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Can’t you help me?" Yet in the end it died away—or perhaps it had all been my fancy. I had the feeling that I was being dismissed. I rose and took my leave. As I went out of the room, I glanced back and saw her staring after me with a puzzled, doubtful expression. On an impulse I came back: "If there is anything I can do—" She said doubtfully: "It’s very kind of you—" We were both silent. Then she said: "I wish I knew. It’s difficult. No, I don’t think anyone can help me. But thank you for offering to do so." That seemed final, so I went. But as I did so, I wondered. We are not used to mysteries in St. Mary Mead. So much is this the case that as I emerged from the gate I was pounced upon. Miss Hartnell is very good at pouncing in a heavy and cumbrous way. "I saw you!" she exclaimed with ponderous humour. "And I was so excited. Now you can tell us all about it." "About what?" "The mysterious lady! Is she a widow or has she a husband somewhere?" "I really couldn’t say. She didn’t tell me." "How very peculiar. One would think she would be certain to mention something casually. It almost looks, doesn’t it, as though she had a reason for not speaking?" "I really don’t see that." "Ah! But as dear Miss Marple says, you are so unworldly, dear Vicar. Tell me, has she known Dr. Haydock long?" "She didn’t mention him, so I don’t know." "Really? But what did you talk about then?" "Pictures, music, books," I said truthfully. Miss Hartnell, whose only topics of conversation are the purely personal, looked suspicious and unbelieving. Taking advantage of a momentary hesitation on her part as to how to proceed next, I bade her good night and walked rapidly away. I called in at a house farther down the village and returned to the Vicarage by the garden gate, passing, as I did so, the danger point of Miss Marple’s garden. However, I did not see how it was humanly possible for the news of my visit to Mrs. Lestrange to have yet reached her ears, so I felt reasonably safe. As I latched the gate, it occurred to me that I would just step down to the shed in the garden which young Lawrence Redding was using as a studio, and see for myself how Griselda’s portrait was progressing. I append a rough sketch here which will be useful in the light of after happenings, only sketching in such details as are necessary. I had no idea there was anyone in the studio. There had been no voices from within to warn me, and I suppose that my own footsteps made no noise upon the grass. I opened the door and then stopped awkwardly on the threshold. For there were two people in the studio, and the man’s arms were round the woman and he was kissing her passionately. The two people were the artist, Lawrence Redding, and Mrs. Protheroe. I backed out precipitately and beat a retreat to my study. There I sat down in a chair, took out my pipe, and thought things over. The discovery had come as a great shock to me. Especially since my conversation with Lettice that afternoon, I had felt fairly certain that there was some kind of understanding growing up between her and the young man. Moreover, I was convinced that she herself thought so. I felt positive that she had no idea of the artist’s feelings for her stepmother. A nasty tangle. I paid a grudging tribute to Miss Marple. She had not been deceived but had evidently suspected the true state of things with a fair amount of accuracy. I had entirely misread her meaning glance at Griselda. I had never dreamt of considering Mrs. Protheroe in the matter. There has always been rather a suggestion of Caesar’s wife about Mrs. Protheroe—a quiet, self-contained woman whom one would not suspect of any great depths of feeling. I had got to this point in my meditations when a tap on my study window aroused me. I got up and went to it. Mrs. Protheroe was standing outside. I opened the window and she came in, not waiting for an invitation on my part.

Edward smiled. "No, I’m not proposing that we catch the 4:15. But I am suggesting that you come to Ainswick, Midge. I’m suggesting that you come there for good—that is, if you can put up with me." She stared at him over the rim of her coffee cup—put it down with a hand that she managed to keep steady. "What do you really mean, Edward?" "I’m suggesting that you should marry me, Midge. I don’t suppose that I’m a very romantic proposition. I’m a dull dog, I know that, and not much good at anything. I just read books and potter around. But although I’m not a very exciting person, we’ve known each other a long time and I think that Ainswick itself would—well, would compensate. I think you’d be happy at Ainswick, Midge. Will you come?" Midge swallowed once or twice, then she said: "But I thought—Henrietta—" and stopped. Edward said, his voice level and unemotional: "Yes, I’ve asked Henrietta to marry me three times. Each time she has refused. Henrietta knows what she doesn’t want." There was a silence, and then Edward said: "Well, Midge dear, what about it?" Midge looked up at him. There was a catch in her voice. She said: "It seems so extraordinary—to be offered heaven on a plate as it were, at the Berkeley!" His face lighted up. He laid his hand over hers for a brief moment. "Heaven on a plate," he said. "So you feel like that about Ainswick. Oh, Midge, I’m glad." They sat there happily. Edward paid the bill and added an enormous tip. The people in the restaurant were thinning out. Midge said with an effort: "We’ll have to go. I suppose I’d better go back to Madame Alfrege. After all, she’s counting on me. I can’t just walk out." "No, I suppose you’ll have to go back and resign or hand in your notice or whatever you call it. You’re not to go on working there, though. I won’t have it. But first I thought we’d better go to one of those shops in Bond Street where they sell rings." "Rings?" "It’s usual, isn’t it?" Midge laughed. In the dimmed lighting of the jeweller’s shop, Midge and Edward bent over trays of sparkling engagement rings, whilst a discreet salesman watched them benignantly. Edward said, pushing away a velvet-covered tray: "Not emeralds." Henrietta in green tweeds—Henrietta in an evening dress like Chinese jade…. No, not emeralds. Midge pushed away the tiny stabbing pain at her heart. "Choose for me," she said to Edward. He bent over the tray before them. He picked out a ring with a single diamond. Not a very large stone, but a stone of beautiful colour and fire. "I’d like this." Midge nodded. She loved this display of Edward’s unerring and fastidious taste. She slipped it on her finger as Edward and the shopman drew aside. Edward wrote out a cheque for three hundred and forty-two pounds and came back to Midge smiling. He said: "Let’s go and be rude to Madame Alfrege." Twenty-five "But, darling, I am so delighted!" Lady Angkatell stretched out a fragile hand to Edward and touched Midge softly with the other. "You did quite right, Edward, to make her leave that horrid shop and bring her right down here. She’ll stay here, of course, and be married from here. St. George’s, you know, three miles by the road, though only a mile through the woods, but then one doesn’t go to a wedding through woods. And I suppose it will have to be the vicar—poor man, he has such dreadful colds in the head every autumn. The curate, now, has one of those high Anglican voices, and the whole thing would be far more impressive—and more religious, too, if you know what I mean. It is so hard to keep one’s mind reverent when somebody is saying things through their noses." It was, Midge decided, a very Lucyish reception. It made her want to both laugh and cry. "I’d love to be married from here, Lucy," she said. "Then that’s settled, darling. Off-white satin, I think, and an ivory prayer book—not a bouquet. Bridesmaids?" "No.

Poirot paled. His hand, which had stolen to his clothes brush, stayed its course. "Not another death?" he breathed. "Yes." "Sir Guy Willard?" I cried. "No, Captain Hastings. My American colleague, Mr. Schneider." "And the cause?" demanded Poirot. "Tetanus." I blanched. All around me I seemed to feel an atmosphere of evil, subtle and menacing. A horrible thought flashed across me. Supposing I were next? "Mon Dieu," said Poirot, in a very low voice, "I do not understand this. It is horrible. Tell me, monsieur, there is no doubt that it was tetanus?" "I believe not. But Dr. Ames will tell you more than I can do." "Ah, of course, you are not the doctor." "My name is Tosswill." This, then, was the British expert described by Lady Willard as being a minor official at the British Museum. There was something at once grave and steadfast about him that took my fancy. "If you will come with me," continued Dr. Tosswill. "I will take you to Sir Guy Willard. He was most anxious to be informed as soon as you should arrive." We were taken across the camp to a large tent. Dr. Tosswill lifted up the flap and we entered. Three men were sitting inside. "Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings have arrived, Sir Guy," said Tosswill. The youngest of the three men jumped up and came forward to greet us. There was a certain impulsiveness in his manner which reminded me of his mother. He was not nearly so sunburnt as the others, and that fact, coupled with a certain haggardness round the eyes, made him look older than his twenty-two years. He was clearly endeavouring to bear up under a severe mental strain. He introduced his two companions, Dr. Ames, a capable-looking man of thirty- odd, with a touch of greying hair at the temples, and Mr. Harper, the secretary, a pleasant lean young man wearing the national insignia of horn- rimmed spectacles. After a few minutes" desultory conversation the latter went out, and Dr. Tosswill followed him. We were left alone with Sir Guy and Dr. Ames. "Please ask any questions you want to ask, Monsieur Poirot," said Willard. "We are utterly dumbfounded at this strange series of disasters, but it isn’t—it can’t be, anything but coincidence." There was a nervousness about his manner which rather belied the words. I saw that Poirot was studying him keenly. "Your heart is really in this work, Sir Guy?" "Rather. No matter what happens, or what comes of it, the work is going on. Make up your mind to that." Poirot wheeled round on the other. "What have you to say to that, monsieur le docteur?" "Well," drawled the doctor, "I’m not for quitting myself." Poirot made one of those expressive grimaces of his. "Then, évidemment, we must find out just how we stand. When did Mr. Schneider’s death take place?" "Three days ago." "You are sure it was tetanus?" "Dead sure." "It couldn’t have been a case of strychnine poisoning, for instance?" "No, Monsieur Poirot, I see what you are getting at. But it was a clear case of tetanus." "Did you not inject antiserum?" "Certainly we did," said the doctor dryly. "Every conceivable thing that could be done was tried." "Had you the antiserum with you?" "No. We procured it from Cairo." "Have there been any other cases of tetanus in the camp?" "No, not one." "Are you certain that the death of Mr. Bleibner was not due to tetanus?" "Absolutely plumb certain. He had a scratch upon his thumb which became poisoned, and septicaemia set in. It sounds pretty much the same to a layman, I dare say, but the two things are entirely different." "Then we have four deaths—all totally dissimilar, one heart failure, one blood poisoning, one suicide and one tetanus." "Exactly, Monsieur Poirot." "Are you certain that there is nothing which might link the four together?" "I don’t quite understand you?" "I will put it plainly.

He’ll probably like remembering about all the things we did, too. I would never try to write a serious book about archaeology; I know that I’d make far too many silly mistakes. But this is different, this is personal. And I am going to publish it," I continued. "I want something to hold on to, to remember. You can’t trust your own memory. Things go. So that’s why I want to publish it." "Oh! well," said Sidney. He still sounded doubtful. However, "Oh! well" was a concession when it came from Sidney. "Nonsense," said his wife Mary. "Of course you can publish it. Why not? It is very amusing. And I quite see what you mean about liking to remember and read back over it." The other people who didn’t like it were my publishers. They were suspicious and disapproving, afraid that I was getting completely out of hand. They had hated Mary Westmacott writing anything. They were now prepared to be suspicious of Come, Tell Me How You Live, or anything, in fact, that enticed me away from mystery stories. However, the book was a success, and I think they then regretted that paper was so short. I published it under the name of Agatha Christie Mallowan so that it should not be confused with any of my detective books. IV There are things one does not want to go over in one’s mind again. Things that you have to accept because they have happened, but you don’t want to think of them again. Rosalind rang me up one day and told me that Hubert, who had been in France now for some time, had been reported missing, believed killed. That is, I think, the most cruel thing that can happen to any young wife in wartime. The awful suspense. To have your husband killed is bad enough; but it is something you have got to live with, and you know that you have. This fatal holding out of hope is cruel, cruel… And no one can help you. I went down to join her, and stayed at Pwllywrach for some time. We hoped–of course one always hopes–but I don’t think Rosalind, in her own heart, ever did quite hope. She had always been one to expect the worst. And I think, too, that there had always been something about Hubert–not exactly melancholy, but that touch or look of someone who is not fated for long life. He was a dear person; good to me always, with, I think, a great vein, not exactly of poetry, but of something of that kind in him. I wish I had had a greater chance to know him better; not just a few short visits and encounters. It was not for a good many months that we got any further news. Rosalind, I think, had had the news for a full twenty-four hours before she said anything to me. She had behaved just the same as usual; she was and always has been a person of enormous courage. Finally, hating to do so but knowing it had to be done, she said abruptly: "You had better see this, I suppose," and she handed me the telegram which reported that he was now definitely classified as killed in action. The saddest thing in life and the hardest to live through, is the knowledge that there is someone you love very much whom you cannot save from suffering. You can do things to aid people’s physical disabilities; but you can do little to help the pain of the heart. I thought, I may have been wrong, that the best thing I could do to help Rosalind was to say as little as possible, to go on as usual. I think that would have been my own feeling. You hope no one will speak to you, or enlarge upon things. I hope that was best for her, but you cannot know for another person. It may be it would have been easier for her if I had been the determined kind of mother who broke her down and insisted on her being more demonstrative. Instinct cannot be infallible. One wants so badly not to hurt the person one loves–not to do the wrong thing for them. One feels one ought to know, but one can never be sure. She continued to live at Pwllywrach in the big empty house with Mathew–an enchanting little boy, and always, in my memory, such a happy little boy: he had a great knack for happiness.

"And this Miss Collins, how long has she been with you?" "Just a year," said Mrs. Waverly. "She has been invaluable to me as a secretary-companion, and is also a very efficient housekeeper." "The nurse?" "She has been with me six months. She came to me with excellent references. All the same, I never really liked her, although Johnnie was quite devoted to her." "Still, I gather she had already left when the catastrophe occurred. Perhaps, Monsieur Waverly, you will be so kind as to continue." Mr. Waverly resumed his narrative. "Inspector McNeil arrived about ten thirty. The servants had all left by then. He declared himself quite satisfied with the internal arrangements. He had various men posted in the park outside, guarding all the approaches to the house, and he assured me that if the whole thing were not a hoax, we should undoubtedly catch my mysterious correspondent. "I had Johnnie with me, and he and I and the inspector went together into the room we call the council chamber. The inspector locked the door. There is a big grandfather clock there, and as the hands drew near to twelve I don’t mind confessing that I was as nervous as a cat. There was a whirring sound, and the clock began to strike. I clutched at Johnnie. I had a feeling a man might drop from the skies. The last stroke sounded, and as it did so, there was a great commotion outside—shouting and running. The inspector flung up the window, and a constable came running up. " "We’ve got him sir," he panted. "He was sneaking up through the bushes. He’s got a whole dope outfit on him." "We hurried out on the terrace where two constables were holding a ruffianly- looking fellow in shabby clothes, who was twisting and turning in a vain endeavour to escape. One of the policemen held out an unrolled parcel which they had wrested from their captive. It contained a pad of cotton wool and a bottle of chloroform. It made my blood boil to see it. There was a note, too, addressed to me. I tore it open. It bore the following words: "You should have paid up. To ransom your son will now cost you fifty thousand. In spite of all your precautions he has been abducted on the twenty-ninth as I said." "I gave a great laugh, the laugh of relief, but as I did so I heard the hum of a motor and a shout. I turned my head. Racing down the drive towards the south lodge at a furious speed was a low, long grey car. It was the man who drove it who shouted, but that was not what gave me a shock of horror. It was the sight of Johnnie’s flaxen curls. The child was in the car beside him. "The inspector ripped out an oath. "The child was here not a minute ago," he cried. His eyes swept over us. We were all there: myself, Tredwell, Miss Collins. "When did you last see him, Mr. Waverly?" "I cast my mind back, trying to remember. When the constable had called us, I had run out with the inspector, forgetting all about Johnnie. "And then there came a sound that startled us, the chiming of a church clock from the village. With an exclamation the inspector pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. With one common accord we ran to the council chamber; the clock there marked the hour as ten minutes past. Someone must have deliberately tampered with it, for I have never known it gain or lose before. It is a perfect timekeeper." Mr. Waverly paused. Poirot smiled to himself and straightened a little mat which the anxious father had pushed askew. "A pleasing little problem, obscure and charming," murmured Poirot. "I will investigate it for you with pleasure. Truly it was planned à merveille." Mrs. Waverly looked at him reproachfully. "But my boy," she wailed. Poirot hastily composed his face and looked the picture of earnest sympathy again. "He is safe, madame, he is unharmed. Rest assured, these miscreants will take the greatest care of him. Is he not to them the turkey—no, the goose—that lays the golden eggs?"

"There’s always that trouble with a couple. Crump stays because of Mrs. Crump, who is one of the best cooks I’ve ever come across. She’s a jewel and one would put up with a good deal to keep her. Our Mr. Fortescue likes his food—liked, I should say. In this household nobody has any scruples and they have plenty of money. Butter, eggs, cream, Mrs. Crump can command what she likes. As for Crump, he just makes the grade. His silver’s all right, and his waiting at table is not too bad. I keep the key of the wine cellar and a sharp eye on the whisky, and gin, and supervise his valeting." Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows. "The admirable Miss Crichton." "I find one must know how to do everything oneself. Then—one need never do it. But you wanted to know my impressions of the family." "If you don’t mind." "They are really all quite odious. The late Mr. Fortescue was the kind of crook who is always careful to play safe. He boasted a great deal of his various smart dealings. He was rude and overbearing in manner and was a definite bully. Mrs. Fortescue, Adele—was his second wife and about thirty years younger than he was. He came across her at Brighton. She was a manicurist on the look out for big money. She is very good-looking—a real sexy piece, if you know what I mean." Inspector Neele was shocked but managed not to show it. A girl like Mary Dove ought not to say such things, he felt. The young lady was continuing composedly: "Adele married him for his money, of course, and his son, Percival, and his daughter, Elaine, were simply livid about it. They’re as nasty as they can be to her, but very wisely she doesn’t care or even notice. She knows she’s got the old man where she wants him. Oh dear, the wrong tense again. I haven’t really grasped yet that he’s dead. . . ." "Let’s hear about the son." "Dear Percival? Val, as his wife calls him. Percival is a mealy-mouthed hypocrite. He’s prim and sly and cunning. He’s terrified of his father and has always let himself be bullied, but he’s quite clever at getting his own way. Unlike his father he’s mean about money. Economy is one of his passions. That’s why he’s been so long about finding a house of his own. Having a suite of rooms here saved his pocket." "And his wife?" "Jennifer’s meek and seems very stupid. But I’m not so sure. She was a hospital nurse before her marriage—nursed Percival through pneumonia to a romantic conclusion. The old man was disappointed by the marriage. He was a snob and wanted Percival to make what he called a "good marriage." He despised poor Mrs. Val and snubbed her. She dislikes—disliked him a good deal, I think. Her principal interests are shopping and the cinema; her principal grievance is that her husband keeps her short of money." "What about the daughter?" "Elaine? I’m rather sorry for Elaine. She’s not a bad sort. One of those great schoolgirls who never grow up. She plays games quite well, and runs Guides and Brownies and all that sort of thing. There was some sort of affair not long ago with a disgruntled young schoolmaster, but Father discovered the young man had communistic ideas and came down on the romance like a ton of bricks." "She hadn’t got the spirit to stand up to him?" "She had. It was the young man who ratted. A question of money yet again, I fancy. Elaine is not particularly attractive, poor dear." "And the other son?" "I’ve never seen him. He’s attractive, by all accounts, and a thoroughly bad lot. Some little matter of a forged cheque in the past. He lives in East Africa." "And was estranged from his father." "Yes, Mr. Fortescue couldn’t cut him off with a shilling because he’d already made him a junior partner in the firm, but he held no communication with him for years, and in fact if Lance was ever mentioned, he used to say: "Don’t talk to me of that rascal. He’s no son of mine."

"I know, Mrs. Legge. But we just have to ask everybody the same routine questions. For instance, just where were you between four fifteen and five o’clock?" "Well, I went and had tea at four o’clock." "In the tea tent?" "Yes." "It was very crowded, I believe?" "Oh, frightfully crowded." "Did you see anyone you knew there?" "Oh, a few old people, yes. Nobody to speak to. Goodness, how I wanted that tea! That was four o’clock, as I say. I got back to the fortune-telling tent at half past four and went on with my job. And goodness knows what I was promising the women in the end. Millionaire husbands, film stardom in Hollywood—heaven knows what. Mere journeys across the sea and suspicious dark women seemed too tame." "What happened during the half hour when you were absent—I mean, supposing people wanted to have their fortunes told?" "Oh, I hung a card up outside the tent. "Back at four-thirty.’" The inspector made a note in his pad. "When did you last see Lady Stubbs?" "Hattie? I don’t really know. She was quite near at hand when I came out of the fortune-telling tent to go to tea, but I didn’t speak to her. I don’t remember seeing her afterwards. Somebody told me just now that she’s missing. Is that true?" "Yes, it is." "Oh, well," said Sally Legge cheerfully, "she’s a bit queer in the top storey, you know. I dare say having a murder here has frightened her." "Well, thank you, Mrs. Legge." Mrs. Legge accepted the dismissal with promptitude. She went out, passing Hercule Poirot in the doorway. III Looking at the ceiling, the inspector spoke. "Mrs. Legge says she was in the tea tent between four and four-thirty. Mrs. Folliat says she was helping in the tea tent from four o’clock on but that Mrs. Legge was not among those present." He paused and then went on, "Miss Brewis says that Lady Stubbs asked her to take a tray of cakes and fruit juice to Marlene Tucker. Michael Weyman says that it’s quite impossible Lady Stubbs should have done any such thing—it would be most uncharacteristic of her." "Ah," said Poirot, "the conflicting statements! Yes, one always has them." "And what a nuisance they are to clear up, too," said the inspector. "Sometimes they matter but in nine times out of ten they don’t. Well, we’ve got to do a lot of spade work, that’s clear." "And what do you think now, mon cher? What are the latest ideas?" "I think," said the inspector gravely, "that Marlene Tucker saw something she was not meant to see. I think that it was because of what Marlene Tucker saw that she had to be killed." "I will not contradict you," said Poirot. "The point is what did she see?" "She might have seen a murder," said the inspector. "Or she might have seen the person who did the murder." "Murder?" said Poirot. "The murder of whom?" "What do you think, Poirot? Is Lady Stubbs alive or dead?" Poirot took a moment or two before he replied. Then he said: "I think, mon ami, that Lady Stubbs is dead. And I will tell you why I think that. It is because Mrs. Folliat thinks she is dead. Yes, whatever she may say now, or pretend to think, Mrs. Folliat believes that Hattie Stubbs is dead. Mrs. Folliat," he added, "knows a great deal that we do not." Twelve Hercule Poirot came down to the breakfast table on the following morning to a depleted table. Mrs. Oliver, still suffering from the shock of yesterday’s occurrence, was having her breakfast in bed. Michael Weyman had had a cup of coffee and gone out early. Only Sir George and the faithful Miss Brewis were at the breakfast table. Sir George was giving indubitable proof of his mental condition by being unable to eat any breakfast. His plate lay almost untasted before him. He pushed aside the small pile of letters which, after opening them, Miss Brewis had placed before him.

Or were they perhaps as strange to him as they were to her? She thought to herself: "It all began in Sunny Ridge, but Sunny Ridge isn’t the real heart of the matter. That was, had always been, here, in Sutton Chancellor. Things had happened here. Not very lately, almost certainly not lately. Long ago. Things which had nothing to do with Mrs. Lancaster—but Mrs. Lancaster had become unknowingly involved. So where was Mrs. Lancaster now?" A little cold shiver passed over Tuppence. "I think," thought Tuppence, "I think perhaps she’s dead. . . ." If so, Tuppence felt, she herself had failed. She had set out on her quest worried about Mrs. Lancaster, feeling that Mrs. Lancaster was threatened with some danger and she had resolved to find Mrs. Lancaster, protect her. "And if she isn’t dead," thought Tuppence, "I’ll still do it!" Sutton Chancellor . . . That was where the beginning of something meaningful and dangerous had happened. The house with the canal was part of it. Perhaps it was the centre of it all, or was it Sutton Chancellor itself? A place where people had lived, had come to, had left, had run away, had vanished, had disappeared and reappeared. Like Sir Philip Starke. Without turning her head Tuppence’s eyes went to Sir Philip Starke. She knew nothing about him except what Mrs. Copleigh had poured out in the course of her monologue on the general inhabitants. A quiet man, a learned man, a botanist, an industrialist, or at least one who owned a big stake in industry. Therefore a rich man—and a man who loved children. There she was, back at it. Children again. The house by the canal and the bird in the chimney, and out of the chimney had fallen a child’s doll, shoved up there by someone. A child’s doll that held within its skin a handful of diamonds—the proceeds of crime. This was one of the headquarters of a big criminal undertaking. But there had been crimes more sinister than robberies. Mrs. Copleigh had said "I always fancied myself as he might have done it." Sir Philip Starke. A murderer? Behind her half-closed eyelids, Tuppence studied him with the knowledge clearly in her mind that she was studying him to find out if he fitted in any way with her conception of a murderer—and a child murderer at that. How old was he, she wondered. Seventy at least, perhaps older. A worn ascetic face. Yes, definitely ascetic. Very definitely a tortured face. Those large dark eyes. El Greco eyes. The emaciated body. He had come here this evening, why, she wondered? Her eyes went on to Miss Bligh. Sitting a little restlessly in her chair, occasionally moving to push a table nearer someone, to offer a cushion, to move the position of the cigarette box or matches. Restless, ill at ease. She was looking at Philip Starke. Every time she relaxed, her eyes went to him. "Doglike devotion," thought Tuppence. "I think she must have been in love with him once. I think in a way perhaps she still is. You don’t stop being in love with anyone because you get old. People like Derek and Deborah think you do. They can’t imagine anyone who isn’t young being in love. But I think she—I think she is still in love with him, hopelessly, devotedly in love. Didn’t someone say—was it Mrs. Copleigh or the vicar who had said, that Miss Bligh had been his secretary as a young woman, that she still looked after his affairs here? "Well," thought Tuppence, "it’s natural enough. Secretaries often fall in love with their bosses. So say Gertrude Bligh had loved Philip Starke. Was that a useful fact at all? Had Miss Bligh known or suspected that behind Philip Starke’s calm ascetic personality there ran a horrifying thread of madness? So fond of children always." "Too fond of children, I thought," Mrs. Copleigh had said. Things did take you like that. Perhaps that was a reason for his looking so tortured.

Mansur comes up, beaming all over his stupid, honest face, and asks how the Khatún is this morning. I say I am very well. Mansur, it seems, is distressed because I was so fast asleep when supper was ready that nobody liked to wake me. Will I have another egg now? "Yes," I say, having already eaten four. And this time, if Mansur fries it for about five minutes, it will be quite enough! We start for the Euphrates about eleven. The river is very wide here, the country is pale and flat and shining, and the air is hazy. It is a kind of symphony in what Max would describe as "pinkish buff’, if he were describing pottery. To cross the Euphrates at Raqqa is a matter of a very primitive ferry. We join some other cars and settle down happily for an hour or two’s wait until the ferry comes. Some women come down to fill kerosene tins of water. Others are washing clothes. It is like a pattern on a frieze – the tall, black-clad figures, the lower half of the face covered, the heads very erect, the great dripping tins of water. The women move up and down, slow and unhurried. I reflect enviously that it must be nice to have your face veiled. It must make you feel very private, very secret…. Only your eyes look out on the world – you see it, but it does not see you…. I take out the glass from my hand-bag and open my powder compact. "Yes," I think, "it would be very nice to veil your face!" Approaching civilization stirs within me. I begin to think of things…. A shampoo, a luxurious drier. Manicure…. A porcelain bath with taps. Bath salts. Electric light…. More shoes! "What’s the matter with you?" says Max. "I’ve asked you twice whether you noticed that second Tell we passed on the road down from Tell Abyadh last night." "I didn’t." "You didn’t?" "No. I wasn’t noticing anything last night." "It wasn’t as solid a Tell as the others. Denudation on the east side of it. I wonder perhaps –" I say clearly and firmly: "I’m tired of Tells!" "What?" Max looks at me with the horror a medieval inquisitor might have felt on hearing a particularly flagrant bit of blasphemy. He says: "You can’t be!" "I’m thinking of other things." I reel off a list of them starting with electric light, and Max passes his hand over the back of his head and says he wouldn’t mind having a decent haircut at last. We all agree what a pity it is one can’t go straight from Chagar to, say, the Savoy! As it is, the sharp pleasure of contrast is always lost. We go through a stage of indifferent meals and partial comfort so that the pleasure of switching on electric light or turning a tap is dulled. Now the ferry is here. Mary is driven carefully up the inclined boards. Poilu follows. We are out now on the broad Euphrates. Raqqa recedes. It looks beautiful, with its mud-brick and its Oriental shapes. "Pinkish-buff," I say softly. "That striped pot, do you mean?" "No," I say, "Raqqa…." And I repeat the name softly, like a good-bye, before I get back to the world where the electric light switch rules…. Raqqa…. CHAPTER ELEVEN Good-bye to Brak NEW FACES and old faces! This is our last season in Syria. We are digging now at Tell Brak, having finally closed down at Chagar. Our house, Mac’s house, has been handed over (with immense ceremony) to the Sheikh. The Sheikh has already borrowed money on the house about three times over; nevertheless he displays distinct pride of ownership. To own the house will be good, we feel, for his "reputation’. "Though it will probably break his neck," says Max thoughtfully. He has explained to the Sheikh at length and with emphasis that the roof of the house must be seen to every year and duly repaired. "Naturally, naturally!" says the Sheikh. "Inshallah, nothing will go wrong!" "A bit too much Inshallah about it," says Max. "All Inshallah and no repairs! That’s what will happen."

Where have you been?" She glanced over her shoulder. Lorrimer had discreetly vanished. "Everything’s too awful! People are beginning to cold-shoulder Arthur. He looks years older. We must do something, Jane. You must do something!" Miss Marple said: "You needn’t worry, Dolly," in a rather peculiar voice. Colonel Bantry appeared from the study door. "Ah, Miss Marple. Good morning. Glad you’ve come. My wife’s been ringing you up like a lunatic." "I thought I’d better bring you the news," said Miss Marple, as she followed Mrs. Bantry into the study. "News?" "Basil Blake has just been arrested for the murder of Ruby Keene." "Basil Blake?" cried the Colonel. "But he didn’t do it," said Miss Marple. Colonel Bantry took no notice of this statement. It is doubtful if he even heard it. "Do you mean to say he strangled that girl and then brought her along and put her in my library?" "He put her in your library," said Miss Marple. "But he didn’t kill her." "Nonsense! If he put her in my library, of course he killed her! The two things go together." "Not necessarily. He found her dead in his own cottage." "A likely story," said the Colonel derisively. "If you find a body, why, you ring up the police—naturally—if you’re an honest man." "Ah," said Miss Marple, "but we haven’t all got such iron nerves as you have, Colonel Bantry. You belong to the old school. This younger generation is different." "Got no stamina," said the Colonel, repeating a well-worn opinion of his. "Some of them," said Miss Marple, "have been through a bad time. I’ve heard a good deal about Basil. He did A.R.P. work, you know, when he was only eighteen. He went into a burning house and brought out four children, one after another. He went back for a dog, although they told him it wasn’t safe. The building fell in on him. They got him out, but his chest was badly crushed and he had to lie in plaster for nearly a year and was ill for a long time after that. That’s when he got interested in designing." "Oh!" The Colonel coughed and blew his nose. "I—er—never knew that." "He doesn’t talk about it," said Miss Marple. "Er—quite right. Proper spirit. Must be more in the young chap than I thought. Always thought he’d shirked the war, you know. Shows you ought to be careful in jumping to conclusions." Colonel Bantry looked ashamed. "But, all the same"—his indignation revived—"what did he mean trying to fasten a murder on me?" "I don’t think he saw it like that," said Miss Marple. "He thought of it more as a—as a joke. You see, he was rather under the influence of alcohol at the time." "Bottled, was he?" said Colonel Bantry, with an Englishman’s sympathy for alcoholic excess. "Oh, well, can’t judge a fellow by what he does when he’s drunk. When I was at Cambridge, I remember I put a certain utensil—well, well, never mind. Deuce of a row there was about it." He chuckled, then checked himself sternly. He looked piercingly at Miss Marple with eyes that were shrewd and appraising. He said: "You don’t think he did the murder, eh?" "I’m sure he didn’t." "And you think you know who did?" Miss Marple nodded. Mrs. Bantry, like an ecstatic Greek chorus, said: "Isn’t she wonderful?" to an unhearing world. "Well, who was it?" Miss Marple said: "I was going to ask you to help me. I think, if we went up to Somerset House we should have a very good idea." Seventeen I Sir Henry’s face was very grave. He said: "I don’t like it." "I am aware," said Miss Marple, "that it isn’t what you call orthodox. But it is so important, isn’t it, to be quite sure—"to make assurance doubly sure," as Shakespeare has it. I think, if Mr. Jefferson would agree—?" "What about Harper? Is he to be in on this?" "It might be awkward for him to know too much. But there might be a hint from you.

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? I think our services are no longer needed." Once outside, however, he hesitated, and then, much to my surprise, he remarked: "I should rather like to see the room next door." The door was not locked, and we entered. The room, which was a large double one, was unoccupied. Dust lay about rather noticeably, and my sensitive friend gave a characteristic grimace as he ran his finger round a rectangular mark on a table near the window. "The service leaves to be desired," he observed dryly. He was staring thoughtfully out of the window, and seemed to have fallen into a brown study. "Well?" I demanded impatiently. "What did we come in here for?" He started. "Je vous demande pardon, mon ami. I wished to see if the door was really bolted on this side also." "Well," I said, glancing at the door which communicated with the room we had just left, "it is bolted." Poirot nodded. He still seemed to be thinking. "And anyway," I continued, "what does it matter? The case is over. I wish you’d had more chance of distinguishing yourself. But it was the kind of case that even a stiff-backed idiot like that inspector couldn’t go wrong over." Poirot shook his head. "The case is not over, my friend. It will not be over until we find out who stole the pearls." "But the maid did!" "Why do you say that?" "Why," I stammered, "they were found—actually in her mattress." "Ta, ta, ta!" said Poirot impatiently. "Those were not the pearls." "What?" "Imitation, mon ami." The statement took my breath away. Poirot was smiling placidly. "The good inspector obviously knows nothing of jewels. But presently there will be a fine hullabaloo!" "Come!" I cried, dragging at his arm. "Where?" "We must tell the Opalsens at once." "I think not." "But that poor woman—" "Eh bien; that poor woman, as you call her, will have a much better night believing the jewels to be safe." "But the thief may escape with them!" "As usual, my friend, you speak without reflection. How do you know that the pearls Mrs. Opalsen locked up so carefully tonight were not the false ones, and that the real robbery did not take place at a much earlier date?" "Oh!" I said, bewildered. "Exactly," said Poirot, beaming. "We start again." He led the way out of the room, paused a moment as though considering, and then walked down to the end of the corridor, stopping outside the small den where the chambermaids and valets of the respective floors congregated. Our particular chambermaid appeared to be holding a small court there, and to be retailing her late experiences to an appreciative audience. She stopped in the middle of a sentence. Poirot bowed with his usual politeness. "Excuse that I derange you, but I shall be obliged if you will unlock for me the door of Mr. Opalsen’s room." The woman rose willingly, and we accompanied her down the passage again. Mr. Opalsen’s room was on the other side of the corridor, its door facing that of his wife’s room. The chambermaid unlocked it with her passkey, and we entered. As she was about to depart Poirot detained her. "One moment; have you ever seen among the effects of Mr.Opalsen a card like this?" He held out a plain white card, rather highly glazed and uncommon in appearance. The maid took it and scrutinized it carefully. "No, sir, I can’t say I have.

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

"This calls for action," said Miss Marple briskly. "But it would be advisable, I think, to be careful. Would you have noticed at all, Bunch dear, whether you were followed when you came to London today?" "Followed!" exclaimed Bunch. "You don’t think—" "Well, I think it’s possible," said Miss Marple. "When anything is possible, I think we ought to take precautions." She rose with a brisk movement. "You came up here ostensibly, my dear, to go to the sales. I think the right thing to do, therefore, would be for us to go to the sales. But before we set out, we might put one or two little arrangements in hand. I don’t suppose," Miss Marple added obscurely, "that I shall need the old speckled tweed with the beaver collar just at present." It was about an hour and a half later that the two ladies, rather the worse for wear and battered in appearance, and both clasping parcels of hardly-won household linen, sat down at a small and sequestered hostelry called the Apple Bough to restore their forces with steak and kidney pudding followed by apple tart and custard. "Really a prewar quality face towel," gasped Miss Marple, slightly out of breath. "With a J on it, too. So fortunate that Raymond’s wife’s name is Joan. I shall put them aside until I really need them and then they will do for her if I pass on sooner than I expect." "I really did need the glass-cloths," said Bunch. "And they were very cheap, though not as cheap as the ones that woman with the ginger hair managed to snatch from me." A smart young woman with a lavish application of rouge and lipstick entered the Apple Bough at that moment. After looking around vaguely for a moment or two, she hurried to their table. She laid down an envelope by Miss Marple’s elbow. "There you are, miss," she said briskly. "Oh, thank you, Gladys," said Miss Marple. "Thank you very much. So kind of you." "Always pleased to oblige, I’m sure," said Gladys. "Ernie always says to me, "Everything what’s good you learned from that Miss Marple of yours that you were in service with," and I’m sure I’m always glad to oblige you, miss." "Such a dear girl," said Miss Marple as Gladys departed again. "Always so willing and so kind." She looked inside the envelope and then passed it on to Bunch. "Now be very careful, dear," she said. "By the way, is there still that nice young inspector at Melchester that I remember?" "I don’t know," said Bunch. "I expect so." "Well, if not," said Miss Marple thoughtfully. "I can always ring up the Chief Constable. I think he would remember me." "Of course he’d remember you," said Bunch. "Everybody would remember you. You’re quite unique." She rose. Arrived at Paddington, Bunch went to the luggage office and produced the cloakroom ticket. A moment or two later a rather shabby old suitcase was passed across to her, and carrying this she made her way to the platform. The journey home was uneventful. Bunch rose as the train approached Chipping Cleghorn and picked up the old suitcase. She had just left her carriage when a man, sprinting along the platform, suddenly seized the suitcase from her hand and rushed off with it. "Stop!" Bunch yelled. "Stop him, stop him. He’s taken my suitcase." The ticket collector who, at this rural station, was a man of somewhat slow processes, had just begun to say, "Now, look here, you can’t do that—" when a smart blow on the chest pushed him aside, and the man with the suitcase rushed out from the station. He made his way towards a waiting car. Tossing the suitcase in, he was about to climb after it, but before he could move a hand fell on his shoulder, and the voice of Police Constable Abel said, "Now then, what’s all this?" Bunch arrived, panting, from the station. "He snatched my suitcase. I just got out of the train with it." "Nonsense," said the man. "I don’t know what this lady means. It’s my suitcase. I just got out of the train with it."

