles, you make me feel awful." "But we must be sensible. We can marry now, Sophia. You can’t hold me off any longer. The Leonides family are out of it." She stared at me. I had never realized before the vivid blue of her eyes. "Yes," she said. "I suppose we’re out of it now. We are out of it, aren’t we. You’re sure?" "My dear girl, none of you ever really had a shadow of motive." Her face went suddenly white. "Except me, Charles. I had a motive." "Yes, of course—" I was taken aback. "But not really. You didn’t know, you see, about the will." "But I did, Charles," she whispered. "What?" I stared at her. I felt suddenly cold. "I knew all the time that grandfather had left his money to me." "But how?" "He told me. About a fortnight before he was killed. He said to me quite suddenly: "I’ve left all my money to you, Sophia. You must look after the family when I’ve gone.’" I stared. "You never told me." "No. You see, when they all explained about the will and his signing it, I thought perhaps he had made a mistake—that he was just imagining that he had left it to me. Or that if he had made a will leaving it to me, then it had got lost and would never turn up. I didn’t want it to turn up—I was afraid." "Afraid? Why?" "I suppose—because of murder." I remembered the look of terror on Brenda’s face—the wild unreasoning panic. I remembered the sheer panic that Magda had conjured up at will when she considered playing the part of a murderess. There would be no panic in Sophia’s mind, but she was a realist, and she could see clearly enough that Leonides" will made her a suspect. I understood better now (or thought I did) her refusal to become engaged to me and her insistence that I should find out the truth. Nothing but the truth, she had said, was any good to her. I remembered the passion, the earnestness with which she had said it. We had turned to walk towards the house and suddenly, at a certain spot, I remembered something else she had said. She had said that she supposed she could murder someone, but if so, she had added, it must be for something really worthwhile. Twenty-two Round a turn of the rock garden Roger and Clemency came walking briskly towards us. Roger’s flapping tweeds suited him better than his City clothes. He looked eager and excited. Clemency was frowning. "Hallo, you two," said Roger. "At last! I thought they were never going to arrest that foul woman. What they’ve been waiting for, I don’t know. Well, they’ve pinched her now, and her miserable boyfriend—and I hope they hang them both." Clemency’s frown increased. She said: "Don’t be so uncivilized, Roger." "Uncivilized? Bosh! Deliberate cold-blooded poisoning of a helpless trusting old man—and when I’m glad the murderers are caught and will pay the penalty you say I’m uncivilized! I tell you I’d willingly strangle that woman myself." He added: "She was with you, wasn’t she, when the police came for her? How did she take it?" "It was horrible," said Sophia in a low voice. "She was scared out of her wits." "Serve her right." "Don’t be vindictive," said Clemency. "Oh, I know, dearest, but you can’t understand. It wasn’t your father. I loved my father. Don’t you understand? I loved him!" "I should understand by now," said Clemency. Roger said to her, half-jokingly: "You’ve no imagination, Clemency. Suppose it had been I who had been poisoned—?" I saw the quick droop of her lids, her half-clenched hands. She said sharply: "Don’t say things like that even in fun."

"That time at Brighton now, Bottacetti-Boatsupsetty, quite a silly joke but how we laughed. Dear, dear, I was young then. Did a lot of foolish things. I remember the maid they had with them. Alice, her name was, a little bit of a thing–very ingenuous. I kissed her in the passage of the hotel, I remember, and one of the girls nearly caught me doing it. Dear, dear, how long ago that all was." He shook his head again and sighed. Then he looked at Mr Quin. "So you can’t help me?" he said wistfully. "On other occasions–" "On other occasions you have proved successful owing entirely to your own efforts," said Mr Quin gravely. "I think it will be the same this time. If I were you, I should go to Abbot’s Mede now." "Quite so, quite so," said Mr Satterthwaite, "as a matter of fact that is what I thought of doing. I can’t persuade you to come with me?" Mr Quin shook his head. "No," he said, "my work here is done. I am leaving almost immediately." At Abbot’s Mede, Mr Satterthwaite was taken at once to Margery Gale. She was sitting dry-eyed at a desk in the morning-room on which were strewn various papers. Something in her greeting touched him. She seemed so very pleased to see him. "Roley and Maria have just left. Mr Satterthwaite, it is not as the doctors think. I am convinced, absolutely convinced, that Mother was pushed under the water and held there. She was murdered, and whoever murdered her wants to murder me too. I am sure of that. That is why–" she indicated the document in front of her. "I have been making my will," she explained. "A lot of the money and some of the property does not go with the title, and there is my father’s money as well. I am leaving everything I can to Noel. I know he will make a good use of it and I do not trust Roley, he has always been out for what he can get. Will you sign it as a witness?" "My dear young lady," said Mr Satterthwaite, "you should sign a will in the presence of two witnesses and they should then sign themselves at the same time." Margery brushed aside this legal pronouncement. "I don’t see that it matters in the least," she declared. "Clayton saw me sign and then she signed her name. I was going to ring for the butler, but you will do instead." Mr Satterthwaite uttered no fresh protest, he unscrewed his fountain pen and then, as he was about to append his signature, he paused suddenly. The name, written just above his own, recalled a flow of memories. Alice Clayton. Something seemed to be struggling very hard to get through to him. Alice Clayton, there was some significance about that. Something to do with Mr Quin was mixed up with it. Something he had said to Mr Quin only a very short time ago. Ah, he had it now. Alice Clayton, that was her name. The little bit of a thing. People changed–yes, but not like that. And the Alice Clayton he knew had had brown eyes. The room seemed whirling round him. He felt for a chair and presently, as though from a great distance, he heard Margery’s voice speaking to him anxiously. "Are you ill? Oh, what is it? I am sure you are ill." He was himself again. He took her hand. "My dear, I see it all now. You must prepare yourself for a great shock. The woman upstairs whom you call Clayton is not Clayton at all. The real Alice Clayton was drowned on the "Uralia"." Margery was staring at him. "Who–who is she then?" "I am not mistaken, I cannot be mistaken. The woman you call Clayton is your mother’s sister, Beatrice Barron. You remember telling me that she was struck on the head by a spar? I should imagine that that blow destroyed her memory, and that being the case, your mother saw the chance–" "Of pinching the title, you mean?" asked Margery bitterly. "Yes, she would do that. It seems dreadful to say that now she is dead, but she was like that."

Meadowbank by a fortuitous series of chances became the centre for the attentions of various undesirable interests. There has been, shall we say, a cat among the pigeons. There have been three murders here and also a kidnapping. I will deal first with the kidnapping, for all through this business the difficulty has been to clear out of the way extraneous matters which, though criminal in themselves, obscure the most important thread—the thread of a ruthless and determined killer in your midst." He took from his pocket a photograph. "First, I will pass round this photograph." Kelsey took it, handed it to Miss Bulstrode and she in turn handed it to the staff. It was returned to Poirot. He looked at their faces, which were quite blank. "I ask you, all of you, do you recognize the girl in that photograph?" One and all they shook their heads. "You should do so," said Poirot. "Since that is a photograph obtained by me from Geneva of Princess Shaista." "But it’s not Shaista at all," cried Miss Chadwick. "Exactly," said Poirot. "The threads of all this business start in Ramat where, as you know, a revolutionary coup d’état took place about three months ago. The ruler, Prince Ali Yusuf, managed to escape, flown out by his own private pilot. Their plane, however, crashed in the mountains north of Ramat and was not discovered until later in the year. A certain article of great value, which was always carried on Prince Ali’s person, was missing. It was not found in the wreck and there were rumours that it had been brought to this country. Several groups of people were anxious to get hold of this very valuable article. One of their leads to it was Prince Ali Yusuf’s only remaining relation, his first cousin, a girl who was then at a school in Switzerland. It seemed likely that if the precious article had been safely got out of Ramat it would be brought to Princess Shaista or to her relatives and guardians. Certain agents were detailed to keep an eye on her uncle, the Emir Ibrahim, and others to keep an eye on the Princess herself. It was known that she was due to come to this school, Meadowbank, this term. Therefore it would have been only natural that someone should be detailed to obtain employment here and to keep a close watch on anyone who approached the Princess, her letters, and any telephone messages. But an even simpler and more efficacious idea was evolved, that of kidnapping Shaista and sending one of their own number to the school as Princess Shaista herself. This could be done successfully since the Emir Ibrahim was in Egypt and did not propose to visit England until late summer. Miss Bulstrode herself had not seen the girl and all arrangements that she had made concerning her reception had been made with the Embassy in London. "The plan was simple in the extreme. The real Shaista left Switzerland accompanied by a representative from the Embassy in London. Or so it was supposed. Actually, the Embassy in London was informed that a representative from the Swiss school would accompany the girl to London. The real Shaista was taken to a very pleasant chalet in Switzerland where she has been ever since, and an entirely different girl arrived in London, was met there by a representative of the Embassy and subsequently brought to this school. This substitute, of course, was necessarily much older than the real Shaista. But that would hardly attract attention since Eastern girls noticeably look much more mature than their age. A young French actress who specializes in playing schoolgirl parts was the agent chosen. "I did ask," said Hercule Poirot, in a thoughtful voice, "as to whether anyone had noticed Shaista’s knees. Knees are a very good indication of age. The knees of a woman of twenty-three or twenty-four can never really be mistaken for the knees of a girl of fourteen or fifteen. Nobody, alas, had noticed her knees. "The plan was hardly as successful as had been hoped. Nobody attempted to get in touch with Shaista, no letters or telephone calls of significance arrived for her and as time went on an added anxiety arose. The Emir Ibrahim might arrive in England ahead of schedule. He was not a man who announced his plans ahead. He was in the habit, I understand, of saying one evening, "Tomorrow I go to London" and thereupon to go. "The false Shaista, then, was aware that at any moment someone who knew the real Shaista might arrive.

Richard Egerton put Freddie and his affairs out of his mind, and thought about his next client. He said softly to himself, "The Honourable Elvira Blake. I wonder what she’s like…" He lifted his receiver. "Lord Frederick’s gone. Send up Miss Blake, will you." As he waited he made little calculations on his desk pad. How many years since—? She must be fifteen—seventeen—perhaps even more than that. Time went so fast. "Coniston’s daughter," he thought, "and Bess’s daughter. I wonder which of them she takes after?" The door opened, the clerk announced Miss Elvira Blake and the girl walked into the room. Egerton rose from his chair and came towards her. In appearance, he thought, she did not resemble either of her parents. Tall, slim, very fair, Bess’s colouring but none of Bess’s vitality, with an old- fashioned air about her; though that was difficult to be sure of, since the fashion in dress happened at the moment to be ruffles and baby bodices. "Well, well," he said, as he shook hands with her. "This is a surprise. Last time I saw you, you were eleven years old. Come and sit here." He pulled forward a chair and she sat down. "I suppose," said Elvira, a little uncertainly, "that I ought to have written first. Written and made an appointment. Something like that, but I really made up my mind very suddenly and it seemed an opportunity, since I was in London." "And what are you doing in London?" "Having my teeth seen to." "Beastly things, teeth," said Egerton. "Give us trouble from the cradle to the grave. But I am grateful for the teeth, if it gives me an opportunity of seeing you. Let me see now; you’ve been in Italy, haven’t you, finishing your education there at one of these places all girls go to nowadays?" "Yes," said Elvira, "the Contessa Martinelli. But I’ve left there now for good. I’m living with the Melfords in Kent until I make up my mind if there’s anything I’d like to do." "Well, I hope you’ll find something satisfactory. You’re not thinking of a university or anything like that?" "No," said Elvira, "I don’t think I’d be clever enough for that." She paused before saying, "I suppose you’d have to agree to anything if I did want to do it?" Egerton’s keen eyes focused sharply. "I am one of your guardians, and a trustee under your father’s will, yes," he said. "Therefore, you have a perfect right to approach me at anytime." Elvira said, "Thank you," politely. Egerton asked: "Is there anything worrying you?" "No. Not really. But you see, I don’t know anything. Nobody’s ever told me things. One doesn’t always like to ask." He looked at her attentively. "You mean things about yourself?" "Yes," said Elvira. "It’s kind of you to understand. Uncle Derek—" she hesitated. "Derek Luscombe, you mean?" "Yes. I’ve always called him uncle." "I see." "He’s very kind," said Elvira, "but he’s not the sort of person who ever tells you anything. He just arranges things, and looks a little worried in case they mightn’t be what I’d like. Of course he listens to a lot of people—women, I mean—who tell him things. Like Contessa Martinelli. He arranges for me to go to schools or to finishing places." "And they haven’t been where you wanted to go?" "No, I didn’t mean that. They’ve been quite all right. I mean they’ve been more or less where everyone else goes." "I see." "But I don’t know anything about myself, I mean what money I’ve got, and how much, and what I could do with it if I wanted." "In fact," said Egerton, with his attractive smile, "you want to talk business. Is that it? Well, I think you’re quite right. Let’s see. How old are you? Sixteen—seventeen?" "I’m nearly twenty." "Oh dear. I’d no idea." "You see," explained Elvira, "I feel all the time that I’m being shielded and sheltered.

Poirot?" asked Japp. Poirot roused himself. "Yes, I think I should like to accompany M. Fournier to Paris." "Enchanté," said the Frenchman. "What are you up to, I wonder?" said Japp. He looked at Poirot curiously. "You’ve been very quiet over all this. Got some of your little ideas, eh?" "One or two, one or two; but it is very difficult." "Let’s hear about it." "One thing that worries me," said Poirot slowly, "is the place where the blowpipe was found." "Naturally! It nearly got you locked up." Poirot shook his head. "I do not mean that. It is not because it was found pushed down beside my seat that it worries me—it was its being pushed down behind any seat." "I don’t see anything in that," said Japp. "Whoever did it had got to hide the thing somewhere. He couldn’t risk its being found on him." "Evidemment. But you may have noticed, my friend, when you examined the plane, that although the windows cannot be opened, there is in each of them a ventilator—a circle of small round holes in the glass which can be opened or closed by turning a fan of glass. Those holes are of a sufficient circumference to admit of the passage of our blowpipe. What could be simpler than to get rid of the blowpipe that way? It falls to the earth beneath, and it is extremely unlikely that it will ever be found." "I can think of an objection to that—the murderer was afraid of being seen. If he pushed the blowpipe through the ventilator someone might have noticed." "I see," said Poirot. "He was not afraid of being seen placing the blowpipe to his lips and dispatching the fatal dart, but he was afraid of being seen trying to push the blowpipe through the window!" "Sounds absurd, I admit," said Japp; "but there it is. He did hide the blowpipe behind the cushion of a seat. We can’t get away from that." Poirot did not answer, and Fournier asked curiously: "It gives you an idea, that?" Poirot bowed his head assentingly. "It gives rise to, say, a speculation in my mind." With absent-minded fingers he straightened the unused inkstand that Japp’s impatient hand had set a little askew. Then lifting his head sharply, he asked: "A propos, have you that detailed list of the belongings of the passengers that I asked you to get me?" Chapter 8 The List "I’m a man of my word, I am," said Japp. He grinned and dived his hand into his pocket, bringing out a mass of closely- typewritten paper. "Here you are. It’s all here—down to the minutest detail! And I’ll admit that there is one rather curious thing in it. I’ll talk to you about it when you’ve finished reading the stuff." Poirot spread out the sheets on the table and began to read. Fournier moved up and read them over his shoulder: James Ryder. Pockets.—Linen handkerchief marked J. Pigskin notecase—seven £1 notes, three business cards. Letter from partner George Ebermann hoping "loan has been successfully negotiated…otherwise we’re in Queer Street’. Letter signed Maudie making appointment Trocadero following evening (cheap paper, illiterate handwriting). Silver cigarette-case. Match-folder. Fountain-pen. Bunch of keys. Yale door key. Loose change in French and English money. Attaché Case.—Mass of papers concerning dealings in cement. Copy of Bootless Cup (banned in this country). A box of "Immediate Cold Cures’. Dr Bryant. Pockets.—Two linen handkerchiefs. Notecase containing £20 and 500 francs. Loose change in French and English money. Engagement book. Cigarette-case. Lighter. Fountain-pen. Yale door key. Bunch of keys. Flute in case. Carrying Memoirs of Benvenuto Cellini and Les Maux de l’Oreille. Norman Gale. Pockets.—Silk handkerchief. Wallet containing £1 in English and 600 francs. Loose change. Business cards of two French firms—makers of dental instruments. Bryant & May matchbox—empty. Silver lighter. Briar pipe. Rubber tobacco pouch. Yale door key.

"You live not very far from here, don’t you?" said a voice in Sir Stafford Nye’s ear. A deep contralto voice. "I can drop you on my way." "No, no. I can walk perfectly. It’s only ten minutes or so." "It will be no trouble to me, I assure you," said the Countess Zerkowski. She added, "I’m staying at the St James’s Tower." The St James’s Tower was one of the newer hotels. "You are very kind." It was a big, expensive-looking hire car that waited. The chauffeur opened the door, the Countess Renata got in and Sir Stafford Nye followed her. It was she who gave Sir Stafford Nye’s address to the chauffeur. The car drove off. "So you know where I live?" he said. "Why not?" He wondered just what that answer meant: Why not? "Why not indeed," he said. "You know so much, don’t you?" He added, "It was kind of you to return my passport." "I thought it might save certain inconveniences. It might be simpler if you burnt it. You’ve been issued with a new one, I presume–" "You presume correctly." "Your bandit’s cloak you will find in the bottom drawer of your tallboy. It was put there tonight. I believed that perhaps to purchase another one would not satisfy you, and indeed that to find one similar might not be possible." "It will mean more to me now that it has been through certain–adventures," said Stafford Nye. He added, "It has served its purpose." The car purred through the night. The Countess Zerkowski said: "Yes. It has served its purpose since I am here–alive…" Sir Stafford Nye said nothing. He was assuming, rightly or not, that she wanted him to ask questions, to press her, to know more of what she had been doing, of what fate she had escaped. She wanted him to display curiosity, but Sir Stafford Nye was not going to display curiosity. He rather enjoyed not doing so. He heard her laugh very gently. Yet he fancied, rather surprisingly, that it was a pleased laugh, a laugh of satisfaction, not of stalemate. "Did you enjoy your evening?" she said. "A good party, I think, but Milly Jean always gives good parties." "You know her well then?" "I knew her when she was a girl in New York before she married. A pocket Venus." She looked at him in faint surprise. "Is that your term for her?" "Actually, no. It was said to me by an elderly relative of mine." "Yes, it isn’t a description that one hears given often of a woman nowadays. It fits her, I think, very well. Only–" "Only what?" "Venus is seductive, is she not? Is she also ambitious?" "You think Milly Jean Cortman is ambitious?" "Oh yes. That above all." "And you think to be the wife of the Ambassador to St James’s is insufficient to satisfy ambition?" "Oh no," said the Countess. "That is only the beginning." He did not answer. He was looking out through the car window. He began to speak, then stopped himself. He noted her quick glance at him, but she too was silent. It was not till they were going over a bridge with the Thames below them that he said: "So you are not giving me a lift home and you are not going back to the St James’s Tower. We are crossing the Thames. We met there once before, crossing a bridge. Where are you taking me?" "Do you mind?" "I think I do." "Yes, I can see you might." "Well of course you are quite in the mode. Hi-jacking is the fashion nowadays, isn’t it? You have hi-jacked me. Why?" "Because, like once before, I have need of you." She added, "And others have need of you." "Indeed." "And that does not please you." "It would please me better to be asked." "If I had asked, would you have come?" "Perhaps yes, perhaps no." "I am sorry." "I wonder." They drove on through the night in silence. It was not a drive through lonely country, they were on a main road. Now and then the lights picked up a name or a signpost so that Stafford Nye saw quite clearly where their route lay. Through Surrey and through the first residential portions of Sussex.

