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If, however, Léonie felt she ought to go to the police, she must do so, but it would be very unpleasant for her—and so on. "Léonie took immediate fright at the mention of the police. She adored you and had implicit faith in what M. le docteur thought best. Kennedy paid her a handsome sum of money and hustled her back to Switzerland. But before she went, she hinted something to Lily as to your father’s having killed his wife and that she had seen the body buried. That fitted in with Lily’s ideas at the time. She took it for granted that it was Kelvin Halliday Léonie had seen digging the grave." "But Kennedy didn’t know that, of course," said Gwenda. "Of course not. When he got Lily’s letter the words in it that frightened him were that Léonie had told Lily what she had seen out of the window and the mention of the car outside." "The car? Jackie Afflick’s car?" "Another misunderstanding. Lily remembered, or thought she remembered, a car like Jackie Afflick’s being outside in the road. Already her imagination had got to work on the Mystery Man who came over to see Mrs. Halliday. With the hospital next door, no doubt a good many cars did park along this road. But you must remember that the doctor’s car was actually standing outside the hospital that night—he probably leaped to the conclusion that she meant his car. The adjective posh was meaningless to him." "I see," said Giles. "Yes, to a guilty conscience that letter of Lily’s might look like blackmail. But how do you know all about Léonie?" Her lips pursed close together, Miss Marple said: "He went—right over the edge, you know. As soon as the men Inspector Primer had left rushed in and seized him, he went over the whole crime again and again—everything he’d done. Léonie died, it seems, very shortly after her return to Switzerland. Overdose of some sleeping tablets … Oh no, he wasn’t taking any chances." "Like trying to poison me with the brandy." "You were very dangerous to him, you and Giles. Fortunately you never told him about your memory of seeing Helen dead in the hall. He never knew there had been an eyewitness." "Those telephone calls to Fane and Afflick," said Giles. "Did he put those through?" "Yes. If there was an enquiry as to who could have tampered with the brandy, either of them would make an admirable suspect, and if Jackie Afflick drove over in his car alone, it might tie him in with Lily Kimble’s murder. Fane would most likely have an alibi." "And he seemed fond of me," said Gwenda. "Little Gwennie." "He had to play his part," said Miss Marple. "Imagine what it meant to him. After eighteen years, you and Giles come along, asking questions, burrowing into the past, disturbing a murder that had seemed dead but was only sleeping … Murder in retrospect … A horribly dangerous thing to do, my dears. I have been sadly worried." "Poor Mrs. Cocker," said Gwenda. "She had a terribly near escape. I’m glad she’s going to be all right. Do you think she’ll come back to us, Giles? After all this?" "She will if there’s a nursery," said Giles gravely, and Gwenda blushed, and Miss Marple smiled a little and looked out across Torbay. "How very odd it was that it should happen the way it did," mused Gwenda. "My having those rubber gloves on, and looking at them, and then his coming into the hall and saying those words that sounded so like the others. "Face’… and then: "Eyes dazzled’—" She shuddered. "Cover her face … Mine eyes dazzle … she died young … that might have been me … if Miss Marple hadn’t been there." She paused and said softly, "Poor Helen … Poor lovely Helen, who died young … You know, Giles, she isn’t there anymore—in the house—in the hall. I could feel that yesterday before we left. There’s just the house. And the house is fond of us. We can go back if we like…."

And I know who put the jewel box in my room. I know everything…Do not lie to me, Kameni. I tell you I know." Kameni made no protest. He stood looking at her steadily and his gaze did not falter. When he spoke, his voice was grave and for once there was no smile on his face. "I shall not lie to you, Renisenb." He waited for a moment, frowning a little as though trying to arrange his thoughts. "In a way, Renisenb, I am glad that you do know. Though it is not quite as you think." "You gave the broken amulet to her–as you would have given it to me–as a sign that you were halves of the same whole. Those were your words." "You are angry, Renisenb. I am glad because that shows that you love me. But all the same I must make you understand. I did not give the amulet to Nofret. She gave it to me…" He paused. "Perhaps you do not believe me, but it is true. I swear that it is true." Renisenb said slowly: "I will not say that I do not believe you…That may very well be true." Nofret’s dark, unhappy face rose up before her eyes. Kameni was going on, eagerly, boyishly… "Try and understand, Renisenb. Nofret was very beautiful. I was flattered and pleased–who would not be? But I never really loved her–" Renisenb felt an odd pang of pity. No, Kameni had not loved Nofret–but Nofret had loved Kameni–had loved him despairingly and bitterly. It was at just this spot on the Nile bank that she had spoken to Nofret that morning, offering her friendship and affection. She remembered only too well the dark tide of hate and misery that had emanated from the girl then. The cause of it was clear enough now. Poor Nofret–the concubine of a fussy, elderly man, eating her heart out for love of a gay, careless, handsome young man who had cared little or nothing for her. Kameni was going on eagerly. "Do you not understand, Renisenb, that as soon as I came here, I saw you and loved you? That from that moment I thought of no one else? Nofret saw it plainly enough." Yes, Renisenb thought, Nofret had seen it. Nofret had hated her from that moment–and Renisenb did not feel inclined to blame her. "I did not even want to write the letter to your father. I did not want to have anything to do with Nofret’s schemes any more. But it was difficult–you must try and realize that it was difficult." "Yes, yes," Renisenb spoke impatiently. "All that does not matter. It is only Nofret that matters. She was very unhappy. She loved you, I think, very much." "Well, I did not love her." Kameni spoke impatiently. "You are cruel," said Renisenb. "No, I am a man, that is all. If a woman chooses to make herself miserable about me, it annoys me, that is the simple truth. I did not want Nofret. I wanted you. Oh, Renisenb, you cannot be angry with me for that?" In spite of herself she smiled. "Do not let Nofret who is dead make trouble between us who are living. I love you, Renisenb, and you love me and that is all that matters." Yes, Renisenb thought, that is all that matters… She looked at Kameni who stood with his head a little on one side, a pleading expression on his gay, confident face. He looked very young. Renisenb thought: "He is right. Nofret is dead and we are alive. I understand her hatred of me now–and I am sorry that she suffered–but it was not my fault. And it was not Kameni’s fault that he loved me and not her. These things happen." Teti, who had been playing on the River bank, came up and pulled her mother’s hand. "Shall we go home now? Mother–shall we go home?" Renisenb gave a deep sigh. "Yes," she said, "we will go home." They walked towards the house, Teti running a little way in front of them. Kameni gave a sigh of satisfaction.