He slapped his embarrassed duplicate on the back. "It’s all right, Quentin. Got to let the cat out of the bag sometime, I suppose. You can tell "em who I am." The dignified stranger drew himself up. "This, sir," he announced in a reproachful tone, "is my master, Lord Listerdale, sir." The next minute beheld many things. First, the complete collapse of the cocksure Rupert. Before he knew what was happening, his mouth still open from the shock of the discovery, he found himself being gently manoeuvred towards the door, a friendly voice that was, and yet was not, familiar in his ear. "It’s quite all right, my boy. No bones broken. But I want a word with your mother. Very good work of yours, to ferret me out like this." He was outside on the landing gazing at the shut door. The real Quentin was standing by his side, a gentle stream of explanation flowing from his lips. Inside the room Lord Listerdale was fronting Mrs. St. Vincent. "Let me explain - if I can! I’ve been a selfish devil all my life - the fact came home to me one day. I thought I’d try a little altruism for a change, and being a fantastic kind of fool, I started my career fantastically. I’d sent subscriptions to odd things, but I felt the need of doing something - well, something personal. I’ve been sorry always for the class that can’t beg, that must suffer in silence - poor gentlefolk. I have a lot of house property. I conceived the idea of leasing these houses to people who - well, needed and appreciated them. Young couples with their way to make, widows with sons and daughters starting in the world. Quentin has been more than butler to me, he’s a friend. With his consent and assistance I borrowed his personality. I’ve always had a talent for acting. The idea came to me on my way to the club one night, and I went straight off to talk it over with Quentin. When I found they were making a fuss about my disappearance, I arranged that a letter should come from me in East Africa. In it, I gave full instructions to my cousin, Marurice Carfax. And - well, that’s the long and short of it." He broke off rather lamely, with an appealing glance at Mrs. St. Vincent. She stood very straight, and her eyes met his steadily. "It was a kind plan," she said. "A very unusual one, and one that does you credit. I am - most grateful. But \- of course, you understand that we cannot stay?" "I expected that," he said. "Your pride won’t let you accept what you’d probably style "charity.’" "Isn’t that what it is?" she asked steadily. "No,’" he answered. "Because I ask something in exchange." "Something?" "Everything." His voice rang out, the voice of one accustomed to dominate. "When I was twenty-three," he went on, "I married the girl I loved. She died a year later. Since then I have been very lonely. I have wished very much I could find a certain lady - the lady of my dreams … " "Am I that?" she asked, very low. "I am so old - so faded." He laughed. "Old? You are younger than either of your children. Now I am old, if you like." But her laugh rang out in turn, a soft ripple of amusement. "You? You are a boy still. A boy who loves to dress up!" She held out her hands and he caught them in his. The Listerdale Mystery Philomel Cottage "Good-bye, darling." "Good-bye, sweetheart." Alix Martin stood leaning over the small rustic gate, watching the retreating figure of her husband, as he walked down the road in the direction of the village. Presently he turned a bend and was lost to sight, but Alix still stayed in the same position, absentmindedly smoothing a lock of the rich brown hair which had blown across her face, her eyes far-away and dreamy. Alix Martin was not beautiful, nor even, strictly speaking, pretty. But her face, the face of a woman no longer in her first youth, was irradiated and softened until her former colleagues of the old office days would hardly have recognized her.

He turned again, aimlessly as it seemed, first one way, then the other, but he was not aimless. Actually his cat prowl was taking him in a circle round one particular building. Bertram’s Hotel. He was appraising carefully just what lay to the east of it, to the west of it, to the north of it and to the south of it. He examined the cars that were parked by the pavement, he examined the cars that were in the cul- de-sac. He examined a mews with special care. One car in particular interested him and he stopped. He pursed his lips and said softly, "So you’re here again, you beauty." He checked the number and nodded to himself. "FAN 2266 tonight, are you?" He bent down and ran his fingers over the number plate delicately, then nodded approval. "Good job they made of it," he said under his breath. He went on, came out at the other end of the mews, turned right and right again and came out in Pond Street once more, fifty yards from the entrance of Bertram’s Hotel. Once again he paused, admiring the handsome lines of yet another racing car. "You’re a beauty, too," said Chief-Inspector Davy. "Your number plate’s the same as the last time I saw you. I rather fancy your number plate always is the same. And that should mean—" he broke off—"or should it?" he muttered. He looked up towards what could have been the sky. "Fog’s getting thicker," he said to himself. Outside the door to Bertram’s, the Irish commissionaire was standing swinging his arms backwards and forwards with some violence to keep himself warm. Chief-Inspector Davy said good evening to him. "Good evening, sir. Nasty night." "Yes. I shouldn’t think anyone would want to go out tonight who hadn’t got to." The swing doors were pushed open and a middle-aged lady came out and paused uncertainly on the step. "Want a taxi, ma’am?" "Oh dear. I meant to walk." "I wouldn’t if I were you, ma’am. It’s very nasty, this fog. Even in a taxi it won’t be too easy." "Do you think you could find me a taxi?" asked the lady doubtfully. "I’ll do my best. You go inside now and keep warm, and I’ll come in and tell you if I’ve got one." His voice changed, modulated to a persuasive tone. "Unless you have to, ma’am, I wouldn’t go out tonight at all." "Oh dear. Perhaps you’re right. But I’m expected at some friends in Chelsea. I don’t know. It might be very difficult getting back here. What do you think?" Michael Gorman took charge. "If I were you, ma’am," he said firmly, "I’d go in and telephone to your friends. It’s not nice for a lady like you to be out on a foggy night like this." "Well—really—yes, well, perhaps you’re right." She went back in again. "I have to look after them," said Micky Gorman, turning in an explanatory manner to Father. "That kind would get her bag snatched, she would. Going out this time of night in a fog and wandering about Chelsea or West Kensington or wherever she’s trying to go." "I suppose you’ve had a good deal of experience of dealing with elderly ladies?" said Davy. "Ah yes, indeed. This place is a home from home to them, bless their ageing hearts. How about you, sir? Were you wanting a taxi?" "Don’t suppose you could get me one if I did," said Father. "There don’t seem to be many about in this. And I don’t blame them." "Ah, no, I might lay my hand on one for you. There’s a place round the corner where there’s usually a taxi driver got his cab parked, having a warm up and a drop of something to keep the cold out." "A taxi’s no good to me," said Father with a sigh. He jerked his thumb towards Bertram’s Hotel. "I’ve got to go inside. I’ve got a job to do." "Indeed now? Would it be still the missing Canon?" "Not exactly. He’s been found." "Found?" The man stared at him. "Found where?" "Wandering about with concussion after an accident." "Ah, that’s just what one might expect of him. Crossed the road without looking, I expect."

To gain money one must exploit shortage. Lucy Eyelesbarrow hit at once upon a very serious shortage—the shortage of any kind of skilled domestic labour. To the amazement of her friends and fellow- scholars, Lucy Eyelesbarrow entered the field of domestic labour. Her success was immediate and assured. By now, after a lapse of some years, she was known all over the British Isles. It was quite customary for wives to say joyfully to husbands, "It will be all right. I can go with you to the States. I’ve got Lucy Eyelesbarrow!" The point of Lucy Eyelesbarrow was that once she came into a house, all worry, anxiety and hard work went out of it. Lucy Eyelesbarrow did everything, saw to everything, arranged everything. She was unbelievably competent in every conceivable sphere. She looked after elderly parents, accepted the care of young children, nursed the sickly, cooked divinely, got on well with any old crusted servants there might happen to be (there usually weren’t), was tactful with impossible people, soothed habitual drunkards, was wonderful with dogs. Best of all she never minded what she did. She scrubbed the kitchen floor, dug in the garden, cleaned up dog messes, and carried coals! One of her rules was never to accept an engagement for any long length of time. A fortnight was her usual period—a month at most under exceptional circumstances. For that fortnight you had to pay the earth! But, during that fortnight, your life was heaven. You could relax completely, go abroad, stay at home, do as you pleased, secure that all was going well on the home front in Lucy Eyelesbarrow’s capable hands. Naturally the demand for her services was enormous. She could have booked herself up if she chose for about three years ahead. She had been offered enormous sums to go as a permanency. But Lucy had no intention of being a permanency, nor would she book herself for more than six months ahead. And within that period, unknown to her clamouring clients, she always kept certain free periods which enabled her either to take a short luxurious holiday (since she spent nothing otherwise and was handsomely paid and kept) or to accept any position at short notice that happened to take her fancy, either by reason of its character, or because she "liked the people." Since she was now at liberty to pick and choose amongst the vociferous claimants for her services, she went very largely by personal liking. Mere riches would not buy you the services of Lucy Eyelesbarrow. She could pick and choose and she did pick and choose. She enjoyed her life very much and found in it a continual source of entertainment. Lucy Eyelesbarrow read and reread the letter from Miss Marple. She had made Miss Marple’s acquaintance two years ago when her services had been retained by Raymond West, the novelist, to go and look after his old aunt who was recovering from pneumonia. Lucy had accepted the job and had gone down to St. Mary Mead. She had liked Miss Marple very much. As for Miss Marple, once she had caught a glimpse out of her bedroom window of Lucy Eyelesbarrow really trenching for sweet peas in the proper way, she had leaned back on her pillows with a sigh of relief, eaten the tempting little meals that Lucy Eyelesbarrow brought to her, and listened, agreeably surprised, to the tales told by her elderly irascible maidservant of how "I taught that Miss Eyelesbarrow a crochet pattern what she’d never heard of! Proper grateful, she was." And had surprised her doctor by the rapidity of her convalescence. Miss Marple wrote asking if Miss Eyelesbarrow could undertake a certain task for her—rather an unusual one. Perhaps Miss Eyelesbarrow could arrange a meeting at which they could discuss the matter. Lucy Eyelesbarrow frowned for a moment or two as she considered. She was in reality fully booked up. But the word unusual, and her recollection of Miss Marple’s personality, carried the day and she rang up Miss Marple straight away explaining that she could not come down to St. Mary Mead as she was at the moment working, but that she was free from 2 to 4 on the following afternoon and could meet Miss Marple anywhere in London.

"You can take your pigs to a better market, my girl. I’ve nothing against Stephen, but–well, we don’t know, do we?"" She stopped, her breast heaving with the violence of her resentment. "It’s cruel, cruel, that’s what it is," she burst out. "Stephen, that wouldn’t hurt a fly! And all through life there’ll be people who’ll think he did. It’s turning him queer and bitter like. I don’t wonder, I’m sure. And the more he’s like that, the more people think there must have been something in it." Again she stopped. Her eyes were fixed on Mr Quin’s face, as though something in it was drawing this outburst from her. "Can nothing be done?" said Mr Satterthwaite. He was genuinely distressed. The thing was, he saw, inevitable. The very vagueness and unsatisfactoriness of the evidence against Stephen Grant made it the more difficult for him to disprove the accusation. The girl whirled round on him. "Nothing but the truth can help him," she cried. "If Captain Harwell were to be found, if he was to come back. If the true rights of it were only known–" She broke off with something very like a sob, and hurried quickly from the room. "A fine-looking girl," said Mr Satterthwaite. "A sad case altogether. I wish–I very much wish that something could be done about it." His kind heart was troubled. "We are doing what we can," said Mr Quin. "There is still nearly half an hour before your car can be ready." Mr Satterthwaite stared at him. "You think we can come at the truth just by–talking it over like this?" "You have seen much of life," said Mr Quin gravely. "More than most people." "Life has passed me by," said Mr Satterthwaite bitterly. "But in so doing has sharpened your vision. Where others are blind you can see." "It is true," said Mr Satterthwaite. "I am a great observer." He plumed himself complacently. The moment of bitterness was passed. "I look at it like this," he said after a minute or two. "To get at the cause for a thing, we must study the effect." "Very good," said Mr Quin approvingly. "The effect in this case is that Miss Le Couteau–Mrs Harwell, I mean, is a wife and yet not a wife. She is not free–she cannot marry again. And look at it as we will, we see Richard Harwell as a sinister figure, a man from nowhere with a mysterious past." "I agree," said Mr Quin. "You see what all are bound to see, what cannot be missed, Captain Harwell in the limelight, a suspicious figure." Mr Satterthwaite looked at him doubtfully. The words seemed somehow to suggest a faintly different picture to his mind. "We have studied the effect," he said. "Or call it the result. We can now pass–" Mr Quin interrupted him. "You have not touched on the result on the strictly material side." "You are right," said Mr Satterthwaite, after a moment or two for consideration. "One should do the thing thoroughly. Let us say then that the result of the tragedy is that Mrs Harwell is a wife and not a wife, unable to marry again, that Mr Cyrus Bradburn has been able to buy Ashley Grange and its contents for–sixty thousand pounds, was it?–and that somebody in Essex has been able to secure John Mathias as a gardener! For all that we do not suspect "somebody in Essex" or Mr Cyrus Bradburn of having engineered the disappearance of Captain Harwell." "You are sarcastic," said Mr Quin. Mr Satterthwaite looked sharply at him. "But surely you agree–?" "Oh! I agree," said Mr Quin. "The idea is absurd. What next?" "Let us imagine ourselves back on the fatal day. The disappearance has taken place, let us say, this very morning." "No, no," said Mr Quin, smiling. "Since, in our imagination, at least, we have power over time, let us turn it the other way. Let us say the disappearance of Captain Harwell took place a hundred years ago. That we, in the year two thousand twenty-five are looking back." "You are a strange man," said Mr Satterthwaite slowly.

She was saved all right, but they didn’t seem able to hear of her over this side. I guessed they weren’t hustling any, so I thought I’d come along over, and speed things up. I phoned Scotland Yard and the Admiralty first thing. The Admiralty rather choked me off, but Scotland Yard were very civil—said they would make inquiries, even sent a man round this morning to get her photograph. I’m off to Paris tomorrow, just to see what the Prefecture is doing. I guess if I go to and fro hustling them, they ought to get busy!" The energy of Mr. Hersheimmer was tremendous. They bowed before it. "But say now," he ended, "you’re not after her for anything? Contempt of court, or something British? A proud-spirited young American girl might find your rules and regulations in wartime rather irksome, and get up against it. If that’s the case, and there’s such a thing as graft in this country, I’ll buy her off." Tuppence reassured him. "That’s good. Then we can work together. What about some lunch? Shall we have it up here, or go down to the restaurant?" Tuppence expressed a preference for the latter, and Julius bowed to her decision. Oysters had just given place to Sole Colbert when a card was brought to Hersheimmer. "Inspector Japp, C.I.D. Scotland Yard again. Another man this time. What does he expect I can tell him that I didn’t tell the first chap? I hope they haven’t lost that photograph. That Western photographer’s place was burned down and all his negatives destroyed—this is the only copy in existence. I got it from the principal of the college there." An unformulated dread swept over Tuppence. "You—you don’t know the name of the man who came this morning?" "Yes, I do. No, I don’t. Half a second. It was on his card. Oh, I know! Inspector Brown. Quiet unassuming sort of chap." Six A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN A veil might with profit be drawn over the events of the next half hour. Suffice it to say that no such person as "Inspector Brown" was known to Scotland Yard. The photograph of Jane Finn, which would have been of the utmost value to the police in tracing her, was lost beyond recovery. Once again "Mr. Brown" had triumphed. The immediate result of this setback was to effect a rapprochement between Julius Hersheimmer and the Young Adventurers. All barriers went down with a crash, and Tommy and Tuppence felt they had known the young American all their lives. They abandoned the discreet reticence of "private inquiry agents," and revealed to him the whole history of the joint venture, whereat the young man declared himself "tickled to death." He turned to Tuppence at the close of the narration. "I’ve always had a kind of idea that English girls were just a mite moss- grown. Old-fashioned and sweet, you know, but scared to move round without a footman or a maiden aunt. I guess I’m a bit behind the times!" The upshot of these confidential relations was that Tommy and Tuppence took up their abode forthwith at the Ritz, in order, as Tuppence put it, to keep in touch with Jane Finn’s only living relation. "And put like that," she added confidentially to Tommy, "nobody could boggle at the expense!" Nobody did, which was the great thing. "And now," said the young lady on the morning after their installation, "to work!" Mr. Beresford put down the Daily Mail, which he was reading, and applauded with somewhat unnecessary vigour. He was politely requested by his colleague not to be an ass. "Dash it all, Tommy, we’ve got to do something for our money." Tommy sighed. "Yes, I fear even the dear old Government will not support us at the Ritz in idleness forever." "Therefore, as I said before, we must do something." "Well," said Tommy, picking up the Daily Mail again, "do it. I shan’t stop you." "You see," continued Tuppence. "I’ve been thinking—" She was interrupted by a fresh bout of applause. "It’s all very well for you to sit there being funny, Tommy. It would do you no harm to do a little brain work too." "My union, Tuppence, my union!

Lanscombe broke into a shuffling trot across the room. His gaze, abstracted and uncurious, just swept up to the picture over this mantelpiece—the companion portrait to the one in the green drawing room. It was a nice painting of white satin and pearls. The human being round whom they were draped and clasped was not nearly so impressive. Meek features, a rosebud mouth, hair parted in the middle. A woman both modest and unassuming. The only thing really worthy of note about Mrs. Cornelius Abernethie had been her name— Coralie. For over sixty years after their original appearance, Coral Cornplasters and the allied "Coral" foot preparations still held their own. Whether there had ever been anything outstanding about Coral Cornplasters nobody could say—but they had appealed to the public fancy. On a foundation of Coral Cornplasters there had arisen this neo-Gothic palace, its acres of gardens, and the money that had paid out an income to seven sons and daughters and had allowed Richard Abernethie to die three days ago a very rich man. II Looking into the kitchen with a word of admonition, Lanscombe was snapped at by Marjorie, the cook. Marjorie was young, only twenty-seven, and was a constant irritation to Lanscombe as being so far removed from what his conception of a proper cook should be. She had no dignity and no proper appreciation of his, Lanscombe’s, position. She frequently called the house "a proper old mausoleum" and complained of the immense area of the kitchen, scullery and larder, saying that it was a "day’s walk to get round them all." She had been at Enderby two years and only stayed because in the first place the money was good, and in the second because Mr. Abernethie had really appreciated her cooking. She cooked very well. Janet, who stood by the kitchen table, refreshing herself with a cup of tea, was an elderly housemaid who, although enjoying frequent acid disputes with Lanscombe, was nevertheless usually in alliance with him against the younger generation as represented by Marjorie. The fourth person in the kitchen was Mrs. Jacks, who "came in" to lend assistance where it was wanted and who had much enjoyed the funeral. "Beautiful it was," she said with a decorous sniff as she replenished her cup. "Nineteen cars and the church quite full and the Canon read the service beautiful, I thought. A nice fine day for it, too. Ah, poor dear Mr. Abernethie, there’s not many like him left in the world. Respected by all, he was." There was the note of a horn and the sound of a car coming up the drive, and Mrs. Jacks put down her cup and exclaimed: "Here they are." Marjorie turned up the gas under her large saucepan of creamy chicken soup. The large kitchen range of the days of Victorian grandeur stood cold and unused, like an altar to the past. The cars drove up one after the other and the people issuing from them in their black clothes moved rather uncertainly across the hall and into the big green drawing room. In the big steel grate a fire was burning, tribute to the first chill of the autumn days and calculated to counteract the further chill of standing about at a funeral. Lanscombe entered the room, offering glasses of sherry on a silver tray. Mr. Entwhistle, senior partner of the old and respected firm of Bollard, Entwhistle, Entwhistle and Bollard, stood with his back to the fireplace warming himself. He accepted a glass of sherry, and surveyed the company with his shrewd lawyer’s gaze. Not all of them were personally known to him, and he was under the necessity of sorting them out, so to speak. Introductions before the departure for the funeral had been hushed and perfunctory. Appraising old Lanscombe first, Mr. Entwhistle thought to himself, "Getting very shaky, poor old chap—going on for ninety I shouldn’t wonder. Well, he’ll have that nice little annuity. Nothing for him to worry about. Faithful soul. No such thing as old-fashioned service nowadays. Household helps and babysitters, God help us all! A sad world. Just as well, perhaps, poor Richard didn’t last his full time. He hadn’t much to live for." To Mr.

"He glanced uneasily over his shoulder. " "Yes," he said, "it is—it is queer, somehow. I know what you mean but I suppose it is only our imagination makes us feel like that. What do you say, Symonds?" "The doctor was silent a minute or two before he replied. Then he said quietly: " "I don’t like it. I can’t tell you why. But somehow or other, I don’t like it." "At that moment Violet Mannering came across to me. " "I hate this place," she cried. "I hate it. Do let’s get out of it." "We moved away and the others followed us. Only Diana Ashley lingered. I turned my head over my shoulder and saw her standing in front of the Idol House gazing earnestly at the image within it. "The day was an unusually hot and beautiful one and Diana Ashley’s suggestion of a Fancy Dress party that evening was received with general favour. The usual laughing and whispering and frenzied secret sewing took place and when we all made our appearance for dinner there were the usual outcries of merriment. Rogers and his wife were Neolithic hut dwellers—explaining the sudden lack of hearth rugs. Richard Haydon called himself a Phoenician sailor, and his cousin was a Brigand Chief, Dr Symonds was a chef, Lady Mannering was a hospital nurse, and her daughter was a Circassian slave. I myself was arrayed somewhat too warmly as a monk. Diana Ashley came down last and was somewhat of a disappointment to all of us, being wrapped in a shapeless black domino. " "The Unknown," she declared airily. "That is what I am. Now for goodness" sake let’s go in to dinner." "After dinner we went outside. It was a lovely night, warm and soft, and the moon was rising. "We wandered about and chatted and the time passed quickly enough. It must have been an hour later when we realized that Diana Ashley was not with us. " "Surely she has not gone to bed," said Richard Haydon. "Violet Mannering shook her head. " "Oh, no," she said. "I saw her going off in that direction about a quarter of an hour ago." She pointed as she spoke towards the grove of trees that showed black and shadowy in the moonlight. " "I wonder what she is up to," said Richard Haydon, "some devilment, I swear. Let’s go and see." "We all trooped off together, somewhat curious as to what Miss Ashley had been up to. Yet I, for one, felt a curious reluctance to enter that dark foreboding belt of trees. Something stronger than myself seemed to be holding me back and urging me not to enter. I felt more definitely convinced than ever of the essential evilness of the spot. I think that some of the others experienced the same sensations that I did, though they would have been loath to admit it. The trees were so closely planted that the moonlight could not penetrate. There were a dozen soft sounds all round us, whisperings and sighings. The feeling was eerie in the extreme, and by common consent we all kept close together. "Suddenly we came out into the open clearing in the middle of the grove and stood rooted to the spot in amazement, for there, on the threshold of the Idol House, stood a shimmering figure wrapped tightly round in diaphanous gauze and with two crescent horns rising from the dark masses of her hair. " "My God!" said Richard Haydon, and the sweat sprang out on his brow. "But Violet Mannering was sharper. " "Why, it’s Diana," she exclaimed. "What has she done to herself? Oh, she looks quite different somehow!" "The figure in the doorway raised her hands. She took a step forward and chanted in a high sweet voice. " "I am the Priestess of Astarte," she crooned. "Beware how you approach me, for I hold death in my hand." " "Don’t do it, dear," protested Lady Mannering. "You give us the creeps, you really do." "Haydon sprang forward towards her. " "My God, Diana!" he cried. "You are wonderful." "My eyes were accustomed to the moonlight now and I could see more plainly. She did, indeed, as Violet had said, look quite different.

You know how keen she is to be in everything. I think the way she took it was just wonderful." "So did I," said Jimmy. "It staggered me." "She’s got some sense, Bundle has. She knows when a thing’s plumb impossible. I say, oughtn’t we to have some lethal weapons? Chaps usually do when they’re going on this sort of stunt." "I have a bluenosed automatic," said Jimmy with gentle pride. "It weighs several pounds and looks most dangerous. I’ll lend it to you when the time comes." Bill looked at him with respect and envy. "What made you think of getting that?" he said. "I don’t know," said Jimmy carelessly. "It just came to me." "I hope we shan’t go and shoot the wrong person," said Bill with some anxiety. "That would be unfortunate," said Mr. Thesiger gravely. Eighteen JIMMY’S ADVENTURES Our chronicle must here split into three separate and distinct portions. The night was to prove an eventful one and each of the three persons involved saw it from his or her own individual angle. We will begin with that pleasant and engaging youth, Mr. Jimmy Thesiger, at a moment when he has at last exchanged final good nights with his fellow conspirator, Bill Eversleigh. "Don’t forget," said Bill, "three a.m. If you’re still alive, that is," he added kindly. "I may be an ass," said Jimmy, with rancorous remembrance of the remark Bundle had repeated to him, "but I’m not nearly so much of an ass as I look." "That’s what you said about Gerry Wade," said Bill slowly. "Do you remember? And that very night he—" "Shut up, you damned fool," said Jimmy. "Haven’t you got any tact?" "Of course I’ve got tact," said Bill. "I’m a budding diplomatist. All diplomatists have tact." "Ah!" said Jimmy. "You must be still in what they call the larval stage." "I can’t get over Bundle," said Bill, reverting abruptly to a former topic. "I should certainly have said that she’d be—well, difficult. Bundle’s improved. She’s improved very much." "That’s what your Chief was saying," said Jimmy. "He said he was agreeably surprised." "I thought Bundle was laying it on a bit thick myself," said Bill. "But Codders is such an ass he’d swallow anything. Well, night-night. I expect you’ll have a bit of a job waking me when the times comes—but stick to it." "It won’t be much good if you’ve taken a leaf out of Gerry Wade’s book," said Jimmy maliciously. Bill looked at him reproachfully. "What the hell do you want to go and make a chap uncomfortable for?" he demanded. "I’m only getting my own back," said Jimmy. "Toddle along." But Bill lingered. He stood uncomfortably, first on one foot and then on the other. "Look here," he said. "Yes?" "What I mean to say is—well, I mean you’ll be all right and all that, won’t you? It’s all very well ragging but when I think of poor Gerry—and then poor old Ronny—" Jimmy gazed at him in exasperation. Bill was one of those who undoubtedly meant well, but the result of his efforts would not be described as heartening. "I see," he remarked, "that I shall have to show you Leopold." He slipped his hand into the pocket of the dark-blue suit into which he had just changed and held out something for Bill’s inspection. "A real, genuine, bluenosed automatic," he said with modest pride. "No. I say," said Bill, "is it really?" He was undoubtedly impressed. "Stevens, my man, got him for me. Warranted clean and methodical in his habits. You press the button and Leopold does the rest." "Oh!" said Bill. "I say, Jimmy?" "Yes?" "Be careful, won’t you? I mean, don’t go loosing that thing off at anybody. Pretty awkward if you shot old Digby walking in his sleep." "That’s all right," said Jimmy. "Naturally, I want to get value out of old Leopold now I’ve bought him, but I’ll curb my bloodthirsty instincts as far as possible." "Well, night-night," said Bill for the fourteenth time, and this time really did depart.

He put it down and picked up the lipstick, unsheathing it from its case. "And this?" Rowley grinned. "Really, that’s not in my line, Superintendent." Thoughtfully, Spence smeared a little on the back of his hand. He put his head on one side, studying it appreciatively. "Brunette colouring, I should say," he remarked. "Funny things you policemen know," said Rowley. He got up. "And you don’t—definitely do not—know who the dead man was?" "Have you any idea yourself, Mr. Cloade?" "I only wondered," said Rowley slowly. "I mean—this fellow was our only clue to Underhay. Now that he’s dead—well, looking for Underhay is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack." "There’ll be publicity, Mr. Cloade," said Spence. "Remember that in due course a lot of this will appear in the press. If Underhay is alive and comes to read about it—well, he may come forward." "Yes," said Rowley doubtfully. "He may." "But you don’t think so?" "I think," said Rowley Cloade, "that Round One has gone to David Hunter." "I wonder," said Spence. As Rowley went out, Spence picked up the gold lighter and looked at the initials D.H. on it. "Expensive bit of work," he said to Sergeant Graves. "Not mass produced. Quite easily identified. Greatorex or one of those Bond Street places. Have it seen to!" "Yes, sir." Then the Superintendent looked at the wristwatch—the glass was smashed and the hands pointed to ten minutes past nine. He looked at the Sergeant. "Got the report on this, Graves?" "Yes, sir. Mainspring’s broken." "And the mechanism of the hands?" "Quite all right, sir." "What, in your opinion, Graves, does the watch tell us?" Graves murmured warily, "Seems as though it might give us the time the crime was committed." "Ah," said Spence, "when you’ve been as long in the Force as I have, you’ll be a leetle suspicious of anything so convenient as a smashed watch. It can be genuine—but it’s a well-known hoary old trick. Turn the hands of a watch to a time that suits you—smash it—and out with some virtuous alibi. But you don’t catch an old bird that way. I’m keeping a very open mind on the subject of the time this crime was committed. Medical evidence is: between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m." Sergeant Graves cleared his throat. "Edwards, second gardener at Furrowbank, says he saw David Hunter coming out of a side door there about 7:30. The maids didn’t know he was down here. They thought he was up in London with Mrs. Gordon. Shows he was in the neighbourhood all right." "Yes," said Spence. "I’ll be interested to hear Hunter’s own account of his doings." "Seems like a clear case, sir," said Graves, looking at the initials on the lighter. "H’m," said the Superintendent. "There’s still this to account for." He indicated the lipstick. "It had rolled under the chest of drawers, sir. Might have been there some time." "I’ve checked up," said Spence. "The last time a woman occupied that room was three weeks ago. I know service isn’t up to much nowadays—but I still think they run a mop under the furniture once in three weeks. The Stag is kept pretty clean and tidy on the whole." "There’s been no suggestion of a woman being mixed up with Arden." "I know," said the Superintendent. "That’s why that lipstick is what I call the unknown quantity." Sergeant Graves refrained from saying "Cherchez la femme." He had a very good French accent and he knew better than to irritate Superintendent Spence by drawing attention to it. Sergeant Graves was a tactful young man. Seventeen Superintendent Spence looked up at Shepherd’s Court, Mayfair, before stepping inside its agreeable portal. Situated modestly in the vicinity of Shepherd Market, it was discreet, expensive and inconspicuous. Inside, Spence’s feet sunk into soft pile carpet, there was a velvet-covered settee and a jardinière full of flowering plants. A small automatic lift faced him, with a flight of stairs at one side of it.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, showing up your elders and betters. It turns out that only young Warrender here guessed they were all the same." Hugo, who by now was laughing, accompanied him to the door. "Who was it?" he asked, putting an arm around Sir Rowland’s shoulder, "Who was it who said that he’d know Cockburn ’twenty-seven anywhere?" "Never mind, Hugo," Sir Rowland replied resignedly, "let’s have some more of it later, whatever it is." Talking as they went, the two men left by the door leading to the hall, Hugo closing the door behind them. Jeremy confronted Clarissa on her sofa. "Now then, Clarissa," he said accusingly, "what’s all this about the Herzoslovakian Minister?" Clarissa looked at him innocently. "What about him?" she asked. Pointing a finger at her, Jeremy spoke clearly and slowly. "Did he ever run to the lodge gates and back, in a mackintosh, three times in four minutes fifty- three seconds?" Clarissa smiled sweetly as she replied, "The Herzoslovakian Minister is a dear, but he’s well over sixty, and I doubt very much if he’s run anywhere for years." "So you did make the whole thing up. They told me you probably did. But why?" "Well," Clarissa suggested, her smile even sweeter than before, "you’d been complaining all day about not getting enough exercise. So I thought the only friendly thing to do was to help you get some. It would have been no good ordering you to go for a brisk run through the woods, but I knew you’d respond to a challenge. So I invented someone for you to challenge." Jeremy gave a comical groan of exasperation. "Clarissa," he asked her, "do you ever speak the truth?" "Of course I do–sometimes," Clarissa admitted. "But when I am speaking the truth, nobody ever seems to believe me. It’s very odd." She thought for a moment, and then continued. "I suppose when you’re making things up, you get carried away and that makes it sound more convincing." She drifted over to the French windows. "I might have broken a blood vessel," Jeremy complained. "A fat lot you’d have cared about that." Clarissa laughed. Opening the window she observed, "I do believe it’s cleared up. It’s going to be a lovely evening. How delicious the garden smells after rain." She leaned out and sniffed. "Narcissus." As she closed the window again, Jeremy came over to join her. "Do you really like living down here in the country?" he asked. "I love it." "But you must get bored to death," he exclaimed. "It’s all so incongruous for you, Clarissa. You must miss the theatre terribly. I hear you were passionate about it when you were younger." "Yes, I was. But I manage to create my own theatre right here," said Clarissa with a laugh. "But you ought to be leading an exciting life in London." Clarissa laughed again. "What–parties and night clubs?" she asked. "Parties, yes. You’d make a brilliant hostess," Jeremy told her, laughing. She turned to face him. "It sounds like an Edwardian novel," she said. "Anyway, diplomatic parties are terribly dull." "But it’s such a waste, your being tucked away down here," he persisted, moving close to her and attempting to take her hand. "A waste–of me?" asked Clarissa, withdrawing her hand. "Yes," Jeremy responded fervently. "Then there’s Henry." "What about Henry?" Clarissa busied herself patting a cushion on an easy chair. Jeremy looked at her steadily. "I can’t imagine why you ever married him," he replied, plucking up his courage. "He’s years older than you, with a daughter who’s a school-kid." He leaned on the armchair, still observing her closely. "He’s an excellent man, I have no doubt, but really, of all the pompous stuffed shirts. Going about looking like a boiled owl." He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he continued, "He’s as dull as ditchwater." Still she said nothing. Jeremy tried again. "And he has no sense of humour," he muttered somewhat petulantly. Clarissa looked at him, smiled, but said nothing. "I suppose you think I oughtn’t to say these things," Jeremy exclaimed.

You’ve more experience of the world than I have." I soothed the girl down, pointed out to her that Mr. Ryland had probably been suffering from the enemy of his race—dyspepsia. In the end I sent her away quite comforted. But I was not so easily satisfied myself. When the girl had gone, and I was alone, I took out my notebook, and ran over the letter which I had jotted down. What did it mean—this apparently innocent-sounding missive? Did it concern some business deal which Ryland was undertaking, and was he anxious that no details about it should leak out until it was carried through? That was a possible explanation. But I remembered the small figure 4 with which the envelopes were marked, and I felt that, at last, I was on the track of the thing we were seeking. I puzzled over the letter all that evening, and most of the next day—and then suddenly the solution came to me. It was so simple, too. The figure 4 was the clue. Read every fourth word in the letter, and an entirely different message appeared. "Essential should see you quarry seventeen eleven four." The solution of the figures was easy. Seventeen stood for the seventeenth of October—which was tomorrow, eleven was the time, and four was the signature—either referring to the mysterious Number Four himself—or else it was the "trademark," so to speak, of the Big Four. The quarry was also intelligible. There was a big disused quarry on the estate about half a mile from the house—a lonely spot, ideal for a secret meeting. For a moment or two I was tempted to run the show myself. It would be such a feather in my cap, for once, to have the pleasure of crowing over Poirot. But in the end I overcame the temptation. This was a big business—I had no right to play a lone hand, and perhaps jeopardize our chances of success. For the first time, we had stolen a march upon our enemies. We must make good this time—and, disguise the fact as I might, Poirot had the better brain of the two. I wrote off posthaste to him, laying the facts before him, and explaining how urgent it was that we should overhear what went on at the interview. If he liked to leave it to me, well and good, but I gave him detailed instructions how to reach the quarry from the station in case he should deem it wise to be present himself. I took the letter down to the village and posted it myself. I had been able to communicate with Poirot throughout my stay, but we agreed that he should not attempt to communicate with me in case my letters should be tampered with. I was in a glow of excitement the following evening. No guests were staying in the house, and I was busy with Mr. Ryland in his study all the evening. I had foreseen that this would be the case, which was why I had no hope of being able to meet Poirot at the station. I was, however, confident that I would be dismissed well before eleven o’clock. Sure enough, just after ten-thirty, Mr. Ryland glanced at the clock, and announced that he was "through." I took the hint and retired discreetly. I went upstairs as though going to bed, but slipped quietly down a side staircase and let myself out into the garden, having taken the precaution to don a dark overcoat to hide my white shirtfront. I had gone some way down the garden when I chanced to look over my shoulder. Mr. Ryland was just stepping out from his study window into the garden. He was starting to keep the appointment. I redoubled my pace, so as to get a clear start. I arrived at the quarry somewhat out of breath. There seemed no one about, and I crawled into a thick tangle of bushes and awaited developments. Ten minutes later, just on the stroke of eleven, Ryland stalked up, his hat over his eyes and the inevitable cigar in his mouth. He gave a quick look round, and then plunged into the hollows of the quarry below. Presently I heard a low murmur of voices come up to me. Evidently the other man—or men—whoever they were, had arrived first at the rendezvous.

Such a fantastic extraordinary story… How much of it was born of delirium and high fever? Some of it was true, of course—but how much? Anyway it was important to make a note of certain names whilst they were fresh in his memory. The St. Francis Guild would be assembled when he got back. He turned abruptly into a small café, ordered a cup of coffee and sat down. He felt in the pocket of his cassock. Ah, Mrs. Gerahty—he’d asked her to mend the lining. As usual, she hadn’t! His notebook and a loose pencil and the few coins he carried about him, had gone through to the lining. He prised up a coin or two and the pencil, but the notebook was too difficult. The coffee came, and he asked if he could have a piece of paper. "This do you?" It was a torn paper bag. Father Gorman nodded and took it. He began to write—the names—it was important not to forget the names. Names were the sort of thing he did forget…. The café door opened and three young lads in Edwardian dress came in and sat down noisily. Father Gorman finished his memorandum. He folded up the scrap of paper and was about to shove it into his pocket when he remembered the hole. He did what he had often done before, pressed the folded scrap down into his shoe. A man came in quietly and sat down in a far corner. Father Gorman took a sip or two of the weak coffee for politeness" sake, called for his bill, and paid. Then he got up and went out. The man who had just come in seemed to change his mind. He looked at his watch as though he had mistaken the time, got up, and hurried out. The fog was coming on fast. Father Gorman quickened his steps. He knew his district very well. He took a shortcut by turning down the small street which ran close by the railway. He may have been conscious of steps behind him but he thought nothing of them. Why should he? The blow from the cosh caught him completely unaware. He heeled forward and fell…. III Dr. Corrigan, whistling "Father O’Flynn," walked into the D.D.I.’s room and addressed Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune in a chatty manner. "I’ve done your padre for you," he said. "And the result?" "We’ll save the technical terms for the coroner. Well and truly coshed. First blow probably killed him, but whoever it was made sure. Quite a nasty business." "Yes," said Lejeune. He was a sturdy man, dark haired and grey eyed. He had a misleadingly quiet manner, but his gestures were sometimes surprisingly graphic and betrayed his French Huguenot ancestry. He said thoughtfully: "Nastier than would be necessary for robbery?" "Was it robbery?" asked the doctor. "One supposes so. His pockets were turned out and the lining of his cassock ripped." "They couldn’t have hoped for much," said Corrigan. "Poor as a rat, most of these parish priests." "They battered his head in—to make sure," mused Lejeune. "One would like to know why." "Two possible answers," said Corrigan. "One, it was done by a vicious-minded young thug, who likes violence for violence’s sake—there are plenty of them about these days, more’s the pity." "And the other answer?" The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Somebody had it in for your Father Gorman. Was that likely?" Lejeune shook his head. "Most unlikely. He was a popular man, well loved in the district. No enemies, as far as one can hear. And robbery’s unlikely. Unless—" "Unless what?" asked Corrigan. "The police have a clue! Am I right?" "He did have something on him that wasn’t taken away. It was in his shoe, as a matter of fact." Corrigan whistled. "Sounds like a spy story." Lejeune smiled. "It’s much simpler than that. He had a hole in his pocket. Sergeant Pine talked to his housekeeper. She’s a bit of a slattern, it seems. Didn’t keep his clothes mended in the way she might have done.