In Gulbrandsen’s time it was education. Before that it was soup kitchens—" Miss Marple nodded. "Yes, indeed. Port wine jelly and calf’s head broth taken to the sick. My mother used to do it." "That’s right. Feeding the body gave way to feeding the mind. Everyone went mad on educating the lower classes. Well, that’s passed. Soon, I expect, the fashionable thing to do will be not to educate your children, preserve their illiteracy carefully until they’re eighteen. Anyway the Gulbrandsen Trust and Education Fund was in some difficulties because the state was taking over its functions. Then Lewis came along with his passionate enthusiasm about constructive training for juvenile delinquents. His attention had been drawn to the subject first in the course of his profession—auditing accounts where ingenious young men had perpetrated frauds. He was more and more convinced that juvenile delinquents were not subnormal—that they had excellent brains and abilities and only needed the right direction." "There is something in that," said Miss Marple. "But it is not entirely true. I remember—" She broke off and glanced at her watch. "Oh dear—I mustn’t miss the 6:30." Ruth Van Rydock said urgently: "And you will go to Stonygates?" Gathering up her shopping bag and her umbrella Miss Marple said: "If Carrie Louise asks me—" "She will ask you. You’ll go? Promise, Jane?" Jane Marple promised. Three Miss Marple got out of the train at Market Kindle station. A kindly fellow passenger handed out her suitcase after her, and Miss Marple, clutching a string bag, a faded leather handbag and some miscellaneous wraps, uttered appreciative twitters of thanks. "So kind of you, I’m sure … So difficult nowadays—not many porters. I get so flustered when I travel." The twitters were drowned by the booming noise of the station announcer saying loudly but indistinctly that the 3:18 was standing at Platform 1 and was about to proceed to various unidentifiable stations. Market Kindle was a large empty windswept station with hardly any passengers or railway staff to be seen on it. Its claim to distinction lay in having six platforms and a bay where a very small train of one carriage was puffing importantly. Miss Marple, rather more shabbily dressed than was her custom (so lucky that she hadn’t given away the old speckledy), was peering around her uncertainly when a young man came up to her. "Miss Marple?" he said. His voice had an unexpectedly dramatic quality about it, as though the utterance of her name were the first words of a part he was playing in amateur theatricals. "I’ve come to meet you—from Stonygates." Miss Marple looked gratefully at him, a charming helpless looking old lady with, if he had chanced to notice it, very shrewd blue eyes. The personality of the young man did not quite match his voice. It was less important, one might almost say insignificant. His eyelids had a trick of fluttering nervously. "Oh, thank you," said Miss Marple. "There’s just this suitcase." She noticed that the young man did not pick up her suitcase himself. He flipped a finger at a porter who was trundling some packing cases past on a trolley. "Bring it out, please," he said, and added importantly, "For Stonygates." The porter said cheerfully: "Rightyho. Shan’t be long." Miss Marple fancied that her new acquaintance was not too pleased about this. It was as if Buckingham Palace had been dismissed as no more important than 3 Laburnum Road. He said, "The railways get more impossible every day!" Guiding Miss Marple towards the exit, he said: "I’m Edgar Lawson. Mrs. Serrocold asked me to meet you. I help Mr. Serrocold in his work." There was again the faint insinuation that a busy and important man had, very charmingly, put important affairs on one side out of chivalry to his employer’s wife. And again the impression was not wholly convincing—it had a theatrical flavour. Miss Marple began to wonder about Edgar Lawson. They came out of the station and Edgar guided the old lady to where a rather elderly Ford V.8 was standing. He was just saying, "Will you come in front with me, or would you prefer the back?" when there was a diversion.

A child can suffer a great deal, Aunt Jane." "I know that," said Miss Marple. ""Mildred’s so stupid’—that’s what Pippa used to say. But I was younger than she was. Naturally I couldn’t be expected to keep up with her in lessons. And it’s very unfair on a child when her sister is always put in front of her. ""What a lovely little girl," people used to say to Mamma. They never noticed me. And it was Pippa that Papa used to joke and play with. Someone ought to have seen how hard it was on me. All the notice and attention going to her. I wasn’t old enough to realise that it’s character that matters." Her lips trembled, then hardened again. "And it was unfair—really unfair—I was their own child. Pippa was only adopted. I was the daughter of the house. She was—nobody." "Probably they were extra indulgent to her on that account," said Miss Marple. "They liked her best," said Mildred Strete. And added: "A child whose own parents didn’t want her—or more probably illegitimate." She went on: "It’s come out in Gina. There’s bad blood there. Blood will tell. Lewis can have what theories he likes about environment. Bad blood does tell. Look at Gina." "Gina is a very lovely girl," said Miss Marple. "Hardly in behaviour," said Mrs. Strete. "Everyone but Mother notices how she is carrying on with Stephen Restarick. Quite disgusting, I call it. Admittedly she made a very unfortunate marriage, but marriage is marriage and one should be prepared to abide by it. After all, she chose to marry that dreadful young man." "Is he so dreadful?" "Oh dear, Aunt Jane! He really looks to me quite like a gangster. And so surly and rude. He hardly opens his mouth. And he always looks so dirty and uncouth." "He is unhappy, I think," said Miss Marple mildly. "I really don’t know why he should be—apart from Gina’s behaviour, I mean. Everything has been done for him here. Lewis has suggested several ways in which he could try to make himself useful—but he prefers to skulk about doing nothing." She burst out, "Oh this whole place is impossible—quite impossible. Lewis thinks of nothing but these horrible young criminals. And Mother thinks of nothing but him. Everything Lewis does is right. Look at the state of the garden—the weeds—the overgrowth. And the house—nothing properly done. Oh, I know a domestic staff is difficult nowadays, but it can be got. It’s not as though there were any shortage of money. It’s just that nobody cares. If it were my house—" She stopped. "I’m afraid," said Miss Marple, "that we have all to face the fact that conditions are different. These large establishments are a great problem. It must be sad for you, in a way, to come back here and find everything so different. Do you really prefer living here to—well—somewhere of your own?" Mildred Strete flushed. "After all, it’s my home," she said. "It was my father’s house. Nothing can alter that. I’ve a right to be here if I choose. And I do choose. If only Mother were not so impossible! She won’t even buy herself proper clothes. It worries Jolly a lot." "I was going to ask you about Miss Bellever." "Such a comfort having her here. She adores Mother. She’s been with her a long time now—she came in John Restarick’s time. And was wonderful, I believe, during the whole sad business. I expect you heard that he ran away with a dreadful Yugoslavian woman—a most abandoned creature. She’s had any amount of lovers, I believe. Mother was very fine and dignified about it all. Divorced him as quietly as possible. Even went so far as to have the Restarick boys for their holidays—quite unnecessary, really, other arrangements could have been made. It would have been unthinkable, of course, to have let them go to their father and that woman. Anyway, Mother had them here … And Miss Bellever stood by all through things and was a tower of strength.

"At this point Mr Clancy came forward and made the statement that it was a thorn shot from a blowpipe after the manner of some native tribe. Later, as you all know, the blowpipe itself was discovered. "By the time we reached Croydon several ideas were working in my mind. Once I was definitely on the firm ground, my brain began to work once more with its normal brilliance." "Go it, M. Poirot," said Japp with a grin. "Don’t have any false modesty." Poirot threw him a look and went on. "One idea presented itself very strongly to me (as it did to everyone else), and that was the audacity of a crime being committed in such a manner—and the astonishing fact that nobody noticed its being done! "There were two other points that interested me. One was the convenient presence of the wasp. The other was the discovery of the blowpipe. As I remarked after the inquest to my friend Japp, why on earth did the murderer not get rid of it by passing it out through the ventilating hole in the window? The thorn itself might be difficult to trace or identify, but a blowpipe which still retained a portion of its price label was a very different matter. "What was the solution? Obviously that the murderer wanted the blowpipe to be found. "But why? Only one answer seemed logical. If a poisoned dart and a blowpipe were found, it would naturally be assumed that the murder had been committed by a thorn shot from a blowpipe. Therefore in reality the murder had not been committed that way. "On the other hand, as medical evidence was to show, the cause of death was undoubtedly the poisoned thorn. I shut my eyes and asked myself—what is the surest and most reliable way of placing a poisoned thorn in the jugular vein? And the answer came immediately: By hand. "And that immediately threw light on the necessity for the finding of the blowpipe. The blowpipe inevitably conveyed the suggestion of distance. If my theory was right, the person who killed Madame Giselle was a person who went right up to her table and bent over her. "Was there such a person? Yes, there were two people. The two stewards. Either of them could go up to Madame Giselle, lean towards her, and nobody would notice anything unusual. "Was there anyone else? "Well, there was Mr Clancy. He was the only person in the car who had passed immediately by Madame Giselle’s seat—and I remembered that it was he who had first drawn attention to the blowpipe and thorn theory." Mr Clancy sprang to his feet. "I protest," he cried. "I protest. This is an outrage." "Sit down," said Poirot. "I have not finished yet. I have to show you all the steps by which I arrived at my conclusion. "I had now three persons as possible suspects—Mitchell, Davis, and Mr Clancy. None of them at first sight appeared likely murderers, but there was much investigation to be done. "I next turned my mind to the possibilities of the wasp. It was suggestive, that wasp. To begin with, no one had noticed it until about the time coffee was served. That in itself was rather curious. I constructed a certain theory of the crime. The murderer presented to the world two separate solutions of the tragedy. On the first or simplest, Madame Giselle was stung by a wasp and had succumbed to heart failure. The success of that solution depended on whether or no the murderer was in a position to retrieve the thorn. Japp and I agreed that that could be done easily enough—so long as no suspicion of foul play had arisen. There was the particular colouring of silk which I had no doubt was deliberately substituted for the original cerise so as to simulate the appearance of a wasp. "Our murderer, then, approaches the victim’s table, inserts the thorn and releases the wasp! The poison is so powerful that death would occur almost immediately. If Giselle cried out—it would probably not be heard owing to the noise of the plane. If it was just noticed, well, there was the wasp buzzing about to explain the cry. The poor woman had been stung. "That, as I say, was plan No. 1. But supposing that, as actually happened, the poisoned thorn was discovered before the murderer could retrieve it. In that case the fat is in the fire.

Again he hardly noticed that the other did not respond. "The whole thing hinges a good deal on the testimony of Janet Mackenzie," said Mr Mayherne. "She hates you. That much is clear." "She can hardly hate me," protested the young man. The solicitor shook his head as he went out. "Now for Mrs Vole," he said to himself. He was seriously disturbed by the way the thing was shaping. The Voles lived in a small shabby house near Paddington Green. It was to this house that Mr Mayherne went. In answer to his ring, a big slatternly woman, obviously a charwoman, answered the door. "Mrs Vole? Has she returned yet?" "Got back an hour ago. But I dunno if you can see her." "If you will take my card to her," said Mr Mayherne quietly, "I am quite sure that she will do so." The woman looked at him doubtfully, wiped her hand on her apron and took the card. Then she closed the door in his face and left him on the step outside. In a few minutes, however, she returned with a slightly altered manner. "Come inside, please." She ushered him into a tiny drawing-room. Mr Mayherne, examining a drawing on the wall, started up suddenly to face a tall, pale woman who had entered so quietly that he had not heard her. "Mr Mayherne? You are my husband's solicitor, are you not? You have come from him? Will you please sit down?" Until she spoke he had not realized that she was not English. Now, observing her more closely, he noticed the high cheekbones, the dense blue-black of the hair, and an occasional very slight movement of the hands that was distinctly foreign. A strange woman, very quiet. So quiet as to make one uneasy. From the very first Mr Mayherne was conscious that he was up against something that he did not understand. "Now, my dear Mrs Vole," he began, "you must not give way -" He stopped. It was so very obvious that Romaine Vole had not the slightest intention of giving way. She was perfectly calm and composed. "Will you please tell me about it?" she said. "I must know everything. Do not think to spare me. I want to know the worst." She hesitated, then repeated in a lower tone, with a curious emphasis which the lawyer did not understand: "I want to know the worst." Mr Mayherne went over his interview with Leonard Vole. She listened attentively, nodding her head now and then. "I see," she said, when he had finished. "He wants me to say that he came in at twenty minutes past nine that night?" "He did come in at that time?" said Mr Mayherne sharply. "That is not the point," she said coldly. "Will my saying so acquit him? Will they believe me?" Mr Mayherne was taken aback. She had gone so quickly to the core of the matter. "That is what I want to know," she said. "Will it be enough? Is there anyone else who can support my evidence?" There was a suppressed eagerness in her manner that made him vaguely uneasy. "So far there is no one else," he said reluctantly. "I see," said Romaine Vole. She sat for a minute or two perfectly still. A little smile played over her lips. The lawyer's feeling of alarm grew stronger and stronger. "Mrs Vole -" he began. "I know what you must feel -" "Do you?" she asked. "I wonder." "In the circumstances -" "In the circumstances - I intend to play a lone hand." He looked at her in dismay. "But, my dear Mrs Vole - you are overwrought. Being so devoted to your husband -" "I beg your pardon?" The sharpness of her voice made him start. He repeated in a hesitating manner: "Being so devoted to your husband -" Romaine Vole nodded slowly, the same strange smile on her lips. "Did he tell you that I was devoted to him?" she asked softly. "Ah! yes, I can see he did. How stupid men are! Stupid - stupid - stupid -" She rose suddenly to her feet. All the intense emotion that the lawyer had been conscious of in the atmosphere was now concentrated in her tone. "I hate him, I tell you! I hate him. I hate him. I hate him!

Surely you’re not going to make her get up, if she isn’t feeling well." "My friend Hastings knows everything! So she is in bed, yes?" "Well, isn’t she?" Poirot patted his friend’s shoulder affectionately. "That is just what I want to find out." "But, surely –" Hastings elaborated. "Don’t you remember? Richard Amory said so." The detective regarded his friend steadily. "Hastings," he declared, "here is a man killed. And how does his family react? With lies, lies, lies everywhere! Why does Madame Amory want me to go? Why does Monsieur Amory want me to go? Why does he wish to prevent me from seeing his aunt? What can she tell me that he does not want me to hear? I tell you, Hastings, what we have here is drama! Not a simple, sordid crime, but drama. Poignant, human drama!" He looked as though he would have expanded on this theme had not Miss Amory entered at that moment. "Monsieur Poirot," she addressed him as she closed the door, "Tredwell tells me you wanted to see me." "Ah yes, mademoiselle," Poirot declared as he went to her. "It is just that I would like to ask you a few questions. Will you not sit down?" He led her to a chair by the table, and she sat, looking at him nervously. "But I understood that you were prostrated, ill?" Poirot continued as he sat on the other side of the table, and regarded her with an expression of anxious solicitude. "It’s all been a terrible shock, of course," Caroline Amory sighed. "Really terrible! But what I always say is, somebody must keep their head. The servants, you know, are in a turmoil. Well," she continued, speaking more quickly, "you know what servants are, Monsieur Poirot. They positively delight in funerals! They prefer a death to a wedding, I do believe. Now, dear Dr Graham! He is so kind – such a comfort. A really clever doctor, and of course he’s so fond of Barbara. I think it’s a pity that Richard doesn’t seem to care for him, but – what was I saying? Oh yes, Dr Graham. So young. And he quite cured my neuritis last year. Not that I am often ill. Now, this rising generation doesn’t seem to me to be at all strong. There was poor Lucia last night, having to come out from dinner feeling faint. Of course, poor child, she’s a mass of nerves, and what else can you expect with Italian blood in her veins? Though she was not so bad, I remember, when her diamond necklace was stolen –" Miss Amory paused for breath. Poirot, while she was speaking, had taken out his cigarette-case and was about to light a cigarette, but he paused and took the opportunity to ask her, "Madame Amory’s diamond necklace was stolen? When was this, mademoiselle?" Miss Amory assumed a thoughtful expression. "Let me see, it must have been – yes, it was two months ago – just about the same time that Richard had such a quarrel with his father." Poirot looked at the cigarette in his hand. "You permit that I smoke, mademoiselle?" he asked, and on receiving a smile and a gracious nod of assent, he took a box of matches from his pocket, lit his cigarette, and looked at Miss Amory encouragingly. When that lady made no effort to resume speaking, Poirot prompted her. "I think you were saying that Monsieur Amory quarrelled with his father," he suggested. "Oh, it was nothing serious," Miss Amory told him. "It was only over Richard’s debts. Of course, all young men have debts! Although, indeed, Claud himself was never like that. He was always so studious, even when he was a lad. Later, of course, his experiments always used up a lot of money. I used to tell him he was keeping Richard too short of money, you know. But, yes, about two months ago they had quite a scene, and what with that, and Lucia’s necklace missing, and her refusing to call in the police, it was a very upsetting time. And so absurd, too! Nerves, all nerves!"

"As I say, I paid very little attention to this story at the time. It came back to me later. Our great difficulty was to find out anything about this woman, Amy Durrant. She didn’t seem to have any relations. Miss Barton and I went through her things together. We found one address and wrote there, but it proved to be simply a room she had taken in which to keep her things. The landlady knew nothing, had only seen her when she took the room. Miss Durrant had remarked at the time that she always liked to have one place she could call her own to which she could return at any moment. There were one or two nice pieces of old furniture and some bound numbers of Academy pictures, and a trunk full of pieces of material bought at sales, but no personal belongings. She had mentioned to the landlady that her father and mother had died in India when she was a child and that she had been brought up by an uncle who was a clergyman, but she did not say if he was her father’s or her mother’s brother, so the name was no guide. "It wasn’t exactly mysterious, it was just unsatisfactory. There must be many lonely women, proud and reticent, in just that position. There were a couple of photographs amongst her belongings in Las Palmas – rather old and faded and they had been cut to fit the frames they were in, so that there was no photographer’s name upon them, and there was an old daguerreotype which might have been her mother or more probably her grandmother. "Miss Barton had had two references with her. One she had forgotten, the other name she recollected after an effort. It proved to be that of a lady who was now abroad, having gone to Australia. She was written to. Her answer, of course, was a long time in coming, and I may say that when it did arrive there was no particular help to be gained from it. She said Miss Durrant had been with her as companion and had been most efficient and that she was a very charming woman, but that she knew nothing of her private affairs or relations. "So there it was – as I say, nothing unusual, really. It was just the two things together that aroused my uneasiness. This Amy Durrant of whom no one knew anything, and the Spanish woman’s queer story. Yes, and I’ll add a third thing: When I was first bending over the body and Miss Barton was walking away towards the huts, she looked back. Looked back with an expression on her face that I can only describe as one of poignant anxiety – a kind of anguished uncertainty that imprinted itself on my brain. "It didn’t strike me as anything unusual at the time. I put it down to her terrible distress over her friend. But, you see, later I realized that they weren’t on those terms. There was no devoted attachment between them, no terrible grief. Miss Barton was fond of Amy Durrant and shocked by her death – that was all. "But, then, why that terrible poignant anxiety? That was the question that kept coming back to me. I had not been mistaken in that look. And almost against my will, an answer began to shape itself in my mind. Supposing the Spanish woman’s story were true; supposing that Mary Barton wilfully and in cold blood tried to drown Amy Durrant. She succeeds in holding her under water whilst pretending to be saving her. She is rescued by a boat. They are on a lonely beach far from anywhere. And then I appear – the last thing she expects. A doctor! And an English doctor! She knows well enough that people who have been under water far longer than Amy Durrant have been revived by artificial respiration. But she has to play her part – to go off leaving me alone with her victim. And as she turns for one last look, a terrible poignant anxiety shows in her face. Will Amy Durrant come back to life and tell what she knows?" "Oh!" said Jane Helier. "I’m thrilled now." "Viewed in that aspect the whole business seemed more sinister, and the personality of Amy Durrant became more mysterious. Who was Amy Durrant? Why should she, an insignificant paid companion, be murdered by her employer? What story lay behind that fatal bathing expedition? She had entered Mary Barton’s employment only a few months before.