He was a quite good-looking man of about forty with a rather expressionless face, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and carrying a briefcase. "Hello, darling," Henry greeted his wife, as he switched on the wall-bracket lights and put his briefcase on the armchair. "Hello, Henry," Clarissa replied. "Hasn’t it been an absolutely awful day?" "Has it?" He came across to lean over the back of the sofa and kiss her. "I hardly know where to begin," she told him. "Have a drink first." "Not just now," Henry replied, going to the French windows and closing the curtains. "Who’s in the house?" Slightly surprised at the question, Clarissa answered, "Nobody. It’s the Elgins" night off. Black Thursday, you know. We’ll dine on cold ham, chocolate mousse, and the coffee will be really good because I shall make it." A questioning "Um?" was Henry’s only response to this. Struck by his manner, Clarissa asked, "Henry, is anything the matter?" "Well, yes, in a way," he told her. "Something wrong?" she queried. "Is it Miranda?" "No, no, there’s nothing wrong, really," Henry assured her. "I should say quite the contrary. Yes, quite the contrary." "Darling," said Clarissa, speaking with affection and only a very faint note of ridicule, "do I perceive behind that impenetrable Foreign Office façade a certain human excitement?" Henry wore an air of pleasured anticipation. "Well," he admitted, "it is rather exciting in a way." He paused, then added, "As it happens, there’s a slight fog in London." "Is that very exciting?" Clarissa asked. "No, no, not the fog, of course." "Well?" Clarissa urged him. Henry looked quickly around, as though to assure himself that he could not be overheard, and then went across to the sofa to sit beside Clarissa. "You’ll have to keep this to yourself," he impressed upon her, his voice very grave. "Yes?" Clarissa prompted him, hopefully. "It’s really very secret," Henry reiterated. "Nobody’s supposed to know. But, actually, you’ll have to know." "Well, come on, tell me," she urged him. Henry looked around again, and then turned to Clarissa. "It’s all very hush- hush," he insisted. He paused for effect, and then announced, "The Soviet Premier, Kalendorff, is flying to London for an important conference with the Prime Minister tomorrow." Clarissa was unimpressed. "Yes, I know," she replied. Henry looked startled. "What do you mean, you know?" he demanded. "I read it in the paper last Sunday," Clarissa informed him casually. "I can’t think why you want to read these low-class papers," Henry expostulated. He sounded really put out. "Anyway," he continued, "the papers couldn’t possibly know that Kalendorff was coming over. It’s top secret." "My poor sweet," Clarissa murmured. Then, in a voice in which compassion was mixed with incredulity, she continued, "But top secret? Really! The things you high-ups believe." Henry rose and began to stride around the room, looking distinctly worried. "Oh dear, there must have been some leak," he muttered. "I should have thought," Clarissa observed tartly, "that by now you’d know there always is a leak. In fact I should have thought that you’d all be prepared for it." Henry looked somewhat affronted. "The news was only released officially tonight," he told her. "Kalendorff’s plane is due at Heathrow at eight-forty, but actually–" He leaned over the sofa and looked doubtfully at his wife. "Now, Clarissa," he asked her very solemnly, "can I really trust you to be discreet?" "I’m much more discreet than any Sunday newspaper," Clarissa protested, swinging her feet off the sofa and sitting up. Henry sat on an arm of the sofa and leaned towards Clarissa conspiratorially. "The conference will be at Whitehall tomorrow," he informed her, "but it would be a great advantage if a conversation could take place first between Sir John himself and Kalendorff. Now, naturally the reporters are all waiting at Heathrow, and the moment the plane arrives Kalendorff’s movements are more or less public property."

" Miss Lingard said fiercely: "Gervase Chevenix-Gore was a bully, a snob and a windbag! I wasn’t going to have him ruin Ruth’s happiness." Poirot said gently: "Ruth is your daughter?" "Yes—she is my daughter—I’ve often—thought about her. When I heard Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore wanted someone to help him with a family history, I jumped at the chance. I was curious to see my—my girl. I knew Lady Chevenix-Gore wouldn’t recognize me. It was years ago—I was young and pretty then, and I changed my name after that time. Besides Lady Chevenix-Gore is too vague to know anything definitely. I liked her, but I hated the Chevenix-Gore family. They treated me like dirt. And here was Gervase going to ruin Ruth’s life with pride and snobbery. But I determined that she should be happy. And she will be happy—if she never knows about me!" It was a plea—not a question. Poirot bent his head gently. "No one shall know from me." Miss Lingard said quietly: "Thank you." III Later, when the police had come and gone, Poirot found Ruth Lake with her husband in the garden. She said challengingly: "Did you really think that I had done it, M. Poirot?" "I knew, madame, that you could not have done it—because of the michaelmas daisies." "The michaelmas daisies? I don’t understand." "Madame, there were four footprints and four footprints only in the border. But if you had been picking flowers there would have been many more. That meant that between your first visit and your second, someone had smoothed all those footsteps away. That could only have been done by the guilty person, and since your footprints had not been removed, you were not the guilty person. You were automatically cleared." Ruth’s face lightened. "Oh, I see. You know—I suppose it’s dreadful, but I feel rather sorry for that poor woman. After all, she did confess rather than let me be arrested—or at any rate, that is what she thought. That was—rather noble in a way. I hate to think of her going through a trial for murder." Poirot said gently: "Do not distress yourself. It will not come to that. The doctor, he tells me that she has serious heart trouble. She will not live many weeks." "I’m glad of that." Ruth picked an autumn crocus and pressed it idly against her cheek. "Poor woman. I wonder why she did it. . . ." Two Hercule Poirot sat in the corner of a first-class carriage speeding through the English countryside. Meditatively he took from his pocket a neatly folded telegram, which he opened and reread: Take four-thirty from St. Pancras instruct guard have express stopped at Whimperley. Chevenix-Gore. He folded up the telegram again and put it back in his pocket. The guard on the train had been obsequious. The gentleman was going to Hamborough Close? Oh, yes, Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore’s guests always had the express stopped at Whimperley. "A special kind of prerogative, I think it is, sir." Since then the guard had paid two visits to the carriage—the first in order to assure the traveller that everything would be done to keep the carriage for himself, the second to announce that the express was running ten minutes late. The train was due to arrive at 7:50, but it was exactly two minutes past eight when Hercule Poirot descended on to the platform of the little country station and pressed the expected half crown into the attentive guard’s hand. There was a whistle from the engine, and the Northern Express began to move once more. A tall chauffeur in dark green uniform stepped up to Poirot. "Mr. Poirot? For Hamborough Close?" He picked up the detective’s neat valise and led the way out of the station. A big Rolls was waiting. The chauffeur held the door open for Poirot to get in, arranged a sumptuous fur rug over his knees, and they drove off. After some ten minutes of cross-country driving, round sharp corners and down country lanes, the car turned in at a wide gateway flanked with huge stone griffons. They drove through a park and up to the house.

That is to say I’ve known him for a period of, well, sixteen years I should say. Mind you, we are not the only firm of solicitors he employed, not by a long way." Inspector Neele nodded. He knew that. Billingsley, Horsethorpe & Walters were what one might describe as Rex Fortescue’s reputable solicitors. For his less reputable dealings he had employed several different and slightly less scrupulous firms. "Now what do you want to know?" continued Mr. Billingsley. "I’ve told you about his will. Percival Fortescue is the residuary legatee." "I’m interested now," said Inspector Neele, "in the will of his widow. On Mr. Fortescue’s death she came into the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, I understand?" Billingsley nodded his head. "A considerable sum of money," he said, "and I may tell you in confidence, Inspector, that it is one the firm could ill have afforded to pay out." "The firm, then, is not prosperous?" "Frankly," said Mr. Billingsley, "and strictly between ourselves, it’s drifting onto the rocks and has been for the last year and a half." "For any particular reason?" "Why yes. I should say the reason was Rex Fortescue himself. For the last year Rex Fortescue’s been acting like a madman. Selling good stock here, buying speculative stuff there, talking big about it all the time in the most extraordinary way. Wouldn’t listen to advice. Percival—the son, you know—he came here urging me to use my influence with his father. He’d tried, apparently and been swept aside. Well, I did what I could, but Fortescue wouldn’t listen to reason. Really, he seems to have been a changed man." "But not, I gather, a depressed man," said Inspector Neele. "No, no. Quite the contrary. Flamboyant, bombastic." Inspector Neele nodded. An idea which had already taken form in his mind was strengthened. He thought he was beginning to understand some of the causes of friction between Percival and his father. Mr. Billingsley was continuing: "But it’s no good asking me about the wife’s will. I didn’t make any will for her." "No. I know that," said Neele. "I’m merely verifying that she had something to leave. In short, a hundred thousand pounds." Mr. Billingsley was shaking his head violently. "No, no, my dear sir. You’re wrong there." "Do you mean the hundred thousand pounds was only left to her for her lifetime?" "No—no—it was left to her outright. But there was a clause in the will governing that bequest. That is to say, Fortescue’s wife did not inherit the sum unless she survived him for one month. That, I may say, is a clause fairly common nowadays. It has come into operation owing to the uncertainties of air travel. If two people are killed in an air accident, it becomes exceedingly difficult to say who was the survivor and a lot of very curious problems arise." Inspector Neele was staring at him. "Then Adele Fortescue had not got a hundred thousand pounds to leave. What happens to that money?" "It goes back into the firm. Or rather, I should say, it goes to the residuary legatee." "And the residuary legatee is Mr. Percival Fortescue." "That’s right," said Billingsley, "it goes to Percival Fortescue. And with the state the firm’s affairs are in," he added unguardedly, "I should say that he’ll need it!" IV "The things you policemen want to know," said Inspector Neele’s doctor friend. "Come on, Bob, spill it." "Well, as we’re alone together you can’t quote me, fortunately! But I should say, you know, that your idea’s dead right. GPI by the sound of it all. The family suspected it and wanted to get him to see a doctor. He wouldn’t. It acts just in the way you describe. Loss of judgment, megalomania, violent fits of irritation and anger—boastfulness—delusions of grandeur—of being a great financial genius.