I’ve tried to leave her free, but at the same time not to give in to her out of cowardice … Whether I’ve been any use to her I shall never know. I hope I have – oh, how I hope I have … I love her so …" "Where is she now?" "She’s married. That’s why I came here. I mean, I wasn’t free before. I had to look after Judy. She was married at eighteen. He’s a very nice man – older than she is – straight, kind, well off, everything I could wish. I wanted her to wait, to be sure, but she wouldn’t wait. You can’t fight people like her and Dermot. They have to have their own way. Besides, how can you judge for someone else? You might ruin their lives when you thought you were helping them. One mustn’t interfere … "She’s out in East Africa. She writes me occasionally, short happy letters. They’re like Dermot’s, they tell you nothing except facts, but you can feel it’s all right." 2 "And then," I said, "you came here. Why?" She said slowly: "I don’t know whether I can make you understand … Something a man said to me once made an impression on me. I’d told him a little of what had happened. He was an understanding person. He said: "What are you going to do with your life? You’re still young." I said that there was Judy and travelling and seeing things and places. "He said: "That won’t be enough. You’ll have either to take a lover or lovers. You will have to decide which it’s to be." "And, you know, that frightened me, because I knew he was right … "People, ordinary unthinking people, have said, "Oh, my dear, some day you’ll marry again – some nice man who’ll make it all up to you." "Marry? I’d be terrified to marry. Nobody can hurt you except a husband – nobody’s near enough … "I didn’t mean ever to have anything more to do with men … "But that young man frightened me … I wasn’t old … not old enough … "There might be a – a lover? A lover wouldn’t be so terrifying as a husband – you’d never get to depend so on a lover – it’s all the little shared intimacies of life that hold you so with a husband and tear you to pieces when you part … A lover you just have occasional meetings with – your daily life is your own … "Lover – or lovers … "Lovers would be best. You’d be – almost safe – with lovers! "But I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I hoped I’d learn to live alone. I tried." She didn’t speak for some moments. "I tried," she had said. Those two words covered a good deal. "Yes?" I said at last. She said slowly: "It was when Judy was fifteen that I met someone … He was rather like Peter Maitland … Kind, not very clever. He loved me … "He told me that what I needed was gentleness. He was – very good to me. His wife had died when their first baby was born. The baby died too. So, you see, he’d been unhappy too. He understood what it was like. "We enjoyed things together … we seemed to be able to share things. And he didn’t mind if I was myself. I mean, I could say I was enjoying myself and be enthusiastic without his thinking me silly … He was – it’s an odd thing to say, but he really was – like a mother to me. A mother, not a father! He was so gentle …" Celia’s voice had grown gentle. Her face was a child’s – happy, confident … "Yes?" "He wanted to marry me. I said I could never marry anyone … I said I’d lost my nerve. He understood that too … "That was three years ago. He’s been a friend – a wonderful friend … He’s always been there when I wanted him. I’ve felt loved … It’s a happy feeling … "After Judy’s wedding he asked me again to marry him. He said that he thought I could trust him now. He wanted to take care of me. He said we’d go back home – to my home.

The one light was always left switched on in the passage. That’s how I came to see her kneeling on the stair—Theresa, I mean. She was kneeling on about the third step with her head bent down over something and I was just thinking, "How odd, I wonder if she’s ill?" when she got up and went away, so I supposed she’d just slipped or something. Or perhaps was stooping to pick something up. But, of course, I never thought about it again one way or another." "The tap that aroused you would be the tap of the hammer on the nail," mused Poirot. "Yes, I suppose it would. But oh, M. Poirot, how dreadful—how truly dreadful. I’ve always felt Theresa was, perhaps a little wild, but to do a thing like that." "You are sure it was Theresa?" "Oh, dear me, yes." "It couldn’t have been Mrs. Tanios or one of the maids, for instance?" "Oh, no, it was Theresa." Miss Lawson shook her head and murmured to herself: "Oh dear. Oh dear," several times. Poirot was staring at her in a way I found it hard to understand. "Permit me," he said suddenly, "to make an experiment. Let us go upstairs and endeavour to reconstruct this little scene." "Reconstruction? Oh, really—I don’t know—I mean I don’t quite see—" "I will show you," said Poirot, cutting in upon these doubts in an authoritative manner. Somewhat flustered, Miss Lawson led the way upstairs. "I hope the room’s tidy—so much to do—what with one thing and another—" she tailed off incoherently. The room was indeed somewhat heavily littered with miscellaneous articles, obviously the result of Miss Lawson’s turning out of cupboards. With her usual incoherence Miss Lawson managed to indicate her own position and Poirot was able to verify for himself the fact that a portion of the staircase was reflected in the wall mirror. "And now, mademoiselle," he suggested, "if you will be so good as to go out and reproduce the actions that you saw." Miss Lawson, still murmuring, "Oh, dear—" bustled out to fulfil her part. Poirot acted the part of the observer. The performance concluded, he went out on the landing and asked which electric light had been left switched on. "This one—this one along here. Just outside Miss Arundell’s door." Poirot reached up, detached the bulb and examined it. "A forty watt lamp, I see. Not very powerful." "No, it was just so that the passage shouldn’t be quite dark." Poirot retraced his steps to the top of the stairs. "You will pardon me, mademoiselle, but with the light being fairly dim and the way that shadow falls it is hardly possible that you can have seen very clearly. Can you be positive it was Miss Theresa Arundell and not just an indeterminate female figure in a dressing gown?" Miss Lawson was indignant. "No, indeed, M. Poirot! I’m perfectly sure! I know Theresa well enough, I should hope! Oh, it was her all right. Her dark dressing gown and that big shining brooch she wears with the initials—I saw that plainly." "So that there is no possible doubt. You saw the initials?" "Yes, T.A. I know the brooch. Theresa often wore it. Oh, yes, I could swear to its being Theresa—and I will swear to it if necessary!" There was a firmness and decision in those last two sentences that was quite at variance with her usual manner. Poirot looked at her. Again there was something curious in his glance. It was aloof, appraising—and had also a queer appearance of finality about it. "You would swear to that, yes?" he said. "If—if—it’s necessary. But I suppose it—will it be necessary?" Again Poirot turned that appraising glance upon her. "That will depend on the result of the exhumation," he said. "Ex—exhumation?" Poirot put out a restraining hand. In her excitement Miss Lawson very nearly went headlong down the stairs. "It may possibly be a question of exhumation," he said. "Oh, but surely—how very unpleasant! But I mean, I’m sure the family would oppose the idea very strongly—very strongly indeed." "Probably they will." "I’m quite sure they won’t hear of such a thing!" "Ah, but if it is an order from the Home Office."

"If you know nothing, why were you here the night before last–waiting?" countered Mr Satterthwaite. "Oh, that–?" "Yes, that." "I had a–commission to perform." "For whom?" "You have sometimes fancifully named me an advocate for the dead." "The dead?" said Mr Satterthwaite, a little puzzled. "I don’t understand." Mr Quin pointed a long, lean finger down at the blue depths below. "A man was drowned down there twenty-two years ago." "I know–but I don’t see–" "Supposing that, after all, that man loved his young wife. Love can make devils of men as well as angels. She had a girlish adoration for him, but he could never touch the womanhood in her–and that drove him mad. He tortured her because he loved her. Such things happen. You know that as well as I do." "Yes," admitted Mr Satterthwaite, "I have seen such things–but rarely–very rarely…" "And you have also seen, more commonly, that there is such a thing as remorse–the desire to make amends–at all costs to make amends." "Yes, but death came too soon…" "Death!" There was contempt in Mr Quin’s voice. "You believe in a life after death, do you not? And who are you to say that the same wishes, the same desires, may not operate in that other life? If the desire is strong enough–a messenger may be found." His voice tailed away. Mr Satterthwaite got up, trembling a little. "I must get back to the hotel," he said. "If you are going that way." But Mr Quin shook his head. "No," he said. "I shall go back the way I came." When Mr Satterthwaite looked back over his shoulder, he saw his friend walking towards the edge of the cliff. Chapter 7 The Voice in the Dark I "I am a little worried about Margery," said Lady Stranleigh. "My girl, you know," she added. She sighed pensively. "It makes one feel terribly old to have a grown-up daughter." Mr Satterthwaite, who was the recipient of these confidences, rose to the occasion gallantly. "No one could believe it possible," he declared with a little bow. "Flatterer," said Lady Stranleigh, but she said it vaguely and it was clear that her mind was elsewhere. Mr Satterthwaite looked at the slender white-clad figure in some admiration. The Cannes sunshine was searching, but Lady Stranleigh came through the test very well. At a distance the youthful effect was really extraordinary. One almost wondered if she were grownup or not. Mr Satterthwaite, who knew everything, knew that it was perfectly possible for Lady Stranleigh to have grown-up grandchildren. She represented the extreme triumph of art over nature. Her figure was marvellous, her complexion was marvellous. She had enriched many beauty parlours and certainly the results were astounding. Lady Stranleigh lit a cigarette, crossed her beautiful legs encased in the finest of nude silk stockings and murmured: "Yes, I really am rather worried about Margery." "Dear me," said Mr Satterthwaite, "what is the trouble?" Lady Stranleigh turned her beautiful blue eyes upon him "You have never met her, have you? She is Charles" daughter," she added helpfully. If entries in "Who’s Who" were strictly truthful, the entries concerning Lady Stranleigh might have ended as follows: hobbies: getting married. She had floated through life shedding husbands as she went. She had lost three by divorce and one by death. "If she had been Rudolph’s child I could have understood it," mused Lady Stranleigh. "You remember Rudolf? He was always temperamental. Six months after we married I had to apply for those queer things–what do they call them? Conjugal what nots, you know what I mean. Thank goodness it is all much simpler nowadays. I remember I had to write him the silliest kind of letter–my lawyer practically dictated it to me. Asking him to come back, you know, and that I would do all I could, etc., etc., but you never could count on Rudolf, he was so temperamental. He came rushing home at once, which was quite the wrong thing to do, and not at all what the lawyers meant." She sighed. "About Margery?"

She had character, you see, and character is always highly individual." "She was, in fact, the same Cora you had known years ago. And she still said outrageous things! The things, the outrageous things, she had said in the past—were they usually—justified?" "That was always the awkward thing about Cora. When truth would have been better left unspoken, she spoke it." "And that characteristic remained unchanged. Richard Abernethie was murdered—so Cora at once mentioned the fact." Mr. Entwhistle stirred. "You think he was murdered?" "Oh, no, no, my friend, we cannot go so fast. We agree on this—Cora thought he had been murdered. She was quite sure he had been murdered. It was, to her, more a certainty than a surmise. And so, we come to this, she must have had some reason for the belief. We agree, by your knowledge of her, that it was not just a bit of mischief making. Now tell me—when she said what she did, there was, at once, a kind of chorus of protest—that is right?" "Quite right." "And she then became confused, abashed, and retreated from the position—saying—as far as you can remember, something like "But I thought—from what he told me—’" The lawyer nodded. "I wish I could remember more clearly. But I am fairly sure of that. She used the words "he told me" or "he said—’" "And the matter was then smoothed over and everyone spoke of something else. You can remember, looking back, no special expression on anyone’s face? Anything that remains in your memory as—shall we say—unusual?" "No." "And the very next day, Cora is killed—and you ask yourself: "Can it be cause and effect?’" The lawyer stirred. "I suppose that seems to you quite fantastic?" "Not at all," said Poirot. "Given that the original assumption is correct, it is logical. The perfect murder, the murder of Richard Abernethie, has been committed, all has gone off smoothly—and suddenly it appears that there is one person who has a knowledge of the truth! Clearly that person must be silenced as quickly as possible." "Then you do think that—it was murder?" Poirot said gravely: "I think, mon cher, exactly as you thought—that there is a case for investigation. Have you taken any steps? You have spoken of these matters to the police?" "No." Mr. Entwhistle shook his head. "It did not seem to me that any good purpose could be achieved. My position is that I represent the family. If Richard Abernethie was murdered, there seems only one method by which it could be done." "By poison?" "Exactly. And the body has been cremated. There is now no evidence available. But I decided that I, myself, must be satisfied on the point. That is why, Poirot, I have come to you." "Who was in the house at the time of his death?" "An old butler who has been with him for years, a cook and a housemaid. It would seem, perhaps, as though it must necessarily be one of them—" "Ah! do not try to pull the wool upon my eyes. This Cora, she knows Richard Abernethie was killed, yet she acquiesces in the hushing up. She says, "I think you are all quite right." Therefore it must be one of the family who is concerned, someone whom the victim himself might prefer not to have openly accused. Otherwise, since Cora was fond of her brother, she would not agree to let the sleeping murderer lie. You agree to that, yes?" "It was the way I reasoned—yes," confessed Mr. Entwhistle. "Though how any of the family could possibly—" Poirot cut him short. "Where poison is concerned there are all sorts of possibilities. It must, presumably, have been a narcotic of some sort if he died in his sleep and if there were no suspicious appearances. Possibly he was already having some narcotic administered to him." "In any case," said Mr. Entwhistle, "the how hardly matters. We shall never be able to prove anything." "In the case of Richard Abernethie, no. But the murder of Cora Lansquenet is different. Once we know "who" then evidence ought to be possible to get."

"I’ve interviewed the lady several times," said the inspector. "Very nice, very pleasant she’s been about everything, and seems very distressed that she can’t suggest anything helpful." Can’t or won’t? thought Poirot. Bland was perhaps thinking the same. "There’s a type of lady," he said, "that you can’t force. You can’t frighten them, or persuade them, or diddle them." No, Poirot thought, you couldn’t force or persuade or diddle Mrs. Folliat. The inspector had finished his tea, and sighed and gone, and Poirot had got out his jigsaw puzzle to alleviate his mounting exasperation. For he was exasperated. Both exasperated and humiliated. Mrs. Oliver had summoned him, Hercule Poirot, to elucidate a mystery. She had felt that there was something wrong, and there had been something wrong. And she had looked confidently to Hercule Poirot, first to prevent it—and he had not prevented it—and, secondly, to discover the killer, and he had not discovered the killer. He was in a fog, in the type of fog where there are from time to time baffling gleams of light. Every now and then, or so it seemed to him, he had had one of those glimpses. And each time he had failed to penetrate farther. He had failed to assess the value of what he seemed, for one brief moment, to have seen. Poirot got up, crossed to the other side of the hearth, rearranged the second square chair so that it was at a definite geometric angle, and sat down in it. He had passed from the jigsaw of painted wood and cardboard to the jigsaw of a murder problem. He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote in small neat characters: "Etienne de Sousa, Amanda Brewis, Alec Legge, Sally Legge, Michael Weyman." It was physically impossible for Sir George or Jim Warburton to have killed Marlene Tucker. Since it was not physically impossible for Mrs. Oliver to have done so, he added her name after a brief space. He also added the name of Mrs. Masterton since he did not remember of his own knowledge having seen Mrs. Masterton constantly on the lawn between four o’clock and quarter to five. He added the name of Henden, the butler; more, perhaps, because a sinister butler had figured in Mrs. Oliver’s Murder Hunt than because he had really any suspicions of the dark-haired artist with the gong stick. He also put down "Boy in turtle shirt" with a query mark after it. Then he smiled, shook his head, took a pin from the lapel of his jacket, shut his eyes and stabbed with it. It was as good a way as any other, he thought. He was justifiably annoyed when the pin proved to have transfixed the last entry. "I am an imbecile," said Hercule Poirot. "What has a boy in a turtle shirt to do with this?" But he also realized he must have had some reason for including this enigmatic character in his list. He recalled again the day he had sat in the Folly, and the surprise on the boy’s face at seeing him there. Not a very pleasant face, despite the youthful good looks. An arrogant ruthless face. The young man had come there for some purpose. He had come to meet someone, and it followed that that someone was a person whom he could not meet, or did not wish to meet, in the ordinary way. It was a meeting, in fact, to which attention must not be called. A guilty meeting. Something to do with the murder? Poirot pursued his reflections. A boy who was staying at the Youth Hostel—that is to say, a boy who would be in that neighbourhood for two nights at most. Had he come there casually? One of the many young students visiting Britain? Or had he come there for a special purpose, to meet some special person? There could have been what seemed a casual encounter on the day of the fête—possibly there had been. I know a good deal, said Hercule Poirot to himself. I have in my hands many, many pieces of this jigsaw. I have an idea of the kind of crime this was—but it must be that I am not looking at it the right way. He turned a page of his notebook, and wrote: Did Lady Stubbs ask Miss Brewis to take tea to Marlene?

"It’s awful—isn’t it?" she said conversationally. "Everything, I mean. And really the less one says, the better. Because one doesn’t know who next—like the Plague. Dear Miss Blacklock, don’t you think you ought to have a little brandy? Just half a wineglass even? I always think there’s nothing like brandy—such a wonderful stimulant. I—it seems so terrible of us—forcing our way in here like this, but Inspector Craddock made us come. And it seems so terrible—she hasn’t been found, you know. That poor old thing from the Vicarage, I mean. Bunch Harmon is nearly frantic. Nobody knows where she went instead of going home. She didn’t come to us. I’ve not even seen her today. And I should know if she had come to the house because I was in the drawing room—at the back, you know, and Edmund was in his study writing—and that’s at the front—so if she’d come either way we should have seen. And oh, I do hope and pray that nothing has happened to that dear sweet old thing—all her faculties still and everything." "Mother," said Edmund in a voice of acute suffering, "can’t you shut up?" "I’m sure, dear, I don’t want to say a word," said Mrs. Swettenham, and sat down on the sofa by Julia. Inspector Craddock stood near the door. Facing him, almost in a row, were the three women. Julia and Mrs. Swettenham on the sofa. Mrs. Easterbrook on the arm of her husband’s chair. He had not brought about this arrangement, but it suited him very well. Miss Blacklock and Miss Hinchcliffe were crouching over the fire. Edmund stood near them. Phillipa was far back in the shadows. Craddock began without preamble. "You all know that Miss Murgatroyd’s been killed," he began. "We’ve reason to believe that the person who killed her was a woman. And for certain other reasons we can narrow it down still more. I’m about to ask certain ladies here to account for what they were doing between the hours of four and four-twenty this afternoon. I have already had an account of her movements from—from the young lady who has been calling herself Miss Simmons. I will ask her to repeat that statement. At the same time, Miss Simmons, I must caution you that you need not answer if you think your answers may incriminate you, and anything you say will be taken down by Constable Edwards and may be used as evidence in court." "You have to say that, don’t you?" said Julia. She was rather pale, but composed. "I repeat that between four and four-thirty I was walking along the field leading down to the brook by Compton Farm. I came back to the road by that field with three poplars in it. I didn’t meet anyone as far as I can remember. I did not go near Boulders." "Mrs. Swettenham?" Edmund said, "Are you cautioning all of us?" The Inspector turned to him. "No. At the moment only Miss Simmons. I have no reason to believe that any other statement made will be incriminating, but anyone, of course, is entitled to have a solicitor present and to refuse to answer questions unless he is present." "Oh, but that would be very silly and a complete waste of time," cried Mrs. Swettenham. "I’m sure I can tell you at once exactly what I was doing. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Shall I begin now?" "Yes, please, Mrs. Swettenham." "Now, let me see." Mrs. Swettenham closed her eyes, opened them again. "Of course I had nothing at all to do with killing Miss Murgatroyd. I’m sure everybody here knows that. But I’m a woman of the world, I know quite well that the police have to ask all the most unnecessary questions and write the answers down very carefully, because it’s all for what they call "the record." That’s it, isn’t it?" Mrs. Swettenham flashed the question at the diligent Constable Edwards, and added graciously, "I’m not going too fast for you, I hope?"

M. Poirot regarded him without visible emotion, save that his eyes twinkled a moment. "You mock yourselves at me, is that it?" he inquired placidly. "I say, I’m awfully sorry really. We shouldn’t have done it. Beastly bad taste. I apologize, I really do." "You need not apologize," said the other in a peculiar voice. Johnnie turned. "I say, Nancy, get up!" he cried. "Don’t lie there all day." But the figure on the ground did not move. "Get up," cried Johnnie again. Still Nancy did not move, and suddenly a feeling of nameless dread came over the boy. He turned to Poirot. "What–what’s the matter? Why doesn’t she get up?" "Come with me," said Poirot curtly. He strode over the snow. He had waved the others back, and he was careful not to infringe on the other footmarks. The boy followed him, frightened and unbelieving. Poirot knelt down by the girl, then he signed to Johnnie. "Feel her hand and pulse." Wondering, the boy bent down, then started back with a cry. The hand and arm were stiff and cold, and no vestige of a pulse was to be found. "She’s dead!" he gasped. "But how? Why?" M. Poirot passed over the first part of the question. "Why?" he said musingly. "I wonder." Then, suddenly leaning across the dead girl’s body, he unclasped her other hand, which was tightly clenched over something. Both he and the boy uttered an exclamation. In the palm of Nancy’s hand was a red stone that winked and flashed forth fire. "Aha!" cried M. Poirot. Swift as a flash his hand flew to his pocket, and came away empty. "The cracker ruby," said Johnnie wonderingly. Then, as his companion bent to examine the dagger, and the stained snow, he cried out: "Surely it can’t be blood, M. Poirot. It’s paint. It’s only paint." Poirot straightened himself. "Yes," he said quietly. "You are right. It’s only paint." "Then how–" The boy broke off. Poirot finished the sentence for him. "How was she killed? That we must find out. Did she eat or drink anything this morning?" He was retracing his steps to the path where the others waited as he spoke. Johnnie was close behind him. "She had a cup of tea," said the boy. "Mr Levering made it for her. He’s got a spirit-lamp in his room." Johnnie’s voice was loud and clear. Levering heard the words. "Always take a spirit-lamp about with me," he declared. "Most handy thing in the world. My sister’s been glad enough of it this visit–not liking to worry the servants all the time you know." M. Poirot’s eyes fell, almost apologetically as it seemed, to Mr Levering’s feet, which were encased in carpet slippers. "You have changed your boots, I see," he murmured gently. Levering stared at him. "But, M. Poirot," cried Jean, "what are we to do?" "There is only one thing to be done, as I said just now, Mademoiselle. Send for the police." "I’ll go," cried Levering. "It won’t take me a minute to put on my boots. You people had better not stay out here in the cold." He disappeared into the house. "He is so thoughtful, that Mr Levering," murmured Poirot softly. "Shall we take his advice?" "What about waking father and–and everybody?" "No," said M. Poirot sharply. "It is quite unnecessary. Until the police come, nothing must be touched out here; so shall we go inside? To the library? I have a little history to recount to you which may distract your minds from this sad tragedy." He led the way, and they followed him. "The story is about a ruby," said M. Poirot, ensconcing himself in a comfortable arm-chair. "A very celebrated ruby which belonged to a very celebrated man. I will not tell you his name–but he is one of the great ones of the earth. Eh bien, this great man, he arrived in London, incognito.

. . The door opened. Commander Haydock came back into the room. He howled out, beside himself with rage: "Where is it? Where have you hidden it?" Tuppence stared at him. She was completely taken aback. What he was saying did not make sense to her. She had taken nothing and hidden nothing. Haydock said to Anna: "Get out." The woman handed the pistol to him and left the room promptly. Haydock dropped into a chair and seemed to be striving to pull himself together. He said: "You can’t get away with it, you know. I’ve got you—and I’ve got ways of making people speak—not pretty ways. You’ll have to tell the truth in the end. Now then, what have you done with it?" Tuppence was quick to see that here, at least, was something that gave her the possibility of bargaining. If only she could find out what it was she was supposed to have in her possession. She said cautiously: "How do you know I’ve got it?" "From what you said, you damned little fool. You haven’t got it on you—that we know, since you changed completely into this kit." "Suppose I posted it to someone?" said Tuppence. "Don’t be a fool. Everything you posted since yesterday has been examined. You didn’t post it. No, there’s only one thing you could have done. Hidden it in Sans Souci before you left this morning. I give you just three minutes to tell me where that hiding-place is." He put his watch down on the table. "Three minutes, Mrs. Thomas Beresford." The clock on the mantelpiece ticked. Tuppence sat quite still with a blank impassive face. It revealed nothing of the racing thoughts behind it. In a flash of bewildering light she saw everything—saw the whole business revealed in terms of blinding clarity and realised at last who was the centre and pivot of the whole organisation. It came quite as a shock to her when Haydock said: "Ten seconds more . . ." Like one in a dream she watched him, saw the pistol arm rise, heard him count: "One, two, three, four, five—" He had reached eight when the shot rang out and he collapsed forward on his chair, an expression of bewilderment on his broad red face. So intent had he been on watching his victim that he had been unaware of the door behind him slowly opening. In a flash Tuppence was on her feet. She pushed her way past the uniformed men in the doorway, and seized on a tweed-clad arm. "Mr. Grant." "Yes, yes, my dear, it’s all right now—you’ve been wonderful—" Tuppence brushed aside these reassurances. "Quick! There’s no time to lose. You’ve got a car here?" "Yes." He stared. "A fast one? We must get to Sans Souci at once. If only we’re in time. Before they telephone here, and get no answer." Two minutes later they were in the car, and it was threading its way through the streets of Leatherbarrow. Then they were out in the open country and the needle of the speedometer was rising. Mr. Grant asked no questions. He was content to sit quietly whilst Tuppence watched the speedometer in an agony of apprehension. The chauffeur had been given his orders and he drove with all the speed of which the car was capable. Tuppence only spoke once. "Tommy?" "Quite all right. Released half an hour ago." She nodded. Now, at last, they were nearing Leahampton. They darted and twisted through the town, up the hill. Tuppence jumped out and she and Mr. Grant ran up the drive. The hall door, as usual, was open. There was no one in sight. Tuppence ran lightly up the stairs. She just glanced inside her own room in passing, and noted the confusion of open drawers and disordered bed. She nodded and passed on, along the corridor and into the room occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Cayley. The room was empty. It looked peaceful and smelt slightly of medicines. Tuppence ran across to the bed and pulled at the coverings. They fell to the ground and Tuppence ran her hand under the mattress. She turned triumphantly to Mr. Grant with a tattered child’s picture book in her hand. "Here you are. It’s all in here—" "What on—?" They turned.

One can’t say how long all that will last. The trouble with her is that either she thinks that at last she’s got to that spot or place or that moment in her life where everything’s like a fairy tale come true, that nothing can go wrong, that she’ll never be unhappy again; or else she’s down in the dumps, a woman whose life is ruined, who’s never known love and happiness and who never will again." He added dryly, "If she could only stop halfway between the two it’d be wonderful for her; and the world would lose a fine actress." He paused, but Dermot Craddock did not speak. He was wondering why Maurice Gilchrist was saying what he did. Why this close detailed analysis of Marina Gregg? Gilchrist was looking at him. It was as though he was urging Dermot to ask one particular question. Dermot wondered very much what the question was that he ought to ask. He said at last slowly, with the air of one feeling his way: "She’s been very much upset by this tragedy happening here?" "Yes," said Gilchrist, "she has." "Almost unnaturally so?" "That depends," said Dr. Gilchrist. "On what does it depend?" "On her reason for being so upset." "I suppose," said Dermot, feeling his way, "that it was a shock, a sudden death happening like that in the midst of a party." He saw very little response in the face opposite him "Or might it," he said, "be something more than that?" "You can’t tell, of course," said Dr. Gilchrist, "how people are going to react. You can’t tell however well you know them. They can always surprise you. Marina might have taken this in her stride. She’s a soft-hearted creature. She might say, "Oh, poor, poor woman, how tragic. I wonder how it could have happened." She could have been sympathetic without really caring. After all deaths do occasionally occur at studio parties. Or she might, if there wasn’t anything very interesting going on, choose—choose unconsciously, mind you—to dramatize herself over it. She might decide to throw a scene. Or there might be some quite different reason." Dermot decided to take the bull by the horns. "I wish," he said, "you would tell me what you really think?" "I don’t know," said Dr. Gilchrist. "I can’t be sure." He paused and then said, "There’s professional etiquette, you know. There’s the relationship between doctor and patient." "She has told you something?" "I don’t think I could go as far as that." "Did Marina Gregg know this woman, Heather Badcock? Had she met her before?" "I don’t think she knew her from Adam," said Dr. Gilchrist. "No. That’s not the trouble. If you ask me it’s nothing to do with Heather Badcock." Dermot said, "This stuff, this Calmo. Does Marina Gregg ever use it herself?" "Lives on it, pretty well," said Dr. Gilchrist. "So does everyone else around here," he added. "Ella Zielinsky takes it, Hailey Preston takes it, half the boiling takes it—it’s the fashion at this moment. They’re all much the same, these things. People get tired of one and they try a new one that comes out and they think it’s wonderful, and that it makes all the difference." "And does it make all the difference?" "Well," said Gilchrist, "it makes a difference. It does its work. It calms you or it peps you up, makes you feel you could do things which otherwise you might fancy that you couldn’t. I don’t prescribe them more than I can help, but they’re not dangerous taken properly. They help people who can’t help themselves." "I wish I knew," said Dermot Craddock, "what it is that you are trying to tell me." "I’m trying to decide," said Gilchrist, "what is my duty. There are two duties. There’s the duty of a doctor to his patient. What his patient says to him is confidential and must be kept so. But there’s another point of view. You can fancy that there is a danger to a patient. You have to take steps to avoid that danger." He stopped. Craddock looked at him and waited. "Yes," said Dr. Gilchrist. "I think I know what I must do.

said Miss Marple. "Jackie Afflick. A nasty pushing fellow. Always determined to get on, I imagine. Probably why he took up with Helen Kennedy in the first place. Doctor’s daughter and all that—thought it would better his social position." "And this Helen has never come back again to Dillmouth?" "No. Good riddance. Probably gone completely to the bad by now. I was sorry for Dr. Kennedy. Not his fault. His father’s second wife was a fluffy little thing, years younger than he was. Helen inherited her wild blood from her, I expect. I’ve always thought—" Mrs. Fane broke off. "Here is Walter." Her mother’s ear had distinguished certain well-known sounds in the hall. The door opened and Walter Fane came in. "This is Miss Marple, my son. Ring the bell, son, and we’ll have some fresh tea." "Don’t bother, Mother. I had a cup." "Of course we will have fresh tea—and some scones, Beatrice," she added to the parlourmaid who had appeared to take the teapot. "Yes, madam." With a slow, likeable smile Walter Fane said: "My mother spoils me, I’m afraid." Miss Marple studied him as she made a polite rejoinder. A gentle quiet-looking person, slightly diffident and apologetic in manner—colourless. A very nondescript personality. The devoted type of young man whom women ignore and only marry because the man they love does not return their affection. Walter, who is Always There. Poor Walter, his mother’s darling … Little Walter Fane who had attacked his older brother with a poker and had tried to kill him…. Miss Marple wondered. Seventeen RICHARD ERSKINE I Anstell Manor had a bleak aspect. It was a white house, set against a background of bleak hills. A winding drive led up through dense shrubbery. Giles said to Gwenda, "Why have we come? What can we possibly say?" "We’ve got it worked out." "Yes—so far as that goes. It’s lucky that Miss Marple’s cousin’s sister’s aunt’s brother-in-law or whatever it was lives near here … But it’s a far step from a social call to asking your host about his bygone love affairs." "And such a long time ago. Perhaps—perhaps he doesn’t even remember her." "Perhaps he doesn’t. And perhaps there never was a love affair." "Giles, are we making unutterable fools of ourselves?" "I don’t know … Sometimes I feel that. I don’t see why we’re concerning ourselves with all this. What does it matter now?" "So long after … Yes, I know … Miss Marple and Dr. Kennedy both said, "Leave it alone." Why don’t we, Giles? What makes us go on? Is it her?" "Her?" "Helen. Is that why I remember? Is my childish memory the only link she’s got with life—with truth? Is it Helen who’s using me—and you—so that the truth will be known?" "You mean, because she died a violent death—?" "Yes. They say—books say—that sometimes they can’t rest…." "I think you’re being fanciful, Gwenda." "Perhaps I am. Anyway, we can—choose. This is only a social call. There’s no need for it to be anything more—unless we want it to be—" Giles shook his head. "We shall go on. We can’t help ourselves." "Yes—you’re right. All the same, Giles, I think I’m rather frightened—" II "Looking for a house, are you?" said Major Erskine. He offered Gwenda a plate of sandwiches. Gwenda took one, looking up at him. Richard Erskine was a small man, five foot nine or so. His hair was grey and he had tired, rather thoughtful eyes. His voice was low and pleasant with a slight drawl. There was nothing remarkable about him, but he was, Gwenda thought, definitely attractive … He was actually not nearly as good-looking as Walter Fane, but whereas most women would pass Fane without a second glance, they would not pass Erskine. Fane was nondescript. Erskine, in spite of his quietness, had personality.

Rather like those fairy women who come out of marshes with lights and lure you away." He added bitterly, "You wouldn’t find Sheila luring anyone. All she does is to tick a fellow off." I only remember two other incidents of any kind of significance. One was when I went to the laboratory to fetch some acetone to get the stickiness off my fingers from mending the pottery. Mr. Mercado was sitting in a corner, his head was laid down on his arms and I fancied he was asleep. I took the bottle I wanted and went off with it. That evening, to my great surprise, Mrs. Mercado tackled me. "Did you take a bottle of acetone from the lab?" "Yes," I said. "I did." "You know perfectly well that there’s a small bottle always kept in the antika room." She spoke quite angrily. "Is there? I didn’t know." "I think you did! You just wanted to come spying round. I know what hospital nurses are." I stared at her. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Mercado," I said with dignity. "I’m sure I don’t want to spy on anyone." "Oh, no! Of course not. Do you think I don’t know what you’re here for?" Really, for a minute or two I thought she must have been drinking. I went away without saying any more. But I thought it was very odd. The other thing was nothing very much. I was trying to entice a pi dog pup with a piece of bread. It was very timid, however, like all Arab dogs—and was convinced I meant no good. It slunk away and I followed it—out through the archway and round the corner of the house. I came round so sharply that before I knew I had cannoned into Father Lavigny and another man who were standing together—and in a minute I realized that the second man was the same one Mrs. Leidner and I had noticed that day trying to peer through the window. I apologized and Father Lavigny smiled, and with a word of farewell greeting to the other man he returned to the house with me. "You know," he said. "I am very ashamed. I am a student of Oriental languages and none of the men on the work can understand me! It is humiliating, do you not think? I was trying my Arabic on that man, who is a townsman, to see if I got on better—but it still wasn’t very successful. Leidner says my Arabic is too pure." That was all. But it just passed through my head that it was odd the same man should still be hanging round the house. That night we had a scare. It must have been about two in the morning. I’m a light sleeper, as most nurses have to be. I was awake and sitting up in bed by the time that my door opened. "Nurse, nurse!" It was Mrs. Leidner’s voice, low and urgent. I struck a match and lighted the candle. She was standing by the door in a long blue dressing gown. She was looking petrified with terror. "There’s someone—someone—in the room next to mine . . . I heard him—scratching on the wall." I jumped out of bed and came to her. "It’s all right," I said. "I’m here. Don’t be afraid, my dear." She whispered: "Get Eric." I nodded and ran out and knocked on his door. In a minute he was with us. Mrs. Leidner was sitting on my bed, her breath coming in great gasps. "I heard him," she said. "I heard him—scratching on the wall." "Someone in the antika room?" cried Dr. Leidner. He ran out quickly—and it just flashed across my mind how differently these two had reacted. Mrs. Leidner’s fear was entirely personal, but Dr. Leidner’s mind leaped at once to his precious treasures. "The antika room!" breathed Mrs. Leidner. "Of course! How stupid of me!" And rising and pulling her gown round her, she bade me come with her. All traces of her panic-stricken fear had vanished. We arrived in the antika room to find Dr. Leidner and Father Lavigny. The latter had also heard a noise, had risen to investigate, and had fancied he saw a light in the antika room.

"Stay there, idiot, leave this to me." She went rapidly off after Moira. She returned a few minutes later. "Well?" queried Bobby anxiously. "That’s all right. I calmed her down. It was a bit hard on her having her private fears blurted out in front of her to a third person. I made her promise we’d have a meeting—all three of us—again soon. Now that you’re not hampered by her being there, tell us all about it." Bobby did so. Frankie listened attentively. Then she said: "It fits in with two things. First of all, I came back just now to find Nicholson holding both Sylvia Bassington-ffrench’s hands—and didn’t he look daggers at me! If looks could kill I feel sure he’d have made me a corpse then and there." "What’s the second thing?" asked Bobby. "Oh, just an incident. Sylvia described how Moira’s photograph had made a great impression on some stranger who had come to the house. Depend upon it, that was Carstairs. He recognized the photograph, Mrs. Bassington-ffrench tells him that it is a portrait of a Mrs. Nicholson, and that explains how he came to find out where she was. But you know, Bobby, I don’t see yet where Nicholson comes in. Why should he want to do away with Alan Carstairs?" "You think it was him and not Bassington-ffrench? Rather a coincidence if he and Bassington-ffrench should both be in Marchbolt on the same day." "Well, coincidences do happen. But if it was Nicholson, I don’t yet see the motive. Was Carstairs on the track of Nicholson as the head of a dope gang? Or is your new lady friend the motive for the murder?" "It might be both," suggested Bobby. "He may know that Carstairs and his wife had an interview, and he may have believed that his wife gave him away somehow." "Now, that is a possibility," said Frankie. "But the first thing is to make sure about Roger Bassington-ffrench. The only thing we’ve got against him is the photograph business. If he can clear that up satisfactorily—" "You’re going to tackle him on the subject? Frankie, is that wise? If he is the villain of the piece, as we decided he must be, it means that we’re going to show him our hand." "Not quite—not the way I shall do it. After all, in every other way he’s been perfectly straightforward and aboveboard. We’ve taken that to be super- cunning—but suppose it just happens to be innocence? If he can explain the photograph—and I shall be watching him when he does explain—and if there’s the least sign of hesitation of guilt I shall see it—as I say, if he can explain the photograph—then he may be a very valuable ally." "How do you mean, Frankie?" "My dear, your little friend may be an emotional scaremonger who likes to exaggerate, but supposing she isn’t—that all she says is gospel truth—that her husband wants to get rid of her and marry Sylvia. Don’t you realize that, in that case, Henry Bassington-ffrench is in mortal danger too. At all costs we’ve got to prevent him being sent to the Grange. And at present Roger Bassington-ffrench is on Nicholson’s side." "Good for you, Frankie," said Bobby quietly. "Go ahead with your plan." Frankie got up to go, but before departing she paused for a moment. "Isn’t it odd?" she said. "We seem, somehow, to have got in between the covers of a book. We’re in the middle of someone else’s story. It’s a frightfully queer feeling." "I know what you mean," said Bobby. "There is something rather uncanny about it. I should call it a play rather than a book. It’s as though we’d walked on to the stage in the middle of the second act and we haven’t really got parts in the play at all, but we have to pretend, and what makes it so frightfully hard is that we haven’t the faintest idea what the first act was about." Frankie nodded eagerly. "I’m not even so sure it’s the second act—I think it’s more like the third. Bobby, I’m sure we’ve got to go back a long way . . .

"There’s some Italian opera here, if we must have classical music. Come on, Dr Carelli, this ought to be your province. Come and help us choose." Carelli joined Barbara and Miss Amory around the gramophone, and all three of them began to sort through the pile of records. Richard now seemed engrossed in his magazine. Lucia rose, moved slowly and apparently aimlessly across to the centre table, and glanced at the tin box. Then, taking care to establish that the others were not observing her, she took a tube from the box and read the label. "Hyoscine hydrobromide." Opening the tube, Lucia poured nearly all of the tablets into the palm of her hand. As she did so, the door to Sir Claud’s study opened, and Sir Claud’s secretary, Edward Raynor, appeared in the doorway. Unknown to Lucia, Raynor watched her as she put the tube back into the tin box before moving over to the coffee table. At that moment, Sir Claud’s voice was heard to call from the study. His words were indistinct, but Raynor, turning to answer him, said, "Yes, of course, Sir Claud. I’ll bring you your coffee now." The secretary was about to enter the library when Sir Claud’s voice arrested him. "And what about that letter to Marshall’s?" "It went off by the afternoon post, Sir Claud," replied the secretary. "But Raynor, I told you – oh, come back here, man," Sir Claud boomed from his study. "I’m sorry, sir," Raynor was heard to say as he retreated from the doorway to rejoin Sir Claud Amory in his study. Lucia, who had turned to watch the secretary at the sound of his voice, seemed not to realize that he had been observing her movements. Turning, so that her back was to Richard, she dropped the tablets she had been holding into one of the coffee cups on the coffee table, and moved to the front of the settee. The gramophone suddenly burst into life with a quick foxtrot. Richard Amory put down the magazine he had been reading, finished his coffee quickly, placed the cup on the centre table, and moved across to his wife. "I’ll take you at your word. I’ve decided. We’ll go away together." Lucia looked up at him in surprise. "Richard," she said faintly, "do you really mean it? We can get away from here? But I thought you said – what about? – where will the money come from?" "There are always ways of acquiring money," said Richard, grimly. There was alarm in Lucia’s voice as she asked, "What do you mean?" "I mean," said her husband, "that when a man cares about a woman as much as I care about you, he’ll do anything. Anything!" "It does not flatter me to hear you say that," Lucia responded. "It only tells me that you still do not trust me – that you think you must buy my love with –" She broke off, and looked around as the door to the study opened and Edward Raynor returned. Raynor walked over to the coffee table and picked up a cup of coffee, as Lucia changed her position on the settee, moving down to one end of it. Richard had wandered moodily across to the fireplace, and was staring into the unlit fire. Barbara, beginning a tentative foxtrot alone, looked at her cousin Richard as though considering whether to invite him to dance. But, apparently put off by his stony countenance, she turned to Raynor. "Care to dance, Mr Raynor?" she asked. "I’d love to, Miss Amory," the secretary replied. "Just a moment, while I take Sir Claud his coffee." Lucia suddenly rose from the settee. "Mr Raynor," she said hurriedly, "that isn’t Sir Claud’s coffee. You’ve taken the wrong cup." "Have I?" said Raynor. "I’m so sorry." Lucia picked up another cup from the coffee table, and held it out to Raynor. They exchanged cups. "That," said Lucia, as she handed her cup to Raynor, "is Sir Claud’s coffee." She smiled enigmatically to herself, placed the cup Raynor had given her on the coffee table, and returned to the settee. Turning his back to Lucia, the secretary took some tablets from his pocket and dropped them into the cup he was holding. As he was walking with it towards the study door, Barbara intercepted him.