"Ah well, they didn’t have the right clues. There are clues, you know, if you know where to look for them." Another old lady nodded her head wisely. "There’s always clues." "How interesting," said Tuppence. "Where? Where are these clues, I mean? In the village or somewhere outside it or—" This was a rather unfortunate remark as it brought down at least six different replies, all uttered at once. "On the moor, beyond Tower West," one was saying. "Oh no, it’s past Little Kenny, it was. Yes, quite near Little Kenny." "No, it was the cave. The cave by the sea front. Over as far as Baldy’s Head. You know, where the red rocks are. That’s it. There’s an old smugglers" tunnel. Wonderful, it must be. Some people say as it’s there still." "I saw a story once of an old Spanish main or something. Right back to the time of the Armada, it was. A Spanish boat as went down there. Full of doubloons." Ten ATTACK ON TUPPENCE "Good gracious!" said Tommy, as he returned that evening. "You look terribly tired, Tuppence. What have you been doing? You look worn out." "I am worn out," said Tuppence. "I don’t know that I shall ever recover again. Oh dear." "What have you been doing? Not climbing up and finding more books or anything?" "No, no," said Tuppence, "I don’t want to look at books again. I’m off books." "Well, what is it? What have you been doing?" "Do you know what a PPC is?" "No," said Tommy, "at least, well, yes. It’s something—" He paused. "Yes, Albert knows," said Tuppence, "but it’s not that kind of one. Now then, I’ll just tell you in a minute, but you’d better have something first. A cocktail or a whisky or something. And I’ll have something too." She more or less put Tommy wise to the events of the afternoon. Tommy said "good gracious" again and added: "The things you get yourself into, Tuppence. Was any of it interesting?" "I don’t know," said Tuppence. "When six people are talking at once, and most of them can’t talk properly and they all say different things—you see, you don’t really know what they’re saying. But yes, I think I’ve got a few ideas for dealing with things." "What do you mean?" "Well, there is a lot of legend, I think, going on about something that was once hidden here and was a secret connected with the 1914 war, or even before it." "Well, we know that already, don’t we?" said Tommy. "I mean, we’ve been briefed to know that." "Yes. Well, there are a few old tales still going around the village here. And everybody has got ideas about it put into their heads by their Aunt Marias or their Uncle Bens and it’s been put into their Aunt Marias by their Uncle Stephens or Aunty Ruth or Grandmother Something else. It’s been handed down for years and years. Well, one of the things might be the right one, of course." "What, lost among all the others?" "Yes," said Tuppence, "like a needle in the haystack? "I’m going to select a few what I call likely possibilities. People who might tell one something that they really did hear. I shall have to isolate them from everybody else, at any rate for a short period of time, and get them to tell me exactly what their Aunt Agatha or Aunt Betty or old Uncle James told them. Then I shall have to go on to the next one and possibly one of them might give me a further inkling. There must be something, you know, somewhere." "Yes," said Tommy, "I think there’s something, but we don’t know what it is." "Well, that’s what we’re trying to do, isn’t it?" "Yes, but I mean you’ve got to have some idea what a thing actually is before you go looking for it." "I don’t think it’s gold ingots on a Spanish Armada ship," said Tuppence, "and I don’t think it’s anything hidden in the smugglers" cave." "Might be some super brandy from France," said Tommy hopefully.

"I don’t think you need to worry unduly on that score," said Cobb. "What we’re after isn’t likely to be in the public rooms." He waited politely until she unwillingly withdrew. Then he looked round Valerie Hobhouse’s office. The narrow window gave a view of the back premises of the other Mayfair firms. The walls were panelled in pale grey and there were two good Persian rugs on the floor. His eyes went from the small wall safe to the big desk. "Won’t be in the safe," said Cobb. "Too obvious." A quarter of an hour later, the safe and the drawers of the desk had yielded up their secrets. "Looks like it’s maybe a mare’s nest," said McCrae, who was by nature both gloomy and disapproving. "We’re only beginning," said Cobb. Having emptied the drawers of their contents and arranged the latter neatly in piles, he now proceeded to take the drawers out and turn them upside down. He uttered an ejaculation of pleasure. "Here we are, my lad," he said. Fastened to the underneath side of the bottom drawer with adhesive tape were a half-dozen small dark blue books with gilt lettering. "Passports," said Sergeant Cobb. "Issued by Her Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, God bless his trusting heart." McCrae bent over with interest as Cobb opened the passports and compared the affixed photographs. "Hardly think it was the same woman, would you?" said McCrae. The passports were those of Mrs. da Silva, Miss Irene French, Mrs. Olga Kohn, Miss Nina Le Mesurier, Mrs. Gladys Thomas, and Miss Moira O’Neele. They represented a dark young woman whose age varied between twenty-five and forty. "It’s the different hairdo every time that does it," said Cobb. "Pompadour, curls, straight cut, page boy bob, etc. She’s done something to her nose for Olga Kohn, plumpers in her cheeks for Mrs. Thomas. Here are two more—foreign passports—Madame Mahmoudi, Algerian. Sheila Donovan, Eire. I’ll say she’s got bank accounts in all these different names." "Bit complicated, isn’t that?" "It has to be complicated, my lad. Inland Revenue always snooping round asking embarrassing questions. It’s not so difficult to make money by smuggling goods—but it’s hell and all to account for money when you’ve got it! I bet this little gambling club in Mayfair was started by the lady for just that reason. Winning money by gambling is about the only thing an income tax inspector can’t check up on. A good part of the loot, I should say, is cached around in Algerian and French banks and in Eire. The whole thing’s a thoroughly well thought out businesslike setup. And then, one day, she must have had one of these fake passports lying about at Hickory Road and that poor little devil Celia saw it." Chapter Twenty "It was a clever idea of Miss Hobhouse’s," said Inspector Sharpe. His voice was indulgent, almost fatherly. He shuffled the passports from one hand to the other like a man dealing cards. "Complicated thing, finance," he said. "We’ve had a busy time haring round from one bank to the other. She covered her tracks well—her financial tracks, I mean. I’d say that in a couple of years" time she could have cleared out, gone abroad and lived happily ever after, as they say, on ill-gotten gains. It wasn’t a big show—illicit diamonds, sapphires, etc., coming in—stolen stuff going out—and narcotics on the side, as you might say. Thoroughly well organised. She went abroad under her own and under different names, but never too often, and the actual smuggling was always done, unknowingly, by someone else. She had agents abroad who saw to the exchange of rucksacks at the right moment. Yes, it was a clever idea. And we’ve got M. Poirot here to thank for putting us on to it. It was smart of her, too, to suggest that psychological stealing stunt to poor little Miss Austin. You were wise to that almost at once, weren’t you, M. Poirot?" Poirot smiled in a deprecating manner and Mrs. Hubbard looked admiringly at him.

But that doesn’t mean that any of those people is a murderer, or indeed even a likely murderer. Don’t you agree?" "Yes, I agree. There must be something beyond petty dislikes or envies. Is there anyone whom your wife has injured, say, in the past?" Jason Rudd did not rebut this easily. Instead he frowned. "Honestly, I don’t think so," he said at last, "and I may say I’ve given a lot of thought to that point." "Anything in the nature of a love affair, an association with some man?" "There have of course been affairs of that kind. It may be considered, I suppose, that Marina has occasionally treated some man badly. But there is nothing to cause any lasting ill will. I’m sure of it." "What about women? Any woman who has had a lasting grudge against Miss Gregg?" "Well," said Jason Rudd, "you can never tell with women. I can’t think of any particular one offhand." "Who’d benefit financially by your wife’s death?" "Her will benefits various people but not to any large extent. I suppose the people who’d benefit, as you put it, financially, would be myself as her husband, from another angle, possibly the star who might replace her in this film. Though, of course, the film might be abandoned altogether. These things are very uncertain." "Well, we need not go into all that now," said Dermot. "And I have your assurance that Marina will not be told that she is in possible danger?" "We shall have to go into that matter," said Dermot. "I want to impress upon you that you are taking quite a considerable risk there. However, the matter will not arise for some days since your wife is still under medical care. Now there is one more thing I would like you to do. I would like you to write down for me as accurately as you can every single person who was in that recess at the top of the stairs, or whom you saw coming up the stairs at the time of the murder." "I’ll do my best, but I’m rather doubtful. You’d do far better to consult my secretary, Ella Zielinsky. She has a most accurate memory and also lists of the local lads who were there. If you’d like to see her now—" "I would like to talk to Miss Ella Zielinsky very much," said Dermot. Eleven I Surveying Dermot Craddock unemotionally through her large horn-rimmed spectacles, Ella Zielinsky seemed to him almost too good to be true. With quiet businesslike alacrity she whipped out of a drawer a typewritten sheet and passed it across to him. "I think I can be fairly sure that there are no omissions," she said. "But it is just possible that I may have included one or two names—local names they will be—who were not actually there. That is to say who may have left earlier or who may not have been found and brought up. Actually, I’m pretty sure that it is correct." "A very efficient piece of work if I may say so," said Dermot. "Thank you." "I suppose—I am quite an ignoramus in such things—that you have to attain a high standard of efficiency in your job?" "One has to have things pretty well taped, yes." "What else does your job comprise? Are you a kind of liaison officer, so to speak, between the studios and Gossington Hall?" "No. I’ve nothing to do with the studios, actually, though of course I naturally take messages from there on the telephone or send them. My job is to look after Miss Gregg’s social life, her public and private engagements, and to supervise in some degree the running of the house." "You like the job?" "It’s extremely well paid and I find it reasonably interesting. I didn’t however bargain for murder," she added dryly. "Did it seem very incredible to you?" "So much so that I am going to ask you if you are really sure it is murder?" "Six times the close of di-ethyl-mexine etc. etc., could hardly be anything else." "It might have been an accident of some kind." "And how would you suggest such an accident could have occurred?" "More easily than you’d imagine, since you don’t know the setup. This house is simply full of drugs of all kinds. I don’t mean dope when I say drugs. I mean properly prescribed remedies, but, like most of these things, what they call, I understand, the lethal dose is not very far removed from the therapeutic dose." Dermot nodded.

"Hallo, here’s a piece of luck. It’s unlocked." He pushed it open, peered round it, then beckoned the girl to come on. They emerged into a passage behind the kitchen. In another moment they were standing under the stars in Friars Lane. "Oh!" Freda gave a little sob. "Oh, how dreadful it’s been!" "My poor darling." He caught her in his arms. "You’ve been so wonderfully brave. Freda–darling angel–could you ever–I mean, would you–I love you, Freda. Will you marry me?" After a suitable interval, highly satisfactory to both parties, Major Wilbraham said, with a chuckle: "And what’s more, we’ve still got the secret of the ivory cache." "But they took it from you!" The major chuckled again. "That’s just what they didn’t do! You see, I wrote out a spoof copy, and before joining you here tonight, I put the real thing in a letter I was sending to my tailor and posted it. They’ve got the spoof copy–and I wish them joy of it! Do you know what we’ll do, sweetheart! We’ll go to East Africa for our honeymoon and hunt out the cache." III Mr Parker Pyne left his office and climbed two flights of stairs. Here in a room at the top of the house sat Mrs Oliver, the sensational novelist, now a member of Mr Pyne’s staff. Mr Parker Pyne tapped at the door and entered. Mrs Oliver sat at a table on which were a typewriter, several notebooks, a general confusion of loose manuscripts and a large bag of apples. "A very good story, Mrs Oliver," said Mr Parker Pyne genially. "It went off well?" said Mrs Oliver. "I’m glad." "That water-in-the-cellar business," said Mr Parker Pyne. "You don’t think, on a future occasion, that something more original–perhaps?" He made the suggestion with proper diffidence. Mrs Oliver shook her head and took an apple from her bag. "I think not, Mr Pyne. You see, people are used to reading about such things. Water rising in a cellar, poison gas, et cetera. Knowing about it beforehand gives it an extra thrill when it happens to oneself. The public is conservative, Mr Pyne; it likes the old well-worn gadgets." "Well, you should know," admitted Mr Parker Pyne, mindful of the authoress’s forty-six successful works of fiction, all best sellers in England and America, and freely translated into French, German, Italian, Hungarian, Finnish, Japanese and Abyssinian. "How about expenses?" Mrs Oliver drew a paper towards her. "Very moderate, on the whole. The two darkies, Percy and Jerry, wanted very little. Young Lorrimer, the actor, was willing to enact the part of Mr Reid for five guineas. The cellar speech was a phonograph record, of course." "Whitefriars has been extremely useful to me," said Mr Pyne. "I bought it for a song and it has already been the scene of eleven exciting dramas." "Oh, I forgot," said Mrs Oliver. "Johnny’s wages. Five shillings." "Johnny?" "Yes. The boy who poured the water from the watering cans through the hole in the wall." "Ah yes. By the way, Mrs Oliver, how did you happen to know Swahili?" "I didn’t." "I see. The British Museum perhaps?" "No. Delfridge’s Information Bureau." "How marvellous are the resources of modern commerce!" he murmured. "The only thing that worries me," said Mrs Oliver, "is that those two young people won’t find any cache when they get there." "One cannot have everything in this world," said Mr Parker Pyne. "They will have had a honeymoon." Mrs Wilbraham was sitting in a deck-chair. Her husband was writing a letter. "What’s the date, Freda?" "The sixteenth." "The sixteenth. By jove!" "What is it, dear?" "Nothing. I just remembered a chap named Jones." However happily married, there are some things one never tells. "Dash it all," thought Major Wilbraham. "I ought to have called at that place and got my money back." And then, being a fair-minded man, he looked at the other side of the question. "After all, it was I who broke the bargain. I suppose if I’d gone to see Jones something would have happened.

Won’t you give it to me? To me?" A woman who intoxicated you with her beauty. There were such women then. . . . Also, Edward was only too anxious to get rid of the necklace. It was a heaven- sent opportunity for a beau geste. He took it from his pocket and dropped it into her outstretched hand. "We’ve been—pals," he said. "Ah!" Her eyes smouldered—lit up. Then surprisingly she bent her head to him. For a moment he held her, her lips against his. . . . Then she jumped off. The scarlet car sped forward with a great leap. Romance! Adventure! At twelve o’clock on Christmas Day, Edward Robinson strode into the tiny drawing room of a house in Clapham with the customary greeting of "Merry Christmas." Maud, who was rearranging a piece of holly, greeted him coldly. "Have a good day in the country with that friend of yours?" she inquired. "Look here," said Edward. "That was a lie I told you. I won a competition—£500, and I bought a car with it. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d kick up a row about it. That’s the first thing. I’ve bought the car and there’s nothing more to be said about it. The second thing is this—I’m not going to hang about for years. My prospects are quite good enough and I mean to marry you next month. See?" "Oh!" said Maud faintly. Was this—could this be—Edward speaking in this masterful fashion? "Will you?" said Edward. "Yes or no?" She gazed at him, fascinated. There was awe and admiration in her eyes, and the sight of that look was intoxicating to Edward. Gone was that patient motherliness which had roused him to exasperation. So had the Lady Noreen looked at him last night. But the Lady Noreen had receded far away, right into the region of Romance, side by side with the Marchesa Bianca. This was the Real Thing. This was his woman. "Yes or no?" he repeated, and drew a step nearer. "Ye—ye-es," faltered Maud. "But, oh, Edward, what has happened to you? You’re quite different today." "Yes," said Edward. "For twenty-four hours I’ve been a man instead of a worm—and, by God, it pays!" He caught her in his arms almost as Bill the superman might have done. "Do you love me, Maud? Tell me, do you love me?" "Oh, Edward!" breathed Maud. "I adore you. . . ." Four JANE IN SEARCH OF A JOB "Jane in Search of a Job" was first published in Grand Magazine, August 1924. Jane Cleveland rustled the pages of the Daily Leader and sighed. A deep sigh that came from the innermost recesses of her being. She looked with distaste at the marble-topped table, the poached egg on toast which reposed on it, and the small pot of tea. Not because she was not hungry. That was far from being the case. Jane was extremely hungry. At that moment she felt like consuming a pound and a half of well-cooked beefsteak, with chip potatoes, and possibly French beans. The whole washed down with some more exciting vintage than tea. But young women whose exchequers are in a parlous condition cannot be choosers. Jane was lucky to be able to order a poached egg and a pot of tea. It seemed unlikely that she would be able to do so tomorrow. That is unless— She turned once more to the advertisement columns of the Daily Leader. To put it plainly, Jane was out of a job, and the position was becoming acute. Already the genteel lady who presided over the shabby boardinghouse was looking askance at this particular young woman. "And yet," said Jane to herself, throwing up her chin indignantly, which was a habit of hers, "and yet I’m intelligent and good-looking and well educated. What more does anyone want?" According to the Daily Leader, they seemed to want shorthand typists of vast experience, managers for business houses with a little capital to invest, ladies to share in the profits of poultry farming (here again a little capital was required), and innumerable cooks, housemaids and parlourmaids—particularly parlourmaids.

(She moves dreamily to the writing table.) Now then, what did I want? Ah, I know. (She lifts the telephone receiver.) Now let me see—ah yes, this thing. (She cradles the receiver first in one arm and then in the other.) (MIDGE stares amazed at LADY ANGKATELL.) (With satisfaction) Ah! I see what it is. (She replaces the receiver.) MIDGE. What are you doing. Lucy? LADY ANGKATELL. Doing? MIDGE. You seemed to be having a kind of game with the telephone receiver. LADY ANGKATELL. Oh, that was Mrs. Bagshaw’s baby. (She looks at MIDGE.) You’ve got the wrong vase, darling. MIDGE. (Rising) What did you say? LADY ANGKATELL. I said you’d got the wrong vase. It’s the white vase for dahlias. MIDGE. No, I meant what did you say about somebody’s baby? LADY ANGKATELL. Oh, that was the telephone receiver, my pet. MIDGE. (Moving to the drinks table) I don’t wonder that Gerda Cristow nearly has a nervous breakdown every time you talk to her. (She picks up the white vase and jug of water from the drinks table, moves and puts them on the coffee table.) What has Mrs. Bagshaw’s baby got to do with the telephone receiver? (She pours some water into the vase and fills it with the dahlias, during the ensuing speeches.) LADY ANGKATELL. She seemed to be holding it—the baby, I mean—upside down. So I was trying this way and that way. And of course I see what it is—she’s left- handed. That’s why it looked all wrong. Is John Cristow down yet? MIDGE. Yes, he went into the garden to look for Henrietta. LADY ANGKATELL. (Sitting on the sofa at the Right end of it) Oh! Do you think that was very wise of him? MIDGE. What do you mean? LADY ANGKATELL. Well, I don’t want to say anything . . . MIDGE. Come on, Lucy. Give. LADY ANGKATELL. Well, you know, darling, that I don’t sleep very well. And when I can’t sleep I’m inclined to prowl around the house. MIDGE. I know, half the guests think it’s burglars, the other half think it’s ghosts. LADY ANGKATELL. Well, I happened to be looking through the passage window. John was just coming back to the house, and it was close on three o’clock. (There is a pause. MIDGE and LADY ANGKATELL look at each other.) MIDGE. (Picking up the jug and vase of dahlias and crossing with them to the drinks table) Even for old friends who have a lot to say to each other, three in the morning is a little excessive. (She puts the jug and vase on the drinks table.) One wonders what Gerda thinks about it. LADY ANGKATELL. One wonders if Gerda thinks. MIDGE. (Easing above the sofa) Even the meekest of wives may turn. LADY ANGKATELL. I don’t think Henrietta was sleeping very well either last night. The light was on in her room, and I thought I saw her curtains move. MIDGE. Really, John is a fool. LADY ANGKATELL. He’s a man who’s always taken risks—and usually got away with them. MIDGE. One day he’ll go too far. This was a bit blatant, even for him. LADY ANGKATELL. My dear child, he couldn’t help himself. That woman just sailed in last night and—grabbed him. I must say I admired her performance. It was so beautifully timed and planned. MIDGE. Do you think it was planned? LADY ANGKATELL. (Rising) Well, darling, come, come. (She smiles, picks up the Daily Mirror and crosses to the fireplace.) MIDGE. You may say, in your detached way, she gave a beautiful performance—but it remains to be seen whether Gerda and Henrietta agree with you.