"Our other guests are late," said Mr. Shaitana. "My fault, perhaps. I believe I told them 8:15." But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced: "Dr. Roberts." The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner. He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes, a touch of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint and a general air of well- scrubbed and disinfected medical practitioner. His manner was cheerful and confident. You felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and practical—"a little champagne in convalescence perhaps." A man of the world! "Not late, I hope?" said Dr. Roberts genially. He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed particularly gratified at meeting Battle. "Why, you’re one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren’t you? This is interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it. Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustn’t say so to my nervous patients—ha ha!" Again the door opened. "Mrs. Lorrimer." Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely cut features, beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice. "I hope I’m not late," she said, advancing to her host. She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted. The butler announced: "Major Despard." Major Despard was a tall, lean, handsome man, his face slightly marred by a scar on the temple. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of Colonel Race—and the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their experiences on safari. For the last time the door opened and the butler announced: "Miss Meredith." A girl in the early twenties entered. She was of medium height and pretty. Brown curls clustered in her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her face was powdered but not made-up. Her voice was slow and rather shy. She said: "Oh dear, am I the last?" Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious. Miss Meredith was left sipping her sherry by Poirot’s side. "Our friend is very punctilious," said Poirot with a smile. The girl agreed. "I know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say "I expect you know everybody" and leave it at that." "Whether you do or you don’t?" "Whether you do or don’t. Sometimes it makes it awkward—but I think this is more awe-inspiring." She hesitated and then said: "Is that Mrs. Oliver, the novelist?" Mrs. Oliver’s bass voice rose powerfully at that minute, speaking to Dr. Roberts. "You can’t get away from a woman’s instinct, doctor. Women know these things." Forgetting that she no longer had a brow she endeavoured to sweep her hair back from it but was foiled by the fringe. "That is Mrs. Oliver," said Poirot. "The one who wrote The Body in the Library?" "That identical one." Miss Meredith frowned a little. "And that wooden-looking man—a superintendent did Mr. Shaitana say?" "From Scotland Yard." "And you?" "And me?" "I know all about you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C. crimes." "Madamoiselle, you cover me with confusion." Miss Meredith drew her brows together. "Mr. Shaitana," she began and then stopped. "Mr. Shaitana—" Poirot said quietly: "One might say he was "crime-minded." It seems so. Doubtless he wishes to hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts. They are now discussing untraceable poisons." Miss Meredith gave a little gasp as she said: "What a queer man he is!" "Dr. Roberts?" "No, Mr. Shaitana." She shivered a little and said: "There’s always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never know what would strike him as amusing. It might—it might be something cruel." "Such as foxhunting, eh?" Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.

Immediately after supper, Mrs Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again. "Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I’ve just five minutes to catch the post." Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited. "Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?" she asked. "Will you take Mrs Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out." "Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will take it to Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully. Lawrence followed him, and Mrs Cavendish sat down by us. We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still. Mrs Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf. "It’s almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a thunderstorm." Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well-known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall. "Dr Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to come." I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary. In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud. "What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs Cavendish. "I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really mean to come in, but Mr Inglethorp insisted." "Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to." "Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond. "The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I’m afraid my appearance is very disreputable." At this juncture, Mrs Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out. "Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I’m going to bed." The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were, therefore, three witnesses who could swear that Mrs Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand. My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. "I’ll walk down to the village with you," said Mr Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key." Chapter 3 The Night of the Tragedy To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants" rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps" rooms were situated. !43.jpg It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. "What’s the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts. "We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in." "I’ll come at once." I sprang out of bed, and pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house. John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. "What do you think we had better do?" Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.

"Supposing someone wants to kill me . . . Could they do it this way? Could they make me dream that dream night after night?" "Hypnotism, you mean?" "Yes." Hercule Poirot considered the question. "It would be possible, I suppose," he said at last. "It is more a question for a doctor." "You don’t know of such a case in your experience?" "Not precisely on those lines, no." "You see what I’m driving at? I’m made to dream the same dream, night after night, night after night—and then—one day the suggestion is too much for me—and I act upon it. I do what I’ve dreamed of so often—kill myself!" Slowly Hercule Poirot shook his head. "You don’t think that is possible?" asked Farley. "Possible?" Poirot shook his head. "That is not a word I care to meddle with." "But you think it improbable?" "Most improbable." Benedict Farley murmured. "The doctor said so too . . ." Then his voice rising shrilly again, he cried out, "But why do I have this dream? Why? Why?" Hercule Poirot shook his head. Benedict Farley said abruptly, "You’re sure you’ve never come across anything like this in your experience?" "Never." "That’s what I wanted to know." Delicately, Poirot cleared his throat. "You permit," he said, "a question?" "What is it? What is it? Say what you like." "Who is it you suspect of wanting to kill you?" Farley snapped out, "Nobody. Nobody at all." "But the idea presented itself to your mind?" Poirot persisted. "I wanted to know—if it was a possibility." "Speaking from my own experience, I should say No. Have you ever been hypnotized, by the way?" "Of course not. D’you think I’d lend myself to such tomfoolery?" "Then I think one can say that your theory is definitely improbable." "But the dream, you fool, the dream." "The dream is certainly remarkable," said Poirot thoughtfully. He paused and then went on. "I should like to see the scene of this drama—the table, the clock, and the revolver." "Of course, I’ll take you next door." Wrapping the folds of his dressing gown round him, the old man half rose from his chair. Then suddenly, as though a thought had struck him, he resumed his seat. "No," he said. "There’s nothing to see there. I’ve told you all there is to tell." "But I should like to see for myself—" "There’s no need," Farley snapped. "You’ve given me your opinion. That’s the end." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "As you please." He rose to his feet. "I am sorry, Mr. Farley, that I have not been able to be of assistance to you." Benedict Farley was staring straight ahead of him. "Don’t want a lot of hanky-pankying around," he growled out. "I’ve told you the facts—you can’t make anything of them. That closes the matter. You can send me a bill for the consultation fee." "I shall not fail to do so," said the detective drily. He walked towards the door. "Stop a minute." The millionaire called him back. "That letter—I want it." "The letter from your secretary?" "Yes." Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He put his hand into his pocket, drew out a folded sheet, and handed it to the old man. The latter scrutinized it, then put it down on the table beside him with a nod. Once more Hercule Poirot walked to the door. He was puzzled. His busy mind was going over and over the story he had been told. Yet in the midst of his mental preoccupation, a nagging sense of something wrong obtruded itself. And that something had to do with himself—not with Benedict Farley. With his hand on the door knob, his mind cleared. He, Hercule Poirot, had been guilty of an error! He turned back into the room once more. "A thousand pardons! In the interest of your problem I have committed a folly! That letter I handed to you—by mischance I put my hand into my right-hand pocket instead of the left—" "What’s all this? What’s all this?"