That man’s face—in some vague way it was familiar to her. Where had she seen him before? Suddenly she remembered. It was in the Savoy outside her room that morning. She had collided with him in the passage. Rather an odd coincidence that she should run into him twice in a day. She glanced over her shoulder, rendered uneasy by something, she knew not what. The man was standing in the doorway looking back at her. A cold shiver passed over Katherine; she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom impending. . . . Then she shook the impression from her with her usual good sense and turned her whole attention to what the clerk was saying. Nine AN OFFER REFUSED It was rarely that Derek Kettering allowed his temper to get the better of him. An easygoing insouciance was his chief characteristic, and it had stood him in good stead in more than one tight corner. Even now, by the time he had left Mirelle’s flat, he had cooled down. He had need of coolness. The corner he was in now was a tighter one than he had ever been in before, and unforeseen factors had arisen with which, for the moment, he did not know how to deal. He strolled along deep in thought. His brow was furrowed, and there was none of the easy, jaunty manner which sat so well upon him. Various possibilities floated through his mind. It might have been said of Derek Kettering that he was less of a fool than he looked. He saw several roads that he might take—one in particular. If he shrank from it, it was for the moment only. Desperate ills need desperate remedies. He had gauged his father-in-law correctly. A war between Derek Kettering and Rufus Van Aldin could end only one way. Derek damned money and the power of money vehemently to himself. He walked up St. James’s Street, across Piccadilly, and strolled along it in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. As he passed the offices of Messrs. Thomas Cook & Sons his footsteps slackened. He walked on, however, still turning the matter over in his mind. Finally, he gave a brief nod of his head, turned sharply—so sharply as to collide with a couple of pedestrians who were following in his footsteps, and went back the way he had come. This time he did not pass Cook’s, but went in. The office was comparatively empty, and he got attended to at once. "I want to go to Nice next week. Will you give me particulars?" "What date, sir?" "The fourteenth. What is the best train?" "Well, of course, the best train is what they call "The Blue Train." You avoid the tiresome Customs business at Calais." Derek nodded. He knew all this, none better. "The fourteenth," murmured the clerk; "that is rather soon. The Blue Train is nearly always all booked up." "See if there is a berth left," said Derek. "If there is not—" He left the sentence unfinished, with a curious smile on his face. The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned. "That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you one of them. What name?" "Pavett," said Derek. He gave the address of his rooms in Jermyn Street. The clerk nodded, finished writing it down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client. "I want to go to Nice—on the fourteenth. Isn’t there a train called the Blue Train?" Derek looked round sharply. Coincidence—a strange coincidence. He remembered his own half-whimsical words to Mirelle. "Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don’t suppose I shall ever see her again." But he had seen her again, and, what was more, she proposed to travel to the Riviera on the same day as he did. Just for a moment a shiver passed over him; in some ways he was superstitious. He had said, half-laughingly, that this woman might bring him bad luck. Suppose—suppose that should prove to be true. From the doorway he looked back at her as she stood talking to the clerk. For once his memory had not played him false. A lady—a lady in every sense of the word. Not very young, not singularly beautiful.

These papers would be part of your father’s estate, and of course it is possible that they have been destroyed as worthless. Have you kept any of your father’s papers?" "I explained that my mother had kept various things of my father’s in an old sea chest. I had looked through it cursorily, but had discovered nothing of interest. ""You would hardly be likely to recognize the importance of these documents, perhaps," he said, smiling. "Well, I went to the chest, took out the few papers it contained and brought them to him. He looked at them, but said it was impossible to say off-hand what might or might not be connected with the matter in question. He would take them away with him and would communicate with me if anything turned up. "By the last post on Saturday I received a letter from him in which he suggested that I come to his house to discuss the matter. He gave me the address: Whitefriars, Friars Lane, Hampstead. I was to be there at a quarter to eleven this morning. "I was a little late finding the place. I hurried through the gate and up towards the house, when suddenly those two dreadful men sprang at me from the bushes. I hadn’t time to cry out. One man put his hand over my mouth. I wrenched my head free and screamed for help. Luckily you heard me. If it hadn’t been for you–" She stopped. Her looks were more eloquent than further words. "Very glad I happened to be on the spot. By Gad, I’d like to get hold of those two brutes. You’d never seen them before, I suppose?" She shook her head. "What do you think it means?" "Difficult to say. But one thing seems pretty sure. There’s something someone wants among your father’s papers. This man Reid told you a cock-and-bull story so as to get the opportunity of looking through them. Evidently what he wanted wasn’t there." "Oh!" said Freda. "I wonder. When I got home on Saturday I thought my things had been tampered with. To tell you the truth, I suspected my landlady of having pried about in my room out of curiosity. But now–" "Depend upon it, that’s it. Someone gained admission to your room and searched it, without finding what he was after. He suspected that you knew the value of this paper, whatever it was, and that you carried it about on your person. So he planned this ambush. If you had it with you, it would have been taken from you. If not, you would have been held prisoner while he tried to make you tell where it was hidden." "But what can it possibly be?" cried Freda. "I don’t know. But it must be something pretty good for him to go to this length." "It doesn’t seem possible." "Oh, I don’t know. Your father was a sailor. He went to out-of-the-way places. He might have come across something the value of which he never knew." "Do you really think so?" A pink flush of excitement showed in the girl’s pale cheeks. "I do indeed. The question is, what shall we do next? You don’t want to go to the police, I suppose?" "Oh, no, please." "I’m glad you say that. I don’t see what good the police could do, and it would only mean unpleasantness for you. Now I suggest that you allow me to give you lunch somewhere and that I then accompany you back to your lodgings, so as to be sure you reach them safely. And then, we might have a look for the paper. Because, you know, it must be somewhere." "Father may have destroyed it himself." "He may, of course, but the other side evidently doesn’t think so, and that looks hopeful for us." "What do you think it can be? Hidden treasure?" "By jove, it might be!" exclaimed Major Wilbraham, all the boy in him rising joyfully to the suggestion. "But now, Miss Clegg, lunch!" They had a pleasant meal together. Wilbraham told Freda all about his life in East Africa. He described elephant hunts, and the girl was thrilled. When they had finished, he insisted on taking her home in a taxi. Her lodgings were near Notting Hill Gate. On arriving there, Freda had a brief conversation with her landlady.

"I thought I could trust you to that extent. I don’t mind telling you what I do know. Such as it is." "You needn’t. I’m not asking you for it." "No. I can quite see that. But I’ll give you the answer all the same. The answer is – nothing." "Nothing," said Mrs Oliver thoughtfully. "No. I wasn’t there at the time. I mean, I wasn’t in the house at the time. I can’t remember now quite where I was. I think I was at school in Switzerland, or else I was staying with a school friend during the school holidays. You see, it’s all rather mixed up in my mind by now." "I suppose," said Mrs Oliver doubtfully, "it wouldn’t be likely that you would know. Considering your age at the time." "I’d be interested," said Celia, "to know just what you feel about that. Do you think it would be likely for me to know all about it? Or not to know?" "Well, you said you weren’t in the house. If you’d been in the house at the time, then yes, I think it would be quite likely that you might know something. Children do. Teenagers do. People of that age know a lot, they see a lot, they don’t talk about it very often. But they do know things that the outside world wouldn’t know, and they do know things that they wouldn’t be willing, shall we say, to tell to police enquirers." "No. You’re being quite sensible. I wouldn’t’ve known. I don’t think I did know. I don’t think Ihad any idea. What did the police think? You don’t mind my asking you that, I hope, because I should be interested. You see, I never read any account of the inquest or anything like that or the enquiry into it." "I think they thought it was a double suicide, but I don’t think they ever had any inkling as to the reason for it." "Do you want to know what I think?" "Not if you don’t want me to know," said Mrs Oliver. "But I expect you are interested. After all, you write crime stories about people who kill themselves or kill each other, or who have reasons for things. I should think you would be interested." "Yes, I’ll admit that," said Mrs Oliver. "But the last thing I want to do is to offend you by seeking for information which is no business of mine to know." "Well, I wondered," said Celia. "I’ve often wondered from time to time why, and how, but I knew very little about things. I mean, about how things were going on at home. The holidays before that I had been away on exchange on the Continent, so I hadn’t seen my mother and father really very recently. I mean, they’d come out to Switzerland and taken me out from school once or twice, but that was all. They seemed much as usual, but they seemed older. My father, I think, was ailing. I mean, getting feebler. I don’t know if it was heart or what it was. One doesn’t really think about that. My mother, too, she was going rather nervy. Not hypochondriac but a little inclined to fuss over her health. They were on good terms, quite friendly. There wasn’t anything that I noticed. Only sometimes one would, well, sometimes one gets ideas. One doesn’t think they’re true or necessarily right at all, but one just wonders if –" "I don’t think we’d better talk about it any more," said Mrs Oliver. "We don’t need to know or find out. The whole thing’s over and done with. The verdict was quite satisfactory. No means to show, or motive, or anything like that. But there was no question of your father having deliberately killed your mother, or of your mother having deliberately killed your father." "If I thought which was most likely," said Celia, "I would think my father killed my mother. Because, you see, it’s more natural for a man to shoot anyone, I think. To shoot a woman for whatever reason it was. I don’t think a woman, or a woman like my mother, would be so likely to shoot my father. If she wanted him dead, I should think she might have chosen some other method. But I don’t think either of them wanted the other one dead." "So it could have been an outsider."

"Mrs. Fortescue?" "Yes." It was a wide blue-eyed gaze. "But I don’t know—" "I am Inspector Neele. I’m afraid I have bad news for you." "Do you mean—a burglary—something of that kind?" "No, nothing of that kind. It is about your husband. He was taken seriously ill this morning." "Rex? Ill?" "We have been trying to get in touch with you since half past eleven this morning." "Where is he? Here? Or in hospital?" "He was taken to St. Jude’s Hospital. I’m afraid you must prepare yourself for a shock." "You don’t mean—he isn’t—dead." She lurched forward a little and clutched his arm. Gravely feeling like someone playing a part in a stage performance, the inspector supported her into the hall. Crump was hovering eagerly. "Brandy she’ll be needing," he said. The deep voice of Mr. Dubois said: "That’s right, Crump. Get the brandy." To the inspector he said: "In here." He opened a door on the left. The procession filed in. The inspector and Adele Fortescue, Vivian Dubois, and Crump with a decanter and two glasses. Adele Fortescue sank onto an easy chair, her eyes covered with her hand. She accepted the glass that the inspector offered and took a tiny sip, then pushed it away. "I don’t want it," she said. "I’m all right. But tell me, what was it? A stroke, I suppose? Poor Rex." "It wasn’t a stroke, Mrs. Fortescue." "Did you say you were an inspector?" It was Mr. Dubois who made the inquiry. Neele turned to him. "That’s right," he said pleasantly. "Inspector Neele of the CID." He saw the alarm grow in the dark eyes. Mr. Dubois did not like the appearance of an inspector of the CID. He didn’t like it at all. "What’s up?" he said. "Something wrong—eh?" Quite unconsciously he backed away a little towards the door. Inspector Neele noted the movement. "I’m afraid," he said to Mrs. Fortescue, "that there will have to be an inquest." "An inquest? Do you mean—what do you mean?" "I’m afraid this is all very distressing for you, Mrs. Fortescue." The words came smoothly. "It seemed advisable to find out as soon as possible exactly what Mr. Fortescue had to eat or drink before leaving for the office this morning." "Do you mean he might have been poisoned?" "Well, yes, it would seem so." "I can’t believe it. Oh—you mean food poisoning." Her voice dropped half an octave on the last words. His face wooden, his voice still smooth, Inspector Neele said: "Madam? What did you think I meant?" She ignored that question, hurrying on. "But we’ve been all right—all of us." "You can speak for all the members of the family?" "Well—no—of course—I can’t really." Dubois said with a great show of consulting his watch: "I’ll have to push off, Adele. Dreadfully sorry. You’ll be all right, won’t you? I mean, there are the maids, and the little Dove and all that—" "Oh, Vivian, don’t. Don’t go." It was quite a wail, and it affected Mr. Dubois adversely. His retreat quickened. "Awfully sorry, old girl. Important engagement. I’m putting up at the Dormy House, by the way, Inspector. If you—er—want me for anything." Inspector Neele nodded. He had no wish to detain Mr. Dubois. But he recognized Mr. Dubois’s departure for what it was. Mr. Dubois was running away from trouble. Adele Fortescue said, in an attempt to carry off the situation: "It’s such a shock, to come back and find the police in the house." "I’m sure it must be. But you see, it was necessary to act promptly in order to obtain the necessary specimens of foodstuffs, coffee, tea, etc." "Tea and coffee? But they’re not poisonous? I expect it’s the awful bacon we sometimes get. It’s quite uneatable sometimes." "We shall find out, Mrs. Fortescue.

He went. Suzanne followed him with her eyes till he disappeared. "Quick, Anne, get out the other side—in case he hasn’t really gone but is watching us from the end of the platform. Never mind your luggage. You can telegraph about that tomorrow. Oh, if only the train starts on time!" I opened the gate on the opposite side to the platform and climbed down. Nobody was observing me. I could just see Suzanne standing where I had left her, looking up at the train and apparently chatting to me at the window. A whistle blew, the train began to draw out. Then I heard feet racing furiously up the platform. I withdrew to the shadow of a friendly bookstall and watched. Suzanne turned from waving her handkerchief to the retreating train. "Too late, Mr. Pagett," she said cheerfully. "She’s gone. Is that the eau-de- Cologne? What a pity we didn’t think of it sooner!" They passed not far from me on their way out of the station. Guy Pagett was extremely hot. He had evidently run all the way to the chemist and back. "Shall I get you a taxi, Mrs. Blair?" Suzanne did not fail in her role. "Yes, please. Can’t I give you a lift back? Have you much to do for Sir Eustace? Dear me, I wish Anne Beddingfeld was coming with us tomorrow. I don’t like the idea of a young girl like that travelling off to Durban all by herself. But she was set upon it. Some little attraction there, I fancy—" They passed out of earshot. Clever Suzanne. She had saved me. I allowed a minute or two to elapse and then I too made my way out of the station, almost colliding as I did so with a man—an unpleasant-looking man with a nose disproportionately big for his face. Twenty-one I had no further difficulty in carrying out my plans. I found a small hotel in a back street, got a room there, paid a deposit as I had no luggage with me, and went placidly to bed. On the following morning I was up early and went out into the town to purchase a modest wardrobe. My idea was to do nothing until after the departure of the eleven-o’clock train to Rhodesia with most of the party on board. Pagett was not likely to indulge in any nefarious activities until he had got rid of them. Accordingly I took a train out of the town and proceeded to enjoy a country walk. It was comparatively cool, and I was glad to stretch my legs after the long voyage and my close confinement at Muizenberg. A lot hinges on small things. My shoelace came untied, and I stopped to do it up. The road had just turned a corner, and as I was bending over the offending shoe a man came right round and almost walked into me. He lifted his hat, murmuring an apology, and went on. It struck me at the time that his face was vaguely familiar, but at the moment I thought no more of it. I looked at my wristwatch. The time was getting on. I turned my feet in the direction of Cape Town. There was a tram on the point of going and I had to run for it. I heard other footsteps running behind me. I swung myself on and so did the other runner. I recognized him at once. It was the man who had passed me on the road when my shoe came untied, and in a flash I knew why his face was familiar. It was the small man with the big nose whom I had run into on leaving the station the night before. The coincidence was rather startling. Could it be possible that the man was deliberately following me? I resolved to test that as promptly as possible. I rang the bell and got off at the next stop. The man did not get off. I withdrew into the shadow of a shop doorway and watched. He alighted at the next stop and walked back in my direction. The case was clear enough. I was being followed. I had crowed too soon. My victory over Guy Pagett took on another aspect. I hailed the next tram and, as I expected, my shadower also got on. I gave myself up to some very serious thinking. It was perfectly apparent that I had stumbled on a bigger thing than I knew.

Poirot said: "There is a suggestion that Mrs. Welman might have committed suicide." "She? And her lying there helpless? Just lift one hand, that was all she could do!" "Someone might have helped her?" "Ah! I see now what you’re meaning. Miss Carlisle, or Mr. Welman, or maybe Mary Gerrard?" "It would be possible, would it not?" Nurse O’Brien shook her head. She said: "They’d not dare—any of them!" Poirot said slowly: "Perhaps not." Then he said: "When was it Nurse Hopkins missed the tube of morphine?" "It was that very morning. "I’m sure I had it here," she said. Very sure she was at first; but you know how it is, after a while your mind gets confused, and in the end she made sure she’d left it at home." Poirot murmured: "And even then you had no suspicion?" "Not the least in the world! Sure, it never entered my head for a moment that things weren’t as they should be. And even now ’tis only a suspicion they have." "The thought of that missing tube never caused either you or Nurse Hopkins an uneasy moment?" "Well, I wouldn’t say that… I do remember that it came into my head—and into Nurse Hopkins" head, too, I believe—in the Blue Tit Café, we were at the time. And I saw the thought pass into her mind from mine. "It couldn’t be any other way than that I left it on the mantelpiece and it fell into the dustbin, could it?" she says. And "No, indeed, that was the way of it," I said to her; and neither of us saying what was in our minds and the fear that was on us." Hercule Poirot asked: "And what do you think now?" Nurse O’Brien said: "If they find morphine in her there’ll be little doubt who took that tube, nor what it was used for—though I’ll not be believing she sent the old lady the same road till it’s proved there’s morphine in her." Poirot said: "You have no doubt at all that Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard?" "There’s no question of it at all, in my opinion! Who else had the reason or the wish to do it?" "That is the question," said Poirot. Nurse O’Brien went on dramatically: "Wasn’t I there that night when the old lady was trying to speak, and Miss Elinor promising her that everything should be done decently and according to her wishes? And didn’t I see her face looking after Mary as she went down the stairs one day, and the black hate that was on it? ’Twas murder she had in her heart that minute." Poirot said: "If Elinor Carlisle killed Mrs. Welman, why did she do it?" "Why? For the money, of course. Two hundred thousand pounds, no less. That’s what she got by it, and that’s why she did it—if she did it. She’s a bold, clever young lady, with no fear in her, and plenty of brains." Hercule Poirot said: "If Mrs. Welman had lived to make a will, how do you think she’d have left her money?" "Ah, it’s not for me to be saying that," said Nurse O’Brien, betraying, however, every symptom of being about to do so. "But it’s my opinion that every penny the old lady had would have gone to Mary Gerrard." "Why?" said Hercule Poirot. The simple monosyllable seemed to upset Nurse O’Brien. "Why? Is it why you’re asking? Well—I’d say that that would be the way of it." Poirot murmured: "Some people might say that Mary Gerrard had played her cards very cleverly, that she had managed so to ingratiate herself with the old woman, as to make her forget the ties of blood and affection." "They might that," said Nurse O’Brien slowly. Poirot asked: "Was Mary Gerrard a clever, scheming girl?" Nurse O’Brien said, still rather slowly: "I’ll not think that of her… All she did was natural enough, with no thought of scheming. She wasn’t that kind. And there’s reasons often for these things that never get made public…." Hercule Poirot said softly: "You are, I think, a very discreet woman, Nurse O’Brien." "I’m not one to be talking of what doesn’t concern me."

"Let’s go inside the house and look at it." "No," Alexander was insistent. "Someone’s sure to interrupt. Come to the harness room. We’ll guide you." Somewhat unwillingly, Craddock allowed himself to be guided round the corner of the house and along to the stableyard. Stoddart-West pushed open a heavy door, stretched up, and turned on a rather feeble electric light. The harness room, once the acme of Victorian spit and polish, was now the sad repository of everything that no one wanted. Broken garden chairs, rusted old garden implements, a vast decrepit mowing-machine, rusted spring mattresses, hammocks, and disintegrated tennis nets. "We come here a good deal," said Alexander. "One can really be private here." There were certain tokens of occupancy about. The decayed mattresses had been piled up to make a kind of divan, there was an old rusted table on which reposed a large tin of chocolate biscuits, there was a hoard of apples, a tin of toffees, and a jig-saw puzzle. "It really is a clue, sir," said Stoddart-West eagerly, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "We found it this afternoon." "We’ve been hunting for days. In the bushes—" "And inside hollow trees—" "And we went through the ash bins—" "There were some jolly interesting things there, as a matter of fact—" "And then we went into the boiler house—" "Old Hillman keeps a great galvanized tub there full of waste paper—" "For when the boiler goes out and he wants to start it again—" "Any odd paper that’s blowing about. He picks it up and shoves it in there—" "And that’s where we found it—" "Found WHAT?" Craddock interrupted the duet. "The clue. Careful, Stodders, get your gloves on." Importantly, Stoddart-West, in the best detective story tradition, drew on a pair of rather dirty gloves and took from his pocket a Kodak photographic folder. From this he extracted in his gloved fingers with the utmost care a soiled and crumpled envelope which he handed importantly to the inspector. Both boys held their breath in excitement. Craddock took it with due solemnity. He liked the boys and he was ready to enter into the spirit of the thing. The letter had been through the post, there was no enclosure inside, it was just a torn envelope—addressed to Mrs. Martine Crackenthorpe, 126 Elvers Crescent, N.10. "You see?" said Alexander breathlessly. "It shows she was here— Uncle Edmund’s French wife, I mean—the one there’s all the fuss about. She must have actually been here and dropped out somewhere. So it looks, doesn’t it—" Stoddart-West broke in: "It looks as though she was the one who got murdered— I mean, don’t you think, sir, that it simply must have been her in the sarcophagus?" They waited anxiously. Craddock played up. "Possible, very possible," he said. "This is important, isn’t it?" "You’ll test it for fingerprints, won’t you, sir?" "Of course," said Craddock. Stoddart-West gave a deep sigh. "Smashing luck for us, wasn’t it?" he said. "On our last day, too." "Last day?" "Yes," said Alexander. "I’m going to Stodders" place tomorrow for the last few days of the holidays. Stodders" people have got a smashing house— Queen Anne, isn’t it?" "William and Mary," said Stoddart-West. "I thought your mother said—" "Mum’s French. She doesn’t really know about English architecture." "But your father said it was built—" Craddock was examining the envelope. Clever of Lucy Eyelesbarrow. How had she managed to fake the post mark? He peered closely, but the light was too feeble. Great fun for the boys, of course, but rather awkward for him. Lucy, drat her, hadn’t considered that angle. If this were genuine, it would enforce a course of action. There…. Beside him a learned architectural argument was being hotly pursued. He was deaf to it. "Come on, boys," he said, "we’ll go into the house. You’ve been very helpful." Eighteen I Craddock was escorted by the boys through the back door into the house. This was, it seemed, their common mode of entrance.

"And each time you shut me up and refused to listen." "That’s just a way of speaking, sir. You could have told me perfectly well if you had had a mind to. The clock and the note seemed to tally perfectly. Now, according to you, the clock was all wrong. I never knew such a case. What’s the sense of keeping a clock a quarter of an hour fast anyway?" "It is supposed," I said, "to induce punctuality." "I don’t think we need go further into that now, Inspector," said Colonel Melchett tactfully. "What we want now is the true story from both Mrs. Protheroe and young Redding. I telephoned to Haydock and asked him to bring Mrs. Protheroe over here with him. They ought to be here in about a quarter of an hour. I think it would be as well to have Redding here first." "I’ll get on to the station," said Inspector Slack, and took up the telephone. "And now," he said, replacing the receiver, "we’ll get to work on this room." He looked at me in a meaningful fashion. "Perhaps," I said, "you’d like me out of the way." The Inspector immediately opened the door for me. Melchett called out: "Come back when young Redding arrives, will you, Vicar? You’re a friend of his and you may have sufficient influence to persuade him to speak the truth." I found my wife and Miss Marple with their heads together. "We’ve been discussing all sorts of possibilities," said Griselda. "I wish you’d solve the case, Miss Marple, like you did the time Miss Wetherby’s gill of picked shrimps disappeared. And all because it reminded you of something quite different about a sack of coals." "You’re laughing, my dear," said Miss Marple, "but after all, that is a very sound way of arriving at the truth. It’s really what people call intuition and make such a fuss about. Intuition is like reading a word without having to spell it out. A child can’t do that because it has had so little experience. But a grown-up person knows the word because they’ve seen it often before. You catch my meaning, Vicar?" "Yes," I said slowly, "I think I do. You mean that if a thing reminds you of something else—well, it’s probably the same kind of thing." "Exactly." "And what precisely does the murder of Colonel Protheroe remind you of?" Miss Marple sighed. "That is just the difficulty. So many parallels come to the mind. For instance, there was Major Hargreaves, a churchwarden and a man highly respected in every way. And all the time he was keeping a separate second establishment—a former housemaid, just think of it! And five children—actually five children—a terrible shock to his wife and daughter." I tried hard to visualize Colonel Protheroe in the rôle of secret sinner and failed. "And then there was that laundry business," went on Miss Marple. "Miss Hartnell’s opal pin—left most imprudently in a frilled blouse and sent to the laundry. And the woman who took it didn’t want it in the least and wasn’t by any means a thief. She simply hid it in another woman’s house and told the police she’d seen this other woman take it. Spite, you know, sheer spite. It’s an astonishing motive—spite. A man in it, of course. There always is." This time I failed to see any parallel, however remote. "And then there was poor Elwell’s daughter—such a pretty ethereal girl—tried to stifle her little brother. And there was the money for the Choir Boys" Outing (before your time, Vicar) actually taken by the organist. His wife was sadly in debt. Yes, this case makes one think so many things—too many. It’s very hard to arrive at the truth." "I wish you would tell me," I said, "who were the seven suspects?" "The seven suspects?" "You said you could think of seven people who would—well, be glad of Colonel Protheroe’s death." "Did I? Yes, I remember I did." "Was that true?" "Oh! Certainly it was true. But I mustn’t mention names. You can think of them quite easily yourself. I am sure." "Indeed I can’t.

"Yes," he said encouragingly, "you try that. Buy yourself a season ticket. There’s some scheme where you can travel a thousand miles all over the British Isles for a very reasonable fixed sum. That ought to suit you down to the ground, Tuppence. You travel by all the trains you can think of in all the likely parts. That ought to keep you happy until I come home again." "Give my love to Josh." "I will." He added, looking at his wife in a worried manner, "I wish you were coming with me. Don’t—don’t do anything stupid, will you?" "Of course not," said Tuppence. Six TUPPENCE ON THE TRAIL "Oh dear," sighed Tuppence, "oh dear." She looked round her with gloomy eyes. Never, she said to herself, had she felt more miserable. Naturally she had known she would miss Tommy, but she had no idea how much she was going to miss him. During the long course of their married life they had hardly ever been separated for any length of time. Starting before their marriage, they had called themselves a pair of "young adventurers." They had been through various difficulties and dangers together, they had married, they had had two children and just as the world was seeming rather dull and middle-aged to them, the second war had come about and in what seemed an almost miraculous way they had been tangled up yet again on the outskirts of the British Intelligence. A somewhat unorthodox pair, they had been recruited by a quiet nondescript man who called himself "Mr. Carter," but to whose word everybody seemed to bow. They had had adventures, and once again they had had them together. This, by the way, had not been planned by Mr. Carter. Tommy alone had been recruited. But Tuppence displaying all her natural ingenuity, had managed to eavesdrop in such a fashion that when Tommy had arrived at a guest house on the sea coast in the role of a certain Mr. Meadows, the first person he had seen there had been a middle-aged lady plying knitting needles, who had looked up at him with innocent eyes and whom he had been forced to greet as Mrs. Blenkensop. Thereafter they had worked as a pair. "However," thought Tuppence to herself, "I can’t do it this time." No amount of eavesdropping, of ingenuity, or anything else would take her to the recesses of Hush Hush Manor or to participation in the intricacies of I.U.A.S. Just an Old Boys Club, she thought resentfully. Without Tommy the flat was empty, the world was lonely, and "What on earth," thought Tuppence, "am I to do with myself?" The question was really purely rhetorical for Tuppence had already started on the first steps of what she planned to do with herself. There was no question this time of intelligence work, of counterespionage or anything of that kind. Nothing of an official nature. "Prudence Beresford, Private Investigator, that’s what I am," said Tuppence to herself. After a scrappy lunch had been hastily cleared away, the dining room table was strewn with railway timetables, guidebooks, maps, and a few old diaries which Tuppence had managed to disinter. Some time in the last three years (not longer, she was sure) she had taken a railway journey, and looking out of the carriage window, had noticed a house. But, what railway journey? Like most people at the present time, the Beresfords travelled mainly by car. The railway journeys they took were few and far between. Scotland, of course, when they went to stay with their married daughter Deborah—but that was a night journey. Penzance—summer holidays—but Tuppence knew that line by heart. No, this had been a much more casual journey. With diligence and perseverance, Tuppence had made a meticulous list of all the possible journeys she had taken which might correspond to what she was looking for. One or two race meetings, a visit to Northumberland, two possible places in Wales, a christening, two weddings, a sale they had attended, some puppies she had once delivered for a friend who bred them and who had gone down with influenza. The meeting place had been an arid-looking country junction whose name she couldn’t remember. Tuppence sighed.

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. And, mind you, he wasn’t the sort of man to be mistaken." "Who got him into it? A man called MacKenzie, wasn’t it?" "Yes. MacKenzie died out there." "MacKenzie died out there," said Lance thoughtfully. "Wasn’t there a terrific scene? I seem to remember . . . Mrs. MacKenzie, wasn’t it? Came here. Ranted and stormed at Father. Hurled down curses on his head. She accused him, if I remember rightly, of murdering her husband." "Really," said Percival repressively. "I can’t recollect anything of the kind." "I remember it, though," said Lance. "I was a good bit younger than you, of course. Perhaps that’s why it appealed to me. As a child it struck me as full of drama. Where was Blackbird? West Africa wasn’t it?" "Yes, I think so." "I must look up the concession sometime," said Lance, "when I’m at the office." "You can be quite sure," said Percival, "that Father made no mistake. If he came back saying there was no gold, there was no gold." "You’re probably right there," said Lance. "Poor Mrs. MacKenzie. I wonder what happened to her and to those two kids she brought along. Funny—they must be grown-up by now." Chapter Twenty At the Pinewood Private Sanatorium, Inspector Neele, sitting in the visitors" parlour, was facing a grey-haired, elderly lady. Helen MacKenzie was sixty- three, though she looked younger. She had pale blue, rather vacant-looking eyes, and a weak, indeterminate chin. She had a long upper lip which occasionally twitched. She held a large book in her lap and was looking down at it as Inspector Neele talked to her. In Inspector Neele’s mind was the conversation he had just had with Dr. Crosbie, the head of the establishment. "She’s a voluntary patient, of course," said Dr. Crosbie, "not certified." "She’s not dangerous, then?" "Oh, no. Most of the time she’s as sane to talk to as you or me. It’s one of her good periods now so that you’ll be able to have a perfectly normal conversation with her." Bearing this in mind, Inspector Neele started his first conversational essay. "It’s very kind of you to see me, madam," he said. "My name is Neele. I’ve come to see you about a Mr. Fortescue who has recently died. A Mr. Rex Fortescue. I expect you know the name." Mrs. MacKenzie’s eyes were fixed on her book. She said: "I don’t know what you’re talking about." "Mr. Fortescue, madam. Mr. Rex Fortescue." "No," said Mrs. MacKenzie. "No. Certainly not." Inspector Neele was slightly taken aback. He wondered whether this was what Dr. Crosbie called being completely normal. "I think, Mrs. MacKenzie, you knew him a good many years ago." "Not really," said Mrs. MacKenzie. "It was yesterday." "I see," said Inspector Neele, falling back upon this formula rather uncertainly. "I believe," he went on, "that you paid him a visit many years ago at his residence, Yewtree Lodge." "A very ostentatious house," said Mrs. MacKenzie. "Yes. Yes, you might call it that.

Thirty-two There is little more to be told. Miss Marple’s plan succeeded. Lawrence Redding was not an innocent man, and the hint of a witness of the change of capsule did indeed cause him to do "something foolish." Such is the power of an evil conscience. He was, of course, peculiarly placed. His first impulse, I imagine, must have been to cut and run. But there was his accomplice to consider. He could not leave without getting word to her, and he dared not wait till morning. So he went up to Old Hall that night—and two of Colonel Melchett’s most efficient officers followed him. He threw gravel at Anne Protheroe’s window, aroused her, and an urgent whisper brought her down to speak with him. Doubtless they felt safer outside than in—with the possibility of Lettice waking. But as it happened, the two police officers were able to overhear the conversation in full. It left the matter in no doubt. Miss Marple had been right on every count. The trial of Lawrence Redding and Anne Protheroe is a matter of public knowledge. I do not propose to go into it. I will only mention that great credit was reflected upon Inspector Slack, whose zeal and intelligence had resulted in the criminals being brought to justice. Naturally, nothing was said of Miss Marple’s share in the business. She herself would have been horrified at the thought of such a thing. Lettice came to see me just before the trial took place. She drifted through my study window, wraithlike as ever. She told me then that she had all along been convinced of her stepmother’s complicity. The loss of the yellow beret had been a mere excuse for searching the study. She hoped against hope that she might find something the police had overlooked. "You see," she said in her dreamy voice, "they didn’t hate her like I did. And hate makes things easier for you." Disappointed in the result of her search, she had deliberately dropped Anne’s earring by the desk. "Since I knew she had done it, what did it matter? One way was as good as another. She had killed him." I sighed a little. There are always some things that Lettice will never see. In some respects she is morally colour blind. "What are you going to do, Lettice?" I asked. "When—when it’s all over, I am going abroad." She hesitated and then went on. "I am going abroad with my mother." I looked up, startled. She nodded. "Didn’t you ever guess? Mrs. Lestrange is my mother. She is—is dying, you know. She wanted to see me and so she came down here under an assumed name. Dr. Haydock helped her. He’s a very old friend of hers—he was keen about her once—you can see that! In a way, he still is. Men always went batty about mother, I believe. She’s awfully attractive even now. Anyway, Dr. Haydock did everything he could to help her. She didn’t come down here under her own name because of the disgusting way people talk and gossip. She went to see father that night and told him she was dying and had a great longing to see something of me. Father was a beast. He said she’d forfeited all claim, and that I thought she was dead—as though I had ever swallowed that story! Men like father never see an inch before their noses! "But mother is not the sort to give in. She thought it only decent to go to father first, but when he turned her down so brutally she sent a note to me, and I arranged to leave the tennis party early and meet her at the end of the footpath at a quarter past six. We just had a hurried meeting and arranged when to meet again. We left each other before half past six. Afterwards I was terrified that she would be suspected of having killed father. After all, she had got a grudge against him. That’s why I got hold of that old picture of her up in the attic and slashed it about. I was afraid the police might go nosing about and get hold of it and recognize it. Dr. Haydock was frightened too. Sometimes, I believe, he really thought she had done it! Mother is rather a—desperate kind of person. She doesn’t count consequences." She paused. "It’s queer.

Someone must have deliberately tampered with it, for I have never known it gain or lose before. It is a perfect timekeeper." Mr. Waverly paused. Poirot smiled to himself and straightened a little mat which the anxious father had pushed askew. "A pleasing little problem, obscure and charming," murmured Poirot. "I will investigate it for you with pleasure. Truly it was planned à merveille." Mrs. Waverly looked at him reproachfully. "But my boy," she wailed. Poirot hastily composed his face and looked the picture of earnest sympathy again. "He is safe, madame, he is unharmed. Rest assured, these miscreants will take the greatest care of him. Is he not to them the turkey—no, the goose—that lays the golden eggs?" "M. Poirot, I’m sure there’s only one thing to be done—pay up. I was all against it at first—but now! A mother’s feelings—" "But we have interrupted monsieur in his history," cried Poirot hastily. "I expect you know the rest pretty well from the papers," said Mr. Waverly. "Of course, Inspector McNeil got on to the telephone immediately. A description of the car and the man was circulated all round, and it looked at first as though everything was going to turn out all right. A car, answering to the description, with a man and a small boy, had passed through various villages, apparently making for London. At one place they had stopped, and it was noticed that the child was crying and obviously afraid of his companion. When Inspector McNeil announced that the car had been stopped and the man and boy detained, I was almost ill with relief. You know the sequel. The boy was not Johnnie, and the man was an ardent motorist, fond of children, who had picked up a small child playing in the streets of Edenswell, a village about fifteen miles from us, and was kindly giving him a ride. Thanks to the cocksure blundering of the police, all traces have disappeared. Had they not persistently followed the wrong car, they might by now have found the boy." "Calm yourself, monsieur. The police are a brave and intelligent force of men. Their mistake was a very natural one. And altogether it was a clever scheme. As to the man they caught in the grounds, I understand that his defence has consisted all along of a persistent denial. He declared that the note and parcel were given to him to deliver at Waverly Court. The man who gave them to him handed him a ten-shilling note and promised him another if it were delivered at exactly ten minutes to twelve. He was to approach the house through the grounds and knock at the side door." "I don’t believe a word of it," declared Mrs. Waverly hotly. "It’s all a parcel of lies." "En verité, it is a thin story," said Poirot reflectively. "But so far they have not shaken it. I understand, also, that he made a certain accusation?" His glance interrogated Mr. Waverly. The latter got rather red again. "The fellow had the impertinence to pretend that he recognized in Tredwell the man who gave him the parcel. "Only the bloke has shaved off his moustache." Tredwell, who was born on the estate!" Poirot smiled a little at the country gentleman’s indignation. "Yet you yourself suspect an inmate of the house to have been accessory to the abduction." "Yes, but not Tredwell." "And you, madame?" asked Poirot, suddenly turning to her. "It could not have been Tredwell who gave this tramp the letter and parcel—if anybody ever did, which I don’t believe. It was given him at ten o’clock, he says. At ten o’clock Tredwell was with my husband in the smoking room." "Were you able to see the face of the man in the car, monsieur? Did it resemble that of Tredwell in any way?" "It was too far away for me to see his face." "Has Tredwell a brother, do you know?" "He had several, but they are all dead. The last one was killed in the war." "I am not yet clear as to the grounds of Waverly Court. The car was heading for the south lodge. Is there another entrance?" "Yes, what we call the east lodge.