A half smile came to the other’s lips. "And it is this—boy who will defeat the master criminal of our time?" "This—boy, as you say! But I sometimes fancy I see a shadow behind." "You mean?" "Peel Edgerton." "Peel Edgerton?" said the Prime Minister in astonishment. "Yes. I see his hand in this." He struck the open letter. "He’s there—working in the dark, silently, unobtrusively. I’ve always felt that if anyone was to run Mr. Brown to earth, Peel Edgerton would be the man. I tell you he’s on the case now, but doesn’t want it known. By the way, I got rather an odd request from him the other day." "Yes?" "He sent me a cutting from some American paper. It referred to a man’s body found near the docks in New York about three weeks ago. He asked me to collect any information on the subject I could." "Well?" Carter shrugged his shoulders. "I couldn’t get much. Young fellow about thirty-five—poorly dressed—face very badly disfigured. He was never identified." "And you fancy that the two matters are connected in some way?" "Somehow I do. I may be wrong, of course." There was a pause, then Mr. Carter continued: "I asked him to come round here. Not that we’ll get anything out of him he doesn’t want to tell. His legal instincts are too strong. But there’s no doubt he can throw light on one or two obscure points in young Beresford’s letter. Ah, here he is!" The two men rose to greet the newcomer. A half whimsical thought flashed across the Premier’s mind. "My successor, perhaps!" "We’ve had a letter from young Beresford," said Mr. Carter, coming to the point at once. "You’ve seen him, I suppose?" "You suppose wrong," said the lawyer. "Oh!" Mr. Carter was a little nonplussed. Sir James smiled, and stroked his chin. "He rang me up," he volunteered. "Would you have any objection to telling us exactly what passed between you?" "Not at all. He thanked me for a certain letter which I had written to him—as a matter of fact, I had offered him a job. Then he reminded me of something I had said to him at Manchester respecting that bogus telegram which lured Miss Cowley away. I asked him if anything untoward had occurred. He said it had—that in a drawer in Mr. Hersheimmer’s room he had discovered a photograph." The lawyer paused, then continued: "I asked him if the photograph bore the name and address of a Californian photographer. He replied: "You’re on to it, sir. It had." Then he went on to tell me something I didn’t know. The original of that photograph was the French girl, Annette, who saved his life." "What?" "Exactly. I asked the young man with some curiosity what he had done with the photograph. He replied that he had put it back where he found it." The lawyer paused again. "That was good, you know—distinctly good. He can use his brains, that young fellow. I congratulated him. The discovery was a providential one. Of course, from the moment that the girl in Manchester was proved to be a plant everything was altered. Young Beresford saw that for himself without my having to tell it him. But he felt he couldn’t trust his judgment on the subject of Miss Cowley. Did I think she was alive? I told him, duly weighing the evidence, that there was a very decided chance in favour of it. That brought us back to the telegram." "Yes?" "I advised him to apply to you for a copy of the original wire. It had occurred to me as probable that, after Miss Cowley flung it on the floor, certain words might have been erased and altered with the express intention of setting searchers on a false trail." Carter nodded. He took a sheet from his pocket, and read aloud: Come at once, Astley Priors, Gatehouse, Kent. Great developments—Tommy. "Very simple," said Sir James, "and very ingenious. Just a few words to alter, and the thing was done. And the one important clue they overlooked." "What was that?" "The page boy’s statement that Miss Cowley drove to Charing Cross.

Yet David Keeley had seen her going up those stairs. There were two other rooms occupied in that wing. There was Mrs Graham’s, and there was her son’s. Her son’s. But he and Madge… Surely Madge would have guessed…But Madge wasn’t the guessing kind. All the same, no smoke without fire–Smoke! Ah! he remembered. A wisp of smoke curling out through Mrs Graham’s bedroom door. He acted on impulse. Straight up the stairs and into her room. It was empty. He closed the door behind him and locked it. He went across to the grate. A heap of charred fragments. Very gingerly he raked them over with his finger. His luck was in. In the very centre were some unburnt fragments–fragments of letters… Very disjointed fragments, but they told him something of value. "Life can be wonderful, Roger darling. I never knew…all my life has been a dream till I met you, Roger…" "…Gerard knows, I think…I am sorry but what can I do? Nothing is real to me but you, Roger…We shall be together, soon. "What are you going to tell him at Laidell, Roger? You write strangely–but I am not afraid…" Very carefully, Mr Satterthwaite put the fragments into an envelope from the writing-table. He went to the door, unlocked it and opened it to find himself face to face with Mrs Graham. It was an awkward moment, and Mr Satterthwaite was momentarily out of countenance. He did what was, perhaps, the best thing, attacked the situation with simplicity. "I have been searching your room, Mrs Graham. I have found something–a packet of letters imperfectly burnt." A wave of alarm passed over her face. It was gone in a flash, but it had been there. "Letters from Mrs Annesley to your son." She hesitated for a minute, then said quietly: "That is so. I thought they would be better burnt." "For what reason?" "My son is engaged to be married. These letters–if they had been brought into publicity through the poor girl’s suicide–might have caused much pain and trouble." "Your son could burn his own letters." She had no answer ready for that. Mr Satterthwaite pursued his advantage. "You found these letters in his room, brought them into your room and burnt them. Why? You were afraid, Mrs Graham." "I am not in the habit of being afraid, Mr Satterthwaite." "No–but this was a desperate case." "Desperate?" "Your son might have been in danger of arrest–for murder." "Murder!" He saw her face go white. He went on quickly: "You heard Mrs Annesley go into your son’s room last night. He had told her of his engagement? No, I see he hadn’t. He told her then. They quarrelled, and he–" "That’s a lie!" They had been so absorbed in their duel of words that they had not heard approaching footsteps. Roger Graham had come up behind them unperceived by either. "It’s all right, Mother. Don’t–worry. Come into my room, Mr Satterthwaite." Mr Sattherwaite followed him into his room. Mrs Graham had turned away and did not attempt to follow them. Roger Graham shut the door. "Listen, Mr Satterthwaite, you think I killed Mabelle. You think I strangled her–here–and took her along and hung her up on that door–later–when everyone was asleep?" Mr Satterthwaite stared at him. Then he said surprisingly: "No, I do not think so." "Thank God for that. I couldn’t have killed Mabelle. I–I loved her. Or didn’t I? I don’t know. It’s a tangle that I can’t explain. I’m fond of Madge–I always have been. And she’s such a good sort. We suit each other. But Mabelle was different. It was–I can’t explain it–a sort of enchantment. I was, I think–afraid of her." Mr Satterthwaite nodded. "It was madness–a kind of bewildering ecstasy…But it was impossible. It wouldn’t have worked. That sort of thing–doesn’t last. I know what it means now to have a spell cast over you."

"David? Mark here. That girl I met with you the other evening. Poppy. What’s her other name?" "Going to pinch my girl, is that it?" David sounded highly amused. "You’ve got so many of them," I retorted. "You could surely spare one." "You’ve got a heavyweight of your own, old boy. I thought you were going steady with her." "Going steady." A repulsive term. And yet, I thought, struck suddenly with its aptitude, how well it described my relationship with Hermia. And why should it make me feel depressed? I had always felt in the back of my mind that someday Hermia and I would marry… I liked her better than anyone I knew. We had so much in common…. For no conceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to yawn… Our future stretched out before me. Hermia and I going to plays of significance—that mattered. Discussions of art—of music. No doubt about it, Hermia was the perfect companion. But not much fun, said some derisive imp, popping up from my subconscious. I was shocked. "Gone to sleep?" asked David. "Of course not. To tell the truth, I found your friend Poppy very refreshing." "Good word. She is—taken in small doses. Her actual name is Pamela Stirling, and she works in one of those arty flower places in Mayfair. You know, three dead twigs, a tulip with its petals pinned back and a speckled laurel leaf. Price three guineas." He gave me the address. "Take her out and enjoy yourself," he said in a kindly avuncular fashion. "You’ll find it a great relaxation. That girl knows nothing—she’s absolutely empty-headed. She’ll believe anything you tell her. She’s virtuous by the way, so don’t indulge in any false hopes." He rang off. IV I invaded the portals of Flower Studies Ltd. with some trepidation. An overpowering smell of gardenia nearly knocked me backwards. A number of girls, dressed in pale green sheaths and all looking exactly like Poppy, confused me. Finally I identified her. She was writing down an address with some difficulty, pausing doubtfully over the spelling of Fortescue Crescent. As soon as she was at liberty, after having further difficulties connected with producing the right change for a five-pound note, I claimed her attention. "We met the other night—with David Ardingly," I reminded her. "Oh yes!" agreed Poppy warmly, her eyes passing vaguely over my head. "I wanted to ask you something." I felt sudden qualms. "Perhaps I’d better buy some flowers?" Like an automaton who has had the right button pressed, Poppy said: "We’ve some lovely roses, fresh in today." "These yellow ones, perhaps?" There were roses everywhere. "How much are they?" "Vewy vewy cheap," said Poppy in a honeyed persuasive voice. "Only five shillings each." I swallowed and said I would have six of them. "And some of these vewy special leaves with them?" I looked dubiously at the special leaves which appeared to be in an advanced state of decay. Instead I chose some bright green asparagus fern, which choice obviously lowered me in Poppy’s estimation. "There was something I wanted to ask you," I reiterated as Poppy was rather clumsily draping the asparagus fern round the roses. "The other evening you mentioned something called the Pale Horse." With a violent start, Poppy dropped the roses and the asparagus fern on the floor. "Can you tell me more about it?" Poppy straightened herself after stooping. "What did you say?" she asked. "I was asking you about the Pale Horse." "A pale horse? What do you mean?" "You mentioned it the other evening." "I’m sure I never did anything of the kind! I’ve never heard of any such thing." "Somebody told you about it. Who was it?" Poppy drew a deep breath and spoke very fast. "I don’t in the least know what you mean! And we’re not supposed to talk to customers."… She slapped paper round my choice. "That will be thirty-five shillings, please." I gave her two pound notes. She thrust six shillings into my hand and turned quickly to another customer. Her hands, I noticed, were shaking slightly. I went out slowly.

What I was searching for, I hardly knew. The one thing needful, I could not believe there was any chance of finding. He would never have run the risk of keeping it. Still when I found the little cupboard above the washstand locked, I could not resist the temptation of seeing what was inside it. The lock was quite a simple one to pick. The door swung open. It was full of old bottles. I took them up one by one with a trembling hand. Suddenly, I uttered a cry. Figure to yourself, my friend, I held in my hand a little phial with an English chemist’s label. On it were the words: "Trinitrine Tablets. One to be taken when required. Mr John Wilson." I controlled my emotion, closed the cupboard, slipped the bottle into my pocket, and continued to repair the gas leak! One must be methodical. Then I left the château, and took train for my own country as soon as possible. I arrived in Brussels late that night. I was writing out a report for the préfet in the morning, when a note was brought to me. It was from old Madame Déroulard, and it summoned me to the house in the Avenue Louise without delay. François opened the door to me. "Madame la Baronne is awaiting you." He conducted me to her apartments. She sat in state in a large armchair. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Virginie. "M. Poirot," said the old lady, "I have just learned that you are not what you pretend to be. You are a police officer." "That is so, madame." "You came here to inquire into the circumstances of my son’s death?" Again I replied: "That is so, madame." "I should be glad if you would tell me what progress you have made." I hesitated. "First I would like to know how you have learned all this, madame." "From one who is no longer of this world." Her words, and the brooding way she uttered them, sent a chill to my heart. I was incapable of speech. "Therefore, monsieur, I would beg of you most urgently to tell me exactly what progress you have made in your investigation." "Madame, my investigation is finished." "My son?" "Was killed deliberately." "You know by whom?" "Yes, madame." "Who, then?" "M. de Saint Alard." "You are wrong. M. de Saint Alard is incapable of such a crime." "The proofs are in my hands." "I beg of you once more to tell me all." This time I obeyed, going over each step that had led me to the discovery of the truth. She listened attentively. At the end she nodded her head. "Yes, yes, it is all as you say, all but one thing. It was not M. de Saint Alard who killed my son. It was I, his mother." I stared at her. She continued to nod her head gently. "It is well that I sent for you. It is the providence of the good God that Virginie told me before she departed for the convent, what she had done. Listen, M. Poirot! My son was an evil man. He persecuted the church. He led a life of mortal sin. He dragged down the other souls beside his own. But there was worse than that. As I came out of my room in this house one morning, I saw my daughter-in-law standing at the head of the stairs. She was reading a letter. I saw my son steal up behind her. One swift push, and she fell, striking her head on the marble steps. When they picked her up she was dead. My son was a murderer, and only I, his mother, knew it." She closed her eyes for a moment. "You cannot conceive, monsieur, of my agony, my despair. What was I to do? Denounce him to the police? I could not bring myself to do it. It was my duty, but my flesh was weak. Besides, would they believe me? My eyesight had been failing for some time—they would say I was mistaken. I kept silence. But my conscience gave me no peace. By keeping silence I too was a murderer. My son inherited his wife’s money. He flourished as the green bay tree. And now he was to have a Minister’s portfolio. His persecution of the church would be redoubled.

"Well, my boy," said Uncle Sydney, "we’ve got something to talk to you about. How would you like to come and live near your Aunt Carrie and me at Birmingham?" "Thank you," said Vernon, "but I’d rather live here." "A bit gloomy, don’t you think?" said his uncle. "Now I’ve got my eye on a jolly house – not too big, thoroughly comfortable. There’ll be your cousins near for you to play with in the holidays. It’s a very good idea, I think." "I’m sure it is," said Vernon politely. "But I’d really like being here best, thank you." "Ah! H’m," said Uncle Sydney. He blew his nose and looked questioningly at the lawyer, who assented to the look with a slight nod. "It’s not quite so simple as that, old chap," said Uncle Sydney. "I think you’re quite old enough to understand if I explain things to you. Now that your father’s dead – er – passed from us, Abbots Puissants belongs to you." "I know," said Vernon. "Eh? How do you know? Servants been talking?" "Father told me before he went away." "Oh!" said Uncle Sydney rather taken aback. "Oh, I see. Well, as I say, Abbots Puissants belongs to you, but a place like this takes a lot of money to run – paying wages and things like that – you understand? And then there are some things called Death Duties. When anyone dies, you have to pay out a lot of money to the Government. "Now, your father wasn’t a rich man. When his father died, and he came into this place, he had so little money that he thought he’d have to sell it." "Sell it?" burst out Vernon incredulously. "Yes, it’s not entailed." "What’s entailed?" Mr Flemming explained carefully and clearly. "But – but – you aren’t going to sell it now?" Vernon gazed at him with agonizing, imploring eyes. "Certainly not," said Mr Flemming. "The estate is left to you, and nothing can be done until you are of age – that means twenty-one, you know." Vernon breathed a sigh of relief. "But, you see," continued Uncle Sydney, "there isn’t enough money to go on living here. As I say, your father would have had to sell it. But he met your mother and married her, and fortunately she had enough money to – to keep things going. But your father’s death has made a lot of difference – for one thing he has left certain – er – debts which your mother insists on paying." There was a sniff from Myra. Uncle Sydney’s tone was embarrassed and he hurried on. "The common-sense thing to do is to let Abbots Puissants for a term of years – till you are twenty-one, in fact. By then, who knows? Things may – er – change for the better. Naturally your mother will be happier living near her own relations. You must think of your mother, you know, my boy." "Yes," said Vernon. "Father told me to." "So that’s settled – eh?" How cruel they were, thought Vernon. Asking him – when he could see that there was nothing to ask him about. They could do as they liked. They meant to. Why call him in here and pretend! Strangers would come and live in Abbots Puissants. Never mind! Some day he would be twenty-one. "Darling," said Myra, "I’m doing it all for you. It would be so sad here without Daddy, wouldn’t it?" She held out her arms, but Vernon pretended not to notice. He walked out of the room, saying, with difficulty: "Thank you, Uncle Sydney, so much, for telling me …" 4 He went out into the garden and wandered on till he came to the old Abbey. He sat down with his chin in his hands. "Mother could!" he said to himself. "If she liked, she could! She wants to go and live in a horrid red brick house with pipes on it like Uncle Sydney’s. She doesn’t like Abbots Puissants – she never has. But she needn’t pretend it’s all for me. That’s not true. She says things that aren’t true. She always has –" He sat there smouldering with indignation. "Vernon – Vernon – I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

"He was looking pretty ghastly, too. I put it down to his condition at the time. Of course, now, I realize that he had come straight from committing the crime." Poirot interposed a quick question. "You heard nothing from the Tower room?" "No, but you must remember that I was right at the other end of the building. The walls are thick, and I don’t believe you would even hear a pistol shot fired from there." Poirot nodded. "I asked if he would like some help getting to bed," continued Astwell. "But he said he was all right and went into his room and banged the door. I undressed and went to bed." Poirot was staring thoughtfully at the carpet. "You realize, M. Astwell," he said at last, "that your evidence is very important?" "I suppose so, at least—what do you mean?" "Your evidence that ten minutes elapsed between the slamming of the front door and Leverson’s appearance upstairs. He himself says, so I understand, that he came into the house and went straight up to bed. But there is more than that. Lady Astwell’s accusation of the secretary is fantastic, I admit, yet up to now it has not been proved impossible. But your evidence creates an alibi." "How is that?" "Lady Astwell says that she left her husband at a quarter to twelve, while the secretary had gone to bed at eleven o’clock. The only time he could have committed the crime was between a quarter to twelve and Charles Leverson’s return. Now, if, as you say, you sat with your door open, he could not have come out of his room without your seeing him." "That is so," agreed the other. "There is no other staircase?" "No, to get down to the Tower room he would have had to pass my door, and he didn’t, I am quite sure of that. And, anyway, M. Poirot, as I said just now, the man is as meek as a parson, I assure you." "But yes, but yes," said Poirot soothingly, "I understand all that." He paused. "And you will not tell me the subject of your quarrel with Sir Reuben?" The other’s face turned a dark red. "You’ll get nothing out of me." Poirot looked at the ceiling. "I can always be discreet," he murmured, "where a lady is concerned." Victor Astwell sprang to his feet. "Damn you, how did you—what do you mean?" "I was thinking," said Poirot, "of Miss Lily Margrave." Victor Astwell stood undecided for a minute or two, then his colour subsided, and he sat down again. "You are too clever for me, M. Poirot. Yes, it was Lily we quarrelled about. Reuben had his knife into her; he had ferreted out something or other about the girl—false references, something of that kind. I don’t believe a word of it myself. "And then he went further than he had any right to go, talked about her stealing down at night and getting out of the house to meet some fellow or other. My God! I gave it to him; I told him that better men than he had been killed for saying less. That shut him up. Reuben was inclined to be a bit afraid of me when I got going." "I hardly wonder at it," murmured Poirot politely. "I think a lot of Lily Margrave," said Victor in another tone. "A nice girl through and through." Poirot did not answer. He was staring in front of him, seemingly lost in abstraction. He came out of his brown study with a jerk. "I must, I think, promenade myself a little. There is a hotel here, yes?" "Two," said Victor Astwell, "the Golf Hotel up by the links and the Mitre down by the station." "I thank you," said Poirot. "Yes, certainly I must promenade myself a little." The Golf Hotel, as befits its name, stands on the golf links almost adjoining the club house. It was to this hostelry that Poirot repaired first in the course of that "promenade" which he had advertised himself as being about to take. The little man had his own way of doing things. Three minutes after he had entered the Golf Hotel he was in private consultation with Miss Langdon, the manageress. "I regret to incommode you in any way, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, "but you see I am a detective."