"You take very good care of me, Cherry," said Miss Marple. "Got to," said Cherry, in her usual idiom. "Good people are scarce." "Well, thank you for the compliment," said Miss Marple, arriving safely with her last foot on the ground floor. "Nothing the matter, is there?" asked Cherry. "You look a bit rattled like, if you know what I mean." "No, nothing’s the matter," said Miss Marple. "I had rather an unusual letter from a firm of solicitors." "Nobody is suing you for anything, are they?" said Cherry, who was inclined to regard solicitors" letters as invariably associated with disaster of some kind. "Oh no, I don’t think so," said Miss Marple. "Nothing of that kind. They just asked me to call upon them next week in London." "Perhaps you’ve been left a fortune," said Cherry, hopefully. "That, I think, is very unlikely," said Miss Marple. "Well, you never know," said Cherry. Settling herself in her chair, and taking her knitting out of its embroidered knitting bag, Miss Marple considered the possibility of Mr. Rafiel having left her a fortune. It seemed even more unlikely than when Cherry had suggested it. Mr. Rafiel, she thought, was not that kind of a man. It was not possible for her to go on the date suggested. She was attending a meeting of the Women’s Institute to discuss the raising of a sum for building a small additional couple of rooms. But she wrote, naming a day in the following week. In due course her letter was answered and the appointment definitely confirmed. She wondered what Messrs. Broadribb and Schuster were like. The letter had been signed by J. R. Broadribb who was, apparently, the senior partner. It was possible, Miss Marple thought, that Mr. Rafiel might have left her some small memoir or souvenir in his will. Perhaps some book on rare flowers that had been in his library and which he thought would please an old lady who was keen on gardening. Or perhaps a cameo brooch which had belonged to some great-aunt of his. She amused herself by these fancies. They were only fancies, she thought, because in either case it would merely be a case of the Executors—if these lawyers were the Executors—forwarding her by post any such object. They would not have wanted an interview. "Oh well," said Miss Marple, "I shall know next Tuesday." II "Wonder what she’ll be like," said Mr. Broadribb to Mr. Schuster, glancing at the clock as he did so. "She’s due in a quarter of an hour," said Mr. Schuster. "Wonder if she’ll be punctual?" "Oh, I should think so. She’s elderly, I gather, and much more punctilious than the young scatterbrains of today." "Fat or thin, I wonder?" said Mr. Schuster. Mr. Broadribb shook his head. "Didn’t Rafiel ever describe her to you?" asked Mr. Schuster. "He was extraordinarily cagey in everything he said about her." "The whole thing seems very odd to me," said Mr. Schuster. "If we only knew a bit more about what it all meant…." "It might be," said Mr. Broadribb thoughtfully, "something to do with Michael." "What? After all these years? Couldn’t be. What put that into your head? Did he mention—" "No, he didn’t mention anything. Gave me no clue at all as to what was in his mind. Just gave me instructions." "Think he was getting a bit eccentric and all that towards the end?" "Not in the least. Mentally he was a brilliant as ever. His physical ill health never affected his brain, anyway. In the last two months of his life he made an extra two hundred thousand pounds. Just like that." "He had a flair," said Mr. Schuster with due reverence. "Certainly, he always had a flair." "A great financial brain," said Mr. Broadribb, also in a tone of reverence suitable to the sentiment. "Not many like him, more’s the pity." A buzzer went on the table. Mr. Schuster picked up the receiver. A female voice said, "Miss Jane Marple is here to see Mr. Broadribb by appointment." Mr.

Weak rather than vicious." "May be mental," said Melchett hopefully. Superintendent Harper nodded. He said: "Has it struck you, sir—that that may be the explanation of the whole case?" "Criminal lunatic, you mean?" "Yes, sir. One of those fellows who go about strangling young girls. Doctors have a long name for it." "That would solve all our difficulties," said Melchett. "There’s only one thing I don’t like about it," said Superintendent Harper. "What?" "It’s too easy." "H’m—yes—perhaps. So, as I said at the beginning where are we?" "Nowhere, sir," said Superintendent Harper. Twelve I Conway Jefferson stirred in his sleep and stretched. His arms were flung out, long, powerful arms into which all the strength of his body seemed to be concentrated since his accident. Through the curtains the morning light glowed softly. Conway Jefferson smiled to himself. Always, after a night of rest, he woke like this, happy, refreshed, his deep vitality renewed. Another day! So for a minute he lay. Then he pressed the special bell by his hand. And suddenly a wave of remembrance swept over him. Even as Edwards, deft and quiet-footed, entered the room, a groan was wrung from his master. Edwards paused with his hand on the curtains. He said: "You’re not in pain, sir?" Conway Jefferson said harshly: "No. Go on, pull ’em." The clear light flooded the room. Edwards, understanding, did not glance at his master. His face grim, Conway Jefferson lay remembering and thinking. Before his eyes he saw again the pretty, vapid face of Ruby. Only in his mind he did not use the adjective vapid. Last night he would have said innocent. A naïve, innocent child! And now? A great weariness came over Conway Jefferson. He closed his eyes. He murmured below his breath: "Margaret…." It was the name of his dead wife…. II "I like your friend," said Adelaide Jefferson to Mrs. Bantry. The two women were sitting on the terrace. "Jane Marple’s a very remarkable woman," said Mrs. Bantry. "She’s nice too," said Addie, smiling. "People call her a scandalmonger," said Mrs. Bantry, "but she isn’t really." "Just a low opinion of human nature?" "You could call it that." "It’s rather refreshing," said Adelaide Jefferson, "after having had too much of the other thing." Mrs. Bantry looked at her sharply. Addie explained herself. "So much high-thinking—idealization of an unworthy object!" "You mean Ruby Keene?" Addie nodded. "I don’t want to be horrid about her. There wasn’t any harm in her. Poor little rat, she had to fight for what she wanted. She wasn’t bad. Common and rather silly and quite good-natured, but a decided little gold-digger. I don’t think she schemed or planned. It was just that she was quick to take advantage of a possibility. And she knew just how to appeal to an elderly man who was—lonely." "I suppose," said Mrs. Bantry thoughtfully, "that Conway was lonely?" Addie moved restlessly. She said: "He was—this summer." She paused and then burst out: "Mark will have it that it was all my fault. Perhaps it was, I don’t know." She was silent for a minute, then, impelled by some need to talk, she went on speaking in a difficult, almost reluctant way. "I—I’ve had such an odd sort of life. Mike Carmody, my first husband, died so soon after we were married—it—it knocked me out. Peter, as you know, was born after his death. Frank Jefferson was Mike’s great friend. So I came to see a lot of him. He was Peter’s godfather—Mike had wanted that. I got very fond of him—and—oh! sorry for him too." "Sorry?" queried Mrs. Bantry with interest. "Yes, just that. It sounds odd. Frank had always had everything he wanted. His father and his mother couldn’t have been nicer to him. And yet—how can I say it?—you see, old Mr. Jefferson’s personality is so strong. If you live with it, you can’t somehow have a personality of your own. Frank felt that.