You think then it was to Marjorie Dilke. You are not so sure now. He has the restlessly excited manner of a man who has successfully defied Fate–who, in your own words, has pulled off a big coup against overwhelming odds. Then comes the clanging of the bell. He goes out to get the long overdue mail. He doesn’t open his letters, but you mention yourselves that he opened the paper to glance at the news. It is ten years ago–so we cannot know what the news was that day–a far- off earthquake, a near at hand political crisis? The only thing we do know about the contents of that paper is that it contained one small paragraph–a paragraph stating that the Home Office had given permission to exhume the body of Mr Appleton three days ago." "What?" Mr Quin went on. "Derek Capel goes up to his room, and there he sees something out of the window. Sir Richard Conway has told us that the curtain was not drawn across it and further that it gave on to the drive. What did he see? What could he have seen that forced him to take his life?" "What do you mean? What did he see?" "I think," said Mr Quin, "that he saw a policeman. A policeman who had come about a dog–But Derek Capel didn’t know that–he just saw–a policeman." There was a long silence–as though it took some time to drive the inference home. "My God!" whispered Evesham at last. "You can’t mean that? Appleton? But he wasn’t there at the time Appleton died. The old man was alone with his wife–" "But he may have been there a week earlier. Strychnine is not very soluble unless it is in the form of hydrochloride. The greater part of it, put into the port, would be taken in the last glass, perhaps a week after he left." Portal sprung forward. His voice was hoarse, his eyes bloodshot. "Why did she break the decanter?" he cried. "Why did she break the decanter? Tell me that!" For the first time that evening, Mr Quin addressed himself to Mr Satterthwaite. "You have a wide experience of life, Mr Satterthwaite. Perhaps you can tell us that." Mr Satterthwaite’s voice trembled a little. His cue had come at last. He was to speak some of the most important lines in the play. He was an actor now–not a looker-on. "As I see it," he murmured modestly, "she–cared for Derek Capel. She was, I think, a good woman–and she had sent him away. When her husband–died, she suspected the truth. And so, to save the man she loved, she tried to destroy the evidence against him. Later, I think, he persuaded her that her suspicions were unfounded, and she consented to marry him. But even then, she hung back–women, I fancy, have a lot of instinct." Mr Sattherthwaite had spoken his part. Suddenly a long trembling sigh filled the air. "My God!" cried Evesham, starting, "what was that?" Mr Satterthwaite could have told him that it was Eleanor Portal in the gallery above, but he was too artistic to spoil a good effect. Mr Quin was smiling. "My car will be ready by now. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Evesham. I have, I hope, done something for my friend." They stared at him in blank amazement. "That aspect of the matter has not struck you? He loved this woman, you know. Loved her enough to commit murder for her sake. When retribution overtook him, as he mistakenly thought, he took his own life. But unwittingly, he left her to face the music." "She was acquitted," muttered Evesham. "Because the case against her could not be proved. I fancy–it may be only a fancy–that she is still–facing the music." Portal had sunk into a chair, his face buried in his hands. Quin turned to Satterthwaite. "Goodbye, Mr Satterthwaite. You are interested in the drama, are you not?" Mr Satterthwaite nodded–surprised. "I must recommend the Harlequinade to your attention. It is dying out nowadays–but it repays attention, I assure you.

He had a way cut down to the beach for one thing—concrete steps—expensive business. Then he had the whole of the house done over—bathrooms, every expensive gadget you can imagine. And who did he set to do all this? Not a local man. No, a firm from London, so it was said—but a lot of the men who came down were foreigners. Some of them didn’t speak a word of English. Don’t you agree with me that that sounds extremely fishy?" "A little odd, certainly," agreed Tommy. "I was in the neighbourhood myself at the time, living in a bungalow, and I got interested in what this fellow was up to. I used to hang about to watch the workmen. Now I’ll tell you this—they didn’t like it—they didn’t like it at all. Once or twice they were quite threatening about it. Why should they be if everything was all square and aboveboard?" Bletchley nodded agreement. "You ought to have gone to the authorities," he said. "Just what I did do, my dear fellow. Made a positive nuisance of myself pestering the police." He poured himself out another drink. "And what did I get for my pains? Polite inattention. Blind and deaf, that’s what we were in this country. Another war with Germany was out of the question—there was peace in Europe—our relations with Germany were excellent. Natural sympathy between us nowadays. I was regarded as an old fossil, a war maniac, a diehard old sailor. What was the good of pointing out to people that the Germans were building the finest Air Force in Europe and not just to fly round and have picnics!" Major Bletchley said explosively: "Nobody believed it! Damned fools! "Peace in our time." "Appeasement." All a lot of blah!" Haydock said, his face redder than usual with suppressed anger: "A warmonger, that’s what they called me. The sort of chap, they said, who was an obstacle to peace. Peace! I knew what our Hun friends were at! And mind this, they prepare things a long time beforehand. I was convinced that Mr. Hahn was up to no good. I didn’t like his foreign workmen. I didn’t like the way he was spending money on this place. I kept on badgering away at people." "Stout fellow," said Bletchley appreciatively. "And finally," said the Commander, "I began to make an impression. We had a new Chief Constable down here—retired soldier. And he had the sense to listen to me. His fellows began to nose around. Sure enough, Hahn decamped. Just slipped out and disappeared one fine night. The police went over this place with a search-warrant. In a safe which had been built-in in the dining room they found a wireless transmitter and some pretty damaging documents. Also a big store place under the garage for petrol—great tanks. I can tell you I was cock-a-hoop over that. Fellows at the club used to rag me about my German spy complex. They dried up after that. Trouble with us in this country is that we’re so absurdly unsuspicious." "It’s a crime. Fools—that’s what we are—fools. Why don’t we intern all these refugees?" Major Bletchley was well away. "End of the story was I bought the place when it came into the market," continued the Commander, not to be sidetracked from his pet story. "Come and have a look round, Meadowes?" "Thanks, I’d like to." Commander Haydock was as full of zest as a boy as he did the honours of the establishment. He threw open the big safe in the dining room to show where the secret wireless had been found. Tommy was taken out to the garage and was shown where the big petrol tanks had lain concealed, and finally, after a superficial glance at the two excellent bathrooms, the special lighting, and the various kitchen "gadgets," he was taken down the steep concreted path to the little cove beneath, whilst Commander Haydock told him all over again how extremely useful the whole layout would be to an enemy in wartime. He was taken into the cave which gave the place its name, and Haydock pointed out enthusiastically how it could have been used.

I don’t know what I’m looking for yet, but I’m pretty sure there’s something to find. I don’t know what 61 means. I don’t know what M means. I’ve been working in a radius from Portlebury outwards. Three weeks of unremitting and unrewarding toil. Crowdean is on my route. That’s all there is to it. Frankly, Dick, I didn’t expect very much of Crowdean. There’s only one Crescent here. That’s Wilbraham Crescent. I was going to have a walk along Wilbraham Crescent and see what I thought of Number 61 before asking you if you’d got any dope that could help me. That’s what I was doing this afternoon—but I couldn’t find Number 61." "As I told you, 61 is occupied by a local builder." "And that’s not what I’m after. Have they got a foreign help of any kind?" "Could be. A good many people do nowadays. If so, she’ll be registered. I’ll look it up for you by tomorrow." "Thanks, Dick." "I’ll be making routine inquiries tomorrow at the two houses on either side of 19. Whether they saw anyone come to the house, etcetera. I might include the houses directly behind 19, the ones whose gardens adjoin it. I rather think that 61 is almost directly behind 19. I could take you along with me if you liked." I closed with the offer greedily. "I’ll be your Sergeant Lamb and take shorthand notes." We agreed that I should come to the police station at nine thirty the following morning. II I arrived the next morning promptly at the agreed hour and found my friend literally fuming with rage. When he had dismissed an unhappy subordinate, I inquired delicately what had happened. For a moment Hardcastle seemed unable to speak. Then he spluttered out: "Those damned clocks!" "The clocks again? What’s happened now?" "One of them is missing." "Missing? Which one?" "The leather travelling clock. The one with "Rosemary" across the corner." I whistled. "That seems very extraordinary. How did it come about?" "The damned fools—I’m one of them really, I suppose—" (Dick was a very honest man) "—One’s got to remember to cross every t and dot every i or things go wrong. Well, the clocks were there all right yesterday in the sitting room. I got Miss Pebmarsh to feel them all to see if they felt familiar. She couldn’t help. Then they came to remove the body." "Yes?" "I went out to the gate to supervise, then I came back to the house, spoke to Miss Pebmarsh who was in the kitchen, and said I must take the clocks away and would give her a receipt for them." "I remember. I heard you." "Then I told the girl I’d send her home in one of our cars, and I asked you to see her into it." "Yes." "I gave Miss Pebmarsh the receipt though she said it wasn’t necessary since the clocks weren’t hers. Then I joined you. I told Edwards I wanted the clocks in the sitting room packed up carefully and brought here. All of them except the cuckoo clock and, of course, the grandfather. And that’s where I went wrong. I should have said, quite definitely, four clocks. Edwards says he went in at once and did as I told him. He insists there were only three clocks other than the two fixtures." "That doesn’t give much time," I said. "It means—" "The Pebmarsh woman could have done it. She could have picked up the clock after I left the room and gone straight to the kitchen with it." "True enough. But why?" "We’ve got a lot to learn. Is there anybody else? Could the girl have done it?" I reflected. "I don’t think so. I—" I stopped, remembering something. "So she did," said Hardcastle. "Go on. When was it?" "We were just going out to the police car," I said unhappily. "She’d left her gloves behind. I said, "I’ll get them for you" and she said, "Oh, I know just where I must have dropped them. I don’t mind going into that room now that the body’s gone" and she ran back into the house. But she was only gone a minute—" "Did she have her gloves on, or in her hand when she rejoined you?" I hesitated.

"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. I suggested that she should come back to us again for a while, but after a momentary hesitation she shook her head. "It’s nice of you—but I think I’ll stay here. After all, it is—well, I suppose, it’s my home. And I dare say I can help with the boys a bit." "Well," I said, "it’s as you like." "Then I think I’ll stay. I could— I could—" "Yes?" I prompted. "If—if anything awful happened, I could ring you up, couldn’t I, and you’d come." I was touched. "Of course. But what awful thing do you think might happen?" "Oh, I don’t know." She looked vague. "Things seem rather like that just now, don’t they?" "For God’s sake," I said. "Don’t go nosing out anymore bodies! It’s not good for you." She gave me a brief flash of a smile. "No, it isn’t. It made me feel awfully sick." I didn’t much like leaving her there, but after all, as she had said, it was her home. And I fancied that now Elsie Holland would feel more responsible for her. Nash and I went up together to Little Furze. Whilst I gave Joanna an account of the morning’s doings, Nash tackled Partridge. He rejoined us looking discouraged. "Not much help there. According to this woman, the girl only said she was worried about something and didn’t know what to do and that she’d like Miss Partridge’s advice." "Did Partridge mention the fact to anyone?" asked Joanna. Nash nodded, looking grim. "Yes, she told Mrs. Emory—your daily woman—on the lines, as far as I can gather, that there were some young women who were willing to take advice from their elders and didn’t think they could settle everything for themselves offhand! Agnes mightn’t be very bright, but she was a nice respectful girl and knew her manners." "Partridge preening herself, in fact," murmured Joanna. "And Mrs. Emory could have passed it round the town?" "That’s right, Miss Burton." "There’s one thing rather surprises me," I said. "Why were my sister and I included among the recipients of the anonymous letters? We were strangers down here—nobody could have had a grudge against us." "You’re failing to allow for the mentality of a Poison Pen—all is grist that comes to their mill. Their grudge, you might say, is against humanity." "I suppose," said Joanna thoughtfully, "that that is what Mrs. Dane Calthrop meant." Nash looked at her inquiringly, but she did not enlighten him. The superintendent said: "I don’t know if you happened to look closely at the envelope of the letter you got, Miss Burton. If so, you may have noticed that it was actually addressed to Miss Barton, and the a altered to a u afterwards." That remark, properly interpreted, ought to have given us a clue to the whole business. As it was, none of us saw any significance in it. Nash went off, and I was left with Joanna. She actually said: "You don’t think that letter can really have been meant for Miss Emily, do you?" "It would hardly have begun "You painted trollop,’" I pointed out, and Joanna agreed. Then she suggested that I should go down to the town. "You ought to hear what everyone is saying. It will be the topic this morning!" I suggested that she should come too, but rather to my surprise Joanna refused. She said she was going to mess about in the garden.

I cannot be sure. Mon ami, I would give anything to know. Let me but place Number Two definitely as Abe Ryland, and we draw nearer to our goal." "He has just arrived in London, I see by this," I said, tapping the letter. "Shall you call upon him, and make your apologies in person?" "I might do so." Two days later, Poirot returned to our rooms in a state of boundless excitement. He grasped me by both hands in his most impulsive manner. "My friend, an occasion stupendous, unprecedented, never to be repeated, has presented itself! But there is danger, grave danger. I should not even ask you to attempt it." If Poirot was trying to frighten me, he was going the wrong way to work, and so I told him. Becoming less incoherent, he unfolded his plan. It seemed that Ryland was looking for an English secretary, one with a good social manner and presence. It was Poirot’s suggestion that I should apply for the post. "I would do it, myself, mon ami," he explained apologetically. "But, see you, it is almost impossible for me to disguise myself in the needful manner. I speak the English very well—except when I am excited—but hardly so as to deceive the ear; and even though I were to sacrifice my moustaches, I doubt not but that I should still be recognizable as Hercule Poirot." I doubted it also, and declared myself ready and willing to take up the part and penetrate into Ryland’s household. "Ten to one he won’t engage me anyway," I remarked. "Oh, yes, he will. I will arrange for you such testimonials as shall make him lick his lips. The Home Secretary himself shall recommend you." This seemed to be carrying things a bit far, but Poirot waved aside my remonstrances. "Oh, yes, he will do it. I investigated for him a little matter which might have caused a grave scandal. All was solved with discretion and delicacy, and now, as you would say, he perches upon my hand like the little bird and pecks the crumbs." Our first step was to engage the services of an artist in "makeup." He was a little man, with a quaint birdlike turn of the head, not unlike Poirot’s own. He considered me some time in silence, and then fell to work. When I looked at myself in the glass half an hour afterwards, I was amazed. Special shoes caused me to stand at least two inches taller, and the coat I wore was arranged so as to give me a long, lank, weedy look. My eyebrows had been cunningly altered, giving a totally different expression to my face, I wore pads in my cheeks, and the deep tan of my face was a thing of the past. My moustache had gone, and a gold tooth was prominent on one side of my mouth. "Your name," said Poirot, "is Arthur Neville. God guard you, my friend—for I fear that you go into perilous places." It was with a beating heart that I presented myself at the Savoy, at an hour named by Mr. Ryland, and asked to see the great man. After being kept waiting a minute or two, I was shown upstairs to his suite. Ryland was sitting at a table. Spread out in front of him was a letter which I could see out of the tail of my eye was in the Home Secretary’s handwriting. It was my first sight of the American millionaire, and, in spite of myself, I was impressed. He was tall and lean, with a jutting out chin and slightly hooked nose. His eyes glittered cold and grey behind penthouse brows. He had thick grizzled hair, and a long black cigar (without which, I learned later, he was never seen) protruded rakishly from the corner of his mouth. "Siddown," he grunted. I sat. He tapped the letter in front of him. "According to this piece here, you’re the goods all right, and I don’t need to look further. Say, are you well up in the social matters?" I said that I thought I could satisfy him in that respect. "I mean to say, if I have a lot of dooks and earls and viscounts and suchlike down to the country place I’ve gotten, you’ll be able to sort them out all right and put them where they should be round the dining table?" "Oh!

"Honestly, I don’t see the point of—guessing. It’s much better not to know. Then we can all go on as usual." "Oh no, we can’t," said Philip. "That’s where you’re wrong, my girl. The rot’s set in already." "What do you mean?" "Well, take Hester and her young man—earnest young Doctor Donald. Nice chap, serious, worried. He doesn’t really think she did it—but he’s not really sure she didn’t do it! And so he looks at her, anxiously, when he thinks she isn’t noticing. But she notices all right. So there you are! Perhaps she did do it—you’d know better than I would—but if she didn’t, what the hell can she do about her young man? Keep on saying: "Please, it wasn’t me?" But that’s what she’d say anyway." "Really, Philip. I think you’re imagining things." "You can’t imagine at all, Polly. Then take poor old Leo. Marriage bells with Gwenda are receding into the distance. The girl’s horribly upset about it. Haven’t you noticed?" "I really don’t see what Father wants to marry again for at his age." "He sees all right! But he also sees that any hint of a love affair with Gwenda gives both of them a first-class motive for murder. Awkward!" "It’s fantastic to think for a moment that Father murdered Mother!" said Mary. "Such things don’t happen." "Yes, they do. Read the papers." "Not our sort of people." "Murder is no snob, Polly. Then there’s Micky. Something’s eating him all right. He’s a queer, bitter lad. Tina seems in the clear, unworried, unaffected. But she’s a little poker face if ever there was one. Then there’s poor old Kirsty—" A faint animation came into Mary’s face. "Now that might be a solution!" "Kirsty?" "Yes. After all, she’s a foreigner. And I believe she’s had very bad headaches the last year or two … It seems much more likely that she should have done it than any of us." "Poor devil," said Philip. "Don’t you see that that’s just what she is saying to herself? That we’ll all agree together that she’s the one? For convenience. Because she’s not a member of the family. Didn’t you see tonight that she was worried stiff? And she’s in the same position as Hester. What can she say or do? Say to us all: "I did not kill my friend and employer?" What weight can that statement carry? It’s worse hell for her, perhaps, than for anyone else … Because she’s alone. She’ll be going over in her mind every word she’s ever said, every angry look she ever gave your mother—thinking that it will be remembered against her. Helpless to prove her innocence." "I wish you’d calm down, Phil. After all, what can we do about it?" "Only try to find out the truth." "But how is that possible?" "There might be ways. I’d rather like to try." Mary looked uneasy. "What sort of ways?" "Oh, saying things—watching how people react—one could think up things"—he paused, his mind working—"things that would mean something to a guilty person, but not to an innocent one …" Again he was silent, turning ideas over in his mind. He looked up and said: "Don’t you want to help the innocent, Mary?" "No." The word came out explosively. She came over to him and knelt by his chair. "I don’t want you to mix yourself up in all this, Phil. Don’t start saying things and laying traps. Leave it all alone. Oh, for God’s sake, leave it alone!" Philip’s eyebrows rose. "We-ell," he said. And he laid a hand on the smooth golden head. III Michael Argyle lay sleepless, staring into darkness. His mind went round and round like a squirrel in a cage, going over the past. Why couldn’t he leave it behind him? Why did he have to drag the past with him all through his life? What did it all matter anyway? Why did he have to remember so clearly the frowsty cheerful room in the London slum, and he "our Micky." The casual exciting atmosphere! Fun in the streets! Ganging up on other boys!

She had no idea what he could have been like in business. Ruthless, she thought, and rude and overmastering and aggressive. A great attacker. But—but a good friend, she thought. And somewhere in him a deep kind of kindness that he was very careful never to show on the surface. A man she admired and respected. Well, she was sorry he was gone and she hoped he hadn’t minded too much and that his passing had been easy. And now he would be cremated no doubt and put in some large, handsome marble vault. She didn’t even know if he’d been married. He had never mentioned a wife, never mentioned children. A lonely man? Or had his life been so full that he hadn’t needed to feel lonely? She wondered. She sat there quite a long time that afternoon, wondering about Mr. Rafiel. She had never expected to see him again after she had returned to England and she never had seen him again. Yet in some queer way she could at any moment have felt she was in touch with him. If he had approached her or had suggested that they meet again, feeling perhaps a bond because of a life that had been saved between them, or of some other bond. A bond— "Surely," said Miss Marple, aghast at an idea that had come into her mind, "there can’t be a bond of ruthlessness between us?" Was she, Jane Marple—could she ever be—ruthless? "D’you know," said Miss Marple to herself, "it’s extraordinary, I never thought about it before. I believe, you know, I could be ruthless…." The door opened and a dark, curly head was popped in. It was Cherry, the welcome successor to Miss Bishop—Miss Knight. "Did you say something?" said Cherry. "I was speaking to myself," said Miss Marple, "I just wondered if I could ever be ruthless." "What, you?" said Cherry. "Never! You’re kindness itself." "All the same," said Miss Marple, "I believe I could be ruthless if there was due cause." "What would you call due cause?" "In the cause of justice," said Miss Marple. "You did have it in for little Gary Hopkins I must say," said Cherry. "When you caught him torturing his cat that day. Never knew you had it in you to go for anyone like that! Scared him stiff, you did. He’s never forgotten it." "I hope he hasn’t tortured anymore cats." "Well, he’s made sure you weren’t about if he did," said Cherry. "In fact I’m not at all sure as there isn’t other boys as got scared. Seeing you with your wool and the pretty things you knits and all that—anyone would think you were gentle as a lamb. But there’s times I could say you’d behave like a lion if you was goaded into it." Miss Marple looked a little doubtful. She could not quite see herself in the rôle in which Cherry was now casting her. Had she ever—she paused on the reflection, recalling various moments—there had been intense irritation with Miss Bishop—Knight. (Really, she must not forget names in this way.) But her irritation had shown itself in more or less ironical remarks. Lions, presumably, did not use irony. There was nothing ironical about a lion. It sprang. It roared. It used its claws, presumably it took large bites at its prey. "Really," said Miss Marple, "I don’t think I have ever behaved quite like that." Walking slowly along her garden that evening with the usual feelings of vexation rising in her, Miss Marple considered the point again. Possibly the sight of a plant of snapdragons recalled it to her mind. Really, she had told old George again and again that she only wanted sulphur-coloured antirrhinums, not that rather ugly purple shade that gardeners always seemed so fond of. "Sulphur yellow," said Miss Marple aloud. Someone the other side of the railing that abutted on the lane past her house turned her head and spoke. "I beg your pardon? You said something?" "I was talking to myself, I’m afraid," said Miss Marple, turning to look over the railing. This was someone she did not know, and she knew most people in St. Mary Mead. Knew them by sight even if not personally.

"At any rate, you are able to joke about it." "Damned bad taste, isn’t it?" said Mark cheerfully. "Actually, I’m rather scared. One is—with murder! And don’t think I’m not sorry for old Jeff. I am. But it’s better this way—bad as the shock was—than if he’d found her out." "What do you mean, found her out?" Mark winked. "Where did she go off to last night? I’ll lay you any odds you like she went to meet a man. Jeff wouldn’t have liked that. He wouldn’t have liked it at all. If he’d found she was deceiving him—that she wasn’t the prattling little innocent she seemed—well—my father-in-law is an odd man. He’s a man of great self-control, but that self-control can snap. And then—look out!" Sir Henry glanced at him curiously. "Are you fond of him or not?" "I’m very fond of him—and at the same time I resent him. I’ll try and explain. Conway Jefferson is a man who likes to control his surroundings. He’s a benevolent despot, kind, generous, and affectionate—but his is the tune, and the others dance to his piping." Mark Gaskell paused. "I loved my wife. I shall never feel the same for anyone else. Rosamund was sunshine and laughter and flowers, and when she was killed I felt just like a man in the ring who’s had a knock-out blow. But the referee’s been counting a good long time now. I’m a man, after all. I like women. I don’t want to marry again—not in the least. Well, that’s all right. I’ve had to be discreet—but I’ve had my good times all right. Poor Addie hasn’t. Addie’s a really nice woman. She’s the kind of woman men want to marry, not to sleep with. Give her half a chance and she would marry again—and be very happy and make the chap happy too. But old Jeff saw her always as Frank’s wife—and hypnotized her into seeing herself like that. He doesn’t know it, but we’ve been in prison. I broke out, on the quiet, a long time ago. Addie broke out this summer—and it gave him a shock. It split up his world. Result—Ruby Keene." Irrepressibly he sang: "But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! "Come and have a drink, Clithering." It was hardly surprising, Sir Henry reflected, that Mark Gaskell should be an object of suspicion to the police. Thirteen I Dr. Metcalf was one of the best-known physicians in Danemouth. He had no aggressive bedside manner, but his presence in the sick room had an invariably cheering effect. He was middle-aged, with a quiet pleasant voice. He listened carefully to Superintendent Harper and replied to his questions with gentle precision. Harper said: "Then I can take it, Doctor Metcalf, that what I was told by Mrs. Jefferson was substantially correct?" "Yes, Mr. Jefferson’s health is in a precarious state. For several years now the man has been driving himself ruthlessly. In his determination to live like other men, he has lived at a far greater pace than the normal man of his age. He has refused to rest, to take things easy, to go slow—or any of the other phrases with which I and his other medical advisers have tendered our opinion. The result is that the man is an overworked engine. Heart, lungs, blood pressure—they’re all overstrained." "You say Mr. Jefferson has absolutely refused to listen?" "Yes. I don’t know that I blame him. It’s not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out. A lot of my colleagues do that, and take it from me it’s not a bad way. In a place like Danemouth one sees most of the other thing: invalids clinging to life, terrified of over-exerting themselves, terrified of a breath of draughty air, of a stray germ, of an injudicious meal!" "I expect that’s true enough," said Superintendent Harper. "What it amounts to, then, is this: Conway Jefferson is strong enough, physically speaking—or, I suppose I mean, muscularly speaking. Just what can he do in the active line, by the way?"

"What does it matter what she gets into her head? Don’t contradict her. You see," he laughed, "it’s good camouflage." The benevolent figure of Mr Parker Pyne entered the lounge. Behind him came the picturesque figure of Mohammed, prepared to say his piece. "Lady, gentlemans, we start now. In a few minutes we pass temples of Karnak right-hand side. I tell you story now about little boy who went to buy a roasted lamb for his father…" II Mr Parker Pyne mopped his forehead. He had just returned from a visit to the Temple of Dendera. Riding on a donkey was, he felt, an exercise ill suited to his figure. He was proceeding to remove his collar when a note propped up on the dressing table caught his attention. He opened it. It ran as follows: Dear Sir,–I should be obliged if you should not visit the Temple of Abydos, but would remain on the boat, as I wish to consult you. Yours truly, Ariadne Grayle A smile creased Mr Parker Pyne’s large, bland face. He reached for a sheet of paper and unscrewed his fountain pen. Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote), I am sorry to disappoint you, but I am at present on holiday and am not doing any professional business. He signed his name and dispatched the letter by a steward. As he completed his change of toilet, another note was brought to him. Dear Mr Parker Pyne,–I appreciate the fact that you are on holiday, but I am prepared to pay a fee of a hundred pounds for a consultation. Yours truly, Ariadne Grayle Mr Parker Pyne’s eyebrows rose. He tapped his teeth thoughtfully with his fountain pen. He wanted to see Abydos, but a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. And Egypt had been even more wickedly expensive than he had imagined. Dear Lady Grayle (he wrote),–I shall not visit the Temple of Abydos. Yours faithfully, J. Parker Pyne Mr Parker Pyne’s refusal to leave the boat was a source of great grief to Mohammed. "Very nice temple. All my gentlemans like see that temple. I get you carriage. I get you chair and sailors carry you." Mr Parker Pyne refused all these tempting offers. The others set off. Mr Parker Pyne waited on deck. Presently the door of Lady Grayle’s cabin opened and the lady herself trailed out on deck. "Such a hot afternoon," she observed graciously. "I see you have stayed behind, Mr Pyne. Very wise of you. Shall we have some tea together in the lounge?" Mr Parker Pyne rose promptly and followed her. It cannot be denied that he was curious. It seemed as though Lady Grayle felt some difficulty in coming to the point. She fluttered from this subject to that. But finally she spoke in an altered voice. "Mr Pyne, what I am about to tell you is in the strictest confidence! You do understand that, don’t you?" "Naturally." She paused, took a deep breath. Mr Parker Pyne waited. "I want to know whether or not my husband is poisoning me." Whatever Mr Parker Pyne had expected, it was not this. He showed his astonishment plainly. "That is a very serious accusation to make, Lady Grayle." "Well, I’m not a fool and I wasn’t born yesterday. I’ve had my suspicions for some time. Whenever George goes away I get better. My food doesn’t disagree with me and I feel a different woman. There must be some reason for that." "What you say is very serious, Lady Grayle. You must remember I am not a detective. I am, if you like to put it that way, a heart specialist–" She interrupted him. "Eh–and don’t you think it worries me, all this? It’s not a policeman I want–I can look after myself, thank you–it’s certainty I want. I’ve got to know. I’m not a wicked woman, Mr Pyne. I act fairly by those who act fairly by me. A bargain’s a bargain. I’ve kept my side of it. I’ve paid my husband’s debts and I’ve not stinted him in money." Mr Parker Pyne had a fleeting pang of pity for Sir George. "And as for the girl she’s had clothes and parties and this, that and the other. Common gratitude is all I ask."

I can assure you Jane is quite satisfied." Alan was not satisfied. Yet such was the power of Isobel’s calm that he said nothing more. After all, Isobel was careless in money matters. She hadn’t meant to use for herself money given to her for the child. A receipted bill came that day addressed by a mistake to Mr Everard. It was from a dressmaker in Hanover Square and was for two hundred odd pounds. He gave it to Isobel without a word. She glanced over it, smiled, and said: "Poor boy, I suppose it seems an awful lot to you, but one really must be more or less clothed." The next day he went to see Jane. Jane was irritating and elusive as usual. He wasn’t to bother. Winnie was her godchild. Women understood these things, men didn’t. Of course she didn’t want Winnie to have five hundred pounds" worth of frocks. Would he please leave it to her and Isobel? They understood each other perfectly. Alan went away in a state of growing dissatisfaction. He knew perfectly well that he had shirked the one question he really wished to ask. He wanted to say: "Has Isobel ever asked you for money for Winnie?" He didn’t say it because he was afraid that Jane might not lie well enough to deceive him. But he was worried. Jane was poor. He knew she was poor. She mustn’t–mustn’t denude herself. He made up his mind to speak to Isobel. Isobel was calm and reassuring. Of course she wouldn’t let Jane spend more than she could afford. IV A month later Jane died. It was influenza, followed by pneumonia. She made Alan Everard her executor and left all she had to Winnie. But it wasn’t very much. It was Alan’s task to go through Jane’s papers. She left a record there that was clear to follow–numerous evidences of acts of kindness, begging letters, grateful letters. And lastly, he found her diary. With it was a scrap of paper: "To be read after my death by Alan Everard. He has often reproached me with not speaking the truth. The truth is all here." So he came to know at last, finding the one place where Jane had dared to be honest. It was a record, very simple and unforced, of her love for him. There was very little sentiment about it–no fine language. But there was no blinking of facts. "I know you are often irritated by me," she had written. "Everything I do or say seems to make you angry sometimes. I do not know why this should be, for I try so hard to please you; but I do believe, all the same, that I mean something real to you. One isn’t angry with the people who don’t count." It was not Jane’s fault that Alan found other matters. Jane was loyal–but she was also untidy; she filled her drawers too full. She had, shortly before her death, burnt carefully all Isobel’s letters. The one Alan found was wedged behind a drawer. When he had read it, the meaning of certain cabalistic signs on the counterfoils of Jane’s cheque book became clear to him. In this particular letter Isobel had hardly troubled to keep up the pretence of the money being required for Winnie. Alan sat in front of the desk staring with unseeing eyes out of the window for a long time. Finally he slipped the cheque book into his pocket and left the flat. He walked back to Chelsea, conscious of an anger that grew rapidly stronger. Isobel was out when he got back, and he was sorry. He had so clearly in his mind what he wanted to say. Instead, he went up to the studio and pulled out the unfinished portrait of Jane. He set it on an easel near the portrait of Isobel in pink satin. The Lemprière woman had been right; there was life in Jane’s portrait. He looked at her, the eager eyes, the beauty that he had tried so unsuccessfully to deny her. That was Jane–the aliveness, more than anything else, was Jane. She was, he thought, the most alive person he had ever met, so much so, that even now he could not think of her as dead. And he thought of his other pictures–Colour, Romance, Sir Rufus Herschman. They had all, in a way, been pictures of Jane.

Whether they were fellow conspirators or not, this girl loved Carl von Deinim, and Tuppence felt her heart aching in sympathy with this tragic young creature. Sheila asked: "What shall I do?" The simple forlorn question made Tuppence wince. She said helplessly: "Oh, my dear." Sheila said, and her voice was like a mourning harp: "They’ve taken him away. I shall never see him again." She cried out: "What shall I do? What shall I do?" And flinging herself down on her knees by the bed she wept her heart out. Tuppence stroked the dark head. She said presently, in a weak voice: "It—it may not be true. Perhaps they are only going to intern him. After all, he is an enemy alien, you know." "That’s not what they said. They’re searching his room now." Tuppence said slowly, "Well, if they find nothing—" "They will find nothing, of course! What should they find?" "I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might?" "I?" Her scorn, her amazement were too real to be feigned. Any suspicions Tuppence had had that Sheila Perenna was involved died at this moment. The girl knew nothing, had never known anything. Tuppence said: "If he is innocent—" Sheila interrupted her. "What does it matter? The police will make a case against him." Tuppence said sharply: "Nonsense, my dear child, that really isn’t true." "The English police will do anything. My mother says so." "Your mother may say so, but she’s wrong. I assure you that it isn’t so." Sheila looked at her doubtfully for a minute or two. Then she said: "Very well. If you say so. I trust you." Tuppence felt very uncomfortable. She said sharply: "You trust too much, Sheila. You may have been unwise to trust Carl." "Are you against him too? I thought you liked him. He thinks so too." Touching young things—with their faith in one’s liking for them. And it was true—she had liked Carl—she did like him. Rather wearily she said: "Listen, Sheila, liking or not liking has nothing to do with facts. This country and Germany are at war. There are many ways of serving one’s country. One of them is to get information—and to work behind the lines. It is a brave thing to do, for when you are caught, it is"—her voice broke a little—"the end." Sheila said: "You think Carl—" "Might be working for his country that way? It is a possibility, isn’t it?" "No," said Sheila. "It would be his job, you see, to come over here as a refugee, to appear to be violently anti-Nazi and then to gather information." Sheila said quietly: "It’s not true. I know Carl. I know his heart and his mind. He cares most for science—for his work—for the truth and the knowledge in it. He is grateful to England for letting him work here. Sometimes, when people say cruel things, he feels German and bitter. But he hates the Nazis always, and what they stand for—their denial of freedom." Tuppence said: "He would say so, of course." Sheila turned reproachful eyes upon her. "So you believe he is a spy?" "I think it is"—Tuppence hesitated—"a possibility." Sheila walked to the door. "I see. I’m sorry I came to ask you to help us." "But what did you think I could do, dear child?" "You know people. Your sons are in the Army and Navy, and I’ve heard you say more than once that they knew influential people. I thought perhaps you could get them to—to do—something?" Tuppence thought of those mythical creatures, Douglas and Raymond and Cyril. "I’m afraid," she said, "that they couldn’t do anything." Sheila flung her head up. She said passionately: "Then there’s no hope for us. They’ll take him away and shut him up, and one day, early in the morning, they’ll stand him against a wall and shoot him—and that will be the end." She went out, shutting the door behind her. "Oh, damn, damn, damn the Irish!" thought Tuppence in a fury of mixed feelings. "Why have they got that terrible power of twisting things until you don’t know where you are? If Carl von Deinim’s a spy, he deserves to be shot.

You see, I am Martine Dubois." Emma stared at her guest as though she could hardly take in the sense of her words. "You!" she said. "You are Martine?" The other nodded vigorously. "But, yes. It surprises you, I am sure, but it is true. I met your brother Edmund in the first days of the war. He was indeed billeted at our house. Well, you know the rest. We fell in love. We intended to be married, and then there was the retreat to Dunkirk, Edmund was reported missing. Later he was reported killed. I will not speak to you of that time. It was long ago and it is over. But I will say to you that I loved your brother very much…. "Then came the grim realities of war. The Germans occupied France. I became a worker for the Resistance. I was one of those who was assigned to pass Englishmen through France to England. It was in that way that I met my present husband. He was an Air Force officer, parachuted into France to do special work. When the war ended we were married. I considered once or twice whether I should write to you or come and see you, but I decided against it. It could do no good, I thought, to take up old memories. I had a new life and I had no wish to recall the old." She paused and then said: "But it gave me, I will tell you, a strange pleasure when I found that my son James’s greatest friend at his school was a boy whom I found to be Edmund’s nephew. Alexander, I may say, is very like Edmund, as I dare say you yourself appreciate. It seemed to me a very happy state of affairs that James and Alexander should be such friends." She leaned forward and placed her hand on Emma’s arm. "But you see, dear Emma, do you not, that when I heard this story about the murder, about this dead woman being suspected to be the Martine that Edmund had known, that I had to come and tell you the truth. Either you or I must inform the police of the fact. Whoever the dead woman is, she is not Martine." "I can hardly take it in," said Emma, "that you, you should be the Martine that dear Edmund wrote to me about." She sighed, shaking her head, then she frowned perplexedly. "But I don’t understand. Was it you, then, who wrote to me?" Lady Stoddart-West shook a vigorous head. "No, no, of course I did not write to you." "Then…" Emma stopped. "Then there was someone pretending to be Martine who wanted perhaps to get money out of you? That is what it must have been. But who can it be?" Emma said slowly: "I suppose there were people at the time, who knew?" The other shrugged her shoulders. "Probably, yes. But there was no one intimate with me, no one very close to me. I have never spoken of it since I came to England. And why wait all this time? It is curious, very curious." Emma said: "I don’t understand it. We will have to see what Inspector Craddock has to say." She looked with suddenly softened eyes at her visitor. "I’m so glad to know you at last, my dear." "And I you… Edmund spoke of you very often. He was very fond of you. I am happy in my new life, but all the same, I don’t quite forget." Emma leaned back and heaved a sigh. "It’s a terrible relief," she said. "As long as we feared that the dead woman might be Martine—it seemed to be tied up with the family. But now—oh, it’s an absolute load off my back. I don’t know who the poor soul was but she can’t have had anything to do with us!" Twenty-three The streamlined secretary brought Harold Crackenthorpe his usual afternoon cup of tea. "Thanks, Miss Ellis, I shall be going home early today." "I’m sure you ought really not to have come at all, Mr. Crackenthorpe," said Miss Ellis. "You look quite pulled down still." "I’m all right," said Harold Crackenthorpe, but he did feel pulled down. No doubt about it, he’d had a very nasty turn. Ah, well, that was over.

There was no expression, either of pleasure or resentment, on his small, pop-eyed face. He was merely looking. "Come along, mum’s darling," said Mrs. Fellows-Brown. Mum’s darling paid no attention whatever. "He gets more disobedient every day," said Mrs. Fellows-Brown, with the air of one cataloguing a virtue. "Come on, Fou-Ling. Dindins. Luffly liver." Fou-Ling turned his head about an inch and a half towards his mistress, then with disdain resumed his appraisal of the doll. "She’s certainly made an impression on him," said Mrs. Fellows-Brown. "I don’t think he’s ever noticed her before. I haven’t either. Was she here last time I came?" The other two women looked at each other. Sybil now had a frown on her face, and Alicia Coombe said, wrinkling up her forehead, "I told you—I simply can’t remember anything nowadays. How long have we had her, Sybil?" "Where did she come from?" demanded Mrs. Fellows-Brown. "Did you buy her?" "Oh no." Somehow Alicia Coombe was shocked at the idea. "Oh no. I suppose—I suppose someone gave her to me." She shook her head. "Maddening!" she exclaimed. "Absolutely maddening, when everything goes out of your head the very moment after it’s happened." "Now don’t be stupid, Fou-Ling," said Mrs. Fellows-Brown sharply. "Come on. I’ll have to pick you up." She picked him up. Fou-Ling uttered a short bark of agonized protest. They went out of the room with Fou-Ling’s pop-eyed face turned over his fluffy shoulder, still staring with enormous attention at the doll on the chair. . . . "That there doll," said Mrs. Groves, "fair gives me the creeps, it does." Mrs. Groves was the cleaner. She had just finished a crablike progress backwards along the floor. Now she was standing up and working slowly round the room with a duster. "Funny thing," said Mrs. Groves, "never noticed it really until yesterday. And then it hit me all of a sudden, as you might say." "You don’t like it?" asked Sybil. "I tell you, Mrs. Fox, it gives me the creeps," said the cleaning woman. "It ain’t natural, if you know what I mean. All those long hanging legs and the way she’s slouched down there and the cunning look she has in her eye. It doesn’t look healthy, that’s what I say." "You’ve never said anything about her before," said Sybil. "I tell you, I never noticed her—not till this morning . . . Of course I know she’s been here some time but—" She stopped and a puzzled expression flitted across her face. "Sort of thing you might dream of at night," she said, and gathering up various cleaning implements she departed from the fitting room and walked across the landing to the room on the other side. Sybil stared at the relaxed doll. An expression of bewilderment was growing on her face. Alicia Coombe entered and Sybil turned sharply. "Miss Coombe, how long have you had this creature?" "What, the doll? My dear, you know I can’t remember things. Yesterday—why, it’s too silly!—I was going out to that lecture and I hadn’t gone halfway down the street when I suddenly found I couldn’t remember where I was going. I thought and I thought. Finally I told myself it must be Fortnums. I knew there was something I wanted to get at Fortnums. Well, you won’t believe me, it wasn’t till I actually got home and was having some tea that I remembered about the lecture. Of course, I’ve always heard that people go gaga as they get on in life, but it’s happening to me much too fast. I’ve forgotten now where I’ve put my handbag—and my spectacles, too. Where did I put those spectacles? I had them just now—I was reading something in The Times." "The spectacles are on the mantelpiece here," said Sybil, handing them to her. "How did you get the doll? Who gave her to you?" "That’s a blank, too," said Alicia Coombe.