Old Hall was a big Victorian house surrounded by woods and park land. Since it had been proved unlettable and unsaleable as it was, an enterprising speculator had divided it into four flats with a central hot-water system, and the use of "the grounds" to be held in common by the tenants. The experiment had been satisfactory. A rich and eccentric old lady and her maid occupied one flat. The old lady had a passion for birds and entertained a feathered gathering to meals every day. A retired Indian judge and his wife rented a second. A very young couple, recently married, occupied the third, and the fourth had been taken only two months ago by two maiden ladies of the name of Skinner. The four sets of tenants were only on the most distant terms with each other, since none of them had anything in common. The landlord had been heard to say that this was an excellent thing. What he dreaded were friendships followed by estrangements and subsequent complaints to him. Miss Marple was acquainted with all the tenants, though she knew none of them well. The elder Miss Skinner, Miss Lavinia, was what might be termed the working member of the firm, Miss Emily, the younger, spent most of her time in bed suffering from various complaints which, in the opinion of St. Mary Mead, were largely imaginary. Only Miss Lavinia believed devoutly in her sister’s martyrdom and patience under affliction, and willingly ran errands and trotted up and down to the village for things that "my sister had suddenly fancied." It was the view of St. Mary Mead that if Miss Emily suffered half as much as she said she did, she would have sent for Doctor Haydock long ago. But Miss Emily, when this was hinted to her, shut her eyes in a superior way and murmured that her case was not a simple one—the best specialists in London had been baffled by it—and that a wonderful new man had put her on a most revolutionary course of treatment and that she really hoped her health would improve under it. No humdrum GP could possibly understand her case. "And it’s my opinion," said the outspoken Miss Hartnell, "that she’s very wise not to send for him. Dear Doctor Haydock, in that breezy manner of his, would tell her that there was nothing the matter with her and to get up and not make a fuss! Do her a lot of good!" Failing such arbitrary treatment, however, Miss Emily continued to lie on sofas, to surround herself with strange little pill boxes, and to reject nearly everything that had been cooked for her and ask for something else—usually something difficult and inconvenient to get. The door was opened to Miss Marple by "Gladdie," looking more depressed than Miss Marple had ever thought possible. In the sitting room (a quarter of the late drawing room, which had been partitioned into a dining room, drawing room, bathroom, and housemaid’s cupboard), Miss Lavinia rose to greet Miss Marple. Lavinia Skinner was a tall, gaunt, bony female of fifty. She had a gruff voice and an abrupt manner. "Nice to see you," she said. "Emily’s lying down—feeling low today, poor dear. Hope she’ll see you, it would cheer her up, but there are times when she doesn’t feel up to seeing anybody. Poor dear, she’s wonderfully patient." Miss Marple responded politely. Servants were the main topic of conversation in St. Mary Mead, so it was not difficult to lead the conversation in that direction. Miss Marple said she had heard that that nice girl, Gladys Holmes, was leaving. Miss Lavinia nodded. "Wednesday week. Broke things, you know. Can’t have that." Miss Marple sighed and said we all had to put up with things nowadays. It was so difficult to get girls to come to the country. Did Miss Skinner really think it was wise to part with Gladys? "Know it’s difficult to get servants," admitted Miss Lavinia. "The Devereuxs haven’t got anybody—but then, I don’t wonder—always quarrelling, jazz on all night—meals anytime—that girl knows nothing of housekeeping. I pity her husband! Then the Larkins have just lost their maid. Of course, what with the judge’s Indian temper and his wanting chota hazri, as he calls it, at six in the morning and Mrs.

COMMENT BY J.L. It’s odd how words – casual, unconnected words – can make a thing live in your imagination. I’m convinced that I see all these people much more clearly than Celia did as she was telling me about them. I can visualize that old grandmother – so vigorous, so much of her generation, with her Rabelaisian tongue, her bullying of her servants, her kindness to the poor sewing woman. I can see further back still to her mother – that delicate, lovable creature "enjoying her month’. Note, too, the difference of description between male and female. The wife dies of a decline, the husband of galloping consumption. The ugly word tuberculosis never intrudes. Women decline, men gallop to death. Note, too, for it is amusing, the vigour of these consumptive parents" progeny. Of those ten children, so Celia told me when I asked her, only three died early and those were accidental deaths, a sailor of yellow fever, a sister in a carriage accident, another sister in childbed. Seven of them reached the age of seventy. Do we really know anything about heredity? It pleases me, that picture of a house with its Nottingham lace and its woolwork and its solid shining mahogany furniture. It has backbone. They knew what they wanted, that generation. They got it and they enjoyed it, and they took a keen, full-blooded active pleasure in the art of self-preservation. You notice that Celia pictures that house, her grandmother’s, far more clearly than her own home. She must have gone there just at the noticing age. Her home is more people than place – Nannie, Rouncy, the bouncing Susan, Goldie in his cage. Then her discovery of her mother – funny, it seems, that she should not have discovered her before. For Miriam, I think, had a very vivid personality. The glimpses I get of Miriam enchant me. She had, I fancy, a charm that Celia did not inherit. Even between the conventional lines of her letter to her little girl (such "period pieces" those letters, full of stress on the moral attitude) – even, as I say, between the conventional admonitions to goodness, a trace of the real Miriam peeps out. I like the endearment – precious lamb, pigeony pumpkin – and the caress – the short, sharp hug. Not a maudlin or a demonstrative woman – an impulsive one – a woman with strange flashes of intuitive understanding. The father is dimmer. He appeared to Celia as a brown-bearded giant – lazy, good-humoured, full of fun. He sounds unlike his mother – probably took after his father, who is represented in Celia’s narrative by a crown of wax flowers under glass. He was, I fancy, a friendly soul whom everybody liked – more popular than Miriam – but without her quality of enchantment. Celia, I think, took after him. Her placidity, her even temper, her sweetness. But she inherited something from Miriam – a dangerous intensity of affection. That’s how I see it. But perhaps I invent … These people have, after all, become my creations. 4 Death 1 Celia was going home! The excitement of it! The train journey seemed endless. Celia had a nice book to read, they had the carriage to themselves – but her impatience made the whole thing seem interminable. "Well," said her father. "Glad to be going home, poppet?" He gave her a playful little nip as he spoke. How big and brown he looked – much bigger than Celia had thought. Her mother, on the other hand, was much smaller. Queer the way that shapes and sizes seemed to alter. "Yes, Daddy, very pleased," said Celia. She spoke primly. This queer swelling, aching feeling inside wouldn’t let her do anything else. Her father looked a little disappointed. Her cousin Lottie, who was coming to stay with them and who was travelling with them, said: "What a solemn little mite it is!" Her father said: "Oh, well, a child soon forgets …" His face looked wistful. Miriam said: "She hasn’t forgotten a bit. She’s just boiling over inside." And she reached out her hand and gave Celia’s a little squeeze. Her eyes smiled into Celia’s – as though they two had a secret shared between them.

She said she had seen a ghost." "Seen a ghost?" "Yes, a tall woman dressed all in white who moved without a sound and floated in the air." "What a ridiculous story!" "Yes, Lord Mayfield, that is what I told her. I must say she seemed rather ashamed of herself. She went off upstairs and I came back in here." "How long ago was this?" "Just a minute or two before you and Sir George came in." "And you were out of the room—how long?" The secretary considered. "Two minutes—at the most three." "Long enough," groaned Lord Mayfield. Suddenly he clutched his friend’s arm. "George, that shadow I saw—slinking away from this window. That was it! As soon as Carlile left the room, he nipped in, seized the plans and made off." "Dirty work," said Sir George. Then he seized his friend by the arm. "Look here, Charles, this is the devil of a business. What the hell are we going to do about it?" !ACSignature.tif Murder in the Mews Four Cases of Hercule Poirot !interior HarperPBK logo.tif TRIANGLE AT RHODES Five The sequence of events on the night of October the twenty-ninth was perfectly clear. To begin with, there was a scene between the two men—Gold and Chantry. Chantry’s voice rose louder and louder and his last words were overheard by four persons—the cashier at the desk, the manager, General Barnes and Pamela Lyall. "You goddamned swine! If you and my wife think you can put this over on me, you’re mistaken! As long as I’m alive, Valentine will remain my wife." Then he had flung out of the hotel, his face livid with rage. That was before dinner. After dinner (how arranged no one knew) a reconciliation took place. Valentine asked Marjorie Gold to come out for a moonlight drive. Pamela and Sarah went with them. Gold and Chantry played billiards together. Afterwards they joined Hercule Poirot and General Barnes in the lounge. For the first time almost, Chantry’s face was smiling and good-tempered. "Have a good game?" asked the General. The Commander said: "This fellow’s too good for me! Ran out with a break of forty-six." Douglas Gold deprecated this modestly. "Pure fluke. I assure you it was. What’ll you have? I’ll go and get hold of a waiter." "Pink gin for me, thanks." "Right. General?" "Thanks. I’ll have a whisky and soda." "Same for me. What about you, M. Poirot?" "You are most amiable. I should like a sirop de cassis." "A sirop—excuse me?" "Sirop de cassis. The syrup of blackcurrants." "Oh, a liqueur! I see. I suppose they have it here? I never heard of it." "They have it, yes. But it is not a liqueur." Douglas Gold said, laughing: "Sounds a funny taste to me—but every man his own poison! I’ll go and order them." Commander Chantry sat down. Though not by nature a talkative or a social man, he was clearly doing his best to be genial. "Odd how one gets used to doing without any news," he remarked. The General grunted. "Can’t say the Continental Daily Mail four days old is much use to me. Of course I get The Times sent to me and Punch every week, but they’re a devilish long time in coming." "Wonder if we’ll have a general election over this Palestine business?" "Whole thing’s been badly mismanaged," declared the General just as Douglas Gold reappeared followed by a waiter with the drinks. The General had just begun on an anecdote of his military career in India in the year 1905. The two Englishmen were listening politely, if without great interest. Hercule Poirot was sipping his sirop de cassis. The General reached the point of his narrative and there was dutiful laughter all round. Then the women appeared at the doorway of the lounge. They all four seemed in the best of spirits and were talking and laughing. "Tony, darling, it was too divine," cried Valentine as she dropped into a chair by his side. "The most marvellous idea of Mrs. Gold’s. You all ought to have come!" Her husband said: "What about a drink?"

RAYMOND. I simply don’t understand what you are talking about. What is this thing? CARBERY. It’s got a label on it. RAYMOND. (Reading) "Digitoxin." CARBERY. Digitoxin is a heart poison. SARAH. What are you driving at, Colonel Carbery? CARBERY. I’m just anxious to know how that phial of digitoxin got from Doctor Gerard’s case into Mr. Boynton’s pocket. RAYMOND. I know nothing about it. CARBERY. You deny taking it from Doctor Gerard’s case? RAYMOND. Certainly I do. I’ve never seen it before. (He tips the phial.) Anyway, it’s nearly empty. GERARD. It was quite full—yesterday afternoon. (He takes the phial from RAYMOND and moves Centre.) RAYMOND. (Turning a startled face on GERARD) You mean . . .? CARBERY. (Quickly) Doctor King. Do you own a hypodermic syringe? SARAH. Yes. CARBERY. Where is it? SARAH. In my tent. Shall I get it? CARBERY. If you please. (SARAH crosses and exits Right.) RAYMOND. What you’re suggesting is impossible—quite impossible. CARBERY. I’m not aware that I’ve suggested anything. RAYMOND. What sort of a fool do you take me for? The inference is perfectly plain. You think my mother was—(He swallows) poisoned? CARBERY. I haven’t said so. RAYMOND. Then what do you mean? CARBERY. I just want to know why Doctor Gerard’s phial was in your pocket. RAYMOND. It wasn’t. CARBERY. One of my fellows found it there. RAYMOND. I tell you I never touched the . . . (He stops, suddenly assailed by a sudden memory.) CARBERY. Sure about that? (SARAH enters Right and crosses to CARBERY. She carries her hypodermic case.) SARAH. Here you are. (She hands the case to CARBERY.) CARBERY. Thank you, Doctor King. (He opens the case, looks at RAYMOND, then at SARAH.) SARAH. What . . . ? (CARBERY holds the case out.) (She sees the case is empty.) Empty? CARBERY. Empty. SARAH. But—how extraordinary. I’m sure I never . . . (She stops, beginning to be frightened.) GERARD. That is the hypodermic case you offered to me yesterday afternoon. You are sure it was in the case then? SARAH. Yes. CARBERY. (Crossing to GERARD) Any idea when it was taken out, Gerard? GERARD. (Upset) I do not believe . . . (He breaks off.) CARBERY. Now what don’t you believe? GERARD. (Moving Right Centre) C’est impossible. C’est impossible. SARAH. Jinny? CARBERY. Jinny? Is that your sister, Mr. Boynton? (RAYMOND does not answer.) Perhaps you would ask her to come here. GERARD. (Sharply) No. CARBERY. (Turning a mildly surprised eye at him) She may be able to clear up the matter. If you’d just fetch her, Mr. Boynton. (RAYMOND crosses and exits Right. CARBERY crosses above the table to Left of it.) GERARD. You do not understand. You do not understand the very first principles. Listen, my dear sir, this girl will not be able to clear anything up. CARBERY. But she handled this case—yesterday afternoon. (He puts the case on the table.) That’s right, isn’t it? That’s what’s worrying you? GERARD. Jinny couldn’t possibly have used that hypodermic. It would be entirely out of character. I—ah, mon Dieu, how am I to make you understand? CARBERY. (Sitting Left of the table) Just go on telling me. GERARD.

I followed his short stubby finger along the paragraph: "—whether the foreign prince and the famous dancer are really affinities! And if the lady likes her new diamond ring!" "And now to resume your so dramatic narrative," said Poirot. "Mademoiselle Saintclair had just fainted on the drawing-room carpet at Daisymead, you remember." I shrugged. "As a result of Mademoiselle’s first murmured words when she came round, the two male Oglanders stepped out, one to fetch a doctor to attend to the lady, who was evidently suffering terribly from shock, and the other to the police-station—whence after telling his story, he accompanied the police to Mon Désir, Mr Reedburn’s magnificent villa, which is situated at no great distance from Daisymead. There they found the great man, who by the way suffers from a somewhat unsavoury reputation, lying in the library with the back of his head cracked open like an eggshell." "I have cramped your style," said Poirot kindly. "Forgive me, I pray…Ah, here is M. le Prince!" Our distinguished visitor was announced under the title of Count Feodor. He was a strange-looking youth, tall, eager, with a weak chin, the famous Mauranberg mouth, and the dark fiery eyes of a fanatic. "M. Poirot?" My friend bowed. "Monsieur, I am in terrible trouble, greater than I can well express—" Poirot waved his hand. "I comprehend your anxiety. Mademoiselle Saintclair is a very dear friend, is it not so?" The prince replied simply: "I hope to make her my wife." Poirot sat up in his chair, and his eyes opened. The prince continued: "I should not be the first of my family to make a morganatic marriage. My brother Alexander has also defied the Emperor. We are living now in more enlightened days, free from the old caste-prejudice. Besides, Mademoiselle Saintclair, in actual fact, is quite my equal in rank. You have heard hints as to her history?" "There are many romantic stories of her origin—not an uncommon thing with famous dancers. I have heard that she is the daughter of an Irish charwoman, also the story which makes her mother a Russian grand duchess." "The first story is, of course, nonsense," said the young man. "But the second is true. Valerie, though bound to secrecy, has let me guess as much. Besides, she proves it unconsciously in a thousand ways. I believe in heredity, M. Poirot." "I too believe in heredity," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I have seen some strange things in connection with it—moi qui vous parle…But to business, M. le Prince. What do you want of me? What do you fear? I may speak freely, may I not? Is there anything to connect Mademoiselle Saintclair with the crime? She knew Reedburn of course?" "Yes. He professed to be in love with her." "And she?" "She would have nothing to say to him." Poirot looked at him keenly. "Had she any reason to fear him?" The young man hesitated. "There was an incident. You know Zara, the clairvoyant?" "No." "She is wonderful. You should consult her some time. Valerie and I went to see her last week. She read the cards for us. She spoke to Valerie of trouble—of gathering clouds; then she turned up the last card—the covering card, they call it. It was the king of clubs. She said to Valerie: "Beware. There is a man who holds you in his power. You fear him—you are in great danger through him. You know whom I mean?" Valerie was white to the lips. She nodded and said: "Yes, yes, I know." Shortly afterwards we left. Zara’s last words to Valerie were: "Beware of the king of clubs. Danger threatens you!" I questioned Valerie. She would tell me nothing—assured me that all was well. But now, after last night, I am more sure than ever that in the king of clubs Valerie saw Reedburn, and that he was the man she feared." The Prince paused abruptly. "Now you understand my agitation when I opened the paper this morning. Supposing Valerie, in a fit of madness—oh, it is impossible!"