Motive and opportunity—why, she was alone in the house! Old Mrs. Archer could easily have got the pistol from Mr. Redding’s house for either of those two. And then, of course, there was Lettice—wanting freedom and money to do as she liked. I’ve known many cases where the most beautiful and ethereal girls have shown next to no moral scruple—though, of course, gentlemen never wish to believe it of them." I winced. "And then there was the tennis racquet," continued Miss Marple. "The tennis racquet?" "Yes, the one Mrs. Price Ridley’s Clara saw lying on the grass by the Vicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier from his tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very susceptible and so very unbalanced. Whatever the motive—for Lettice’s sake or for yours, it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was poor Mr. Hawes and you—not both of you naturally—but alternatively, as the lawyers say." "Me?" I exclaimed in lively astonishment. "Well, yes. I do apologize—and indeed I never really thought—but there was the question of those disappearing sums of money. Either you or Mr. Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about everywhere hinting that you were the person in fault—principally because you objected so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the matter. Of course, I myself was always convinced it was Mr. Hawes—he reminded me so much of that unfortunate organist I mentioned; but all the same one couldn’t be absolutely sure—" "Human nature being what it is," I ended grimly. "Exactly. And then, of course, there was dear Griselda." "But Mrs. Clement was completely out of it," interrupted Melchett. "She returned by the 6:50 train." "That’s what she said," retorted Miss Marple. "One should never go by what people say. The 6:50 was half an hour late that night. But at a quarter past seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall. So it followed that she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she was seen; but perhaps you know that?" She looked at me inquiringly. Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonymous letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail that Griselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Redding’s cottage by the back window at twenty past six on the fatal day. I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had for one moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare terms—a past intrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming to Protheroe’s ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the facts—and Griselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing Protheroe. As I say—a nightmare only—but invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality. I don’t know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very probably she had. Few things are hidden from her. She handed me back the note with a little nod. "That’s been all over the village," she said. "And it did look rather suspicious, didn’t it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday." She paused a minute and then went on. "But I’m wandering terribly from the point. What I want to say—and believe it my duty—is to put my own explanation of the mystery before you. If you don’t believe it—well, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes his life." Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different note. It was less apologetic, more decided. "That is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Redding first called on the Vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. When the Vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he had made up his mind to go away.

"Yes, it must have been about a quarter past seven when Mr Hailsham-Brown got in." "That would have been shortly after Mr Costello left," the Inspector observed. He moved to the centre of the room, and his manner changed almost imperceptibly as he continued, "He and Mr Hailsham-Brown probably passed each other." "You mean," Miss Peake said thoughtfully, "that he may have come back again to see Mr Hailsham-Brown." "Oliver Costello definitely didn’t come back to the house," Clarissa cut in sharply. "But you can’t be sure of that, Mrs Hailsham-Brown," the gardener contradicted her. "He might have got in by that window without your knowing anything about it." She paused, and then exclaimed, "Golly! You don’t think he murdered Mr Hailsham-Brown, do you? I say, I am sorry." "Of course he didn’t murder Henry," Clarissa snapped irritably. "Where did your husband go when he left here?" the Inspector asked her. "I’ve no idea," Clarissa replied shortly. "Doesn’t he usually tell you where he’s going?" the Inspector persisted. "I never ask questions," Clarissa told him. "I think it must be so boring for a man if his wife is always asking questions." Miss Peake gave a sudden squeal. "But how stupid of me," she shouted. "Of course, if that man’s car is still here, then he must be the one who’s been murdered." She roared with laughter. Sir Rowland rose to his feet. "We’ve no reason to believe anyone has been murdered, Miss Peake," he admonished her with dignity. "In fact, the Inspector believes it was all some silly hoax." Miss Peake was clearly not of the same opinion. "But the car," she insisted. "I do think that car still being here is very suspicious." She got up and approached the Inspector. "Have you looked about for the body, Inspector?" she asked him eagerly. "The Inspector has already searched the house," Sir Rowland answered before the police officer had a chance to speak. He was rewarded by a sharp glance from the Inspector, whom Miss Peake was now tapping on the shoulder as she continued to air her views. "I’m sure those Elgins have something to do with it–the butler and that wife of his who calls herself a cook," the gardener assured the Inspector confidently. "I’ve had my suspicions of them for quite some time. I saw a light in their bedroom window as I came along here just now. And that in itself is suspicious. It’s their night out, and they usually don’t return until well after eleven." She gripped the Inspector’s arm. "Have you searched their quarters?" she asked him urgently. The Inspector opened his mouth to speak, but she interrupted him with another tap on the shoulder. "Now listen," she began. "Suppose this Mr Costello recognized Elgin as a man with a criminal record. Costello might have decided to come back and warn Mrs Hailsham-Brown about the man, and Elgin assaulted him." Looking immensely pleased with herself, she flashed a glance around the room, and continued. "Then, of course, Elgin would have to hide the body somewhere quickly, so that he could dispose of it later in the night. Now, where would he hide it, I wonder?" she asked rhetorically, warming to her thesis. With a gesture towards the French windows, she began, "Behind a curtain or–" She was cut short by Clarissa who interrupted angrily. "Oh, really, Miss Peake. There isn’t anybody hidden behind any of the curtains. And I’m sure Elgin would never murder anybody. It’s quite ridiculous." Miss Peake turned. "You’re so trusting, Mrs Hailsham-Brown," she admonished her employer. "When you get to my age, you’ll realize how very often people are simply not quite what they seem." She laughed heartily as she turned back to the Inspector. When he opened his mouth to speak, she gave him yet another tap on the shoulder. "Now then," she continued, "where would a man like Elgin hide the body? There’s that cupboard place between here and the library. You’ve looked there, I suppose?" Sir Rowland intervened hastily. "Miss Peake, the Inspector has looked both here and in the library," he insisted.

They’re both equally good—or bad. I should think you’d get a room all right." The question made him look more attentively at his interlocutor. Nowadays people usually booked a room beforehand at any place they were going to…. The man was tall, with a bronzed face, a beard, and very blue eyes. He was about forty and not ill-looking in a tough and rather daredevil style. It was not, perhaps, a wholly pleasant face. Come from overseas somewhere, thought Rowley. Was there or was there not a faint Colonial twang in his accent? Curious, in some way, the face was not unfamiliar…. Where had he seen that face, or a face very like it, before? Whilst he was puzzling unsuccessfully over that problem, the stranger startled him by asking: "Can you tell me if there’s a house called Furrowbank near here?" Rowley answered slowly: "Why, yes. Up there on the hill. You must have passed close by it—that is, if you’ve come along the footpath from the station." "Yes—that’s what I did." He turned, staring up the hill. "So that was it—that big white new-looking house." "Yes, that’s the one." "A big place to run," said the man. "Must cost a lot to keep up?" A devil of a lot, thought Rowley. And our money…A stirring of anger made him forget for the moment where he was…. With a start he came back to himself to see the stranger staring up the hill with a curious speculative look in his eyes. "Who lives there?" he said. "Is it—a Mrs. Cloade?" "That’s right," said Rowley. "Mrs. Gordon Cloade." The stranger raised his eyebrows. He seemed gently amused. "Oh," he said, "Mrs. Gordon Cloade. Very nice for her!" Then he gave a short nod. "Thanks, pal," he said, and shifting the pack he carried he strode on towards Warmsley Vale. Rowley turned slowly back into the farmyard. His mind was still puzzling over something. Where the devil had he seen that fellow before? III About nine-thirty that night, Rowley pushed aside a heap of forms that had been littering the kitchen table and got up. He looked absentmindedly at the photograph of Lynn that stood on the mantelpiece, then frowning, he went out of the house. Ten minutes later he pushed open the door of the Stag Saloon Bar. Beatrice Lippincott, behind the bar counter, smiled welcome at him. Mr. Rowley Cloade, she thought, was a fine figure of a man. Over a pint of bitter Rowley exchanged the usual observations with the company present, unfavourable comment was made upon the Government, the weather, and sundry particular crops. Presently, moving up a little, Rowley was able to address Beatrice in a quiet voice: "Got a stranger staying here? Big man? Slouch hat?" "That’s right, Mr. Rowley. Came along about six o’clock. That the one you mean?" Rowley nodded. "He passed my place. Asked his way." "That’s right. Seems a stranger." "I wondered," said Rowley, "who he was." He looked at Beatrice and smiled. Beatrice smiled back. "That’s easy, Mr. Rowley, if you’d like to know." She dipped under the bar and out to return with a fat leather volume wherein were registered the arrivals. She opened it at the page showing the most recent entries. The last of these ran as follows: Enoch Arden. Cape Town. British. Nine I It was a fine morning. The birds were singing, and Rosaleen, coming down to breakfast in her expensive peasant dress, felt happy. The doubts and fears that had lately oppressed her seemed to have faded away. David was in a good temper, laughing and teasing her. His visit to London on the previous day had been satisfactory. Breakfast was well cooked and well served. They had just finished it when the post arrived. There were seven or eight letters for Rosaleen. Bills, charitable appeals, some local invitations—nothing of any special interest. David laid aside a couple of small bills and opened the third envelope. The enclosure, like the outside of the envelope, was written in printed characters. Dear Mr. Hunter, I think it is best to approach you rather than your sister, Mrs.