CURTAIN Scene II SCENE: The same. The following afternoon. When Curtain rises it is not snowing, but snow can be seen banked high against the window. MAJOR METCALF is seated on the sofa reading a book, and MRS. BOYLE is sitting in the large armchair Right in front of the fire, writing on a pad on her knee. MRS. BOYLE. I consider it most dishonest not to have told me they were only just starting this place. MAJOR METCALF. Well, everything’s got to have a beginning, you know. Excellent breakfast this morning. Good coffee. Scrambled eggs, homemade marmalade. And all nicely served, too. Little woman does it all herself. MRS. BOYLE. Amateurs—there should be a proper staff. MAJOR METCALF. Excellent lunch, too. MRS. BOYLE. Cornbeef. MAJOR METCALF. But very well-disguised cornbeef. Red wine in it. Mrs. Ralston promised to make a pie for us tonight. MRS. BOYLE. (Rising and crossing to the radiator) These radiators are not really hot. I shall speak about it. MAJOR METCALF. Very comfortable beds, too. At least mine was. Hope yours was, too. MRS. BOYLE. It was quite adequate. (She returns to the large armchair Right and sits.) I don’t quite see why the best bedroom should have been given to that very peculiar young man. MAJOR METCALF. Got here ahead of us. First come, first served. MRS. BOYLE. From the advertisement I got quite a different impression of what this place would be like. A comfortable writing room, and a much larger place altogether—with bridge and other amenities. MAJOR METCALF. Regular old tabbies" delight. MRS. BOYLE. I beg your pardon. MAJOR METCALF. Er—I mean, yes, I quite see what you mean. (CHRISTOPHER enters Left from the stairs unnoticed.) MRS. BOYLE. No, indeed, I shan’t stay here long. CHRISTOPHER. (Laughing) No. No, I don’t suppose you will. (CHRISTOPHER exits into the library up Left.) MRS. BOYLE. Really that is a very peculiar young man. Unbalanced mentally, I shouldn’t wonder. MAJOR METCALF. Think he’s escaped from a lunatic asylum? MRS. BOYLE. I shouldn’t be at all surprised. (MOLLIE enters through the archway up Right.) MOLLIE. (Calling upstairs) Giles? GILES. (Off) Yes? MOLLIE. Can you shovel the snow away again from the back door? GILES. (Off) Coming. (MOLLIE disappears through the arch.) MAJOR METCALF. I’ll give you a hand, what? (He rises and crosses up Right to the arch.) Good exercise. Must have exercise. (MAJOR METCALF exits. GILES enters from the stairs, crosses and exits up Right. MOLLIE returns, carrying a duster and a vacuum cleaner, crosses the hall and runs upstairs. She collides with MISS CASEWELL, who is coming down the stairs.) MOLLIE. Sorry! MISS CASEWELL. That’s all right. (MOLLIE exits. MISS CASEWELL comes slowly Centre.) MRS. BOYLE. Really! What an incredible young woman. Doesn’t she know anything about housework? Carrying a carpet sweeper through the front hall. Aren’t there any back stairs? MISS CASEWELL. (Taking a cigarette from a packet in her handbag) Oh yes—nice stairs. (She crosses to the fire.) Very convenient if there was a fire. (She lights the cigarette.) MRS. BOYLE. Then why not use them? Anyway, all the housework should have been done in the morning before lunch. MISS CASEWELL. I gather our hostess had to cook the lunch. MRS. BOYLE. All very haphazard and amateurish. There should be a proper staff. MISS CASEWELL. Not very easy to get nowadays, is it? MRS. BOYLE. No, indeed, the lower classes seem to have no idea of their responsibilities.

Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance of young Black? And lastly although I know that convention decrees that a woman must make a decent pretence of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such heavily-rouged eyelids! You did not observe them, Hastings? No? As I always tell you, you see nothing! "Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s story suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr. Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe—or at least so I imagine. Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered. "No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was the case of murder, not suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw played tonight." "Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime," I said. "Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of her husband’s financial débâcle and tired of the elderly mate she had only married for his money, induces him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gives her that—the young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon when monsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband are strolling round the grounds. "What a curious story that was last night!" she observes. "Could a man shoot himself in such a way? Do show me if it is possible!" The poor fool—he shows her. He places the end of his rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. "And now, sir," she says saucily, "supposing I pull the trigger?" "And then—and then, Hastings—she pulls it!" Eight THE KIDNAPPED PRIME MINISTER "The Kidnapped Prime Minister" was first published in The Sketch, April 25, 1923. Now that war and the problems of war are things of the past, I think I may safely venture to reveal to the world the part which my friend Poirot played in a moment of national crisis. The secret has been well-guarded. Not a whisper of it reached the Press. But, now that the need for secrecy has gone by, I feel it is only just that England should know the debt it owes to my quaint little friend, whose marvellous brain so ably averted a great catastrophe. One evening after dinner—I will not particularize the date; it suffices to say that it was at the time when "Peace by negotiation" was the parrot cry of England’s enemies—my friend and I were sitting in his rooms. After being invalided out of the Army I had been given a recruiting job, and it had become my custom to drop in on Poirot in the evenings after dinner and talk with him of any cases of interest that he might have had on hand. I was attempting to discuss with him the sensational news of the day—no less than an attempted assassination of Mr. David MacAdam, England’s Prime Minister. The account in the papers had evidently been carefully censored. No details were given, save that the Prime Minister had had a marvellous escape, the bullet just grazing his cheek. I considered that our police must have been shamefully careless for such an outrage to be possible. I could well understand that the German agents in England would be willing to risk much for such an achievement. "Fighting Mac," as his own party had nicknamed him, had strenuously and unequivocally combated the Pacifist influence which was becoming so prevalent. He was more than England’s Prime Minister—he was England; and to have removed him from his sphere of influence would have been a crushing and paralysing blow to Britain. Poirot was busy mopping a grey suit with a minute sponge. Never was there a dandy such as Hercule Poirot. Neatness and order were his passion.

"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. They were so sure of themselves that they took it for granted he had made a mistake." "Then young Beresford is now?" "At Gatehouse, Kent, unless I am much mistaken." Mr. Carter looked at him curiously. "I rather wonder you’re not there too, Peel Edgerton?" "Ah, I’m busy on a case." "I thought you were on your holiday?" "Oh, I’ve not been briefed. Perhaps it would be more correct to say I’m preparing a case. Anymore facts about that American chap for me?" "I’m afraid not. Is it important to find out who he was?" "Oh, I know who he was," said Sir James easily. "I can’t prove it yet—but I know." The other two asked no questions. They had an instinct that it would be mere waste of breath. "But what I don’t understand," said the Prime Minister suddenly, "is how that photograph came to be in Mr. Hersheimmer’s drawer?" "Perhaps it never left it," suggested the lawyer gently. "But the bogus inspector? Inspector Brown?" "Ah!" said Sir James thoughtfully. He rose to his feet, "I mustn’t keep you. Go on with the affairs of the nation. I must get back to—my case." Two days later Julius Hersheimmer returned from Manchester. A note from Tommy lay on his table: Dear Hersheimmer, Sorry I lost my temper. In case I don’t see you again, good-bye. I’ve been offered a job in the Argentine, and might as well take it. Yours, Tommy Beresford. A peculiar smile lingered for a moment on Julius’s face. He threw the letter into the wastepaper basket. "The darned fool!" he murmured.

"Having learnt her lesson, as they used to say in my young days," said MacMaster. "But of course one never liked learning one’s lessons. Hester didn’t." Donald Craig went on anxiously: "She was full, still, of pent-up resentment; all the worse because she had to acknowledge secretly, if not openly, that her mother had been perfectly right; that she was no good as an actress and that the man she had lavished her affections on wasn’t worth it. And that, anyway, she didn’t really care for him. "Mother knows best." It’s always galling to the young." "Yes," said MacMaster. "That was one of poor Mrs. Argyle’s troubles, though she’d never have thought of it like that. The fact was she was nearly always right, that she did know best. If she’d been one of those women who run into debt, lose their keys, miss trains, and do foolish actions that other people have to help them out of, her entire family would have been much fonder of her. Sad and cruel, but there’s life for you. And she wasn’t a clever enough woman to get her own way by guile. She was complacent, you know. Pleased with her own power and judgment and quite quite sure of herself. That’s a very difficult thing to come up against when you’re young." "Oh, I know," said Donald Craig. "I realize all that. It’s because I realize it so well that I feel—that I wonder—" He stopped. MacMaster said gently: "I’d better say it for you, hadn’t I, Don? You’re afraid that it was your Hester who heard the quarrel between her mother and Jacko, who got worked up by hearing it, perhaps, and who, in a fit of rebellion against authority, and against her mother’s superior assumption of omniscience, went into that room, picked up the poker and killed her. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it?" The young man nodded miserably. "Not really. I don’t believe it, but—but I feel—I feel that it could have happened. I don’t feel Hester has got the poise, the balance to—I feel she’s young for her age, uncertain of herself, liable to have brainstorms. I look at that household and I don’t feel that any of them are likely to have done such a thing until I come to Hester. And then—then I’m not sure." "I see," said Dr. MacMaster. "Yes, I see." "I don’t really blame her," said Don Craig quickly. "I don’t think the poor child really knew what she was doing. I can’t call it murder. It was just an act of emotional defiance, of rebellion, of a longing to be free, of the conviction that she would never be free until—until her mother wasn’t there any longer." "And that last is probably true enough," said MacMaster. "It’s the only kind of motive there is, and it’s rather a peculiar one. Not the kind that looks strong in the eyes of the law. Wishing to be free. Free from the impact of a stronger personality. Just because none of them inherits a large sum of money on the death of Mrs. Argyle the law won’t consider that they had a motive. But even the financial control, I should imagine, was very largely in Mrs. Argyle’s hands through her influence with the Trustees. Oh yes, her death set them free all right. Not only Hester, my boy. It set Leo free to marry another woman. It set Mary free to look after her husband in the way she liked, it set Micky free to live his own life in the way he cared about living it. Even little dark horse Tina sitting in her library may have wanted freedom." "I had to come and talk to you," said Donald. "I had to know what you thought, whether you thought that—that it could be true." "About Hester?" "Yes." "I think it could be true," said MacMaster slowly. "I don’t know that it is." "You think it could have happened just as I say?" "Yes. I think what you’ve imagined is not far-fetched and has an element of probability about it. But it’s by no means certain, Donald." The young man gave a shuddering sigh. "But it’s got to be certain, Mac. That’s the one thing I do feel is necessary. I’ve got to know.

Colonel Weston asked: "Redfern’s wife is one of them, I suppose?" "Yes. Mrs. Redfern might have made up her mind to kill Arlena Stuart. She had, let us say, ample cause. I think, too, that it would be possible for Mrs. Redfern to commit a murder. But not this kind of murder. For all her unhappiness and jealousy, she is not, I should say, a woman of strong passions. In love, she would be devoted and loyal—not passionate. As I said just now—arsenic in the teacup, possibly—strangulation, no. I am sure, also, that she is physically incapable of committing this crime, her hands and feet are small, below the average." Weston nodded. He said: "This isn’t a woman’s crime. No, a man did this." Inspector Colgate coughed. "Let me put forward a solution, sir. Say that prior to meeting this Mr. Redfern the lady had had another affair with someone—call him X. She turns X down for Mr. Redfern. X is mad with rage and jealousy. He follows her down here, stays somewhere in the neighbourhood, comes over to the island, does her in. It’s a possibility!" Weston said: "It’s possible, all right. And if it’s true, it ought to be easy to prove. Did he come on foot or in a boat? The latter seems more likely. If so, he must have hired a boat somewhere. You’d better make inquiries." He looked across at Poirot. "What do you think of Colgate’s suggestion?" Poirot said slowly: "It leaves, somehow, too much to chance. And besides—somewhere the picture is not true. I cannot, you see, imagine this man…the man who is mad with rage and jealousy." Colgate said: "People did go potty about her, though, sir. Look at Redfern." "Yes, yes… But all the same—" Colgate looked at him questioningly. Poirot shook his head. He said, frowning: "Somewhere, there is something that we have missed…." Six Colonel Weston was poring over the hotel register. He read aloud: "Major and Mrs. Cowan, Miss Pamela Cowan, Master Robert Cowan, Master Evan Cowan, Rydal’s Mount, Leatherhead. Mr. and Mrs. Masterman, Mr. Edward Masterman, Miss Jennifer Masterman, Mr. Roy Masterman, Master Frederick Masterman, 5 Marlborough Avenue, London, N.W. Mr. and Mrs. Gardener, New York. Mr. and Mrs. Redfern, Crossgates, Seldon, Princes Risborough. Major Barry, 18 Cardon St., St. James, London, S.W.1. Mr. Horace Blatt, 5 Pickersgill Street, London, E.C.2. M. Hercule Poirot, Whitehaven Mansions, London, W.1. Miss Rosamund Darnley, 8 Cardigan Court, W.1. Miss Emily Brewster, Southgates, Sunbury-on-Thames. Rev. Stephen Lane, London. Captain and Mrs. Marshall, Miss Linda Marshall, 73 Upcott Mansions, London, S.W.7." He stopped. Inspector Colgate said: "I think, sir, that we can wash out the first two entries. Mrs. Castle tells me that the Mastermans and the Cowans come here regularly every summer with their children. This morning they went off on an all-day excursion sailing, taking lunch with them. They left just after nine o’clock. A man called Andrew Baston took them. We can check up from him, but I think we can put them right out of it." Weston nodded. "I agree. Let’s eliminate everyone we can. Can you give us a pointer on any of the rest of them, Poirot?" Poirot said: "Superficially, that is easy. The Gardeners are a middle-aged married couple, pleasant, travelled. All the talking is done by the lady. The husband is acquiescent. He plays tennis and golf and has a form of dry humour that is attractive when one gets him to oneself." "Sounds quite O.K." "Next—the Redferns. Mr. Redfern is young, attractive to women, a magnificent swimmer, a good tennis player and accomplished dancer. His wife I have already spoken of to you.

Poor young things…. "My dear Aunt Jane, why must you bury your head in the sand like a very delightful ostrich? All bound up in this idyllic rural life of yours. REAL LIFE—that’s what matters." Thus Raymond—and his Aunt Jane—had looked properly abashed—and said "Yes," she was afraid she was rather old-fashioned. Though really rural life was far from idyllic. People like Raymond were so ignorant. In the course of her duties in a country parish, Jane Marple had acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge of the facts of rural life. She had no urge to talk about them, far less to write about them—but she knew them. Plenty of sex, natural and unnatural. Rape, incest, perversion of all kinds. (Some kinds, indeed, that even the clever young men from Oxford who wrote books didn’t seem to have heard about.) Miss Marple came back to the Caribbean and took up the thread of what Major Palgrave was saying…. "A very unusual experience," she said encouragingly. "Most interesting." "I could tell you a lot more. Some of the things, of course, not fit for a lady’s ears—" With the ease of long practice, Miss Marple dropped her eyelids in a fluttery fashion, and Major Palgrave continued his bowdlerized version of tribal customs whilst Miss Marple resumed her thoughts of her affectionate nephew. Raymond West was a very successful novelist and made a large income, and he conscientiously and kindly did all he could to alleviate the life of his elderly aunt. The preceding winter she had had a bad go of pneumonia, and medical opinion had advised sunshine. In lordly fashion Raymond had suggested a trip to the West Indies. Miss Marple had demurred—at the expense, the distance, the difficulties of travel, and at abandoning her house in St. Mary Mead. Raymond had dealt with everything. A friend who was writing a book wanted a quiet place in the country. "He’ll look after the house all right. He’s very house proud. He’s a queer. I mean—" He had paused, slightly embarrassed—but surely even dear old Aunt Jane must have heard of queers. He went on to deal with the next points. Travel was nothing nowadays. She would go by air—another friend, Diana Horrocks, was going out to Trinidad and would see Aunt Jane was all right as far as there, and at St. Honoré she would stay at the Golden Palm Hotel which was run by the Sandersons. Nicest couple in the world. They’d see she was all right. He’d write to them straight away. As it happened the Sandersons had returned to England. But their successors, the Kendals, had been very nice and friendly and had assured Raymond that he need have no qualms about his aunt. There was a very good doctor on the island in case of emergency and they themselves would keep an eye on her and see to her comfort. They had been as good as their word, too. Molly Kendal was an ingenuous blonde of twenty odd, always apparently in good spirits. She had greeted the old lady warmly and did everything to make her comfortable. Tim Kendal, her husband, lean, dark and in his thirties, had also been kindness itself. So there she was, thought Miss Marple, far from the rigours of the English climate, with a nice bungalow of her own, with friendly smiling West Indian girls to wait on her, Tim Kendal to meet her in the dining room and crack a joke as he advised her about the day’s menu, and an easy path from her bungalow to the sea front and the bathing beach where she could sit in a comfortable basket chair and watch the bathing. There were even a few elderly guests for company. Old Mr. Rafiel, Dr. Graham, Canon Prescott and his sister, and her present cavalier Major Palgrave. What more could an elderly lady want? It is deeply to be regretted, and Miss Marple felt guilty even admitting it to herself, but she was not as satisfied as she ought to be. Lovely and warm, yes—and so good for her rheumatism—and beautiful scenery, though perhaps—a trifle monotonous? So many palm trees. Everything the same every day—never anything happening. Not like St. Mary Mead where something was always happening. Her nephew had once compared life in St.

Easterbrook—and if you ask me, I should say you’re absolutely right about her. But there wouldn’t be any reason for her murdering Letty Blacklock." "Miss Blacklock, of course, might know something about her that she didn’t want known." "Oh, darling, that old Tanqueray stuff? Surely that’s dead as the hills." "It might not be. You see, Bunch, you are not the kind that minds much about what people think of you." "I see what you mean," said Bunch suddenly. "If you’d been up against it, and then, rather like a shivering stray cat, you’d found a home and cream and a warm stroking hand and you were called Pretty Pussy and somebody thought the world of you … You’d do a lot to keep that … Well, I must say, you’ve presented me with a very complete gallery of people." "You didn’t get them all right, you know," said Miss Marple, mildly. "Didn’t I? Where did I slip up? Julia? Julia, pretty Julia is peculiar." "Three and sixpence," said the sulky waitress, materialising out of the gloom. "And," she added, her bosom heaving beneath the bluebirds, "I’d like to know, Mrs. Harmon, why you call me peculiar. I had an Aunt who joined the Peculiar People, but I’ve always been good Church of England myself, as the late Rev. Hopkinson can tell you." "I’m terribly sorry," said Bunch. "I was just quoting a song. I didn’t mean you at all. I didn’t know your name was Julia." "Quite a coincidence," said the sulky waitress, cheering up. "No offence, I’m sure, but hearing my name, as I thought—well, naturally if you think someone’s talking about you, it’s only human nature to listen. Thank you." She departed with her tip. "Aunt Jane," said Bunch, "don’t look so upset. What is it?" "But surely," murmured Miss Marple. "That couldn’t be so. There’s no reason—" "Aunt Jane!" Miss Marple sighed and then smiled brightly. "It’s nothing, dear," she said. "Did you think you knew who did the murder?" asked Bunch. "Who was it?" "I don’t know at all," said Miss Marple. "I got an idea for a moment—but it’s gone. I wish I did know. Time’s so short. So terribly short." "What do you mean short?" "That old lady up in Scotland may die any moment." Bunch said, staring: "Then you really do believe in Pip and Emma. You think it was them—and that they’ll try again?" "Of course they’ll try again," said Miss Marple, almost absentmindedly. "If they tried once, they’ll try again. If you’ve made up your mind to murder someone, you don’t stop because the first time it didn’t come off. Especially if you’re fairly sure you’re not suspected." "But if it’s Pip and Emma," said Bunch, "there are only two people it could be. It must be Patrick and Julia. They’re brother and sister and they’re the only ones who are the right age." "My dear, it isn’t nearly as simple as that. There are all sorts of ramifications and combinations. There’s Pip’s wife if he’s married, or Emma’s husband. There’s their mother—she’s an interested party even if she doesn’t inherit direct. If Letty Blacklock hasn’t seen her for thirty years, she’d probably not recognize her now. One elderly woman is very like another. You remember Mrs. Wotherspoon drew her own and Mrs. Bartlett’s Old Age Pension although Mrs. Bartlett had been dead for years. Anyway, Miss Blacklock’s shortsighted. Haven’t you noticed how she peers at people? And then there’s the father. Apparently he was a real bad lot." "Yes, but he’s a foreigner." "By birth. But there’s no reason to believe he speaks broken English and gesticulates with his hands. I dare say he could play the part of—of an Anglo- Indian Colonel as well as anybody else." "Is that what you think?" "No, I don’t. I don’t indeed, dear. I just think that there’s a great deal of money at stake, a great deal of money.

"Garrod was prompt to act. He realized, which I did not, that Simon Clode’s health was in a very precarious condition, and as a practical man he had no intention of letting his wife or her sister and brother be despoiled of the inheritance which was so rightly theirs. He came down the following week, bringing with him as a guest no other than the famous Professor Longman. Longman was a scientist of the first order, a man whose association with spiritualism compelled the latter to be treated with respect. Not only a brilliant scientist; he was a man of the utmost uprightness and probity. "The result of the visit was most unfortunate. Longman, it seemed, had said very little while he was there. Two séances were held—under what conditions I do not know. Longman was non-committal all the time he was in the house, but after his departure he wrote a letter to Philip Garrod. In it he admitted that he had not been able to detect Mrs Spragg in fraud, nevertheless his private opinion was that the phenomena were not genuine. Mr Garrod, he said, was at liberty to show this letter to his uncle if he thought fit, and he suggested that he himself should put Mr Clode in touch with a medium of perfect integrity. "Philip Garrod had taken this letter straight to his uncle, but the result was not what he had anticipated. The old man flew into a towering rage. It was all a plot to discredit Mrs Spragg who was a maligned and injured saint! She had told him already what bitter jealousy there was of her in this country. He pointed out that Longman was forced to say he had not detected fraud. Eurydice Spragg had come to him in the darkest hour of his life, had given him help and comfort, and he was prepared to espouse her cause even if it meant quarrelling with every member of his family. She was more to him than anyone else in the world. "Philip Garrod was turned out of the house with scant ceremony; but as a result of his rage Clode’s own health took a decided turn for the worse. For the last month he had kept to his bed pretty continuously, and now there seemed every possibility of his being a bedridden invalid until such time as death should release him. Two days after Philip’s departure I received an urgent summons and went hurriedly over. Clode was in bed and looked even to my layman’s eye very ill indeed. He was gasping for breath. " "This is the end of me," he said. "I feel it. Don’t argue with me, Petherick. But before I die I am going to do my duty by the one human being who has done more for me than anyone else in the world. I want to make a fresh will." " "Certainly," I said, "if you will give me your instructions now I will draft out a will and send it to you." " "That won’t do," he said. "Why, man, I might not live through the night. I have written out what I want here," he fumbled under his pillow, "and you can tell me if it is right." "He produced a sheet of paper with a few words roughly scribbled on it in pencil. It was quite simple and clear. He left £5000 to each of his nieces and nephew, and the residue of his vast property outright to Eurydice Spragg "in gratitude and admiration". "I didn’t like it, but there it was. There was no question of unsound mind, the old man was as sane as anybody. "He rang the bell for two of the servants. They came promptly. The housemaid, Emma Gaunt, was a tall middle-aged woman who had been in service there for many years and who had nursed Clode devotedly. With her came the cook, a fresh buxom young woman of thirty. Simon Clode glared at them both from under his bushy eyebrows. " "I want you to witness my will. Emma, get me my fountain pen." "Emma went over obediently to the desk. " "Not that left-hand drawer, girl," said old Simon irritably. "Don’t you know it is in the right-hand one?" " "No, it is here, sir," said Emma, producing it. " "Then you must have put it away wrong last time," grumbled the old man. "I can’t stand things not being kept in their proper places."

"Extraordinary," said Van Aldin. "Yes, it is very strange. One cannot explain these things. Oh, by the way, there is one little point that baffled me considerably. Your secretary has a decided limp—the result of a wound that he received in the War. Now the Marquis most decidedly did not limp. That was a stumbling block. But Miss Lenox Tamplin happened to mention one day that Knighton’s limp had been a surprise to the surgeon who had been in charge of the case in her mother’s hospital. That suggested camouflage. When I was in London I went to the surgeon in question, and I got several technical details from him which confirmed me in that belief. I mentioned the name of that surgeon in Knighton’s hearing the day before yesterday. The natural thing would have been for Knighton to mention that he had been attended by him during the War, but he said nothing—and that little point, if nothing else, gave me the last final assurance that my theory of the crime was correct. Miss Grey, too, provided me with a cutting, showing that there had been a robbery at Lady Tamplin’s hospital during the time that Knighton had been there. She realized that I was on the same track as herself when I wrote to her from the Ritz in Paris. "I had some trouble in my inquiries there, but I got what I wanted—evidence that Ada Mason arrived on the morning after the crime and not on the evening of the day before." There was a long silence, then the millionaire stretched out a hand to Poirot across the table. "I guess you know what this means to me, Monsieur Poirot," he said huskily. "I am sending you round a cheque in the morning, but no cheque in the world will express what I feel about what you have done for me. You are the goods, Monsieur Poirot. Every time, you are the goods." Poirot rose to his feet; his chest swelled. "I am only Hercule Poirot," he said modestly, "yet, as you say, in my own way I am a big man, even as you also are a big man. I am glad and happy to have been of service to you. Now I go to repair the damages caused by travel. Alas! My excellent Georges is not with me." In the lounge of the hotel he encountered a friend—the venerable Monsieur Papopolous, his daughter Zia beside him. "I thought you had left Nice, Monsieur Poirot," murmured the Greek as he took the detective’s affectionately proferred hand. "Business compelled me to return, my dear Monsieur Papopolous." "Business?" "Yes, business. And talking of business, I hope your health is better, my dear friend?" "Much better. In fact, we are returning to Paris tomorrow." "I am enchanted to hear such good news. You have not completely ruined the Greek ex-Minister, I hope." "I?" "I understand you sold him a very wonderful ruby which—strictly entre nous—is being worn by Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer?" "Yes," murmured Monsieur Papopolous; "yes, that is so." "A ruby not unlike the famous "Heart of Fire." " "It has points of resemblance, certainly," said the Greek casually. "You have a wonderful hand with jewels, Monsieur Papopolous. I congratulate you. Mademoiselle Zia, I am desolate that you are returning to Paris so speedily. I had hoped to see some more of you now that my business is accomplished." "Would one be indiscreet if one asked what that business was?" asked Monsieur Papopolous. "Not at all, not at all. I have just succeeded in laying the Marquis by the heels." A far-away look came over Monsieur Papopolous" noble countenance. "The Marquis?" he murmured; "now why does that seem familiar to me? No—I cannot recall it." "You would not, I am sure," said Poirot. "I refer to a very notable criminal and jewel robber. He has just been arrested for the murder of the English lady, Madame Kettering." "Indeed? How interesting these things are!" A polite exchange of farewells followed, and when Poirot was out of earshot, Monsieur Papopolous turned to his daughter. "Zia," he said, with feeling, "that man is the devil!" "I like him." "I like him myself," admitted Monsieur Papopolous.

They were seen through by one person." She looked at Jason Rudd. "This is only a theory of yours," said Jason Rudd. "You can put it that way, if you like," said Miss Marple, "but you know quite well, don’t you, Mr. Rudd, that I’m speaking the truth. You know, because you knew from the first. You knew because you heard that mention of German measles. You knew and you were frantic to protect her. But you didn’t realize how much you would have to protect her from. You didn’t realize that it was not only a question of hushing up one death, the death of a woman whom you might say quite fairly had brought her death on herself. But there were other deaths—the death of Giuseppe, a blackmailer, it is true, but a human being. And the death of Ella Zielinsky of whom I expect you were fond. You were frantic to protect Marina and also to prevent her from doing more harm. All you wanted was to get her safely away somewhere. You tried to watch her all the time, to make sure that nothing more should happen." She paused, and then coming nearer to Jason Rudd, she laid a gentle hand on his arm. "I am very sorry for you," she said, "very sorry. I do realize the agony you’ve been through. You cared for her so much, didn’t you?" Jason Rudd turned slightly away. "That," he said, "is, I believe, common knowledge." "She was such a beautiful creature," said Miss Marple gently. "She had such a wonderful gift. She had a great power of love and hate but no stability. That’s what’s so sad for anyone, to be born with no stability. She couldn’t let the past go and she could never see the future as it really was, only as she imagined it to be. She was a great actress and a beautiful and very unhappy woman. What a wonderful Mary, Queen of Scots she was! I shall never forget her." Sergeant Tiddler appeared suddenly on the stairs. "Sir," he said, "can I speak to you a moment?" Craddock turned. "I’ll be back," he said to Jason Rudd, then he went towards the stairs. "Remember," Miss Marple called after him, "poor Arthur Badcock had nothing to do with this. He came to the fête because he wanted to have a glimpse of the girl he had married long ago. I should say she didn’t even recognize him. Did she?" she asked Jason Rudd. Jason Rudd shook his head. "I don’t think so. She certainly never said anything to me. I don’t think," he added thoughtfully, "she would recognize him." "Probably not," said Miss Marple. "Anyway," she added, "he’s quite innocent of wanting to kill her or anything of that kind. Remember that," she added to Dermot Craddock as he went down the stairs. "He’s not been in any real danger, I can assure you," said Craddock, "but of course when we found out that he had actually been Miss Marina Gregg’s first husband we naturally had to question him on the point. Don’t worry about him, Aunt Jane," he added in a low murmur, then he hurried down the stairs. Miss Marple turned to Jason Rudd. He was standing there like a man in a daze, his eyes faraway. "Would you allow me to see her?" said Miss Marple. He considered her for a moment or two, then he nodded. "Yes, you can see her. You seem to—understand her very well." He turned and Miss Marple followed him. He preceded her into the big bedroom and drew the curtains slightly aside. Marina Gregg lay in the great white shell of the bed—her eyes closed, her hands folded. So, Miss Marple thought, might the Lady of Shalott have lain in the boat that carried her down to Camelot. And there, standing musing, was a man with a rugged, ugly face, who might pass as a Lancelot of a later day. Miss Marple said gently, "It’s very fortunate for her that she—took an overdose. Death was really the only way of escape left to her. Yes—very fortunate she took that overdose—or—was given it?" His eyes met hers, but he did not speak. He said brokenly, "She was—so lovely—and she had suffered so much." Miss Marple looked back against the still figure.

Quite a surprise it was! It made a bit of difference to us, I can tell you. We’ve been able to do ourselves well and we’re thinking of going on one of these cruises later in the year. Very educational they are, I believe. Greece and all that. A lot of professors on them lecturing. Well, of course, I’m a self-made man and I haven’t had much time for that sort of thing but I’d be interested. That chap who went and dug up Troy, he was a grocer, I believe. Very romantic. I must say I like going to foreign parts—not that I’ve done much of that—an occasional weekend in gay Paree, that’s all. I’ve toyed with the idea of selling up here and going to live in Spain or Portugal or even the West Indies. A lot of people are doing it. Saves income tax and all that. But my wife doesn’t fancy the idea." "I’m fond of travel, but I wouldn’t care to live out of England," said Mrs. Bland. "We’ve got all our friends here—and my sister lives here, and everybody knows us. If we went abroad we’d be strangers. And then we’ve got a very good doctor here. He really understands my health. I shouldn’t care at all for a foreign doctor. I wouldn’t have any confidence in him." "We’ll see," said Mr. Bland cheerfully. "We’ll go on a cruise and you may fall in love with a Greek island." Mrs. Bland looked as though that were very unlikely. "There’d be a proper English doctor aboard, I suppose," she said doubtfully. "Sure to be," said her husband. He accompanied Hardcastle and Colin to the front door, repeating once more how sorry he was that he couldn’t help them. "Well," said Hardcastle. "What do you think of him?" "I wouldn’t care to let him build a house for me," said Colin. "But a crooked little builder isn’t what I’m after. I’m looking for a man who is dedicated. And as regards your murder case, you’ve got the wrong kind of murder. Now if Bland was to feed his wife arsenic or push her into the Aegean in order to inherit her money and marry a slap-up blonde—" "We’ll see about that when it happens," said Inspector Hardcastle. "In the meantime we’ve got to get on with this murder." Ten At No. 62, Wilbraham Crescent, Mrs. Ramsay was saying to herself encouragingly, "Only two days now. Only two days." She pushed back some dank hair from her forehead. An almighty crash came from the kitchen. Mrs. Ramsay felt very disinclined even to go and see what the crash portended. If only she could pretend that there hadn’t been a crash. Oh well—only two days. She stepped across the hall, flung the kitchen door open and said in a voice of far less belligerence than it would have held three weeks ago: "Now what have you done?" "Sorry, Mum," said her son Bill. "We were just having a bit of a bowling match with these tins and somehow or other they rolled into the bottom of the china cupboard." "We didn’t mean them to go into the bottom of the china cupboard," said his younger brother Ted agreeably. "Well, pick up those things and put them back in the cupboard and sweep up that broken china and put it in the bin." "Oh, Mum, not now." "Yes, now." "Ted can do it," said Bill. "I like that," said Ted. "Always putting on me. I won’t do it if you won’t." "Bet you will." "Bet I won’t." "I’ll make you." "Yahh!" The boys closed in a fierce wrestling match. Ted was forced back against the kitchen table and a bowl of eggs rocked ominously. "Oh, get out of the kitchen!" cried Mrs. Ramsay. She pushed the two boys out of the kitchen door and shut it, and began to pick up tins and sweep up china. "Two days," she thought, "and they’ll be back at school! What a lovely, what a heavenly thought for a mother." She remembered vaguely some wicked remark by a woman columnist. Only six happy days in the year for a woman. The first and the last days of the holidays. How true that was, thought Mrs.

He passed on without stopping, and so probably did not notice Mr. Chichester’s agitation. I did. Whatever it was he had dropped, its recovery agitated him considerably. He turned a sickly green, and crumpled up the sheet of paper into a ball. My suspicions were accentuated a hundredfold. He caught my eye, and hurried into explanations. "A—a—fragment of a sermon I was composing," he said with a sickly smile. "Indeed?" I rejoined politely. A fragment of a sermon, indeed! No, Mr. Chichester—too weak for words! He soon left me with a muttered excuse. I wished, oh, how I wished, that I had been the one to pick up that paper and not Sir Eustace Pedler! One thing was clear, Mr. Chichester could not be exempted from my list of suspects. I was inclined to put him top of the three. After lunch, when I came up to the lounge for coffee, I noticed Sir Eustace and Pagett sitting with Mrs. Blair and Colonel Race. Mrs. Blair welcomed me with a smile, so I went over and joined them. They were talking about Italy. "But it is misleading," Mrs. Blair insisted. "Aqua calda certainly ought to be cold water—not hot." "You’re not a Latin scholar," said Sir Eustace, smiling. "Men are so superior about their Latin," said Mrs. Blair. "But all the same I notice that when you ask them to translate inscriptions in old churches they can never do it! They hem and haw, and get out of it somehow." "Quite right," said Colonel Race. "I always do." "But I love the Italians," continued Mrs. Blair. "They’re so obliging—though even that has its embarrassing side. You ask them the way somewhere, and instead of saying "first to the right, second to the left" or something that one could follow, they pour out a flood of well-meaning directions, and when you look bewildered they take you kindly by the arm and walk all the way there with you." "Is that your experience in Florence, Pagett?" asked Sir Eustace, turning with a smile to his secretary. For some reason the question seemed to disconcert Mr. Pagett. He stammered and flushed. "Oh, quite so, yes—er quite so." Then with a murmured excuse, he rose and left the table. "I am beginning to suspect Guy Pagett of having committed some dark deed in Florence," remarked Sir Eustace, gazing after his secretary’s retreating figure. "Whenever Florence or Italy is mentioned, he changes the subject or bolts precipitately." "Perhaps he murdered someone there," said Mrs. Blair hopefully. "He looks—I hope I’m not hurting your feelings, Sir Eustace—but he does look as though he might murder someone." "Yes, pure Cinquecento! It amuses me sometimes—especially when one knows as well as I do how essentially law-abiding and respectable the poor fellow really is." "He’s been with you some time, hasn’t he, Sir Eustace?" asked Colonel Race. "Six years," said Sir Eustace with a deep sigh. "He must be quite invaluable to you," said Mrs. Blair. "Oh, invaluable! Yes, quite invaluable." The poor man sounded even more depressed, as though the invaluableness of Mr. Pagett was a secret grief to him. Then he added more briskly: "But his face should really inspire you with confidence, my dear lady. No self-respecting murderer would ever consent to look like one. Crippen, now, I believe, was one of the pleasantest fellows imaginable." "He was caught on a liner, wasn’t he?" murmured Mrs. Blair. There was a slight rattle behind us. I turned quickly. Mr. Chichester had dropped his coffee cup. Our party soon broke up; Mrs. Blair went below to sleep and I went out on deck. Colonel Race followed me. "You’re very elusive, Miss Beddingfeld. I looked for you everywhere last night at the dance." "I went to bed early," I explained. "Are you going to run away tonight too? Or are you going to dance with me?" "I shall be very pleased to dance with you," I murmured shyly. "But Mrs. Blair—" "Our friend, Mrs.