She had felt the emotion behind his kiss. She was quite sure of him. As for his queer lack of ambition, that did not really worry her. Women in this country were confident of their power over men. It was women who planned and urged on their men to achieve; women, and the children that were their principal weapons. She and Llewellyn would want the best for their children, and that would be a spur to urge Llewellyn on. As for Llewellyn, he walked home in a serious state of perturbation. What a very odd experience that had been. Full of recent lectures on psychology, he analysed himself with misgiving. A resistance to sex perhaps? Why had he set up this resistance? He ate his supper staring at his mother, and wondering uneasily if he had an Oedipus Complex. Nevertheless, it was to her he came for reassurance before he went back to college. He said abruptly: "You like Carol, don’t you?" Here it comes, she thought with a pang, but she said steadfastly: "She’s a sweet girl. Both your father and I like her well." "I wanted to tell her – the other day –" "That you loved her?" "Yes. I wanted to ask her to wait for me." "No need of that, if she loves you, bach." "But I couldn’t say it, the words wouldn’t come." She smiled. "Don’t let that worry you. Men are mostly tongue-tied at these times. There was your father sitting and glowering at me, day after day, more as though he hated me than loved me, and not able to get a word out but "How are you?" and "It’s a fine day." " Llewellyn said sombrely: "It was more than that. It was like a hand shoving me back. It was as though I was – forbidden." She felt then the urgency and force of his trouble. She said slowly: "It may be that she’s not the real girl for you. Oh –" she stifled his protest. "It’s hard to tell when you’re young and the blood rises. But there’s something in you – the true self, maybe – that knows what should and shouldn’t be, and that saves you from yourself, and the impulse that isn’t the true one." "Something in oneself …" He dwelt on that. He looked at her with sudden desperate eyes. "I don’t know really – anything about myself." 2 Back at college, he filled up every moment, either with work or in the company of friends. Fear faded away from him. He felt self-assured once more. He read abstruse dissertations on adolescent sex manifestations, and explained himself to himself satisfactorily. He graduated with distinction, and that, too, encouraged him to have confidence in himself. He returned home with his mind made up, and his future clear ahead. He would ask Carol to marry him, and discuss with her the various possibilities open to him now that he was qualified. He felt an enormous relief now that his life unfolded before him in so clear a sequence. Work that was congenial and which he felt himself competent to do well, and a girl he loved with whom to make a home and have children. Arrived at home, he threw himself into all the local festivities. He went about in a crowd, but within that crowd he and Carol paired off and were accepted as a pair. He was seldom, if ever, alone, and when he went to bed at night he slept and dreamed of Carol. They were erotic dreams and he welcomed them as such. Everything was normal, everything was fine, everything was as it should be. Confident in this belief, he was startled when his father said to him one day: "What’s wrong, lad?" "Wrong?" He stared. "You’re not yourself." "But I am! I’ve never felt so fit!" "You’re well enough physically, maybe." Llewellyn stared at his father. The gaunt, aloof, old man, with his deep-set burning eyes, nodded his head slowly. "There are times," he said, "when a man needs to be alone." He said no more, turning away, as Llewellyn felt once more that swift illogical fear spring up. He didn’t want to be alone – it was the last thing he wanted. He couldn’t, he mustn’t be alone. Three days later he came to his father and said: "I’m going camping in the mountains. By myself." Angus nodded. "Ay."

Why is that?" "Because at first I didn’t think it was Mr. Barton. His voice sounded different." "It was a man’s voice?" "Oh, yes, I think so—at least—it was rather husky as though he had a cold." "And that’s all he said?" "That’s all." Kemp questioned her a little longer, but got no further. When she had gone, he said to the sergeant: "So that was George Barton’s famous "plan." I see now why they all said he stared at the empty chair after the cabaret and looked queer and absentminded. His precious plan had gone wrong." "You don’t think it was he who put her off?" "Not on your life. And I’m not so sure it was a man’s voice, either. Huskiness is a good disguise through the telephone. Oh, well, we’re getting on. Send in Mr. Farraday if he’s here." Nine I Outwardly cool and unperturbed, Stephen Farraday had turned into Great Scotland Yard full of inner shrinking. An intolerable weight burdened his spirits. It had seemed that morning as though things were going so well. Why had Inspector Kemp asked for his presence here with such significance? What did he know or suspect? It could be only vague suspicion. The thing to do was to keep one’s head and admit nothing. He felt strangely bereft and lonely without Sandra. It was as though when the two faced a peril together it lost half its terrors. Together they had strength, courage, power. Alone, he was nothing, less than nothing. And Sandra, did she feel the same? Was she sitting now in Kidderminster House, silent, reserved, proud and inwardly feeling horribly vulnerable? Inspector Kemp received him pleasantly but gravely. There was a uniformed man sitting at a table with a pencil and a pad of paper. Having asked Stephen to sit down, Kemp spoke in a strongly formal manner. "I propose, Mr. Farraday, to take a statement from you. That statement will be written down and you will be asked to read it over and sign it before you leave. At the same time it is my duty to tell you that you are at liberty to refuse to make such a statement and that you are entitled to have your solicitor present if you so desire." Stephen was taken aback but did not show it. He forced a wintry smile. "That sounds very formidable, chief inspector." "We like everything to be clearly understood, Mr. Farraday." "Anything I say may be used against me, is that it?" "We don’t use the word against. Anything you say will be liable to be used in evidence." Stephen said quietly: "I understand, but I cannot imagine, inspector, why you should need any further statement from me? You heard all I had to say this morning." "That was a rather informal session—useful as a preliminary starting-off point. And also, Mr. Farraday, there are certain facts which I imagined you would prefer to discuss with me here. Anything irrelevant to the case we try to be as discreet about as is compatible with the attainment of justice. I daresay you understand what I am driving at." "I’m afraid I don’t." Chief Inspector Kemp sighed. "Just this. You were on very intimate terms with the late Mrs. Rosemary Barton—" Stephen interrupted him. "Who says so?" Kemp leaned forward and took a typewritten document from his desk. "This is a copy of a letter found amongst the late Mrs. Barton’s belongings. The original is filed here and was handed to us by Miss Iris Marle, who recognizes the writing as that of her sister." Stephen read: "Leopard darling—" A wave of sickness passed over him. Rosemary’s voice . . . speaking—pleading . . . Would the past never die—never consent to be buried? He pulled himself together and looked at Kemp. "You may be correct in thinking Mrs. Barton wrote this letter—but there is nothing to indicate that it was written to me." "Do you deny that you paid the rent of 21 Malland Mansions, Earl’s Court?" So they knew! He wondered if they had known all the time. He shrugged his shoulders. "You seem very well informed. May I ask why my private affairs should be dragged into the limelight?" "They will not unless they prove to be relevant to the death of George Barton." "I see.

A car so fantastically powerful, so superlatively beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. At the wheel sat a young man, his hair blown back by the wind. In the blaze of the evening light he looked, not a man, but a young God, a Hero God out of some Northern Saga. He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay. It was a fantastic moment. In it, Anthony Marston seemed to be something more than mortal. Afterwards more than one of those present remembered that moment. III Fred Narracott sat by the engine thinking to himself that this was a queer lot. Not at all his idea of what Mr Owen’s guests were likely to be. He’d expected something altogether more classy. Togged up women and gentlemen in yachting costume and all very rich and important-looking. Not at all like Mr Elmer Robson’s parties. A faint grin came to Fred Narracott’s lips as he remembered the millionaire’s guests. That had been a party if you like—and the drink they’d got through! This Mr Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. Funny, it was, thought Fred, that he’d never yet set eyes on Owen—or his Missus either. Never been down here yet he hadn’t. Everything ordered and paid for by that Mr Morris. Instructions always very clear and payment prompt, but it was odd, all the same. The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr Narracott agreed with them. Perhaps after all, it was Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But that theory departed from him as he surveyed his passengers. Not this lot—none of them looked likely to have anything to do with a film star. He summed them up dispassionately. One old maid—the sour kind—he knew them well enough. She was a tartar he could bet. Old military gentleman—real Army look about him. Nice-looking young lady—but the ordinary kind, not glamorous—no Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery gent—he wasn’t a real gentleman. Retired tradesman, that’s what he is, thought Fred Narracott. The other gentleman, the lean hungry-looking gentleman with the quick eyes, he was a queer one, he was. Just possible he might have something to do with the pictures. No, there was only one satisfactory passenger in the boat. The last gentleman, the one who had arrived in the car (and what a car! A car such as had never been seen in Sticklehaven before. Must have cost hundreds and hundreds, a car like that). He was the right kind. Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like him…he’d understand it… Queer business when you came to think of it—the whole thing was queer—very queer… IV The boat churned its way round the rock. Now at last the house came into view. The south side of the island was quite different. It shelved gently down to the sea. The house was there facing south—low and square and modern-looking with rounded windows letting in all the light. An exciting house—a house that lived up to expectation! Fred Narracott shut off the engine, they nosed their way gently into a little natural inlet between rocks. Philip Lombard said sharply: "Must be difficult to land here in dirty weather." Fred Narracott said cheerfully: "Can’t land on Soldier Island when there’s a south-easterly. Sometimes ’tis cut off for a week or more." Vera Claythorne thought: "The catering must be very difficult. That’s the worst of an island. All the domestic problems are so worrying." The boat grated against the rocks. Fred Narracott jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others to alight. Narracott made the boat fast to a ring in the rock. Then he led the way up steps cut in the cliff. General Macarthur said: "Ha! delightful spot!" But he felt uneasy. Damned odd sort of place. As the party ascended the steps and came out on a terrace above, their spirits revived. In the open doorway of the house a correct butler was awaiting them, and something about his gravity reassured them. And then the house itself was really most attractive, the view from the terrace magnificent… The butler came forward bowing slightly. He was a tall lank man, grey-haired and very respectable.

"No, because I never did. Caroline came in just when I was unscrewing the bottle. Oh!" It was a cry. "And Caroline thought—she thought it was me—!" She stopped. She looked round. She said quietly in her usual cool tones: "I suppose you all think so, too." She paused and then said: "I didn’t kill Amyas. Not as the result of a malicious joke nor in any other way. If I had I would never have kept silence." Miss Williams said sharply: "Of course you wouldn’t, my dear." She looked at Hercule Poirot. "Nobody but a fool would think so." Hercule Poirot said mildly: "I am not a fool and I do not think so. I know quite well who killed Amyas Crale." He paused. "There is always a danger of accepting facts as proved which are really nothing of the kind. Let us take the situation at Alderbury. A very old situation. Two women and one man. We have taken it for granted that Amyas Crale proposed to leave his wife for the other woman. But I suggest to you now that he never intended to do anything of the kind. "He had had infatuations for women before. They obsessed him while they lasted, but they were soon over. The women he had fallen in love with were usually women of a certain experience—they did not expect too much of him. But this time the woman did. She was not, you see, a woman at all. She was a girl, and in Caroline Crale’s words, she was terribly sincere…She may have been hard-boiled and sophisticated in speech, but in love she was frighteningly single-minded. Because she herself had a deep and overmastering passion for Amyas Crale she assumed that he had the same for her. She assumed without any question that their passion was for life. She assumed without asking him that he was going to leave his wife. "But why, you will say, did Amyas Crale not undeceive her? And my answer is—the picture. He wanted to finish his picture. "To some people that sounds incredible—but not to anybody who knows about artists. And we have already accepted that explanation in principle. That conversation between Crale and Meredith Blake is more intelligible now. Crale is embarrassed—pats Blake on the back, assures him optimistically the whole thing is going to pan out all right. To Amyas Crale, you see, everything is simple. He is painting a picture, slightly encumbered by what he describes as a couple of jealous, neurotic women—but neither of them is going to be allowed to interfere with what to him is the most important thing in life. "If he were to tell Elsa the truth it would be all up with the picture. Perhaps in the first flush of his feelings for her he did talk about leaving Caroline. Men do say these things when they are in love. Perhaps he merely let it be assumed, as he is letting it be assumed now. He doesn’t care what Elsa assumes. Let her think what she likes. Anything to keep her quiet for another day or two. "Then—he will tell her the truth—that things between them are over. He has never been a man to be troubled with scruples. "He did, I think, make an effort not to get embroiled with Elsa to begin with. He warned her what kind of a man he was—but she would not take warning. She rushed on her Fate. And to a man like Crale women were fair game. If you had asked him he would have said easily that Elsa was young—she’d soon get over it. That was the way Amyas Crale’s mind worked. "His wife was actually the only person he cared about at all. He wasn’t worrying much about her. She’d only got to put up with things for a few days longer. He was furious with Elsa for blurting out things to Caroline, but he still optimistically thought it would be "all right." Caroline would forgive him as she had done so often before, and Elsa—Elsa would just have to "lump it." So simple are the problems of life to a man like Amyas Crale. "But I think that that last evening he became really worried. About Caroline, not about Elsa. Perhaps he went to her room and she refused to speak with him.

"I intend to," said Esa. "And in return for your words, let me advise you to look to yourself. One of your brothers is dead, the other has been near to death. You also are your father’s son–and you may go the same way." Ipy laughed scornfully. "There is little fear of that." "Why not? You also threatened and insulted Nofret." "Nofret!" Ipy’s scorn was unmistakable. "What is in your mind?" demanded Esa sharply. "I have my ideas, grandmother. And I can assure you that Nofret and her spirit tricks will not worry me. Let her do her worst." There was a shrill wail behind him and Henet ran in crying out: "Foolish boy–imprudent child. Defying the dead! And after we’ve all had a taste of her quality! And not so much as an amulet on you for protection!" "Protection? I will protect myself. Get out of my way, Henet, I’ve got work to do. Those lazy peasants shall know what it is to have a real master over them." Pushing Henet aside, Ipy strode out of the room. Esa cut short Henet’s wails and lamentations. "Listen to me, Henet, and stop exclaiming about Ipy. He may know what he is doing or he may not. His manner is very odd. But answer me this, did you tell Kameni that it was Sobek who had persuaded Imhotep not to include Ipy in the deed of association?" Henet’s voice dropped to its usual whining key. "I’m sure I’m far too busy in the house to waste my time running about telling people things–and telling Kameni of all people. I’m sure I’d never speak a word to him if he didn’t come and speak to me. He’s got a pleasant manner, as you must admit yourself, Esa–and I’m not the only one who thinks so–oh dear no! And if a young widow wants to make a new contract, well, she usually fancies a handsome young man–though what Imhotep would say I’m sure I don’t know. Kameni is only a junior scribe when all is said and done." "Never mind what Kameni is or isn’t! Did you tell him that it was Sobek who opposed Ipy being made a partner in the association?" "Well, really, Esa, I can’t remember what I may or may not have said. I didn’t actually go and tell anyone anything, that much is sure. But a word passed here and there, and you know yourself that Sobek was saying–and Yahmose too for that matter, though, of course, not so loud nor so often–that Ipy was a mere boy and that it would never do–and for all I know Kameni may have heard him say it himself and not got it from me at all. I never gossip–but after all, a tongue is given one to speak with and I’m not a deaf mute." "That you most certainly are not," said Esa. "A tongue, Henet, may sometimes be a weapon. A tongue may cause a death–may cause more than one death. I hope your tongue, Henet, has not caused a death." "Why, Esa, the things you say! And what’s in your mind? I’m sure I never say a word to anybody that I wouldn’t be willing to let the whole world overhear. I’m so devoted to the whole family–I’d die for any one of them. Oh, they underestimate old Henet’s devotion. I promised their dear mother–" "Ha," said Esa, cutting her short, "here comes my plump reed bird, cooked with leeks and celery. It smells delicious–cooked to a turn. Since you’re so devoted, Henet, you can take a little mouthful from one side–just in case it’s poisoned." "Esa!" Henet gave a squeal. "Poisoned! How can you say such things! And cooked in our very own kitchen." "Well," said Esa, "someone’s got to taste it–just in case. And it had better be you, Henet, since you’re so willing to die for any member of the family. I don’t suppose it would be too painful a death. Come on, Henet. Look how plump and juicy and tasty it is.

Tommy suspected her father, the saturnine M. Heroulade. He went to and fro to France fairly often. What could be simpler than to bring the notes across with him? A false bottom to the trunk–something of that kind. Tommy strolled slowly out of the Club, absorbed in these thoughts, but was suddenly recalled to immediate necessities. Outside in the street was Mr Hank P. Ryder, and it was clear at once that Mr Ryder was not strictly sober. At the moment he was trying to hang his hat on the radiator of a car, and missing it by some inches every time. "This goddarned hatshtand, this goddarned hatshtand," said Mr Ryder tearfully. "Not like that in the Shtates. Man can hang up his hat every night–every night, sir. You’re wearing two hatshs. Never sheen a man wearing two hatshs before. Must be effect–climate." "Perhaps I’ve got two heads," said Tommy gravely. "Sho you have," said Mr Ryder. "Thatsh odd. Thatsh remarkable fac’. Letsh have a cocktail. Prohibition–probishun thatsh whatsh done me in. I guess I’m drunk–constootionally drunk. Cocktailsh–mixed ’em–Angel’s Kiss–that’s Marguerite–lovely creature, fon o" me too. Horshes Neck, two Martinis–three Road to Ruinsh–no, roadsh to roon–mixed ’em all–in a beer tankard. Bet me I wouldn’t–I shaid–to hell, I shaid –" Tommy interrupted. "That’s all right," he said soothingly. "Now what about getting home?" "Nohometogoto,’said Mr Ryder sadly, and wept. "What hotel are you staying at?" asked Tommy. "Can’t go home," said Mr Ryder. "Treasure hunt. Swell thing to do. She did it. Whitechapel–white heartsh, white headsn shorrow to the grave –" But Mr Ryder became suddenly dignified. He drew himself erect and attained a sudden miraculous command over his speech. "Young man, I’m telling you. Margee took me. In her car. Treasure hunting. English aristocrashy all do it. Under the cobblestones. Five hundred poundsh. Solemn thought, ’tis solemn thought. I’m telling you, young man. You’ve been kind to me. I’ve got your welfare at heart, sir, at heart. We Americans –" Tommy interrupted him this time with even less ceremony. "What’s that you say? Mrs Laidlaw took you in a car?" The American nodded with a kind of owlish solemnity. "To Whitechapel?" Again that owlish nod. "And you found five hundred pounds there?" Mr Ryder struggled for words. "S-she did," he corrected his questioner. "Left me outside. Outside the door. Always left outside. It’s kinder sad. Outside–always outside." "Would you know your way there?" "I guess so. Hank Ryder doesn’t lose his bearings –" Tommy hauled him along unceremoniously. He found his own car where it was waiting, and presently they were bowling eastward. The cool air revived Mr Ryder. After slumping against Tommy’s shoulder in a kind of stupor, he awoke clear-headed and refreshed. "Say, boy, where are we?" he demanded. "Whitechapel," said Tommy crisply. "Is this where you came with Mrs Laidlaw tonight?" "It looks kinder familiar," admitted Mr Ryder, looking round. "Seems to me we turned off to the left somewhere down here. That’s it–that street there." Tommy turned off obediently. Mr Ryder issued directions. "That’s it. Sure. And round to the right. Say, aren’t the smells awful. Yes, past that pub at the corner–sharp round, and stop at the mouth of that little alley. But what’s the big idea? Hand it to me. Some of the oof left behind? Are we going to put one over on them?" "That’s exactly it," said Tommy. "We’re going to put one over on them. Rather a joke, isn’t it?" "I’ll tell the world," assented Mr Ryder. "Though I’m just a mite hazed about it all," he ended wistfully.