Thoroughly well organised. She went abroad under her own and under different names, but never too often, and the actual smuggling was always done, unknowingly, by someone else. She had agents abroad who saw to the exchange of rucksacks at the right moment. Yes, it was a clever idea. And we’ve got M. Poirot here to thank for putting us on to it. It was smart of her, too, to suggest that psychological stealing stunt to poor little Miss Austin. You were wise to that almost at once, weren’t you, M. Poirot?" Poirot smiled in a deprecating manner and Mrs. Hubbard looked admiringly at him. The conversation was strictly off the record in Mrs. Hubbard’s sitting room. "Greed was her undoing," said Poirot. "She was tempted by that fine diamond in Patricia Lane’s ring. It was foolish of her because it suggested at once that she was used to handling precious stones—that business of prising the diamond out and replacing it with a zircon. Yes, that certainly gave me ideas about Valerie Hobhouse. She was clever, though, when I taxed her with inspiring Celia, she admitted it and explained it in a thoroughly sympathetic way." "But murder!" said Mrs. Hubbard. "Cold-blooded murder. I can’t really believe it even now." Inspector Sharpe looked gloomy. "We aren’t in a position to charge her with the murder of Celia Austin yet," he said. "We’ve got her cold on the smuggling, of course. No difficulties about that. But the murder charge is more tricky. The public prosecutor doesn’t see his way. There’s motive, of course, and opportunity. She probably knew all about the bet and Nigel’s possession of morphia, but there’s no real evidence, and there are the two other deaths to take into account. She could have poisoned Mrs. Nicoletis all right—but on the other hand, she definitely did not kill Patricia Lane. Actually she’s about the only person who’s completely in the clear. Geronimo says positively that she left the house at six o’clock. He sticks to that. I don’t know whether she bribed him—" "No," said Poirot, shaking his head. "She did not bribe him." "And we’ve the evidence of the chemist at the corner of the road. He knows her quite well and he sticks to it that she came in at five minutes past six and bought face powder and aspirin and used the telephone. She left his shop at quarter past six and took a taxi from the rank outside." Poirot sat up in his chair. "But that," he said, "is magnificent! It is just what we want!" "What on earth do you mean?" "I mean that she actually telephoned from the box at the chemist’s shop." Inspector Sharpe looked at him in an exasperated fashion. "Now, see here, M. Poirot. Let’s take the known facts. At eight minutes past six, Patricia Lane is alive and telephoning to the police station from this room. You agree to that?" "I do not think she was telephoning from this room." "Well then, from the hall downstairs." "Not from the hall either." Inspector Sharpe sighed. "I suppose you don’t deny that a call was put through to the police station? You don’t think that I and my sergeant and Police Constable Nye and Nigel Chapman were the victims of mass hallucination?" "Assuredly not. A call was put through to you. I should say at a guess that it was put through from the public call box at the chemist’s on the corner." Inspector Sharpe’s jaw dropped for a moment. "You mean that Valerie Hobhouse put through that call? That she pretended to speak as Patricia Lane, and that Patricia Lane was already dead." "That is what I mean, yes." The inspector was silent for a moment, then he brought down his fist with a crash on the table. "I don’t believe it. The voice—I heard it myself—" "You heard it, yes. A girl’s voice, breathless, agitated. But you didn’t know Patricia Lane’s voice well enough to say definitely that it was her voice." "I didn’t, perhaps. But it was Nigel Chapman who actually took the call. You can’t tell me that Nigel Chapman could be deceived.

I was still in the lounge at a quarter to seven when Mr Sanders came in. There were two gentlemen with him and all three of them were inclined to be a little on the lively side. Mr Sanders left his two friends and came right over to where I was sitting with Miss Trollope. He explained that he wanted our advice about a Christmas present he was giving his wife. It was an evening bag. ""And you see, ladies," he said. "I’m only a rough sailorman. What do I know about such things? I’ve had three sent to me on approval and I want an expert opinion on them." "We said, of course, that we would be delighted to help him, and he asked if we’d mind coming upstairs, as his wife might come in any minute if he brought the things down. So we went up with him. I shall never forget what happened next – I can feel my little fingers tingling now. "Mr Sanders opened the door of the bedroom and switched on the light. I don’t know which of us saw it first . . . " Mrs Sanders was lying on the floor, face downwards – dead. "I got to her first. I knelt down and took her hand and felt for the pulse, but it was useless, the arm itself was cold and stiff. Just by her head was a stocking filled with sand – the weapon she had been struck down with. Miss Trollope, silly creature, was moaning and moaning by the door and holding her head. Sanders gave a great cry of "My wife, my wife," and rushed to her. I stopped him touching her. You see, I was sure at the moment he had done it, and there might have been something that he wanted to take away or hide. ""Nothing must be touched," I said. "Pull yourself together, Mr Sanders. Miss Trollope, please go down and fetch the manager." "I stayed there, kneeling by the body. I wasn’t going to leave Sanders alone with it. And yet I was forced to admit that if the man was acting, he was acting marvellously. He looked dazed and bewildered and scared out of his wits. "The manager was with us in no time. He made a quick inspection of the room then turned us all out and locked the door, the key of which he took. Then he went off and telephoned to the police. It seemed a positive age before they came (we learnt afterwards that the line was out of order). The manager had to send a messenger to the police station, and the Hydro is right out of the town, up on the edge of the moor; and Mrs Carpenter tried us all very severely. She was so pleased at her prophecy of "Never two without three" coming true so quickly. Sanders, I hear, wandered out into the grounds, clutching his head and groaning and displaying every sign of grief. "However, the police came at last. They went upstairs with the manager and Mr Sanders. Later they sent down for me. I went up. The Inspector was there, sitting at a table writing. He was an intelligent-looking man and I liked him. ""Miss Jane Marple?" he said. ""Yes." ""I understand, Madam, that you were present when the body of the deceased was found?" "I said I was and I described exactly what had occurred. I think it was a relief to the poor man to find someone who could answer his questions coherently, having previously had to deal with Sanders and Emily Trollope, who, I gather, was completely demoralized – she would be, the silly creature! I remember my dear mother teaching me that a gentlewoman should always be able to control herself in public, however much she may give way in private." "An admirable maxim," said Sir Henry gravely. "When I had finished the Inspector said: ""Thank you, Madam. Now I’m afraid I must ask you just to look at the body once more. Is that exactly the position in which it was lying when you entered the room? It hasn’t been moved in any way?" "I explained that I had prevented Mr Sanders from doing so, and the Inspector nodded approval. ""The gentleman seems terribly upset," he remarked. ""He seems so – yes," I replied. "I don’t think I put any special emphasis on the "seems", but the Inspector looked at me rather keenly. ""So we can take it that the body is exactly as it was when found?" he said.