At the same time, they’re the only people who can tell. It’s difficult… I wonder…." "We could go to the police?" I suggested. "Yes. After all, we’ve got something fairly definite now. Enough to act upon, do you think?" I shook my head doubtfully. "Evidence of intent. But is that enough? It’s this death wish nonsense. Oh," I forestalled her interruption, "it mayn’t be nonsense—but it would sound like it in court. We’ve no idea, even, of what the actual procedure is." "Well, then, we’ve got to know. But how?" "One would have to see—or hear—with one’s own eyes and ears. But there’s absolutely no place one could hide oneself in that great barn of a room—and I suppose that’s where it—whatever "it" is—must take place." Ginger sat up very straight, gave her head a kind of toss, rather like an energetic terrier, and said: "There’s only one way to find out what does really happen. You’ve got to be a genuine client." I stared at her. "A genuine client?" "Yes. You or I, it doesn’t matter which, has got to want somebody put out of the way. One of us has got to go to Bradley and fix it up." "I don’t like it," I said sharply. "Why?" "Well—it opens up dangerous possibilities." "For us?" "Perhaps. But I was really thinking about the—victim. We’ve got to have a victim—we’ve got to give him a name. It can’t be just invention. They might check up—in fact, they’d almost certainly check up, don’t you agree?" Ginger thought a minute and then nodded. "Yes. The victim’s got to be a real person with a real address." "That’s what I don’t like," I said. "And we’ve got to have a real reason for getting rid of him." We were silent for a moment, considering this aspect of the situation. "The person, whoever it was, would have to agree," I said slowly. "It’s a lot to ask." "The whole setup has got to be good," said Ginger, thinking it out. "But there’s one thing, you were absolutely right in what you were saying the other day. The weakness of the whole thing is that they’re in a cleft stick. The business has got to be secret—but not too secret. Possible clients have got to be able to hear about it." "What puzzles me," I said, "is that the police don’t seem to have heard about it. After all, they’re usually aware of what kind of criminal activities are going on." "Yes, but I think that the reason for that is, that this is in every sense of the word, an amateur show. It’s not professional. No professional criminals are employed or involved. It’s not like hiring gangsters to bump people off. It’s all—private." I said that I thought she had something there. Ginger went on: "Suppose now that you, or I (we’ll examine both possibilities), are desperate to get rid of someone. Now who is there that you and I could want to do away with? There’s my dear old Uncle Mervyn—I’ll come into a very nice packet when he pops off. I and some cousin in Australia are the only ones left of the family. So there’s a motive there. But he’s over seventy and more or less gaga, so it would really seem more sensible for me to wait for natural causes—unless I was in some terrible hole for money—and that really would be quite difficult to fake. Besides, he’s a pet, and I’m very fond of him, and gaga or not gaga, he quite enjoys life, and I wouldn’t want to deprive him of a minute of it—or even risk such a thing! What about you? Have you got any relatives who are going to leave you money?" I shook my head. "No one at all." "Bother. It could be blackmail, perhaps? That would take a lot of fixing, though. You’re not really vulnerable enough. If you were an M.P., or in the Foreign Office, or an up and coming Minister it would be different. The same with me. Fifty years ago it would have been easy. Compromising letters, or photographs in the altogether, but really nowadays, who cares? One can be like the Duke of Wellington and say "Publish and be damned!" Well, now, what else is there?

You will write to her, won’t you, Sir Henry, and just tell her that her innocence is established beyond doubt? Her dear old master dead, and she no doubt brooding and feeling herself suspected of . . . Oh! It won’t bear thinking about!" "I will write, Miss Marple," said Sir Henry. He looked at her curiously. "You know, I shall never quite understand you. Your outlook is always a different one from what I expect." "My outlook, I am afraid, is a very petty one," said Miss Marple humbly. "I hardly ever go out of St Mary Mead." "And yet you have solved what may be called an International mystery," said Sir Henry. "For you have solved it. I am convinced of that." Miss Marple blushed, then bridled a little. "I was, I think, well educated for the standard of my day. My sister and I had a German governess – a Fräulein. A very sentimental creature. She taught us the language of flowers – a forgotten study nowadays, but most charming. A yellow tulip, for instance, means Hopeless Love, whilst a China Aster means I die of Jealousy at your feet. That letter was signed Georgine, which I seem to remember is Dahlia in German, and that of course made the whole thing perfectly clear. I wish I could remember the meaning of Dahlia, but alas, that eludes me. My memory is not what it was." "At any rate it didn’t mean death." "No, indeed. Horrible, is it not? There are very sad things in the world." "There are," said Mrs Bantry with a sigh. "It’s lucky one has flowers and one’s friends." "She puts us last, you observe," said Dr Lloyd. "A man used to send me purple orchids every night to the theatre," said Jane dreamily. ""I await your favours," – that’s what that means," said Miss Marple brightly. Sir Henry gave a peculiar sort of cough and turned his head away. Miss Marple gave a sudden exclamation. "I’ve remembered. Dahlias mean "Treachery and Misrepresentation."" "Wonderful," said Sir Henry. "Absolutely wonderful." And he sighed. Chapter 37 A Christmas Tragedy "A Christmas Tragedy" was first published as "The Hat and the Alibi" in Storyteller, January 1930. "I have a complaint to make," said Sir Henry Clithering. His eyes twinkled gently as he looked round at the assembled company. Colonel Bantry, his legs stretched out, was frowning at the mantelpiece as though it were a delinquent soldier on parade, his wife was surreptitiously glancing at a catalogue of bulbs which had come by the late post, Dr Lloyd was gazing with frank admiration at Jane Helier, and that beautiful young actress herself was thoughtfully regarding her pink polished nails. Only that elderly, spinster lady, Miss Marple, was sitting bolt upright, and her faded blue eyes met Sir Henry’s with an answering twinkle. "A complaint?" she murmured. "A very serious complaint. We are a company of six, three representatives of each sex, and I protest on behalf of the downtrodden males. We have had three stories told tonight – and told by the three men! I protest that the ladies have not done their fair share." "Oh!" said Mrs Bantry with indignation. "I’m sure we have. We’ve listened with the most intelligent appreciation. We’ve displayed the true womanly attitude – not wishing to thrust ourselves in the limelight!" "It’s an excellent excuse," said Sir Henry; "but it won’t do. And there’s a very good precedent in the Arabian Nights! So, forward, Scheherazade." "Meaning me?" said Mrs Bantry. "But I don’t know anything to tell. I’ve never been surrounded by blood or mystery." "I don’t absolutely insist upon blood," said Sir Henry. "But I’m sure one of you three ladies has got a pet mystery. Come now, Miss Marple – the "Curious Coincidence of the Charwoman" or the "Mystery of the Mothers" Meeting". Don’t disappoint me in St Mary Mead." Miss Marple shook her head. "Nothing that would interest you, Sir Henry.

As I told you. In our service. In the fighting forces. On Parliamentary benches. High up in the Ministries. We’ve got to comb them out—we’ve got to! And we must do it quickly. It can’t be done from the bottom—the small fry, the people who speak in the parks, who sell their wretched little news-sheets, they don’t know who the big bugs are. It’s the big bugs we want, they’re the people who can do untold damage—and will do it unless we’re in time." Tommy said confidently: "We shall be in time, sir." Grant asked: "What makes you say that?" Tommy said: "You’ve just said it—we’ve got to be!" The man with the fishing line turned and looked full at his subordinate for a minute or two, taking in anew the quiet resolute line of the jaw. He had a new liking and appreciation of what he saw. He said quietly: "Good man." He went on: "What about the women in this place? Anything strike you as suspicious there?" "I think there’s something odd about the woman who runs it." "Mrs. Perenna?" "Yes. You don’t—know anything about her?" Grant said slowly: "I might see what I could do about checking her antecedents, but as I told you, it’s risky." "Yes, better not take any chances. She’s the only one who strikes me as suspicious in any way. There’s a young mother, a fussy spinster, the hypochondriac’s brainless wife, and a rather fearsome-looking old Irishwoman. All seem harmless enough on the face of it." "That’s the lot, is it?" "No. There’s a Mrs. Blenkensop—arrived three days ago." "Well?" Tommy said: "Mrs. Blenkensop is my wife." "What?" In the surprise of the announcement Grant’s voice was raised. He spun round, sharp anger in his gaze. "I thought I told you, Beresford, not to breathe a word to your wife!" "Quite right, sir, and I didn’t. If you’ll just listen—" Succinctly, Tommy narrated what had occurred. He did not dare look at the other. He carefully kept out of his voice the pride that he secretly felt. There was a silence when he brought the story to an end. Then a queer noise escaped from the other. Grant was laughing. He laughed for some minutes. He said: "I take my hat off to the woman! She’s one in a thousand!" "I agree," said Tommy. "Easthampton will laugh when I tell him this. He warned me not to leave her out. Said she’d get the better of me if I did. I wouldn’t listen to him. It shows you, though, how damned careful you’ve got to be. I thought I’d taken every precaution against being overheard. I’d satisfied myself beforehand that you and your wife were alone in the flat. I actually heard the voice in the telephone asking your wife to come round at once, and so—and so I was tricked by the old simple device of the banged door. Yes, she’s a smart woman, your wife." He was silent for a minute, then he said: "Tell her from me, will you, that I eat dirt?" "And I suppose, now, she’s in on this?" Mr. Grant made an expressive grimace. "She’s in on it whether we like it or not. Tell her the department will esteem it an honour if she will condescend to work with us over the matter." "I’ll tell her," said Tommy with a faint grin. Grant said seriously: "You couldn’t persuade her, I suppose, to go home and stay home?" Tommy shook his head. "You don’t know Tuppence." "I think I am beginning to. I said that because—well, it’s a dangerous business. If they get wise to you or to her—" He left the sentence unfinished. Tommy said gravely: "I do understand that, sir." "But I suppose even you couldn’t persuade your wife to keep out of danger." Tommy said slowly: "I don’t know that I really would want to do that . . . Tuppence and I, you see, aren’t on those terms. We go into things—together!" In his mind was that phrase, uttered years ago, at the close of an earlier war. A joint venture. . . .

It’s lucky it’s not in a book. They don’t really like the young and beautiful girl to have done it. All the same, I rather think she did. What do you think, M. Poirot?" "Me, I have just made a discovery." "In the bridge scores again?" "Yes, Miss Anne Meredith turns her score over, draws lines and uses the back." "And what does that mean?" "It means she has the habit of poverty or else is of a naturally economical turn of mind." "She’s expensively dressed," said Mrs. Oliver. "Send in Major Despard," said Superintendent Battle. Seven FOURTH MURDERER? Despard entered the room with a quick springing step—a step that reminded Poirot of something or someone. "I’m sorry to have kept you waiting all this while, Major Despard," said Battle. "But I wanted to let the ladies get away as soon as possible." "Don’t apologize. I understand." He sat down and looked inquiringly at the superintendent. "How well did you know Mr. Shaitana?" began the latter. "I’ve met him twice," said Despard crisply. "Only twice?" "That’s all." "On what occasions?" "About a month ago we were both dining at the same house. Then he asked me to a cocktail party a week later." "A cocktail party here?" "Yes." "Where did it take place—this room or the drawing room?" "In all the rooms." "See this little thing lying about?" Battle once more produced the stiletto. Major Despard’s lip twisted slightly. "No," he said. "I didn’t mark it down on that occasion for future use." "There’s no need to go ahead of what I say, Major Despard." "I beg your pardon. The inference was fairly obvious." There was a moment’s pause, then Battle resumed his inquiries. "Had you any motive for disliking Mr. Shaitana?" "Every motive." "Eh?" The superintendent sounded startled. "For disliking him—not for killing him," said Despard. "I hadn’t the least wish to kill him, but I would thoroughly have enjoyed kicking him. A pity. It’s too late now." "Why did you want to kick him, Major Despard?" "Because he was the sort of Dago who needed kicking badly. He used to make the toe of my boot fairly itch." "Know anything about him—to his discredit, I mean?" "He was too well dressed—he wore his hair too long—and he smelt of scent." "Yet you accepted his invitation to dinner," Battle pointed out. "If I were only to dine in houses where I thoroughly approved of my host I’m afraid I shouldn’t dine out very much, Superintendent Battle," said Despard drily. "You like society, but you don’t approve of it?" suggested the other. "I like it for very short periods. To come back from the wilds to lighted rooms and women in lovely clothes, to dancing and good food and laughter—yes, I enjoy that—for a time. And then the insincerity of it all sickens me, and I want to be off again." "It must be a dangerous sort of life that you lead, Major Despard, wandering about in these wild places." Despard shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly. "Mr. Shaitana didn’t lead a dangerous life—but he is dead, and I am alive!" "He may have led a more dangerous life than you think," said Battle meaningly. "What do you mean?" "The late Mr. Shaitana was a bit of a Nosey Parker," said Battle. The other leaned forward. "You mean that he meddled with other people’s lives—that he discovered—what?" "I really meant that perhaps he was the sort of man who meddled—er—well, with women." Major Despard leant back in his chair. He laughed, an amused but indifferent laugh. "I don’t think women would take a mountebank like that seriously." "What’s your theory of who killed him, Major Despard?" "Well, I know I didn’t. Little Miss Meredith didn’t. I can’t imagine Mrs. Lorrimer doing so—she reminds me of one of my more God-fearing aunts. That leaves the medical gentleman." "Can you describe your own and other people’s movements this evening?" "I got up twice—once for an ashtray, and I also poked the fire—and once for a drink—" "At what times?" "I couldn’t say. First time might have been about half past ten, the second time eleven, but that’s pure guesswork. Mrs.

Really – you bachelors!" "All right, all right," said Mr Baldock. "I’m not often wrong, but I daresay it’s good for me sometimes." "Just go and take a look at those two." Mr Baldock did as he was told. The baby lay on a rug in front of the nursery fire, kicking vaguely and making indeterminate gurgling noises. Beside her sat Laura. Her arms were bandaged, and she had lost her eyelashes, which gave her face a comical appearance. She was dangling some coloured rings to attract the baby’s attention. She turned her head to look at Mr Baldock. "Hallo, young Laura," said Mr Baldock. "How are you? Quite the heroine, I hear. A gallant rescue." Laura gave him a brief glance, and then concentrated once more on her efforts with the rings. "How are the arms?" "They did hurt rather a lot, but they’ve put some stuff on, and they’re better now." "You’re a funny one," said Mr Baldock, sitting down heavily in a chair. "One day you’re hoping the cat will smother your baby sister – oh yes, you did – can’t deceive me – and the next day you’re crawling about the roof lugging the child to safety at the risk of your own life." "Anyway, I did save her," said Laura. "She isn’t hurt a bit – not a bit." She bent over the child and spoke passionately. "I won’t ever let her be hurt, not ever. I shall look after her all my life." Mr Baldock’s eyebrows rose slowly. "So it’s love now. You love her, do you?" "Oh yes!" The answer came with the same fervour. "I love her better than anything in the world!" She turned her face to him, and Mr Baldock was startled. It was, he thought, like the breaking open of a cocoon. The child’s face was radiant with feeling. In spite of the grotesque absence of lashes and brows, the face had a quality of emotion that made it suddenly beautiful. "I see," said Mr Baldock. " I see … And where shall we go from here, I wonder?" Laura looked at him, puzzled, and slightly apprehensive. "Isn’t it all right?" she asked. "For me to love her, I mean?" Mr Baldock looked at her. His face was thoughtful. "It’s all right for you , young Laura," he said. "Oh yes, it’s all right for you …" He relapsed into abstraction, his hand tapping his chin. As a historian he had always mainly been concerned with the past, but there were moments when the fact that he could not foresee the future irritated him profoundly. This was one of them. He looked at Laura and the crowing Shirley, and his brow contracted angrily. "Where will they be," he thought, "in ten years" time – in twenty years – in twenty-five? Where shall I be?" The answer to that last question came quickly. "Under the turf," said Mr Baldock to himself. "Under the turf." He knew that, but he did not really believe it, any more than any other positive person full of the vitality of living really believes it. What a dark and mysterious entity the future was! In twenty-odd years what would have happened? Another war, perhaps? (Most unlikely!) New diseases? People fastening mechanical wings on themselves, perhaps, and floating about the streets like sacrilegious angels! Journeys to Mars? Sustaining oneself on horrid little tablets out of bottles, instead of on steaks and succulent green peas! "What are you thinking about?" Laura asked. "The future." "Do you mean tomorrow?" "Further forward than that. I suppose you’re able to read, young Laura?" "Of course," said Laura, shocked. "I’ve read nearly all the Doctor Dolittles, and the books about Winnie-the-Pooh and –" "Spare me the horrid details," said Mr Baldock. "How do you read a book? Begin at the beginning and go right through?" "Yes. Don’t you?" "No," said Mr Baldock. "I take a look at the start, get some idea of what it’s all about, then I go on to the end and see where the fellow has got to, and what he’s been trying to prove. And then, then I go back and see how he’s got there and what’s made him land up where he did. Much more interesting." Laura looked interested but disapproving.

The doctor’s usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked pale and shaken. "Nasty business this, M. Poirot. I can’t say I’m not relieved—from my own point of view—but, to tell you the truth, it’s a bit of a shock. I never really thought for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. It’s been the greatest surprise to me." "I, too, am surprised." "Quiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Can’t imagine her doing a violent thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know now. I confess I’m curious, though." "It must take a load off your mind—this occurrence." "Oh, it does, undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. It’s not very pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman herself—well, it was undoubtedly the best way out." "So she thought herself." Roberts nodded. "Conscience, I suppose," he said as he let himself out of the house. Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. The doctor had misread the situation. It was not remorse that had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life. On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly parlourmaid, who was weeping quietly. "It’s so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you having tea with her yesterday so nice and quiet. And now today she’s gone. I shall never forget this morning—never as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get to it. And, "Where’s your mistress?" he shot out at me. I was so flustered, I couldn’t hardly answer. You see, we never went in to the mistress till she rang—that was her orders. And I just couldn’t get out anything. And the doctor he says, "Where’s her room?" and ran up the stairs, and me behind him, and I showed him the door, and he rushes in, not so much as knocking, and takes one look at her lying there, and, "Too late," he says. She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water, and he tried desperate to bring her back, but it couldn’t be done. And then the police coming and all—it isn’t—it isn’t—decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn’t have liked it. And why the police? It’s none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake." Poirot did not reply to her question. He said: "Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried at all?" "No, I don’t think so, sir. She was tired—and I think she was in pain. She hasn’t been well lately, sir." "No, I know." The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on. "She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been worried about her for some time. She couldn’t do as much as she used to do, and things tired her. I think, perhaps, the young lady coming after you left was a bit too much for her." With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back. "The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?" "Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was." "Did she stay long?" "About an hour, sir." Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said: "And afterwards?" "The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired." Again Poirot was silent; then he said: "Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?" "Do you mean after she went to bed? I don’t think so, sir." "But you are not sure?" "There were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since earlier in the day." "How many were there?" "Two or three—I’m not quite sure, sir. Three, I think." "You—or cook—whoever posted them—did not happen to notice to whom they were addressed?

It was, of course, possible that he had lost his way, being unacquainted with London, but at a late hour that night he had not returned to the hotel. Thoroughly alarmed now, Mr. Pearson put matters in the hands of the police. On the following day, there was still no trace of the missing man, but towards evening of the day after that again, a body was found in the Thames which proved to be that of the ill-fated Chinaman. Neither on the body, nor in the luggage at the hotel, was there any trace of the papers relating to the mine. "At this juncture, mon ami, I was brought into the affair. Mr. Pearson called upon me. While profoundly shocked by the death of Wu Ling, his chief anxiety was to recover the papers which were the object of the Chinaman’s visit to England. The main anxiety of the police, of course, would be to track down the murderer—the recovery of the papers would be a secondary consideration. What he wanted me to do was to cooperate with the police while acting in the interests of the company. "I consented readily enough. It was clear that there were two fields of search open to me. On the one hand, I might look among the employees of the company who knew of the Chinaman’s coming; on the other, among the passengers on the boat who might have been acquainted with his mission. I started with the second, as being a narrower field of search. In this I coincided with Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the case—a man altogether different from our friend Japp, conceited, ill-mannered and quite insufferable. Together we interviewed the officers of the ship. They had little to tell us. Wu Ling had kept much to himself on the voyage. He had been intimate with but two of the other passengers—one a broken-down European named Dyer who appeared to bear a somewhat unsavoury reputation, the other a young bank clerk named Charles Lester, who was returning from Hong Kong. We were lucky enough to obtain snapshots of both these men. At the moment there seemed little doubt that if either of the two was implicated, Dyer was the man. He was known to be mixed up with a gang of Chinese crooks, and was altogether a most likely suspect. "Our next step was to visit the Russell Square Hotel. Shown a snapshot of Wu Ling, they recognized him at once. We then showed them the snapshot of Dyer, but to our disappointment, the hall porter declared positively that that was not the man who had come to the hotel on the fatal morning. Almost as an afterthought, I produced the photograph of Lester, and to my surprise the man at once recognized it. " "Yes, sir," he asserted, "that’s the gentleman who came in at half past ten and asked for Mr. Wu Ling, and afterwards went out with him." "The affair was progressing. Our next move was to interview Mr. Charles Lester. He met us with the utmost frankness, was desolated to hear of the Chinaman’s untimely death, and put himself at our disposal in every way. His story was as follows: By arrangement with Wu Ling, he called for him at the hotel at ten-thirty. Wu Ling, however, did not appear. Instead, his servant came, explained that his master had had to go out, and offered to conduct the young man to where his master now was. Suspecting nothing, Lester agreed, and the Chinaman procured a taxi. They drove for some time in the direction of the docks. Suddenly becoming mistrustful, Lester stopped the taxi and got out, disregarding the servant’s protests. That, he assured us, was all he knew. "Apparently satisfied, we thanked him and took our leave. His story was soon proved to be a somewhat inaccurate one. To begin with, Wu Ling had had no servant with him, either on the boat or at the hotel. In the second place, the taxi driver who had driven the two men on that morning came forward. Far from Lester’s having left the taxi en route, he and the Chinese gentleman had driven to a certain unsavoury dwelling place in Limehouse, right in the heart of Chinatown. The place in question was more or less well known as an opium- den of the lowest description.

Despised by our Aimée for ignorance of the vegetable kingdom. Snubbed by Partridge for being a human being. I shall now go out into the garden and eat worms." "Megan’s there already," I said. For Megan had wandered away a few minutes previously and was now standing aimlessly in the middle of a patch of lawn looking not unlike a meditative bird waiting for nourishment. She came back, however, towards us and said abruptly: "I say, I must go home today." "What?" I was dismayed. She went on, flushing, but speaking with nervous determination. "It’s been awfully good of you having me and I expect I’ve been a fearful nuisance, but I have enjoyed it awfully, only now I must go back, because after all, well, it’s my home and one can’t stay away for ever, so I think I’ll go this morning." Both Joanna and I tried to make her change her mind, but she was quite adamant, and finally Joanna got out the car and Megan went upstairs and came down a few minutes later with her belongings packed up again. The only person pleased seemed to be Partridge, who had almost a smile on her grim face. She had never liked Megan much. I was standing in the middle of the lawn when Joanna returned. She asked me if I thought I was a sundial. "Why?" "Standing there like a garden ornament. Only one couldn’t put on you the motto of only marking the sunny hours. You looked like thunder!" "I’m out of humour. First Aimée Griffith—("Gracious!" murmured Joanna in parenthesis, "I must speak about those vegetables!") and then Megan beetling off. I’d thought of taking her for a walk up to Legge Tor." "With a collar and lead, I suppose?" said Joanna. "What?" Joanna repeated loudly and clearly as she moved off round the corner of the house to the kitchen garden: "I said, "With a collar and lead, I suppose?" Master’s lost his dog, that’s what’s the matter with you!" III I was annoyed, I must confess, at the abrupt way in which Megan had left us. Perhaps she had suddenly got bored with us. After all, it wasn’t a very amusing life for a girl. At home she’d got the kids and Elsie Holland. I heard Joanna returning and hastily moved in case she should make more rude remarks about sundials. Owen Griffith called in his car just before lunchtime, and the gardener was waiting for him with the necessary garden produce. Whilst old Adams was stowing it in the car I brought Owen indoors for a drink. He wouldn’t stay to lunch. When I came in with the sherry I found Joanna had begun doing her stuff. No signs of animosity now. She was curled up in the corner of the sofa and was positively purring, asking Owen questions about his work, if he liked being a G.P., if he wouldn’t rather have specialized? She thought, doctoring was one of the most fascinating things in the world. Say what you will of her, Joanna is a lovely, a heaven-born listener. And after listening to so many would-be geniuses telling her how they had been unappreciated, listening to Owen Griffith was easy money. By the time we had got to the third glass of sherry, Griffith was telling her about some obscure reaction or lesion in such scientific terms that nobody could have understood a word of it except a fellow medico. Joanna was looking intelligent and deeply interested. I felt a moment’s qualm. It was really too bad of Joanna. Griffith was too good a chap to be played fast and loose with. Women really were devils. Then I caught a sideways view of Griffith, his long purposeful chin and the grim set of his lips, and I was not so sure that Joanna was going to have it her own way after all. And anyway, a man has no business to let himself be made a fool of by a woman. It’s his own look out if he does. Then Joanna said: "Do change your mind and stay to lunch with us, Dr. Griffith," and Griffith flushed a little and said he would, only his sister would be expecting him back— "We’ll ring her up and explain," said Joanna quickly and went out into the hall and did so. I thought Griffith looked a little uneasy, and it crossed my mind that he was probably a little afraid of his sister. Joanna came back smiling and said that that was all right. And Owen Griffith stayed to lunch and seemed to enjoy himself.

"I’m afraid, you know, she has a very unhappy home life." "I’m sorry to hear it." "That man Burt is going right down the hill. He comes reeling out of the King’s Arms at closing time. Really, I wonder they serve him. And I believe he’s quite violent sometimes – or so the neighbours say. She’s frightened to death of him, you know." Her nose quivered at the tip – it was, I decided, a quiver indicating pleasurable sensations. "Why doesn’t she leave him?" I asked. Mrs Carslake looked shocked. "Oh really, Captain Norreys, she couldn’t do a thing like that! Where could she go? She’s no relations. I’ve sometimes thought that if a sympathetic young man came along – I don’t feel, you know, that she has very strong principles. And she’s quite good-looking in a rather obvious sort of way." "You don’t like her very much, do you?" I said. "Oh yes – I do – but of course I hardly know her. A vet – well, I mean it isn’t like a doctor." Having made this social distinction quite clear, Mrs Carslake asked solicitously if there wasn’t anything she could do for me. "It’s very kind of you. I don’t think there’s anything." I was looking out of the window. She followed my eyes and saw what I was looking at. "Oh," she said. "It’s Isabella Charteris." Together we watched Isabella coming nearer, passing through the field gate, coming up the steps to the terrace. "She’s quite a handsome girl," said Mrs Carslake. "Very quiet, though. I often think these quiet girls are inclined to be sly." The word sly made me feel indignant. I couldn’t say anything because Mrs Carslake had made her statement an exit line. Sly – it was a horrible word! Especially as applied to Isabella. The quality most in evidence in Isabella was honesty – a fearless and almost painstaking honesty. At least – I remembered suddenly the way she had let her scarf fall over those wretched tablets. The ease with which she had pretended to be in the middle of a conversation. And all without excitement or fuss – simply, naturally – as though she had been doing that sort of thing all her life. Was that, perhaps, what Mrs Carslake had meant by the word "sly’? I thought to myself that I would ask Teresa what she thought about it. Teresa was not given to volunteering opinions, but if you asked for them you could have them. When Isabella arrived I saw that she was excited. I don’t know that it would have been apparent to anybody else, but I spotted it at once. Up to a point, I was beginning to know Isabella fairly well. She began abruptly without wasting time in greetings. "Rupert is coming – really coming," she said. "He may arrive any day now. He’s flying home, of course." She sat down and smiled. Her long narrow hands were folded in her lap. Behind her head the yew tree outside made a pattern against the sky. She sat there looking beatific. Her attitude, the picture she made, reminded me of something. Something that I had seen or heard just lately … "Does his coming mean a lot to you?" I asked. "Yes, it does. Oh yes." She added, "You see, I have been waiting a long time." Was there possibly a touch of Mariana in the moated grange about Isabella? Did she belong, just a little, to the Tennyson period? "Waiting for Rupert?" "Yes." "Are you – so fond of him?" "I think I am fonder of Rupert than anyone in the world." Then she added, managing somehow to give a different intonation to the repetition of the same words, "I – think I am." "Aren’t you sure?" She looked at me with a sudden grave distress. "Can one ever be sure of anything?" It was not a statement of her feelings. It was definitely a question. She asked me because she thought I might know the answer she did not know. She could not guess how that particular question hurt me. "No," I said, and my voice was harsh in my own ears. "One can never be sure." She accepted the answer, looking down at the quietness of her folded hands. "I see," she said. "I see." "How long is it since you have seen him?" "Eight years." "You are a romantic creature, Isabella," I said. She looked at me questioningly.

Strangulation it does not improve the appearance. Still, that cannot be helped. I go now to study the latest reports of my agents on this matter. There will be, perhaps, something. Au revoir, mon cher." As Craddock reiterated the farewell politely, a slip of paper was placed before him on the desk. It read: Miss Emma Crackenthorpe. To see Detective-Inspector Craddock. Rutherford Hall case. He replaced the receiver and said to the police constable: "Bring Miss Crackenthorpe up." As he waited, he leaned back in his chair, thinking. So he had not been mistaken—there was something that Emma Crackenthorpe knew—not much, perhaps, but something. And she had decided to tell him. He rose to his feet as she was shown in, shook hands, settled her in a chair and offered her a cigarette which she refused. Then there was a momentary pause. She was trying, he decided, to find just the words she wanted. He leaned forward. "You have come to tell me something, Miss Crackenthorpe? Can I help you? You’ve been worried about something, haven’t you? Some little thing, perhaps, that you feel probably has nothing to do with the case, but on the other hand, just might be related to it. You’ve come here to tell me about it, haven’t you? It’s to do, perhaps, with the identity of the dead woman. You think you know who she was?" "No, no, not quite that. I think really it’s most unlikely. But—" "But there is some possibility that worries you. You’d better tell me about it—because we may be able to set your mind at rest." Emma took a moment or two before speaking. Then she said: "You have seen three of my brothers. I had another brother, Edmund, who was killed in the war. Shortly before he was killed, he wrote to me from France." She opened her handbag and took out a worn and faded letter. She read from it: "I hope this won’t be a shock to you, Emmie, but I’m getting married—to a French girl. It’s all been very sudden—but I know you’ll be fond of Martine—and look after her if anything happens to me. Will write you all the details in my next—by which time I shall be a married man. Break it gently to the old man, won’t you? He’ll probably go up in smoke." Inspector Craddock held out a hand. Emma hesitated, then put the letter into it. She went on, speaking rapidly. "Two days after receiving this letter, we had a telegram saying Edmund was Missing, believed killed. Later he was definitely reported killed. It was just before Dunkirk—and a time of great confusion. There was no Army record, as far as I could find out, of his having been married—but as I say, it was a confused time. I never heard anything from the girl. I tried, after the war, to make some inquiries, but I only knew her Christian name and that part of France had been occupied by the Germans and it was difficult to find out anything, without knowing the girl’s surname and more about her. In the end I assumed that the marriage had never taken place and that the girl had probably married someone else before the end of the war, or might possibly herself have been killed." Inspector Craddock nodded. Emma went on. "Imagine my surprise to receive a letter just about a month ago, signed Martine Crackenthorpe." "You have it?" Emma took it from her bag and handed it to him. Craddock read it with interest. It was written in a slanting French hand—an educated hand. Dear Mademoiselle, I hope it will not be a shock to you to get this letter. I do not even know if your brother Edmund told you that we were married. He said he was going to do so. He was killed only a few days after our marriage and at the same time the Germans occupied our village. After the war ended, I decided that I would not write to you or approach you, though Edmund had told me to do so. But by then I had made a new life for myself, and it was not necessary. But now things have changed. For my son’s sake I write this letter. He is your brother’s son, you see, and I— I can no longer give him the advantages he ought to have. I am coming to England early next week.

I don’t suppose he’d tell us anything though. He is so frightfully discreet. That’s what makes him so hard to live with for long on end. But let us go on with our matchmaking. I’m sure Colonel Race is very attracted to you, Anne. Give him a couple of glances from those wicked eyes of yours, and the deed is done. Everyone gets engaged onboard ship. There’s nothing else to do." "I don’t want to get married." "Don’t you?" said Suzanne. "Why not? I love being married—even to Clarence!" I disdained her flippancy. "What I want to know is," I said with determination, "what has Colonel Race got to do with this? He’s in it somewhere." "You don’t think it was mere chance, his telling that story?" "No, I don’t," I said decidedly. "He was watching us all narrowly. You remember, some of the diamonds were recovered, not all. Perhaps these are the missing ones—or perhaps—" "Perhaps what?" I did not answer directly. "I should like to know," I said, "what became of the other young man. Not Eardsley but—what was his name?—Lucas!" "We’re getting some light on the thing, anyway. It’s the diamonds all these people are after. It must have been to obtain possession of the diamonds that "The Man in the Brown Suit" killed Nadina." "He didn’t kill her," I said sharply. "Of course he killed her. Who else could have done so?" "I don’t know. But I’m sure he didn’t kill her." "He went into the house three minutes after her and came out as white as a sheet." "Because he found her dead." "But nobody else went in." "Then the murderer was in the house already, or else he got in some other way. There’s no need for him to pass the lodge, he could have climbed over the wall." Suzanne glanced at me sharply. " "The Man in the Brown Suit," " she mused. "Who was he, I wonder? Anyway, he was identical with the "doctor" in the Tube. He would have had time to remove his makeup and follow the woman to Marlow. She and Carton were to have met there, they both had an order to view the same house, and if they took such elaborate precautions to make their meeting appear accidental they must have suspected they were being followed. All the same, Carton did not know that his shadower was the "Man in the Brown Suit." When he recognized him, the shock was so great that he lost his head completely and stepped back onto the line. That all seems pretty clear, don’t you think so, Anne!" I did not reply. "Yes, that’s how it was. He took the paper from the dead man, and in his hurry to get away he dropped it. Then he followed the woman to Marlow. What did he do when he left there, when he had killed her—or, according to you, found her dead? Where did he go?" Still I said nothing. "I wonder, now," said Suzanne musingly. "Is it possible that he induced Sir Eustace Pedler to bring him on board as his secretary? It would be a unique chance of getting safely out of England, and dodging the hue and cry. But how did he square Sir Eustace? It looks as though he had some hold over him." "Or over Pagett," I suggested in spite of myself. "You don’t seem to like Pagett, Anne. Sir Eustace says he’s a most capable and hardworking young man. And, really, he may be for all we know against him. Well, to continue my surmises, Rayburn is "The Man in the Brown Suit." He had read the paper he dropped. Therefore, misled by the dot as you were, he attempts to reach Cabin 17 at one o’clock on the 22nd, having previously tried to get possession of the cabin through Pagett. On the way there somebody knifes him—" "Who?" I interpolated. "Chichester. Yes, it all fits in. Cable to Lord Nasby that you have found "The Man in the Brown Suit," and your fortune’s made, Anne!" "There are several things you’ve overlooked." "What things? Rayburn’s got a scar, I know—but a scar can be faked easily enough. He’s the right height and build.

"Right," he said. "I’ll humour you so far, Charles, and I’ll bet you ten pounds to one that there’s nothing in it but honest-to-God gin and vermouth." "Done," said Sir Charles. Then he added with a rueful smile: "You know, Tollie, you are partly responsible for my flights of fancy." "I?" "Yes, with your talk of crime this morning. You said this man, Hercule Poirot, was a kind of stormy petrel, that where he went crimes followed. No sooner does he arrive than we have a suspiciously sudden death. Of course my thoughts fly to murder at once." "I wonder," said Mr. Satterthwaite, and stopped. "Yes," said Charles Cartwright. "I’d thought of that. What do you think, Tollie? Could we ask him what he thinks of it all? Is it etiquette, I mean?" "A nice point," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. "I know medical etiquette, but I’m hanged if I know anything about the etiquette of detection." "You can’t ask a professional singer to sing," murmured Mr. Satterthwaite. "Can one ask a professional detective to detect? Yes, a very nice point." "Just an opinion," said Sir Charles. There was a gentle tap on the door, and Hercule Poirot’s face appeared, peering in with an apologetic expression. "Come in, man," cried Sir Charles, springing up. "We were just talking of you." "I thought perhaps I might be intruding." "Not at all. Have a drink." "I thank you, no. I seldom drink the whisky. A glass of sirop, now—" But sirop was not included in Sir Charles’s conception of drinkable fluids. Having settled his guest in a chair, the actor went straight to the point. "I’m not going to beat about the bush," he said. "We were just talking of you, M. Poirot, and—and—of what happened tonight. Look here, do you think there’s anything wrong about it?" Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said: "Wrong? How do you mean that—wrong?" Bartholomew Strange said, "My friend has got an idea into his head that old Babbington was murdered." "And you do not think so—eh?" "We’d like to know what you think." Poirot said thoughtfully: "He was taken ill, of course, very suddenly—very suddenly indeed." "Just so." Mr. Satterthwaite explained the theory of suicide and his own suggestion of having a cocktail glass analysed. Poirot nodded approval. "That, at any rate, can do no harm. As a judge of human nature, it seems to me unlikely in the extreme that anyone could wish to do away with a charming and harmless old gentleman. Still less does the solution of suicide appeal to me. However, the cocktail glass will tell us one way or another." "And the result of the analysis, you think, will be—what?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Me? I can only guess. You ask me to guess what will be the result of the analysis?" "Yes—?" "Then I guess that they will find only the remains of a very excellent dry Martini." (He bowed to Sir Charles.) "To poison a man in a cocktail, one of many handed round on a tray—well, it would be a technique very—very—difficult. And if that charming old clergyman wanted to commit suicide, I do not think he would do it at a party. That would show a very decided lack of consideration for others, and Mr. Babbington struck me as a very considerate person." He paused. "That, since you ask me, is my opinion." There was a moment’s silence. Then Sir Charles gave a deep sigh. He opened one of the windows and looked out. "Wind’s gone round a point," he said. The sailor had come back and the Secret Service detective had disappeared. But to the observant Mr. Satterthwaite it seemed as though Sir Charles hankered slightly after the part he was not, after all, to play. Four A MODERN ELAINE "Yes, but what do you think, Mr. Satterthwaite? Really think?" Mr. Satterthwaite looked this way and that. There was no escape. Egg Lytton Gore had got him securely cornered on the fishing quay. Merciless, these modern young women—and terrifyingly alive.

Mrs Harter sat as usual in her straight-backed chair drawn up to the fireplace. All her preparations were made. That morning she had been to the bank, had drawn out £50 in notes and had handed them over to Elizabeth despite the latter’s tearful protests. She had sorted and arranged all her personal belongings and had labelled one or two pieces of jewellery with the names of friends or relations. She had also written out a list of instructions for Charles. The Worcester tea service was to go to Cousin Emma. The Sèvres jars to young William, and so on. Now she looked at the long envelope she held in her hand and drew from it a folded document. This was her will sent to her by Mr Hopkinson in accordance with her instructions. She had already read it carefully, but now she looked over it once more to refresh her memory. It was a short, concise document. A bequest of £50 to Elizabeth Marshall in consideration of faithful service, two bequests of £500 to a sister and a first cousin, and the remainder to her beloved nephew Charles Ridge-way. Mrs Harter nodded her head several times. Charles would be a very rich man when she was dead. Well, he had been a dear good boy to her. Always kind, always affectionate, and with a merry tongue which never failed to please her. She looked at the clock. Three minutes to the half hour. Well she was ready. And she was calm – quite calm. Although she repeated these last words to herself several times, her heart beat strangely and unevenly. She hardly realized it herself, but she was strung up to a fine point of over-wrought nerves. Half past nine. The wireless was switched on. What would she hear? A familiar voice announcing the weather forecast or that far-away voice belonging to a man who had died twenty-five years before? But she heard neither. Instead there came a familiar sound, a sound she knew well but which tonight made her feel as though an icy hand were laid on her heart. A fumbling at the door . . . It came again. And then a cold blast seemed to sweep though the room. Mrs Harter had now no doubt what her sensations were. She was afraid . . . She was more than afraid – she was terrified . . . And suddenly there came to her the thought: Twenty-five years is a long time. Patrick is a stranger to me now. Terror! That was what was invading her. A soft step outside the door – a soft halting footstep. Then the door swung silently open . . . Mrs Harter staggered to her feet, swaying slightly from side to side, her eyes fixed on the doorway, something slipped from her fingers into the grate. She gave a strangled cry which died in her throat. In the dim light of the doorway stood a familiar figure with chestnut beard and whiskers and an old- fashioned Victorian coat. Patrick had come for her! Her heart gave one terrified leap and stood still. She slipped to the ground in a huddled heap. There Elizabeth found her, an hour later. Dr Meynell was called at once and Charles Ridgeway was hastily recalled from his bridge party. But nothing could be done. Mrs Harter had gone beyond human aid. It was not until two days later that Elizabeth remembered the note given to her by her mistress. Dr Meynell read it with great interest and showed it to Charles Ridgeway. "A very curious coincidence," he said. "It seems clear that your aunt had been having hallucinations about her dead husband’s voice. She must have strung herself up to such a point that the excitement was fatal and when the time actually came she died of the shock." "Auto-suggestion?" said Charles. "Something of the sort. I will let you know the result of the autopsy as soon as possible, though I have no doubt of it myself." In the circumstances an autopsy was desirable, though purely as a matter of form. Charles nodded comprehendingly. On the preceding night, when the household was in bed, he had removed a certain wire which ran from the back of the wireless cabinet to his bedroom on the floor above. Also, since the evening had been a chilly one, he had asked Elizabeth to light a fire in his room, and in that fire he had burned a chestnut beard and whiskers. Some Victorian clothing belonging to his late uncle he replaced in the camphor-scented chest in the attic.