Was there an accomplice, and did that accomplice see to it that the front door should remain open? I wonder if—" He stopped abruptly. We had reached the drive in front of the house. Suddenly he turned to me. "My friend, I am about to surprise you—to please you! I have taken your reproaches to heart! We will examine some footprints!" "Where?" "In that right-hand bed yonder. Monsieur Bex says that they are the footmarks of the gardener. Let us see if this is so. See, he approaches with his wheelbarrow." Indeed an elderly man was just crossing the drive with a barrowful of seedlings. Poirot called to him, and he set down the barrow and came hobbling towards us. "You are going to ask him for one of his boots to compare with the footmarks?" I asked breathlessly. My faith in Poirot revived a little. Since he said the footprints in this right-hand bed were important, presumably they were. "Exactly," said Poirot. "But won’t he think it very odd?" "He will not think about it at all." We could say no more, for the old man had joined us. "You want me for something, monsieur?" "Yes. You have been gardener here a long time, haven’t you?" "Twenty-four years, monsieur." "And your name is—?" "Auguste, monsieur." "I was admiring these magnificent geraniums. They are truly superb. They have been planted long?" "Some time, monsieur. But of course, to keep the beds looking smart, one must keep bedding out a few new plants, and remove those that are over, besides keeping the old blooms well picked off." "You put in some new plants yesterday, didn’t you? Those in the middle there, and in the other bed also." "Monsieur has a sharp eye. It takes always a day or so for them to "pick up." Yes, I put ten new plants in each bed last night. As monsieur doubtless knows, one should not put in plants when the sun is hot." Auguste was charmed with Poirot’s interest, and was quite inclined to be garrulous. "That is a splendid specimen there," said Poirot, pointing. "Might I perhaps have a cutting of it?" "But certainly, monsieur." The old fellow stepped into the bed, and carefully took a slip from the plant Poirot had admired. Poirot was profuse in his thanks, and Auguste departed to his barrow. "You see?" said Poirot with a smile, as he bent over the bed to examine the indentation of the gardener’s hobnailed boot. "It is quite simple." "I did not realize—" "That the foot would be inside the boot? You do not use your excellent mental capacities sufficiently. Well, what of the footmark?" I examined the bed carefully. "All the footmarks in the bed were made by the same boot," I said at length after a careful study. "You think so? Eh bien! I agree with you," said Poirot. He seemed quite uninterested, and as though he were thinking of something else. "At any rate," I remarked, "you will have one bee less in your bonnet now." "Mon Dieu! But what an idiom! What does it mean?" "What I meant was that now you will give up your interest in these footmarks." But to my surprise Poirot shook his head. "No, no, mon ami. At last I am on the right track. I am still in the dark, but, as I hinted just now to Monsieur Bex, these footmarks are the most important and interesting things in the case! That poor Giraud—I should not be surprised if he took no notice of them whatever." At that moment the front door opened, and M. Hautet and the commissary came down the steps. "Ah, Monsieur Poirot, we were coming to look for you," said the magistrate. "It is getting late, but I wish to pay a visit to Madame Daubreuil. Without doubt she will be very much upset by Monsieur Renauld’s death, and we may be fortunate enough to get a clue from her. The secret that he did not confide to his wife, it is possible that he may have told it to the woman whose love held him enslaved. We know where our Samsons are weak, don’t we?" We said no more, but fell into line.

As for young Basil, he seemed unable to take his eyes from her face. "You’re very late, Basil," said his mother. "You were to have taken Betty to Mac’s." "My fault," drawled the beautiful unknown. "We just drifted." She turned to Basil. "Angel–get me something with a kick in it!" She tossed off her shoe and stretched out her manicured toenails which were done emerald green to match her fingernails. She paid no attention to the two women, but she leaned a little towards Mr Parker Pyne. "Terrible island this," she said. "I was just dying with boredom before I met Basil. He is rather a pet!" "Mr Parker Pyne–Miss Ramona," said Mrs Chester. The girl acknowledged the introduction with a lazy smile. "I guess I’ll call you Parker almost at once," she murmured. "My name’s Dolores." Basil returned with the drinks. Miss Ramona divided her conversation (what there was of it–it was mostly glances) between Basil and Mr Parker Pyne. Of the two women she took no notice whatever. Betty attempted once or twice to join in the conversation but the other girl merely stared at her and yawned. Suddenly Dolores rose. "Guess I’ll be going along now. I’m at the other hotel. Anyone coming to see me home?" Basil sprang up. "I’ll come with you." Mrs Chester said: "Basil, my dear–" "I’ll be back presently, Mother." "Isn’t he the mother’s boy?" Miss Ramona asked of the world at large. "Just toots round after her, don’t you?" Basil flushed and looked awkward. Miss Ramona gave a nod in Mrs Chester’s direction, a dazzling smile to Mr Parker Pyne and she and Basil moved off together. After they had gone there was rather an awkward silence. Mr Parker Pyne did not like to speak first. Betty Gregg was twisting her fingers and looking out to sea. Mrs Chester looked flushed and angry. Betty said: "Well, what do you think of our new acquisition in Pollensa Bay?" Her voice was not quite steady. Mr Parker Pyne said cautiously: "A little–er–exotic." "Exotic?" Betty gave a short bitter laugh. Mrs Chester said: "She’s terrible–terrible. Basil must be quite mad." Betty said sharply: "Basil’s all right." "Her toenails," said Mrs Chester with a shiver of nausea. Betty rose suddenly. "I think, Mrs Chester, I’ll go home and not stay to dinner after all." "Oh, my dear–Basil will be so disappointed." "Will he?" asked Betty with a short laugh. "Anyway, I think I will. I’ve got rather a headache." She smiled at them both and went off. Mrs Chester turned to Mr Parker Pyne. "I wish we had never come to this place–never!" Mr Parker Pyne shook his head sadly. "You shouldn’t have gone away," said Mrs Chester. "If you’d been here this wouldn’t have happened." Mr Parker Pyne was stung to respond. "My dear lady, I can assure you that when it comes to a question of a beautiful young woman, I should have no influence over your son whatever. He–er–seems to be of a very susceptible nature." "He never used to be," said Mrs Chester tearfully. "Well," said Mr Parker Pyne with an attempt at cheerfulness, "this new attraction seems to have broken the back of his infatuation for Miss Gregg. That must be some satisfaction to you." "I don’t know what you mean," said Mrs Chester. "Betty is a dear child and devoted to Basil. She is behaving extremely well over this. I think my boy must be mad." Mr Parker Pyne received this startling change of face without wincing. He had met inconsistency in women before. He said mildly: "Not exactly mad–just bewitched." "The creature’s a Dago. She’s impossible." "But extremely good-looking." Mrs Chester snorted. Basil ran up the steps from the sea front. "Hullo, Mater, here I am. Where’s Betty?" "Betty’s gone home with a headache. I don’t wonder." "Sulking, you mean." "I consider, Basil, that you are being extremely unkind to Betty." "For God’s sake, Mother, don’t jaw. If Betty is going to make this fuss every time I speak to another girl a nice sort of life we’ll lead together." "You are engaged." "Oh, we’re engaged all right.

No sales girl can recognize the photograph of the dead woman, or is likely to if the purchase were made just before Christmas. Her other clothes seem mainly of foreign manufacture mostly purchased in Paris. There are no English laundry marks. We’ve communicated with Paris and they are checking up there for us. Sooner or later, of course, someone will come forward with a missing relative or lodger. It’s just a matter of time." "The compact wasn’t any help?" "Unfortunately, no. It’s a type sold by the hundred in the Rue de Rivoli, quite cheap. By the way, you ought to have turned that over to the police at once, you know—or rather Miss Eyelesbarrow should have done so." Miss Marple shook her head. "But at that moment there wasn’t any question of a crime having been committed," she pointed out. "If a young lady, practising golf shots, picks up an old compact of no particular value in the long grass, surely she doesn’t rush straight off to the police with it?" Miss Marple paused, and then added firmly: "I thought it much wiser to find the body first." Inspector Craddock was tickled. "You don’t seem ever to have had any doubts but that it would be found?" "I was sure it would. Lucy Eyelesbarrow is a most efficient and intelligent person." "I’ll say she is! She scares the life out of me, she’s so devastatingly efficient! No man will ever dare marry that girl." "Now you know, I wouldn’t say that… It would have to be a special type of man, of course." Miss Marple brooded on this thought a moment. "How is she getting on at Rutherford Hall?" "They’re completely dependent on her as far as I can see. Eating out of her hand—literally as you might say. By the way, they know nothing about her connection with you. We’ve kept that dark." "She has no connection now with me. She has done what I asked her to do." "So she could hand in her notice and go if she wanted to?" "Yes." "But she stops on. Why?" "She has not mentioned her reasons to me. She is a very intelligent girl. I suspect that she has become interested." "In the problem? Or in the family?" "It may be," said Miss Marple, "that it is rather difficult to separate the two." Craddock looked hard at her. "Oh, no—oh, dear me, no." "Have you got anything particular in mind?" "I think you have." Miss Marple shook her head. Dermot Craddock sighed. "So all I can do is to "prosecute my inquiries’—to put it in jargon. A policeman’s life is a dull one!" "You’ll get results, I’m sure." "Any ideas for me? More inspired guesswork?" "I was thinking of things like theatrical companies," said Miss Marple rather vaguely. "Touring from place to place and perhaps not many home ties. One of those young women would be much less likely to be missed." "Yes. Perhaps you’ve got something there. We’ll pay special attention to that angle." He added, "What are you smiling about?" "I was just thinking," said Miss Marple, "of Elspeth McGillicuddy’s face when she hears we’ve found the body!" II "Well!" said Mrs. McGillicuddy. "Well!" Words failed her. She looked across at the nicely spoken pleasant young man who had called upon her with official credentials and then down at the photograph that he handed her. "That’s her all right," she said. "Yes, that’s her. Poor soul. Well, I must say I’m glad you’ve found her body. Nobody believed a word I said! The police, or the railway people or anyone else. It’s very galling not to be believed. At any rate, nobody could say I didn’t do all I possibly could." The nice young man made sympathetic and appreciative noises. "Where did you say the body was found?" "In a barn at a house called Rutherford Hall, just outside Brackhampton." "Never heard of it. How did it get there, I wonder?" The young man didn’t reply. "Jane Marple found it, I suppose. Trust Jane." "The body," said the young man, referring to some notes, "was found by a Miss Lucy Eyelesbarrow." "Never heard of her either," said Mrs. McGillicuddy. "I still think Jane Marple had something to do with it."

She also called up to the housekeeper’s window as though she saw her there. Then, once inside the drawing-room, she threw over a table with porcelain on it – and ran quickly upstairs, put on her marquise wig and was able a few moments later to lean her head out of the window and tell you that she, too, was locked in." "But she was locked in," said Lou. "I know. That is where the policeman comes in." "What policeman?" "Exactly – what policeman? I wonder, Inspector, if you would mind telling me how and when you arrived on the scene?" The inspector looked a little puzzled. "At twelve twenty-nine we received a telephone call from Mrs Cresswell, housekeeper to Miss Greenshaw, stating that her mistress had been shot. Sergeant Cayley and myself went out there at once in a car and arrived at the house at twelve thirty-five. We found Miss Greenshaw dead and the two ladies locked in their rooms." "So, you see, my dear," said Miss Marple to Lou. "The police constable you saw wasn’t a real police constable. You never thought of him again – one doesn’t – one just accepts one more uniform as part of the law." "But who – why?" "As to who – well, if they are playing A Kiss for Cinderella , a policeman is the principal character. Nat Fletcher would only have to help himself to the costume he wears on the stage. He’d ask his way at a garage being careful to call attention to the time – twelve twenty-five, then drive on quickly, leave his car round a corner, slip on his police uniform and do his "act"." "But why? – why?" " Someone had to lock the housekeeper’s door on the outside, and someone had to drive the arrow through Miss Greenshaw’s throat. You can stab anyone with an arrow just as well as by shooting it – but it needs force." "You mean they were both in it?" "Oh yes, I think so. Mother and son as likely as not." "But Miss Greenshaw’s sister died long ago." "Yes, but I’ve no doubt Mr Fletcher married again. He sounds the sort of man who would, and I think it possible that the child died too, and that this so- called nephew was the second wife’s child, and not really a relation at all. The woman got a post as housekeeper and spied out the land. Then he wrote as her nephew and proposed to call upon her – he may have made some joking reference to coming in his policeman’s uniform – or asked her over to see the play. But I think she suspected the truth and refused to see him. He would have been her heir if she had died without making a will – but of course once she had made a will in the housekeeper’s favour (as they thought) then it was clear sailing." "But why use an arrow?" objected Joan. "So very far fetched." "Not far fetched at all, dear. Alfred belonged to an archery club – Alfred was meant to take the blame. The fact that he was in the pub as early as twelve twenty was most unfortunate from their point of view. He always left a little before his proper time and that would have been just right –" She shook her head. "It really seems all wrong – morally, I mean, that Alfred’s laziness should have saved his life." The inspector cleared his throat. "Well, madam, these suggestions of yours are very interesting. I shall have, of course, to investigate –" IV Miss Marple and Raymond West stood by the rockery and looked down at that gardening basket full of dying vegetation. Miss Marple murmured: "Alyssum, saxifrage, cytisus, thimble campanula . . . Yes, that’s all the proof I need. Whoever was weeding here yesterday morning was no gardener – she pulled up plants as well as weeds. So now I know I’m right. Thank you, dear Raymond, for bringing me here. I wanted to see the place for myself." She and Raymond both looked up at the outrageous pile of Greenshaw’s Folly. A cough made them turn. A handsome young man was also looking at the house. "Plaguey big place," he said. "Too big for nowadays – or so they say. I dunno about that. If I won a football pool and made a lot of money, that’s the kind of house I’d like to build." He smiled bashfully at them.

"One man in a thousand can see the moons of Jupiter. Because the other nine hundred and ninety-nine can't see them there's no reason to doubt that the moons of Jupiter exist, and certainly no reason for calling the thousandth man a lunatic." "The moons of Jupiter are a proved scientific fact." "It's quite possible that the delusions of today may be the proved scientific facts of tomorrow." In spite of himself, Lavington's matter-of-fact manner was having its effect upon Jack. He felt immeasurably soothed and cheered. The doctor looked at him attentively for a minute or two and then nodded. "That's better," he said. "The trouble with you young fellows is that you're so cocksure nothing can exist outside your own philosophy that you get the wind up when something occurs to jolt you out of that opinion. Let's hear your grounds for believing that you're going mad, and we'll decide whether or not to lock you up afterwards." As faithfully as he could, Jack narrated the whole series of occurrences. "But what I can't understand," he ended, "is why this morning it should come at half-past seven - five minutes late." Lavington thought for a minute or two. Then - "What's the time now by your watch?" he asked. "Quarter to eight," replied Jack, consulting it. "That's simple enough, then. Mine says twenty to eight. Your watch is five minutes fast. That's a very interesting and important point - to me. In fact, it's invaluable." "In what way?" Jack was beginning to get interested. "Well, the obvious explanation is that on the first morning you did hear some such cry - may have been a joke, may not. On the following mornings, you suggestioned yourself to hear it exactly the same time." "I'm sure I didn't." "Not consciously, of course, but the subconscious plays us some funny tricks, you know. But, anyway, that explanation won't wash. If it were a case of suggestion, you would have heard the cry at twenty-five minutes past seven by your watch, and you could never have heard it when the time, as you thought, was past." "Well, then?" "Well - it's obvious, isn't it? This cry for help occupies a perfectly definite place and time in space. The place is the vicinity of that cottage and the time is twenty-five minutes past seven." "Yes, but why should I be the one to hear it? I don't believe in ghosts and all that spook stuff - spirits rapping and all the rest of it. Why should I hear the damned thing?" "Ah! that we can't tell at present. It's a curious thing that many of the best mediums are made out of confirmed sceptics. It isn't the people who are interested in occult phenomena who get the manifestations. Some people see and hear things that other people don't - we don't know why, and nine times out of ten they don't want to see or hear them, and are convinced that they are suffering from delusions - just as you were. It's like electricity. Some substances are good conductors, and for a long time we didn't know why, and had to be content just to accept the fact. Nowadays we do know why. Some day, no doubt, we shall know why you hear this thing and I and the girl don't. Everything's governed by natural law, you know - there's no such thing really as the supernatural. Finding out the laws that govern so-called psychic phenomena is going to be a tough job - but every little helps." "But what am I going to do?" asked Jack. Lavington chuckled. "Practical, I see. Well, my young friend, you are going to have a good breakfast and get off to the city without worrying your head further about things you don't understand. I, on the other hand, am going to poke about, and see what I can find out about that cottage back there. That's where the mystery centers, I dare swear." Jack rose to his feet "Right, sir. I'm on, but, I say -" "Yes?" Jack flushed awkwardly. "I'm sure the girl's all right," he muttered. Lavington looked amused. "You didn't tell me she was a pretty girl! Well, cheer up, I think the mystery started before her time." Jack arrived home that evening in a perfect fever of curiosity. He was by now pinning his faith blindly to Lavington.

Problem at Pollensa Bay & Other Stories Agatha Christie PROBLEM AT POLLENSA BAY The steamer from Barcelona to Majorca landed Mr Parker Pyne at Palma in the early hours of the morning - and straightaway he met with disillusionment. The hotels were full! The best that could be done for him was an airless cupboard overlooking an inner court in a hotel in the center of the town - and with that Mr Parker Pyne was not prepared to put up. The proprietor of the hotel was indifferent to his disappointment. "What will you?" he observed with a shrug. Palma was popular now! The exchange was favorable! Everyone - the English, the Americans - they all came to Majorca in the winter. The whole place was crowded. It was doubtful if the English gentleman would be able to get in anywhere - except perhaps at Formentor where the prices were so ruinous that even foreigners blenched at them. Mr Parker Pyne partook of some coffee and a roll and went out to view the cathedral, but found himself in no mood for appreciating beauties of architecture. He next had a conference with a taxi-driver in inadequate French interspersed with native Spanish, and they discussed the possibilities of Soller, Alcudia, Pollensa and Formentor - where there were fine hotels, but they were expensive. Mr Parker Pyne was goaded to inquire how expensive. They asked, said the taxi driver, a price that it would be absurd and ridiculous to consider, since it was well known that the English came to the island because the prices were cheap and reasonable. Mr Parker Pyne said that that was true, but all the same what sums did they charge at the Formentor? A price quite incredible! Perfectly - but WHAT PRICE EXACTLY? The driver consented at last to name exact figures. Fresh from the exactions of hotels in Jerusalem and Egypt, the figure did not stagger Mr Parker Pyne unduly. Mr Parker Pine's cases were loaded on the taxi in a haphazard manner, and they started by the coast, round the island, trying to find a cheaper lodging en route but with the final objective of reaching the Formentor. But they never reached that nest of plutocracy, for after they had passed the narrow streets of Pollensa and were on the curved line of the seashore, they came by the Hotel Pino d'Oro - a small hotel standing by the sea looking out over a view that in the misty haze of a fine morning had the exquisite vagueness of a Japanese print. At once Mr Parker Pyne knew that this, and this only, was what he was looking for. He stopped the taxi, passed through the painted gate with the hope that he would find a resting place. The elderly couple to whom the hotel belonged knew no English or French. Nevertheless the matter was concluded satisfactorily. Mr Parker Pyne was allotted a room overlooking the sea, the suitcases were unloaded, the driver congratulated his passenger upon avoiding the monstrous exigencies of "these new hotels," received his fare and departed with a cheerful Spanish salutation. Mr Parker Pyne glanced at his watch and perceiving that it was, even now, but a quarter to ten, he went out onto the small terrace now bathed in a dazzling morning light and ordered, for the second time that morning, coffee and rolls. There were four tables there, his own, one from which breakfast was being cleared away and two occupied ones. At the one nearest him sat a family of father and mother and two elderly daughters - Germans. Beyond them, at the corner of the terrace, sat what were clearly an English mother and son. The woman was about fifty-five. She had gray hair of a pretty tone - was sensibly but not fashionably dressed in a tweed coat and skirt - and had that comfortable self-possession which marks an Englishwoman used to much traveling abroad. The young man who sat opposite her might have been twenty-five and he too was typical of his class and age. He was neither good-looking nor plain, tall nor short. He was clearly on the best of terms with his mother - they made little jokes together - and he was assiduous in passing her things. As they talked, her eye met that of Mr Parker Pyne. It passed over him with well-bred nonchalance, but he knew that he had been assimilated and labeled. He had been recognized as English and doubtless, in due course, some pleasant noncommittal remark would be addressed to him.