Leonides" instructions. He approved the draft, returned it to me, and in due course I sent him the will for signature. After a lapse of a week, I ventured to remind him that I had not yet received the will duly signed and attested, and asking him if here was anything he wished altered. He replied that he was perfectly satisfied, and added that after signing the will he had sent it to his bank." "That’s quite right," said Roger eagerly. "It was about the end of November last year—you remember, Philip? Father had us all up one evening and read the will to us." Taverner turned towards Philip Leonides. "That agrees with your recollection, Mr. Leonides?" "Yes," said Philip. "It was rather like the Voysey Inheritance," said Magda. She sighed pleasurably. "I always think there’s something so dramatic about a will." "Miss Sophia?" "Yes," said Sophia. "I remember perfectly." "And the provisions of that will?" asked Taverner. Mr. Gaitskill was about to reply in his precise fashion, but Roger Leonides got ahead of him. "It was a perfectly simple will. Electra and Joyce had died and their share of the settlements had returned to father. Joyce’s son, William, had been killed in action in Burma, and the money he left went to his father. Philip and I and the children were the only relatives left. Father explained that. He left fifty thousand pounds free of duty to Aunt Edith, a hundred thousand pounds free of duty to Brenda, this house to Brenda, or else a suitable house in London to be purchased for her, whichever she preferred. The residue to be divided into three portions, one to myself, one to Philip, the third to be divided between Sophia, Eustace, and Josephine, the portions of the last two to be held in trust until they should come of age. I think that’s right, isn’t it, Mr. Gaitskill?" "Those are—roughly stated—the provisions of the document I drew up," agreed Mr. Gaitskill, displaying some slight acerbity at not having been allowed to speak for himself. "Father read it out to us," said Roger. "He asked if there was any comment we might like to make. Of course there was none." "Brenda made a comment," said Miss de Haviland. "Yes," said Magda with zest. "She said she couldn’t bear her darling old Aristide to talk about death. It "gave her the creeps," she said. And after he was dead she didn’t want any of the horrid money!" "That," said Miss de Haviland, "was a conventional protest, typical of her class." It was a cruel and biting little remark. I realized suddenly how much Edith de Haviland disliked Brenda. "A very fair and reasonable disposal of his estate," said Mr. Gaitskill. "And after reading it what happened?" asked Inspector Taverner. "After reading it," said Roger, "he signed it." Taverner leaned forward. "Just how and when did he sign it?" Roger looked round at his wife in an appealing way. Clemency spoke in answer to that look. The rest of the family seemed content for her to do so. "You want to know exactly what took place?" "If you please, Mrs. Roger." "My father-in-law laid the will down on his desk and requested one of us—Roger, I think—to ring the bell. Roger did so. When Johnson came in answer to the bell, my father-in-law requested him to fetch Janet Wolmer, the parlourmaid. When they were both there, he signed the will and requested them to sign their own names beneath his signature." "The correct procedure," said Mr. Gaitskill. "A will must be signed by the testator in the presence of two witnesses who must affix their own signatures at the same time and place." "And after that?" asked Taverner. "My father-in-law thanked them, and they went out. My father-in-law picked up the will, put it in a long envelope and mentioned that he would send it to Mr. Gaitskill on the following day." "You all agree," said Inspector Taverner, looking round, "that this is an accurate account of what happened?" There were murmurs of agreement. "The will was on the desk, you said. How near were any of you to that desk?" "Not very near. Five or six yards, perhaps, would be the nearest." "When Mr.

Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest. "And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?" Miss Monro said nothing—or everything. The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady’s glass with thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his heart. "The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with us." "Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what’s become of him." "Is it a long time since you have seen him, yes?" "Oh, simply ages—not since the war. He was a funny boy, Claudie, very close about things, never told you a word about himself. But, of course, that all fits in if he’s a missing heir. Is it a title, Mr. Poirot?" "Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly. "But you see, it may be a question of identification. That is why it is necessary for us to find someone who knew him very well indeed. You knew him very well, did you not, mademoiselle?" "I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Poirot. You’re a gentleman. You know how to order a lunch for a lady—which is more than some of these young whippersnappers do nowadays. Downright mean, I call it. As I was saying, you being a Frenchman won’t be shocked. Ah, you Frenchmen! Naughty, naughty!" She wagged her finger at him in an excess of archness. "Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things—what else could you expect? And I’ve still a kindly feeling for him. Though, mind you, he didn’t treat me well—no, he didn’t—he didn’t treat me well at all. Not as a lady should be treated. They’re all the same when it comes to a question of money." "No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that," protested Poirot, filling up her glass once more. "Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?" "He wasn’t anything so very much to look at," said Flossie Monro dreamily. "Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up. Spruce looking. Eyes a sort of blue-grey. And more or less fair-haired, I suppose. But oh, what an artist! I never saw anyone to touch him in the profession! He’d have made his name before now if it hadn’t been for jealousy. Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy—you wouldn’t believe it, you really wouldn’t, what we artists have to suffer through jealousy. Why, I remember once at Manchester—" We displayed what patience we could in listening to a long complicated story about a pantomime, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy. Then Poirot led her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell. "It is very interesting, all this that you are able to tell us, mademoiselle, about Mr. Darrell. Women are such wonderful observers—they see everything, they notice the little detail that escapes the mere man. I have seen a woman identify one man out of a dozen others—and why, do you think? She had observed that he had a trick of stroking his nose when he was agitated. Now would a man ever have thought of noticing a thing like that?" "Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things. I remember Claudie, now I come to think of it, always fiddling with his bread at table. He’d get a little piece between his fingers and then dab it round to pick up crumbs. I’ve seen him do it a hundred times. Why, I’d know him anywhere by that one trick of his." "Is not that just what I say? The marvellous observation of a woman. And did you ever speak to him about this little habit of his, mademoiselle?" "No, I didn’t, Mr. Poirot. You know what men are! They don’t like you to notice things—especially if it should seem you were telling them off about it. I never said a word—but many’s the time I smiled to myself. Bless you, he never knew he was doing it even." Poirot nodded gently.

I found Miss de Bellefort in a very excited, hysterical condition." "Did she utter any threats against Madame Doyle?" "No, nothing of that kind. She was in a condition of morbid self-reproach. She’d taken a good deal of alcohol, I should say, and she was suffering from reaction. I didn’t think she ought to be left. I gave her a shot of morphia and sat with her." "Now, Mademoiselle Bowers, I want you to answer this. Did Mademoiselle de Bellefort leave her cabin at all?" "No, she did not." "And you yourself?" "I stayed with her until early this morning." "You are quite sure of that?" "Absolutely sure." "Thank you, Mademoiselle Bowers." The nurse went out. The two men looked at each other. Jacqueline de Bellefort was definitely cleared of the crime. Who then had shot Linnet Doyle? Fourteen Race said: "Someone pinched the pistol. It wasn’t Jacqueline de Bellefort. Someone knew enough to feel that his crime would be attributed to her. But that someone did not know that a hospital nurse was going to give her morphia and sit up with her all night. And one thing more. Someone had already attempted to kill Linnet Doyle by rolling a boulder over the cliff; that someone was not Jacqueline de Bellefort. Who was it?" Poirot said: "It will be simpler to say who it could not have been. Neither Monsieur Doyle, Madame Allerton, Monsieur Allerton, Mademoiselle Van Schuyler, nor Mademoiselle Bowers could have had anything to do with it. They were all within my sight." "H’m," said Race; "that leaves rather a large field. What about motive? "That is where I hope Monsieur Doyle may be able to help us. There have been several incidents—" The door opened and Jacqueline de Bellefort entered. She was very pale and she stumbled a little as she walked. "I didn’t do it," she said. Her voice was that of a frightened child. "I didn’t do it. Oh, please believe me. Everyone will think I did it—but I didn’t—I didn’t. It’s—it’s awful. I wish it hadn’t happened. I might have killed Simon last night; I was mad, I think. But I didn’t do the other…." She sat down and burst into tears. Poirot patted her on the shoulder. "There, there. We know that you did not kill Madame Doyle. It is proved—yes, proved, mon enfant. It was not you." Jackie sat up suddenly, her wet handkerchief clasped in her hand. "But who did?" "That," said Poirot, "is just the question we are asking ourselves. You cannot help us there, my child?" Jacqueline shook her head. "I don’t know…I can’t imagine…No, I haven’t the faintest idea." She frowned deeply. "No," she said at last. "I can’t think of anyone who wanted her dead." Her voice faltered a little. "Except me." Race said: "Excuse me a minute—just thought of something." He hurried out of the room. Jacqueline de Bellefort sat with her head downcast, nervously twisting her fingers. She broke out suddenly: "Death’s horrible—horrible! I—hate the thought of it." Poirot said: "Yes. It is not pleasant to think, is it, that now, at this very moment, someone is rejoicing at the successful carrying out of his or her plan." "Don’t—don’t!" cried Jackie. "It sounds horrible, the way you put it." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "It is true." Jackie said in a low voice: "I—I wanted her dead—and she is dead…And, what is worse…she died—just like I said." "Yes, Mademoiselle. She was shot through the head." She cried out: "Then I was right, that night at the Cataract Hotel. There was someone listening!" "Ah!" Poirot nodded his head. "I wondered if you would remember that. Yes, it is altogether too much of a coincidence—that Madame Doyle should be killed in just the way you described." Jackie shuddered. "That man that night—who can he have been?"