For one thing I am elderly. Nothing is more wearying than going over things you have written and trying to arrange them in proper sequence or turn them the other way round. I am perhaps talking to myself–a thing one is apt to do when one is a writer. One walks along the street, passing all the shops one meant to go into, or all the offices one ought to have visited, talking to oneself hard–not too loud, I hope–and rolling one’s eyes expressively, and then one suddenly sees people looking at one and drawing slightly aside, clearly thinking one is mad. Oh well, I suppose it is just the same as when I was four years old talking to the kittens. I am still talking to the kittens, in fact. III In March of the following year, as arranged, I went out to Ur. Max met me at the station. I had wondered if I should feel shy–after all we had been married only a short time before parting. Rather to my surprise, it was as if we had met the day before. Max had written me full letters, and I felt as well informed on the archaeological progress of that year’s dig as anyone possibly could be who was a novice in the subject. Before our journey home I spent some days at the Expedition House. Len and Katharine greeted me warmly and Max took me determinedly over the dig. We were unlucky in our weather, for there was a dust-storm blowing. It was then that I noticed that Max’s eyes were impervious to sand. While I stumbled along behind him, blinded by this wind-blown horror, Max, with his eyes apparently wide open, pointed out this, that and the other feature. My first idea was to race for the shelter of the house, but I stuck to it manfully, because in spite of great discomfort I was extremely interested to see all the things about which Max had written. With the season’s expedition at an end, we decided to go home by way of Persia. There was a small air service–German–which had just started running from Baghdad to Persia, and we went by that. It was a single-engined machine, with one pilot, and we felt extremely adventurous. Probably it was rather adventurous–we seemed to be flying into mountain peaks the entire time. The first stop was at Hamadan, the second at Teheran. From Teheran we flew to Shiraz, and I remember how beautiful it looked–like a dark emerald-green jewel in a great desert of greys and browns. Then, as one circled nearer, the emerald grew even more intense, and finally we came down to find a green city of oasis, palms, and gardens. I had not realised how much desert there was in Persia, and I now understood why the Persians so appreciated gardens–it was because it was so very difficult to have gardens. We went to one beautiful house, I remember. Years later, on our second visit to Shiraz, I tried hard to find it again, but failed. Then the third time we succeeded. I identified it because one of the rooms had various pictures painted in medallions on the ceiling and walls. One of them was of Holborn Viaduct. Apparently a Shah of Victorian times, after visiting London, had sent an artist back there with instructions to paint various medallions of scenes he wanted portrayed–and there, among them, many years later, was Holborn Viaduct still, a little bruised and scratched with wear. The house was already dilapidated, and was not lived in by then, but it was still beautiful, even if dangerous to walk about in. I used it as the setting for a short story called The House at Shiraz. From Shiraz we went by car to Isfahan. It was a long drive on a rough track, through desert the whole time, with now and then a meagre village. We had to stop the night in an excessively primitive rest-house. We had a rug from the car and bare boards to sleep on, and a rather doubtful-looking bandit in charge, aided by some ruffianly peasants. We passed an excessively painful night. The hardness of a board to sleep on is unbelievable; one would not think that one’s hips, elbows, and shoulders could get so bruised as they do in a few hours.

"It’s a fact, I believe. Every port watched for him and he bamboozled Pedler into bringing him out as his secretary!" "Not Mr. Pagett?" "Oh, not Pagett—the other fellow. Rayburn, he called himself." "Have they arrested him?" asked Suzanne. Under the table she gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. I waited breathlessly for an answer. "He seems to have disappeared into thin air." "How does Sir Eustace take it?" "Regards it as a personal insult offered him by Fate." An opportunity of hearing Sir Eustace’s views on the matter presented itself later in the day. We were awakened from a refreshing afternoon nap by a page boy with a note. In touching terms it requested the pleasure of our company at tea in his sitting room. The poor man was indeed in a pitiable state. He poured out his troubles to us, encouraged by Suzanne’s sympathetic murmurs. (She does that sort of thing very well.) "First a perfectly strange woman has the impertinence to get herself murdered in my house—on purpose to annoy me, I do believe. Why my house? Why, of all the houses in Great Britain, choose the Mill House? What harm had I ever done the woman that she must needs get herself murdered there?" Suzanne made one of her sympathetic noises again and Sir Eustace proceeded, in a still more aggrieved tone: "And, if that’s not enough, the fellow who murdered her has the impudence, the colossal impudence, to attach himself to me as my secretary. My secretary, if you please! I’m tired of secretaries, I won’t have any more secretaries. Either they’re concealed murderers or else they’re drunken brawlers. Have you seen Pagett’s black eye? But of course you have. How can I go about with a secretary like that? And his face is such a nasty shade of yellow too—just the colour that doesn’t go with a black eye. I’ve done with secretaries—unless I have a girl. A nice girl, with liquid eyes, who’ll hold my hand when I’m feeling cross. What about you, Miss Anne? Will you take on the job?" "How often shall I have to hold your hand?" I asked, laughing. "All day long," replied Sir Eustace gallantly. "I shan’t get much typing done at that rate," I reminded him. "That doesn’t matter. All this work is Pagett’s idea. He works me to death. I’m looking forward to leaving him behind in Cape Town." "He is staying behind?" "Yes, he’ll enjoy himself thoroughly sleuthing about after Rayburn. That’s the sort of thing that suits Pagett down to the ground. He adores intrigue. But I’m quite serious in my offer. Will you come? Mrs. Blair here is a competent chaperone, and you can have a half holiday every now and again to dig for bones." "Thank you very much, Sir Eustace," I said cautiously, "but I think I’m leaving for Durban tonight." "Now don’t be an obstinate girl. Remember, there are lots of lions in Rhodesia. You’ll like lions. All girls do." "Will they be practising low jumps?" I asked, laughing. "No, thank you very much, but I must go to Durban." Sir Eustace looked at me, sighed deeply, then opened the door of the adjoining room, and called to Pagett. "If you’ve quite finished your afternoon sleep, my dear fellow, perhaps you’d do a little work for a change." Guy Pagett appeared in the doorway. He bowed to us both, starting slightly at the sight of me, and replied in a melancholy voice: "I have been typing that memorandum all this afternoon, Sir Eustace." "Well, stop typing it then. Go down to the Trade Commissioner’s Office, or the Board of Agriculture, or the Chamber of Mines, or one of those places, and ask them to lend me some kind of a woman to take to Rhodesia. She must have liquid eyes and not object to my holding her hand." "Yes, Sir Eustace. I will ask for a competent shorthand-typist." "Pagett’s a malicious fellow," said Sir Eustace, after the secretary had departed. "I’d be prepared to bet that he’ll pick out some slab-faced creature on purpose to annoy me. She must have nice feet too—I forgot to mention that."

Can’t you come here?" But Celia would not leave Dermot – at the back of her mind that faint shadowy fear – "I might die." It was Grannie who took the matter into her own hands. She wrote to Celia in her thin spidery handwriting – now erratically astray on the paper owing to her failing sight. Dearest Celia: I have insisted on your mother going to you. It is very bad for you in your condition to have desires that are not satisfied. Your dear mother wants to go, I know, but doesn’t like leaving me alone with servants. I will not say anything about that, as one never knows who reads one’s letters. Be sure, dear child, to keep your feet up a good deal, and remember not to put your hand to your skin if you are looking at a piece of salmon or lobster. My mother put her hand to her neck when she was expecting and was looking at a piece of salmon at the time, and so your aunt Caroline was born with a mark like a piece of salmon on the side of her neck. I enclose a five-pound note (half – the other half follows separately), and be sure you buy yourself any little delicacy you fancy. With fond love, Your loving Grannie. Miriam’s visit was a great delight to Celia. They made her a bed in the sitting-room on the divan, and Dermot was particularly charming to her. It was doubtful if that would have affected Miriam, but his tenderness to Celia did. "I think perhaps it was jealousy that made me not like Dermot," she confessed. "You know, darling, even now, I can’t like anyone who has taken you away from me." On the third day of her visit Miriam got a telegram and hurried home. Grannie died a day later – almost her last words being to tell Celia never to jump off or on a bus. "Young married women never think of these things." Grannie had no idea that she was dying. She fretted because she was not getting on with the little bootikins she was knitting for Celia’s baby … She died without it having entered her head that she would not live to see her great grandchild. 8 Grannie’s death made little difference financially to Miriam and Celia. The larger part of her income had been a life interest from her third husband’s estate. Of the remaining money, various small legacies accounted for more than half of it. The remainder was left to Miriam and Celia. While Miriam was worse off (since Grannie’s income had helped to keep up the house) Celia was the possessor of a hundred a year of her own. With Dermot’s consent and approval she turned this over to Miriam to help with the upkeep of "home’. More than ever, now, she hated the idea of selling it, and her mother agreed. A country home to which Celia’s children could come – so Miriam visualized it. "And besides, darling, you may need it yourself one of these days – when I am gone. I should like to feel it was there to be a refuge to you." Celia thought refuge was a funny word to use, but she liked the idea of some day going to live at home with Dermot. Dermot, however, saw the matter differently. "Naturally you’re fond of your own home, but, all the same, I don’t suppose it will ever be of much use to us." "We might go and live there some day." "Yes, when we’re about a hundred and one. It’s too far from London to be any practical use." "Not when you retire from the army?" "Even then I shan’t want to sit down and stagnate. I shall want a job. And I’m not so sure about staying in the army after the war, but we needn’t talk about that now." Of what use to look forward? Dermot might still be ordered out to France again at any minute. He might be killed … "But I shall have his child," thought Celia. But she knew that no child could replace Dermot in her heart. Dermot meant more to her than anyone in the world and always would. 11 Motherhood 1 Celia’s child was born in July, and it was born in the same room where she had been born twenty-two years ago. Outside the deep green branches of the beech tree tapped against the window.

He stood there, his head a little on one side, smiling … Oh well, it would not be market day today. Rodney would be at his desk with no distractions. And her fears about clients thinking Rodney vague had been quite unfounded. He was by far the most popular member of the firm. Everyone liked him which was half the battle in a country solicitor’s practice. And but for me, thought Joan proudly, he’d have turned the whole thing down! Her thoughts went to that day when Rodney had told her about his uncle’s offer. It was an old-fashioned flourishing family business and it had always been understood that Rodney should go into it after he had passed his law exams. But Uncle Harry’s offer of a partnership and on such excellent terms was an unexpectedly happy occurrence. Joan had expressed her own delight and surprise and had congratulated Rodney warmly before she noticed that Rodney didn’t seem to be sharing in her sentiments. He had actually uttered the incredible words, "If I accept –" She had exclaimed dismayed, "But Rodney!" Clearly she remembered the white set face he had turned to her. She hadn’t realized before what a nervous person Rodney was. His hands picking up blades of turf were trembling. There was a curious pleading look in his dark eyes. He said: "I hate office life. I hate it." Joan was quick to sympathize. "Oh I know, darling. It’s been awfully stuffy and hard work and just sheer grind – not even interesting. But a partnership is different – I mean you’ll have an interest in the whole thing." "In contracts, leases, messuages, covenants, whereas, insomuch as heretofore –" Some absurd legal rigmarole he had trotted out, his mouth laughing, his eyes sad and pleading – pleading so hard with her. And she loved Rodney so much! "But it’s always been understood that you’d go into the firm." "Oh I know, I know. But how was I to guess I’d hate it so?" "But – I mean – what else – what do you want to do?" And he had said, very quickly and eagerly, the words pouring out in a rush: "I want to farm. There’s Little Mead coming into the market. It’s in a bad state – Horley’s neglected it – but that’s why one could get it cheap – and it’s good land, mark you …" And he had hurried on, outlining plans, talking in such technical terms that she had felt quite bewildered for she herself knew nothing of wheat or barley or the rotation of crops, or of pedigreed stocks or dairy herds. She could only say in a dismayed voice: "Little Mead – but that’s right out under Asheldown – miles from anywhere." "It’s good land, Joan – and a good position …" He was off again. She’d had no idea that Rodney could be so enthusiastic, could talk so much and with such eagerness. She said doubtfully, "But darling, would you ever make a living out of it?" "A living? Oh yes – a bare living anyway." "That’s what I mean. People always say there’s no money in farming." "Oh, there isn’t. Not unless you’re damned lucky – or unless you’ve got a lot of capital." "Well, you see – I mean, it isn’t practical." "Oh, but it is, Joan. I’ve got a little money of my own, remember, and with the farm paying its way and making a bit over we’d be all right. And think of the wonderful life we’d have! It’s grand, living on a farm!" "I don’t believe you know anything about it." "Oh yes, I do. Didn’t you know my mother’s father was a big farmer in Devonshire? We spent our holidays there as children. I’ve never enjoyed myself so much." It’s true what they say, she had thought, men are just like children … She said gently, "I daresay – but life isn’t holidays. We’ve got the future to think of, Rodney. There’s Tony." For Tony had been a baby of eleven months then. She added, "And there may be – others." He looked a quick question at her, and she smiled and nodded. "But don’t you see, Joan, that makes it all the better? It’s a good place for children, a farm. It’s a healthy place. They have fresh eggs and milk, and run wild and learn how to look after animals." "Oh but, Rodney, there are lots of other things to consider.

The girl might be at her wits" end for a comparatively small sum. Figure to yourself then what happens. She has taken the money, she descends the little staircase. When she is halfway down she hears the chink of glass from the hall. She has not a doubt of what it is—Parker coming to the study. At all costs she must not be found on the stairs—Parker will not forget it, he will think it odd. If the money is missed, Parker is sure to remember having seen her come down those stairs. She has just time to rush down to the study door—with her hand on the handle to show that she has just come out, when Parker appears in the doorway. She says the first thing that comes into her head, a repetition of Roger Ackroyd’s orders earlier in the evening, and then goes upstairs to her own room." "Yes, but later," persisted the inspector, "she must have realized the vital importance of speaking the truth? Why, the whole case hinges on it!" "Afterwards," said Poirot drily, "it was a little difficult for Mademoiselle Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and that there has been a robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is panic-stricken. Young women do not faint nowadays, monsieur, without considerable provocation. Eh bien! There it is. She is bound to stick to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl does not like to admit that she is a thief—especially before those whose esteem she is anxious to retain." Raglan brought his fist down with a thump on the table. "I’ll not believe it," he said. "It’s—it’s not credible. And you—you’ve known this all along?" "The possibility has been in my mind from the first," admitted Poirot. "I was always convinced that Mademoiselle Flora was hiding something from us. To satisfy myself, I made the little experiment I told you of. Dr. Sheppard accompanied me." "A test for Parker, you said it was," I remarked bitterly. "Mon ami," said Poirot apologetically, "as I told you at the time, one must say something." The inspector rose. "There’s only one thing for it," he declared. "We must tackle the young lady right away. You’ll come up to Fernly with me, M. Poirot?" "Certainly. Dr. Sheppard will drive us up in his car." I acquiesced willingly. On inquiry for Miss Ackroyd, we were shown into the billiard room. Flora and Major Hector Blunt were sitting on the long window seat. "Good morning, Miss Ackroyd," said the inspector. "Can we have a word or two alone with you?" Blunt got up at once and moved to the door. "What is it?" asked Flora nervously. "Don’t go, Major Blunt. He can stay, can’t he?" she asked, turning to the inspector. "That’s as you like," said the inspector drily. "There’s a question or two it’s my duty to put to you, miss, but I’d prefer to do so privately, and I dare say you’d prefer it also." Flora looked keenly at him. I saw her face grow whiter. Then she turned and spoke to Blunt. "I want you to stay—please—yes, I mean it. Whatever the inspector has to say to me, I’d rather you heard it." Raglan shrugged his shoulders. "Well, if you will have it so, that’s all there is to it. Now, Miss Ackroyd, M. Poirot here has made a certain suggestion to me. He suggests that you weren’t in the study at all last Friday night, that you never saw Mr. Ackroyd to say goodnight to him, that instead of being in the study you were on the stairs leading down from your uncle’s bedroom when you heard Parker coming across the hall." Flora’s gaze shifted to Poirot. He nodded back at her. "Mademoiselle, the other day, when we sat round the table, I implored you to be frank with me. What one does not tell to Papa Poirot he finds out. It was that, was it not?

Cloade went on: "What can I do for you, M. Poirot? As a family, I feel we owe you a debt of gratitude—for finding Major Porter to give evidence of identification." "The family seems very jubilant about it," said Poirot. "Ah," said Jeremy dryly. "Rather premature to rejoice. Lot of water’s got to pass under the bridge yet. After all, Underhay’s death was accepted in Africa. Takes years to upset a thing of this kind—and Rosaleen’s evidence was very positive—very positive indeed. She made a good impression you know." It seemed almost as though Jeremy Cloade was unwilling to bank upon any improvement in his prospects. "I wouldn’t like to give a ruling one way or the other," he said. "Couldn’t say how a case would go." Then, pushing aside some papers with a fretful, almost weary gesture, he said: "But you wanted to see me?" "I was going to ask you, Mr. Cloade, if you are really quite certain your brother did not leave a will? A will made subsequent to his marriage, I mean?" Jeremy looked surprised. "I don’t think there’s ever been any idea of such a thing. He certainly didn’t make one before leaving New York." "He might have made one during the two days he was in London." "Gone to a lawyer there?" "Or written one out himself." "And got it witnessed? Witnessed by whom?" "There were three servants in the house," Poirot reminded him. "Three servants who died the same night he did." "H’m—yes—but if by any chance he did do what you suggest, well, the will was destroyed too." "That is just the point. Lately a great many documents believed to have perished completely have actually been deciphered by a new process. Incinerated inside home safes, for instance, but not so destroyed that they cannot be read." "Well, really, M. Poirot, that is a most remarkable idea of yours…Most remarkable. But I don’t think—no, I really don’t believe there is anything in it…So far as I know there was no safe in the house in Sheffield Terrace. Gordon kept all valuable papers, etc., at his office—and there was certainly no will there." "But one might make inquiries?" Poirot was persistent. "From the A.R.P. officials, for instance? You would authorize me to do that?" "Oh, certainly—certainly. Very kind of you to offer to undertake such a thing. But I haven’t any belief whatever, I’m afraid, in your success. Still—well, it is an offchance, I suppose. You—you’ll be going back to London at once, then?" Poirot’s eyes narrowed. Jeremy’s tone had been unmistakably eager. Going back to London…Did they all want him out of the way? Before he could answer, the door opened and Frances Cloade came in. Poirot was struck by two things. First, by the fact that she looked shockingly ill. Secondly, by her very strong resemblance to the photograph of her father. "M. Hercule Poirot has come to see us, my dear," said Jeremy rather unnecessarily. She shook hands with him and Jeremy Cloade immediately outlined to her Poirot’s suggestion about a will. Frances looked doubtful. "It seems a very outside chance." "M. Poirot is going up to London and will very kindly make inquiries." "Major Porter, I understand, was an Air Raid Warden in that district," said Poirot. A curious expression passed over Mrs. Cloade’s face. She said: "Who is Major Porter?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "A retired Army officer, living on his pension." "He really was in Africa?" Poirot looked at her curiously. "Certainly, Madame. Why not?" She said almost absently, "I don’t know. He puzzled me." "Yes, Mrs. Cloade," said Poirot. "I can understand that." She looked sharply at him. An expression almost of fear came into her eyes. Turning to her husband she said: "Jeremy, I feel very much distressed about Rosaleen. She is all alone at Furrowbank and she must be frightfully upset over David’s arrest. Would you object if I asked her to come here and stay?" "Do you really think that is advisable, my dear?" Jeremy sounded doubtful. "Oh—advisable? I don’t know! But one is human. She is such a helpless creature."

Petherick and placed himself in his hands. Mr. Petherick went on to say that they had that afternoon consulted Sir Malcolm Olde, K.C., and that in the event of the case coming to trial Sir Malcolm had been briefed to defend Mr. Rhodes. Sir Malcolm was a young man, Mr. Petherick said, very up to date in his methods, and he had indicated a certain line of defence. But with that line of defence Mr. Petherick was not entirely satisfied. "You see, my dear lady," he said, "it is tainted with what I call the specialist’s point of view. Give Sir Malcolm a case and he sees only one point—the most likely line of defence. But even the best line of defence may ignore completely what is, to my mind, the vital point. It takes no account of what actually happened." Then he went on to say some very kind and flattering things about my acumen and judgement and my knowledge of human nature, and asked permission to tell me the story of the case in the hopes that I might be able to suggest some explanation. I could see that Mr. Rhodes was highly sceptical of my being of any use and he was annoyed at being brought here. But Mr. Petherick took no notice and proceeded to give me the facts of what occurred on the night of March 8th. Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes had been staying at the Crown Hotel in Barnchester. Mrs. Rhodes who (so I gathered from Mr. Petherick’s careful language) was perhaps just a shade of a hypochondriac, had retired to bed immediately after dinner. She and her husband occupied adjoining rooms with a connecting door. Mr. Rhodes, who is writing a book on prehistoric flints, settled down to work in the adjoining room. At eleven o’clock he tidied up his papers and prepared to go to bed. Before doing so, he just glanced into his wife’s room to make sure that there was nothing she wanted. He discovered the electric light on and his wife lying in bed stabbed through the heart. She had been dead at least an hour—probably longer. The following were the points made. There was another door in Mrs. Rhodes’s room leading into the corridor. This door was locked and bolted on the inside. The only window in the room was closed and latched. According to Mr. Rhodes nobody had passed through the room in which he was sitting except a chambermaid bringing hot-water bottles. The weapon found in the wound was a stiletto dagger which had been lying on Mrs. Rhodes’s dressing table. She was in the habit of using it as a paper knife. There were no fingerprints on it. The situation boiled down to this—no one but Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid had entered the victim’s room. I enquired about the chambermaid. "That was our first line of enquiry," said Mr. Petherick. "Mary Hill is a local woman. She had been chambermaid at the Crown for ten years. There seems absolutely no reason why she should commit a sudden assault on a guest. She is, in any case, extraordinarily stupid, almost half-witted. Her story has never varied. She brought Mrs. Rhodes her hot-water bottle and says the lady was drowsy—just dropping off to sleep. Frankly, I cannot believe, and I am sure no jury would believe, that she committed the crime." Mr. Petherick went on to mention a few additional details. At the head of the staircase in the Crown Hotel is a kind of miniature lounge where people sometimes sit and have coffee. A passage goes off to the right and the last door in it is the door into the room occupied by Mr. Rhodes. The passage then turns sharply to the right again and the first door round the corner is the door into Mrs. Rhodes’s room. As it happened, both these doors could be seen by witnesses. The first door—that into Mr. Rhodes’s room, which I will call A, could be seen by four people, two commercial travellers and an elderly married couple who were having coffee. According to them nobody went in or out of door A except Mr. Rhodes and the chambermaid. As to the other door in the passage B, there was an electrician at work there and he also swears that nobody entered or left door B except the chambermaid.

"There’s a whole crowd of people hidden away here," said Peters. "There’s Schwartz of Munich, there’s Helga Needheim, there are Jeffreys and Davidson, the English scientists, there’s Paul Wade from the U.S.A., there are the Italians, Ricochetti and Bianco, there’s Murchison. They’re all right here in this building. There’s a system of closing bulkheads that’s quite impossible to detect by the naked eye. There’s a whole network of secret laboratories cut right down into the rock." "God bless my soul," ejaculated the American Ambassador. He looked searchingly at the dignified African figure, and then he began to laugh. "I wouldn’t say I’d recognize you even now," he said. "That’s the injection of paraffin in the lips, sir, to say nothing of black pigment." "If you’re Peters, what’s the number you go under in the F.B.I.?" "813471, sir." "Right," said the Ambassador, "and the initials of your other name?" "B.A.P.G., sir." The Ambassador nodded. "This man is Peters," he said. He looked towards the Minister. The Minister hesitated, then cleared his throat. "You claim," he demanded of Peters, "that people are being detained here against their will?" "Some are here willingly, Excellence, and some are not." "In that case," said the Minister, "statements must be taken—er—yes, yes, statements must certainly be taken." He looked at the Prefect of Police. The latter stepped forward. "Just a moment, please." Mr. Aristides raised a hand. "It would seem," he said, in a gentle, precise voice, "that my confidence here has been greatly abused." His cold glance went from Van Heidem to the Director and there was implacable command in it. "As to what you have permitted yourselves to do, gentlemen, in your enthusiasm for science, I am not as yet quite clear. My endowment of this place was purely in the interests of research. I have taken no part in the practical application of its policy. I would advise you, Monsieur Le Directeur, if this accusation is borne out by facts, to produce immediately those people who are suspected of being detained here unlawfully." "But, Monsieur, it is impossible. I—it will be—" "Any experiment of that kind," said Mr. Aristides, "is at an end." His calm, financier’s gaze swept over his guests. "I need hardly assure you, Messieurs," he said, "that if anything illegal is going on here, it has been no concern of mine." It was an order, and understood as such because of his wealth, because of his power and because of his influence. Mr. Aristides, that world famous figure, would not be implicated in this affair. Yet, even though he himself escaped unscathed, it was nevertheless defeat. Defeat for his purpose, defeat for that brains pool from which he had hoped to profit so greatly. Mr. Aristides was unperturbed by failure. It had happened to him occasionally, in the course of his career. He had always accepted it philosophically and gone on to the next coup. He made an oriental gesture of his hand. "I wash my hands of this affair," he said. The Prefect of Police bustled forward. He had had his cue now, he knew what his instructions were and he was prepared to go ahead with the full force of his official position. "I want no obstructions," he said. "It is my duty to investigate fully." His face very pale, Van Heidem stepped forward. "If you will come this way," he said, "I will show you our reserve accommodation." Twenty-one "Oh, I feel as if I’d woken up out of a nightmare," sighed Hilary. She stretched her arms wide above her head. They were sitting on the terrace of a hotel in Tangier. They had arrived there that morning by plane. Hilary went on: "Did it all happen? It can’t have!" "It happened all right," said Tom Betterton, "but I agree with you, Olive, it was a nightmare. Ah well, I’m out of it now." Jessop came along the terrace and sat down beside them. "Where’s Andy Peters?" asked Hilary. "He’ll be here presently," said Jessop. "He has a bit of business to attend to."

I mean, they all wear veils and things like that. Though they take them off in Paris and Cairo, I believe. And in London, of course," she added. "Anyway, you had no feeling of having seen anyone at Meadowbank whom you had seen before?" "No, I’m sure I hadn’t. Of course most people do look rather alike and you might have seen them anywhere. It’s only when somebody’s got an odd sort of face like Miss Rich, that you notice it." "Did you think you’d seen Miss Rich somewhere before?" "I hadn’t really. It must have been someone like her. But it was someone much fatter than she was." "Someone much fatter," said Poirot thoughtfully. "You couldn’t imagine Miss Rich being fat," said Jennifer with a giggle. "She’s so frightfully thin and nobbly. And anyway Miss Rich couldn’t have been in Ramat because she was away ill last term." "And the other girls?" said Poirot, "had you seen any of the girls before?" "Only the ones I knew already," said Jennifer. "I did know one or two of them. After all, you know, I was only there three weeks and I really don’t know half of the people there even by sight. I wouldn’t know most of them if I met them tomorrow." "You should notice things more," said Poirot severely. "One can’t notice everything," protested Jennifer. She went on: "If Meadowbank is carrying on I would like to go back. See if you can do anything with Mummy. Though really," she added, "I think it’s Daddy who’s the stumbling block. It’s awful here in the country. I get no opportunity to improve my tennis." "I assure you I will do what I can," said Poirot. Twenty-one GATHERING THREADS I "I want to talk to you, Eileen," said Miss Bulstrode. Eileen Rich followed Miss Bulstrode into the latter’s sitting room. Meadowbank was strangely quiet. About twenty-five pupils were still there. Pupils whose parents had found it either difficult or unwelcome to fetch them. The panic- stricken rush had, as Miss Bulstrode had hoped, been checked by her own tactics. There was a general feeling that by next term everything would have been cleared up. It was much wiser of Miss Bulstrode, they felt, to close the school. None of the staff had left. Miss Johnson fretted with too much time on her hands. A day in which there was too little to do did not in the least suit her. Miss Chadwick, looking old and miserable, wandered round in a kind of coma of misery. She was far harder hit to all appearance than Miss Bulstrode. Miss Bulstrode, indeed, managed apparently without difficulty to be completely herself, unperturbed, and with no sign of strain or collapse. The two younger mistresses were not averse to the extra leisure. They bathed in the swimming pool, wrote long letters to friends and relations and sent for cruise literature to study and compare. Ann Shapland had a good deal of time on her hands and did not appear to resent the fact. She spent a good deal of that time in the garden and devoted herself to gardening with quite unexpected efficiency. That she preferred to be instructed in the work by Adam rather than by old Briggs was perhaps a not unnatural phenomenon. "Yes, Miss Bulstrode?" said Eileen Rich. "I’ve been wanting to talk to you," said Miss Bulstrode. "Whether this school can continue or not I do not know. What people will feel is always fairly incalculable because they will all feel differently. But the result will be that whoever feels most strongly will end by converting all the rest. So either Meadowbank is finished—" "No," said Eileen Rich, interrupting, "not finished." She almost stamped her foot and her hair immediately began coming down. "You mustn’t let it be stopped," she said. "It would be a sin—a crime." "You speak very strongly," said Miss Bulstrode. "I feel strongly. There are so many things that really don’t seem worthwhile a bit, but Meadowbank does seem worthwhile. It seemed worthwhile to me the first moment I came here." "You’re a fighter," said Miss Bulstrode. "I like fighters, and I assure you that I don’t intend to give in tamely. In a way I’m going to enjoy the fight.

There was a sudden bitterness in Lucia’s voice. "He was never a friend," she said. "Oh, I see. Merely an acquaintance. But he accepted your generous invitation to stay. I often think foreigners are inclined to be a little pushy. Oh, I don’t mean you, of course, dear –" Miss Amory had the grace to pause and blush. "I mean, well, you’re half English in any case." She looked archly at her nephew, and continued, "In fact, she’s quite English now, isn’t she, Richard?" Richard Amory did not respond to his aunt’s archness, but moved towards the door and opened it, as though in invitation to Miss Amory to return to the others. "Well," said that lady as she moved reluctantly to the door, "if you’re sure I can’t do anything more –" "No, no." Richard’s tone was as abrupt as his words, as he held the door open for her. With an uncertain gesture, and a last nervous smile at Lucia, Miss Amory left. Emitting a sigh of relief, Richard shut the door after her, and came back to his wife. "Natter, natter, natter," he complained. "I thought she’d never go." "She was only trying to be kind, Richard." "Oh, I dare say she was. But she tries a damn sight too hard." "I think she’s fond of me," murmured Lucia. "What? Oh, of course." Richard Amory’s tone was abstracted. He stood, observing his wife closely. For a few moments there was a constrained silence. Then, moving nearer to her, Richard looked down at Lucia. "You’re sure there’s nothing I can get you?" Lucia looked up at him, forcing a smile. "Nothing, really, thank you, Richard. Do go back to the dining-room. I really am perfectly all right now." "No," replied her husband. "I’ll stay with you." "But I’d rather be alone." There was a pause. Then Richard spoke again, as he moved behind the settee. "Cushions all right? Would you like another one under your head?" "I am quite comfortable as I am," Lucia protested. "It would be nice to have some air, though. Could you open the window?" Richard moved to the french windows and fumbled with the catch. "Damn!" he exclaimed. "The old boy’s locked it with one of those patent catches of his. You can’t open it without the key." Lucia shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, well," she murmured, "it really doesn’t matter." Richard came back from the french windows, and sat in one of the chairs by the table. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. "Wonderful fellow, the old man. Always inventing something or other." "Yes," replied Lucia. "He must have made a lot of money out of his inventions." "Pots of it," said Richard, gloomily. "But it isn’t the money that appeals to him. They’re all the same, these scientists. Always on the track of something utterly impracticable that can be of no earthly interest to anyone other than themselves. Bombarding the atom, for heaven’s sake!" "But all the same, he is a great man, your father." "I suppose he’s one of the leading scientists of the day," said Richard grudgingly. "But he can’t see any point of view except his own." He spoke with increasing irritation. "He’s treated me damned badly." "I know," Lucia agreed. "He keeps you here, chained to this house, almost as though you were a prisoner. Why did he make you give up the army and come to live here?" "I suppose," said Richard, "that he thought I could help him in his work. But he ought to have known that I should be of no earthly use to him in that way. I simply haven’t got the brains for it." He moved his chair a little closer to Lucia, and leaned forward again. "My God, Lucia, it makes me feel pretty desperate, sometimes. There he is, rolling in money, and he spends every penny on those damned experiments of his. You’d think he’d let me have something of what will be mine some day, in any case, and allow me to get free of this place." Lucia sat upright. "Money!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Everything comes round to that. Money!"

After that, my nerve went completely. I dared trust nobody. "I think I almost hypnotized myself. After a while, I almost forgot that I was really Jane Finn. I was so bent on playing the part of Janet Vandemeyer that my nerves began to play tricks. I became really ill—for months I sank into a sort of stupor. I felt sure I should die soon, and that nothing really mattered. A sane person shut up in a lunatic asylum often ends by becoming insane, they say. I guess I was like that. Playing my part had become second nature to me. I wasn’t even unhappy in the end—just apathetic. Nothing seemed to matter. And the years went on. "And then suddenly things seemed to change. Mrs. Vandemeyer came down from London. She and the doctor asked me questions, experimented with various treatments. There was some talk of sending me to a specialist in Paris. In the end, they did not dare risk it. I overheard something that seemed to show that other people—friends—were looking for me. I learnt later that the nurse who had looked after me went to Paris, and consulted a specialist, representing herself to be me. He put her through some searching tests, and exposed her loss of memory to be fraudulent; but she had taken a note of his methods and reproduced them on me. I daresay I couldn’t have deceived the specialist for a minute—a man who has made a lifelong study of a thing is unique—but I managed once again to hold my own with them. The fact that I’d not thought of myself as Jane Finn for so long made it easier. "One night I was whisked off to London at a moment’s notice. They took me back to the house in Soho. Once I got away from the sanatorium I felt different—as though something in me that had been buried for a long time was waking up again. "They sent me in to wait on Mr. Beresford. (Of course I didn’t know his name then.) I was suspicious—I thought it was another trap. But he looked so honest, I could hardly believe it. However I was careful in all I said, for I knew we could be overheard. There’s a small hole, high up in the wall. "But on the Sunday afternoon a message was brought to the house. They were all very disturbed. Without their knowing, I listened. Word had come that he was to be killed. I needn’t tell the next part, because you know it. I thought I’d have time to rush up and get the papers from their hiding place, but I was caught. So I screamed out that he was escaping, and I said I wanted to go back to Marguerite. I shouted the name three times very loud. I knew the others would think I meant Mrs. Vandemeyer, but I hoped it might make Mr. Beresford think of the picture. He’d unhooked one the first day—that’s what made me hesitate to trust him." She paused. "Then the papers," said Sir James slowly, "are still at the back of the picture in that room." "Yes." The girl had sunk back on the sofa exhausted with the strain of the long story. Sir James rose to his feet. He looked at his watch. "Come," he said, "we must go at once." "Tonight? queried Tuppence, surprised. "Tomorrow may be too late," said Sir James gravely. "Besides, by going tonight we have the chance of capturing that great man and super-criminal—Mr. Brown!" There was dead silence, and Sir James continued: "You have been followed here—not a doubt of it. When we leave the house we shall be followed again, but not molested for it is Mr. Brown’s plan that we are to lead him. But the Soho house is under police supervision night and day. There are several men watching it. When we enter that house, Mr. Brown will not draw back—he will risk all, on the chance of obtaining the spark to fire his mine. And he fancies the risk not great—since he will enter in the guise of a friend!" Tuppence flushed, then opened her mouth impulsively. "But there’s something you don’t know—that we haven’t told you." Her eyes dwelt on Jane in perplexity. "What is that?" asked the other sharply.

Was it true what she had just said? Did the fact that death by violence – by malice aforethought – had taken place in a certain spot leave its impression on that spot so strongly that it was perceptible after many years? Psychic people said so. Did Styles definitely bear traces of that event that had occurred so long ago? Here, within these walls, in these gardens, thoughts of murder had lingered and grown stronger and had at last come to fruition in the final act. Did they still taint the air? Nurse Craven broke in on my thoughts by saying abruptly: "I was in a house where there was a murder case once. I’ve never forgotten it. One doesn’t, you know. One of my patients. I had to give evidence and everything. Made me feel quite queer. It’s a nasty experience for a girl." "It must be. I know myself –" I broke off as Boyd Carrington came striding round the corner of the house. As usual, his big, buoyant personality seemed to sweep away shadows and intangible worries. He was so large, so sane, so out-of-doors – one of those lovable, forceful personalities that radiate cheerfulness and common sense. "Morning, Hastings, morning, Nurse. Where’s Mrs Franklin?" "Good morning, Sir William. Mrs Franklin’s down at the bottom of the garden under the beech tree near the laboratory." "And Franklin, I suppose, is inside the laboratory?" "Yes, Sir William – with Miss Hastings." "Wretched girl. Fancy being cooped up doing stinks on a morning like this! You ought to protest, Hastings." Nurse Craven said quickly: "Oh, Miss Hastings is quite happy. She likes it, you know, and the doctor couldn’t do without her, I’m sure." "Miserable fellow," said Boyd Carrington. "If I had a pretty girl like your Judith as a secretary, I’d be looking at her instead of at guinea pigs, eh, what?" It was the kind of joke that Judith would particularly have disliked but it went down quite well with Nurse Craven who laughed a good deal. "Oh, Sir William," she exclaimed. "You really mustn’t say things like that. I’m sure we all know what you’d be like! But poor Dr Franklin is so serious – quite wrapped up in his work." Boyd Carrington said cheerfully: "Well, his wife seems to have taken up her position where she can keep her eye on her husband. I believe she’s jealous." "You know far too much, Sir William!" Nurse Craven seemed delighted with this badinage. She said reluctantly: "Well, I suppose I ought to be going to see about Mrs Franklin’s malted milk." She moved away slowly and Boyd Carrington stood looking after her. "Good-looking girl," he remarked. "Lovely hair and teeth. Fine specimen of womanhood. Must be a dull life on the whole always looking after sick people. A girl like that deserves a better fate." "Oh, well," I said. "I suppose she’ll marry one day." "I expect so." He sighed – and it occurred to me that he was thinking of his dead wife. Then he said: "Like to come over with me to Knatton and see the place?" "Rather. I’d like to. I’ll just see first if Poirot needs me." I found Poirot sitting on the veranda, well muffled up. He encouraged me to go. "But certainly go, Hastings, go. It is, I believe, a most handsome property. You should certainly see it." "I’d like to. But I didn’t want to desert you." "My faithful friend! No, no, go with Sir William. A charming man, is he not?" "First class," I said with enthusiasm. Poirot smiled. "Ah yes. I thought he was your type." III I enjoyed my expedition enormously. Not only was the weather fine – a really lovely summer’s day – but I enjoyed the companionship of the man. Boyd Carrington had that personal magnetism, that wide experience of life and of places that made him excellent company. He told me stories of his administrative days in India, some intriguing details of East African tribal lore, and was altogether so interesting that I was quite taken out of myself and forgot my worries about Judith and the deep anxieties that Poirot’s revelations had given me. I liked, too, the way Boyd Carrington spoke of my friend. He had a deep respect for him – both for his work and his character.