And here are little snowmen all glittering with frost to put on the dinner table. And here are balloons of every colour all ready to blow up!" "Oh!" Pilar’s eyes shone. "Oh! can we blow one up? Lydia would not mind. I do love balloons." Stephen said: "Baby! Here, which will you have?" Pilar said: "I will have a red one." They selected their balloons and blew, their cheeks distended. Pilar stopped blowing to laugh, and her balloon went down again. She said: "You look so funny—blowing—with your cheeks puffed out." Her laugh rang out. Then she fell to, blowing industriously. They tied up their balloons carefully and began to play with them, patting them upwards, sending them to and fro. Pilar said: "Out in the hall there would be more room." They were sending the balloons to each other, and laughing, when Poirot came along the hall. He regarded them indulgently. "So you play les jeux d’enfants? It is pretty, that!" Pilar said breathlessly: "Mine is the red one. It is bigger than his. Much bigger. If we took it outside it would go right up in the sky." "Let’s send them up and wish," said Stephen. "Oh, yes, that is a good idea." Pilar ran to the garden door, Stephen followed. Poirot came behind, still looking indulgent. "I will wish for a great deal of money," announced Pilar. She stood on tiptoe, holding the string of the balloon. It tugged gently as a puff of wind came. Pilar let go and it floated along, taken by the breeze. Stephen laughed. "You mustn’t tell your wish." "No? Why not?" "Because it doesn’t come true. Now, I’m going to wish." He released his balloon. But he was not so lucky. It floated sideways, caught on a holly bush and expired with a bang. Pilar ran to it. She announced tragically: "It is gone…" Then, as she stirred the little limp wisp of rubber with her toe, she said: "So that was what I picked up in Grandfather’s room. He, too, had had a balloon, only his was a pink one." Poirot gave a sharp exclamation. Pilar turned inquiringly. Poirot said: "It is nothing. I stabbed—no stubbed—the toe." He wheeled round and looked at the house. He said: "So many windows! A house, mademoiselle, has its eyes—and its ears. It is indeed regrettable that the English are so fond of open windows." Lydia came out on the terrace. She said: "Lunch is just ready. Pilar, my dear, everything has been settled quite satisfactorily. Alfred will explain the exact details to you after lunch. Shall we come in?" They went into the house. Poirot came last. He was looking grave. III Lunch was over. As they came out of the dining-room, Alfred said to Pilar: "Will you come into my room? There is something I want to talk over with you." He led her across the hall and into his study, shutting the door after him. The others went on into the drawing-room. Only Hercule Poirot remained in the hall looking thoughtfully at the closed study door. He was aware suddenly of the old butler hovering uneasily near him. Poirot said: "Yes, Tressilian, what is it?" The old man seemed troubled. He said: "I wanted to speak to Mr Lee. But I don’t like to disturb him now." Poirot said: "Something has occurred?" Tressilian said slowly: "It’s such a queer thing. It doesn’t make sense." "Tell me," said Hercule Poirot. Tressilian hesitated. Then he said: "Well, it’s this, sir. You may have noticed that each side of the front door there was a cannon ball. Big heavy stone things. Well, sir, one of them’s gone." Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said; "Since when?" "They were both there this morning, sir. I’ll take my oath on that." "Let me see." Together they went outside the front door. Poirot bent and examined the remaining cannon ball. When he straightened himself, his face was very grave. Tressilian quavered: "Who’d want to steal a thing like that, sir?

Had mutton-chop whiskers and was rather pleased with them at one time. That’s why he was called that. A nice chap. Done good work in his time. Yes. He sent you to me because he knew that I am interested in anything like that. I started quite early, you know. Poking about, I mean, and finding out things." "And now," said Tommy, "now you’re the tops." "Now who told you that?" said Mr Robinson. "All nonsense." "I don’t think it is," said Tommy. "Well," said Mr Robinson, "some get to the tops and some have the tops forced upon them. I would say the latter applies to me, more or less. I’ve had a few things of surpassing interest forced upon me." "That business connected with–Frankfurt, wasn’t it?" "Ah, you’ve heard rumours, have you? Ah well, don’t think about them any more. They’re not supposed to be known much. Don’t think I’m going to rebuff you for coming here asking me questions. I probably can answer some of the things you want to know. If I said there was something that happened years ago that might result in something being known that would be–possibly–interesting nowadays, sometimes that would give one a bit of information about things that might be going on nowadays, that might be true enough. I wouldn’t put it past anyone or anything. I don’t know what I can suggest to you, though. It’s a question of worry about, listen to people, find out what you can about bygone years. If anything comes along that you think might be interesting to me, just give me a ring or something. We’ll find some code words, you know. Just to make ourselves feel excited again, feel as though we really mattered. Crab-apple jelly, how would that be? You know, you say your wife’s made some jars of crab-apple jelly and would I like a pot. I’ll know what you mean." "You mean that–that I would have found out something about Mary Jordan. I don’t see there’s any point in going on with that. After all, she’s dead." "Yes. She’s dead. But–well, you see, sometimes one has the wrong ideas about people because of what you’ve been told. Or because of what’s been written." "You mean we have wrong ideas about Mary Jordan. You mean, she wasn’t important at all." "Oh yes, she could have been very important." Mr Robinson looked at his watch. "I have to push you off now. There’s a chap coming in, in ten minutes. An awful bore, but he’s high up in government circles, and you know what life is nowadays. Government, government, you’ve got to stand it everywhere. In the office, in the home, in the supermarkets, on the television. Private life. That’s what we want more of nowadays. Now this little fun and games that you and your wife are having, you’re in private life and you can look at it from the background of private life. Who knows, you might find out something. Something that would be interesting. Yes. You may and you may not. "I can’t tell you anything more about it. I know some of the facts that probably nobody else can tell you and in due course I might be able to tell them to you. But as they’re all dead and done with, that’s not really practical. "I’ll tell you one thing that will help you perhaps in your investigations. You read about this case, the trial of Commander whatever-he-was–I’ve forgotten his name now–and he was tried for espionage, did a sentence for it and richly deserved it. He was a traitor to his country and that’s that. But Mary Jordan–" "Yes?" "You want to know something about Mary Jordan. Well, I’ll tell you one thing that might, as I say, help your point of view. Mary Jordan was–well, you can call it a spy but she wasn’t a German spy. She wasn’t an enemy spy. Listen to this, my boy. I can’t keep calling you "my boy"." Mr Robinson dropped his voice and leaned forward over his desk. "She was one of our lot." Book III Chapter 1 Mary Jordan "But that alters everything," said Tuppence. "Yes," said Tommy. "Yes. It was–it was quite a shock." "Why did he tell you?"

"And it is not mere curiosity." (But wasn’t it?) "It is just that I wanted to express, personally, to all of you, my very deep regret that I failed to establish your brother’s innocence at the time of the trial." "I see…." "If you were fond of him—Were you fond of him?" She considered a moment; then said: "No. I was not fond of Jacko." "Yet I hear from all sides that he had—great charm." She said clearly, but without passion: "I distrusted and disliked him." "You never had—forgive me—any doubts that he had killed your mother?" "It never occurred to me that there could be any other solution." The waitress brought their tea. The bread and butter was stale, the jam a curious jellyfied substance, the cakes garish and unappetizing. The tea was weak. He sipped his and then said: "It seems—I have been made to understand—that this information I have brought, which clears your brother of the charge of murder, may have repercussions that will not be so agreeable. It may bring fresh—anxieties to you all." "Because the case will have to be reopened?" "Yes. You have already thought about that?" "My father seems to think it is inevitable." "I am sorry. I am really sorry." "Why are you sorry, Dr. Calgary?" "I hate to be the cause of bringing fresh trouble upon you." "But would you have been satisfied to remain silent?" "You are thinking in terms of justice?" "Yes. Weren’t you?" "Of course. Justice seemed to me to be very important. Now—I am beginning to wonder whether there are things that are more important." "Such as?" His thoughts flew to Hester. "Such as—innocence, perhaps." The opaqueness of her eyes increased. "What do you feel, Miss Argyle?" She was silent for a moment or two, then she said: "I am thinking of those words in Magna Carta. "To no man will we refuse justice.’" "I see," he said. "That is your answer…." Seven Dr. MacMaster was an old man with bushy eyebrows, shrewd grey eyes and a pugnacious chin. He leaned back in his shabby armchair and studied his visitor carefully. He found that he liked what he saw. On Calgary’s side also there was a feeling of liking. For the first time almost, since he had come back to England, he felt that he was talking to someone who appreciated his own feelings and point of view. "It’s very good of you to see me, Dr. MacMaster," he said. "Not at all," said the doctor. "I’m bored to death since I retired from practice. Young men of my own profession tell me I must sit here like a dummy taking care of my groggy heart, but don’t think it comes natural to me. It doesn’t. I listen to the wireless, blah—blah—blah—and occasionally my housekeeper persuades me to look at television, flick, flick, flick. I’ve been a busy man, run off my feet all my life. I don’t take kindly to sitting still. Reading tires my eyes. So don’t apologize for taking up my time." "The first thing I’ve got to make you understand," said Calgary, "is why I’m still concerning myself over all this. Logically speaking, I suppose, I’ve done what I came to do—told the unpalatable fact of my concussion and loss of memory, vindicated the boy’s character. After that, the only sane and logical thing to do would be to go away and try to forget about it all. Eh? Isn’t that right?" "Depends," said Dr. MacMaster. "Something worrying you?" he asked in the ensuing pause. "Yes," said Calgary. "Everything worries me. You see, my news was not received as I thought it would be." "Oh, well," said Dr. MacMaster, "nothing odd in that. Happens every day. We rehearse a thing beforehand in our own minds, it doesn’t matter what it is, consultation with another practitioner, proposal of marriage to a young lady, talk with your boy before going back to school—when the thing comes off, it never goes as you thought it would. You’ve thought it out, you see; all the things that you are going to say and you’ve usually made up your mind what the answers are going to be. And, of course, that’s what throws you off every time.

The delights of Cauterets were varied. There was the hot walk in the morning to La Raillière where her mother and father drank glasses of nasty tasting water. After the water drinking there was the purchase of sticks of sucre d’orge. They were twirly sticks of different colours and flavours. Celia usually had ananas – her mother liked a green one – aniseed. Her father, strangely enough, liked none of them. He seemed buoyant and happier since he came to Cauterets. "This place suits me, Miriam," he said. "I can feel myself getting a new man here." His wife answered: "We’ll stay here as long as we can." She too seemed gayer – she laughed more. The anxious pucker between her brows smoothed itself away. She saw very little of Celia. Satisfied with the child being in Jeanne’s keeping, she devoted herself heart and soul to her husband. After the morning excursion Celia would come home with Jeanne through the woods, going up and down zigzag paths, occasionally tobogganing down steep slopes with disastrous results to the seats of her drawers. Agonized wails would arise from Jeanne. " Oh , mees – ce n’est pas gentille ce que vous faites là. Et vos pantalons. Que dirait Madame votre mère?" " Encore une fois, Jeanne. Une fois seulement." " Non, non. Oh, mees!" After lunch Jeanne would be busy sewing. Celia would go out into the Place and join some of the other children. A little girl called Mary Hayes had been specially designated as a suitable companion. "Such a nice child," said Celia’s mother. "Pretty manners and so sweet. A nice little friend for Celia." Celia played with Mary Hayes when she could not avoid it, but, alas, she found Mary woefully dull. She was sweet-tempered and amiable but, to Celia, extremely boring. The child whom Celia liked was a little American girl called Marguerite Priestman. She came from a Western state and had a terrific twang in her speech which fascinated the English child. She played games that were new to Celia. Accompanying her was her nurse, an amazing old woman in an enormous flopping black hat whose standard phrase was, "Now you stay right by Fanny, do you hear?" Occasionally Fanny came to the rescue when a dispute was in progress. One day she found both children almost in tears, arguing hotly. "Now, just you tell Fanny what it’s all about," she commanded. "I was just telling Celia a story, and she says what I say isn’t so – and it is so." "You tell Fanny what the story was." "It was going to be just a lovely story. It was about a little girl who grew up in a wood kinder lonesome because the doctor had never fetched her in his black bag –" Celia interrupted. "That isn’t true. Marguerite says babies are found by doctors in woods and brought to the mothers. That’s not true. The angels bring them in the night and put them into the cradle." "It’s doctors." "It’s angels." "It isn’t." Fanny raised a large hand. "You listen to me." They listened. Fanny’s little black eyes snapped intelligently as she considered and then dealt with the problem. "You’ve neither of you call to get excited. Marguerite’s right and so’s Celia. One’s the way they do with English babies and the other’s the way they do with American babies." How simple after all! Celia and Marguerite beamed on each other and were friends again. Fanny murmured, "You stay right by Fanny," and resumed her knitting. "I’ll go right on with the story, shall I?" asked Marguerite. "Yes, do," said Celia. "And afterwards I’ll tell you a story about an opal fairy who came out of a peach stone." Marguerite embarked on her narrative, later to be interrupted once more. "What’s a scarrapin?" "A scarrapin? Why, Celia, don’t you know what a scarrapin is?" "No, what is it?" That was more difficult. From the welter of Marguerite’s explanation Celia only grasped the fact that a scarrapin was in point of fact a scarrapin!

At some period of his career he went to New Zealand, where he so impressed the governors of a school with his plans for reorganisation that they rushed to engage him as headmaster. About a year later he was offered an enormous sum of money to give up the job–not because of any disgraceful conduct, but solely because of the muddle he had introduced, the hatred which he aroused in others, and his own pleasure in what he called "a forward-looking, up-to-date, progressive administration’. As I say, he was a character. Sometimes you hated him, sometimes you were quite fond of him. Belcher came to dinner with us one night, being out of the potato job, and explained what he was about to do next. "You know this Empire Exhibition we’re having in eighteen months" time? Well, the thing has got to be properly organised. The Dominions have got to be alerted, to stand on their toes and to co-operate in the whole thing. I’m going on a mission–the British Empire Mission–going round the world, starting in January." He went on to detail his schemes. "What I want," he said, "is someone to come with me as financial adviser. What about you, Archie? You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders. You were Head of the School at Clifton, you’ve had all this experience in the City. You’re just the man I want." "I couldn’t leave my job," said Archie. "Why not? Put it to your boss properly–point out it will widen your experience and all that. He’ll keep the job open for you, I expect." Archie said he doubted if Mr Goldstein would do anything of the kind. "Well, think it over, my boy. I’d like to have you. Agatha could come too, of course. She likes travelling, doesn’t she?" "Yes," I said–a monosyllable of understatement. "I’ll tell you what the itinerary is. We go first to South Africa. You and me, and a secretary, of course. With us would be going the Hyams. I don’t know if you know Hyam–he’s a potato king from East Anglia. A very sound fellow. He’s a great friend of mine. He’d bring his wife and daughter. They’d only go as far as South Africa. Hyam can’t afford to come further because he has got too many business deals on here. After that we push on to Australia; and after Australia New Zealand. I’m going to take a bit of time off in New Zealand–I’ve got a lot of friends out there; I like the country. We’d have, perhaps, a month’s holiday. You could go on to Hawaii, if you liked, Honolulu." "Honolulu," I breathed. It sounded like the kind of phantasy you had in dreams. "Then on to Canada, and so home. It would take about nine to ten months. What about it?" We realised at last that he really meant it. We went into the thing fairly carefully. Archie’s expenses would, of course, all be paid, and outside that he would be offered a fee of £1000. If I accompanied the party practically all my travelling costs would be paid, since I would accompany Archie as his wife, and free transport was being given on ships and on the national railways of the various countries. We worked furiously over finances. It seemed, on the whole, that it could be done. Archie’s £1000 ought to cover my expenses in hotels, and a month’s holiday for both of us in Honolulu. It would be a near thing, but we thought it was just possible. Archie and I had twice gone abroad for a short holiday: once to the south of France, to the Pyrenees, and once to Switzerland. We both loved travelling–I had certainly been given a taste for it by that early experience when I was seven years old. Anyway, I longed to see the world, and it seemed to me highly probable that I never should. We were now committed to the business life, and a business man, as far as I could see, never got more than a fortnight’s holiday a year. A fortnight would not take you far. I longed to see China and Japan and India and Hawaii, and a great many other places, but my dream remained, and probably always would remain, wishful thinking.

Until then, perhaps we might each try our luck on our own. I don’t know whether there are any points M. Poirot thinks might repay investigation?" "I could make some suggestions," said Poirot. "Good. I’ll take them down." He produced a notebook. "Go ahead, M. Poirot. A—?" "I consider it just possible that the waitress, Milly Higley, might know something useful." "A—Milly Higley," wrote down Franklin Clarke. "I suggest two methods of approach. You, Miss Barnard, might try what I call the offensive approach." "I suppose you think that suits my style?" said Megan dryly. "Pick a quarrel with the girl—say you knew she never liked your sister—and that your sister had told you all about her. If I do not err, that will provoke a flood of recrimination. She will tell you just what she thought of your sister! Some useful fact may emerge." "And the second method?" "May I suggest, Mr. Fraser, that you should show signs of interest in the girl?" "Is that necessary." "No, it is not necessary. It is just a possible line of exploration." "Shall I try my hand?" asked Franklin. "I’ve—er—a pretty wide experience, M. Poirot. Let me see what I can do with the young lady." "You’ve got your own part of the world to attend to," said Thora Grey rather sharply. Franklin’s face fell just a little. "Yes," he said. "I have." "Tout de même, I do not think there is much you can do down there for the present," said Poirot. "Mademoiselle Grey now, she is far more fitted—" Thora Grey interrupted him. "But you see, M. Poirot, I have left Devon for good." "Ah? I did not understand." "Miss Grey very kindly stayed on to help me clear up things," said Franklin. "But naturally she prefers a post in London." Poirot directed a sharp glance from one to the other. "How is Lady Clarke?" he demanded. I was admiring the faint colour in Thora Grey’s cheeks and almost missed Clarke’s reply. "Pretty bad. By the way, M. Poirot, I wonder if you could see your way to running down to Devon and paying her a visit? She expressed a desire to see you before I left. Of course, she often can’t see people for a couple of days at a time, but if you would risk that—at my expense, of course." "Certainly, Mr. Clarke. Shall we say the day after tomorrow?" "Good. I’ll let nurse know and she’ll arrange the dope accordingly." "For you, my child," said Poirot, turning to Mary, "I think you might perhaps do good work in Andover. Try the children." "The children?" "Yes. Children will not chat readily to outsiders. But you are known in the street where your aunt lived. There were a good many children playing about. They may have noticed who went in and out of your aunt’s shop." "What about Miss Grey and myself?" asked Clarke. "That is, if I’m not to go to Bexhill." "M. Poirot," said Thora Grey, "what was the postmark on the third letter?" "Putney, mademoiselle." She said thoughtfully: "SW15, Putney, that is right, is it not?" "For a wonder, the newspapers printed it correctly." "That seems to point to A B C being a Londoner." "On the face of it, yes." "One ought to be able to draw him," said Clarke. "M. Poirot, how would it be if I inserted an advertisement—something after these lines: A B C. Urgent, H.P. close on your track. A hundred for my silence. X.Y.Z. Nothing quite so crude as that—but you see the idea. It might draw him." "It is a possibility—yes." "Might induce him to try and have a shot at me." "I think it’s very dangerous and silly," said Thora Grey sharply. "What about it, M. Poirot?" "It can do no harm to try. I think myself that A B C will be too cunning to reply." Poirot smiled a little. "I see, Mr. Clarke, that you are—if I may say so without being offensive—still a boy at heart." Franklin Clarke looked a little abashed. "Well," he said, consulting his notebook.