"No," said the lawyer, "no, perhaps not." His voice was as usual dry and unemotional, yet something in it encouraged Arthur Calgary to continue. "I thought, you see," went on Calgary, "that that would be the end of it. I was prepared for a certain amount of—what shall I say—natural resentment on their part. Although concussion may be termed, I suppose, an Act of God, yet from their viewpoint they could be forgiven for that, as I say. But at the same time I hoped it would be offset by the thankfulness they would feel over the fact that Jack Argyle’s name was cleared. But things didn’t turn out as I anticipated. Not at all." "I see." "Perhaps, Mr. Marshall, you anticipated something of what would happen? Your manner, I remember, puzzled me when I was here before. Did you foresee the attitude of mind that I was going to encounter?" "You haven’t told me yet, Dr. Calgary, what that attitude was." Arthur Calgary drew his chair forward. "I thought that I was ending something, giving—shall we say—a different end to a chapter already written. But I was made to feel, I was made to see, that instead of ending something I was starting something. Something altogether new. Is that a true statement, do you think, of the position?" Mr. Marshall nodded his head slowly. "Yes," he said, "it could be put that way. I did think—I admit it—that you were not realizing all the implications. You could not be expected to do so because, naturally, you knew nothing of the background or of the facts except as they were given in the law reports." "No. No, I see that now. Only too clearly." His voice rose as he went on excitedly, "It wasn’t really relief they felt, it wasn’t thankfulness. It was apprehension. A dread of what might be coming next. Am I right?" Marshall said cautiously: "I should think probably that you are quite right. Mind you, I do not speak of my own knowledge." "And if so," went on Calgary, "then I no longer feel that I can go back to my work satisfied with having made the only amends that I can make. I’m still involved. I’m responsible for bringing a new factor into various people’s lives. I can’t just wash my hands of it." The lawyer cleared his throat. "That, perhaps, is a rather fanciful point of view, Dr. Calgary." "I don’t think it is—not really. One must take responsibility for one’s actions and not only one’s actions but for the result of one’s actions. Just on two years ago I gave a lift to a young hitchhiker on the road. When I did that I set in train a certain course of events. I don’t feel that I can disassociate myself from them." The lawyer still shook his head. "Very well, then," said Arthur Calgary impatiently. "Call it fanciful if you like. But my feelings, my conscience, are still involved. My only wish was to make amends for something it had been outside my power to prevent. I have not made amends. In some curious way I have made things worse for people who have already suffered. But I still don’t understand clearly why." "No," said Marshall slowly, "no, you would not see why. For the past eighteen months or so you’ve been out of touch with civilization. You did not read the daily papers, the account of this family that was given in the newspapers. Possibly you would not have read them anyway, but you could not have escaped, I think, hearing about them. The facts are very simple, Dr. Calgary. They are not confidential. They were made public at the time. It resolves itself very simply into this. If Jack Argyle did not (and by your account he cannot have), committed the crime, then who did? That brings us back to the circumstances in which the crime was committed. It was committed between the hours of seven and seven-thirty on a November evening in a house where the deceased woman was surrounded by the members of her own family and household. The house was securely locked and shuttered and if anyone entered from outside, then the outsider must have been admitted by Mrs. Argyle herself or have entered with their own key. In other words, it must have been someone she knew.

"You made her pay instead." "You are saying very offensive things, Alan. Be careful." "Aren’t they true? Why did you find it so easy to get money out of Jane?" "Not for love of me, certainly. It must have been for love of you." "That’s just what it was," said Alan simply. "She paid for my freedom—freedom to work in my own way. So long as you had a sufficiency of money, you’d leave me alone—not badger me to paint a crowd of awful women." Isobel said nothing. "Well?" cried Alan angrily. Her quiescence infuriated him. Isobel was looking at the floor. Presently she raised her head and said quietly: "Come here, Alan." She touched the divan at her side. Uneasily, unwillingly, he came and sat there, not looking at her. But he knew that he was afraid. "Alan," said Isobel presently. "Well?" He was irritable, nervous. "All that you say may be true. It doesn’t matter. I’m like that. I want things—clothes, money, you. Jane’s dead, Alan." "What do you mean?" "Jane’s dead. You belong to me altogether now. You never did before—not quite." He looked at her—saw the light in her eyes, acquisitive, possessive—was revolted, yet fascinated. "Now you shall be all mine." He understood Isobel then as he had never understood her before. "You want me as a slave? I’m to paint what you tell me to paint, live as you tell me to live, be dragged at your chariot wheels." "Put it like that if you please. What are words?" He felt her arms round his neck, white, smooth, firm as a wall. Words danced through his brain. "A wall as white as milk." Already he was inside the wall. Could he still escape? Did he want to escape? He heard her voice close against his ear—poppy and mandragora. "What else is there to live for? Isn’t this enough? Love—happiness—success—love—" The wall was growing up all round him now—"the curtain soft as silk," the curtain wrapping him round, stifling him a little, but so soft, so sweet! Now they were drifting together, at peace, out on the crystal sea. The wall was very high now, shutting out all those other things—those dangerous, disturbing things that hurt—that always hurt. Out on the sea of crystal, the golden apple between their hands. The light faded from Jane’s picture. Eight THE MYSTERY OF THE SPANISH CHEST "The Mystery of the Spanish Chest" is an expanded version of the story "The Mystery of the Baghdad Chest" which was first published in The Strand, January 1932. Punctual to the moment, as always, Hercule Poirot entered the small room where Miss Lemon, his efficient secretary, awaited her instructions for the day. At first sight Miss Lemon seemed to be composed entirely of angles—thus satisfying Poirot’s demand for symmetry. Not that where women were concerned Hercule Poirot carried his passion for geometrical precision so far. He was, on the contrary, old-fashioned. He had a continental prejudice for curves—it might be said for voluptuous curves. He liked women to be women. He liked them lush, highly coloured, exotic. There had been a certain Russian countess—but that was long ago now. A folly of earlier days. But Miss Lemon he had never considered as a woman. She was a human machine—an instrument of precision. Her efficiency was terrific. She was forty-eight years of age, and was fortunate enough to have no imagination whatever. "Good morning, Miss Lemon." "Good morning, M. Poirot." Poirot sat down and Miss Lemon placed before him the morning’s mail, neatly arranged in categories. She resumed her seat and sat with pad and pencil at the ready. But there was to be this morning a slight change in routine. Poirot had brought in with him the morning newspaper, and his eyes were scanning it with interest. The headlines were big and bold. SPANISH CHEST MYSTERY. LATEST DEVELOPMENTS. "You have read the morning papers, I presume, Miss Lemon?" "Yes, M. Poirot. The news from Geneva is not very good." Poirot waved away the news from Geneva in a comprehensive sweep of the arm. "A Spanish chest," he mused.

If I am right I shall know in another half hour. Then there’s the lady’s husband, Mr. Dering." "You’ve seen him?" asked Emily curiously. Inspector Narracott looked at her vivid face, and felt tempted to relax official caution. Leaning back in his chair he recounted his interview with Mr. Dering, then from a file at his elbow he took out a copy of the wireless message he had dispatched to Mr. Rosenkraun. "That’s what I sent," he said. "And here’s the reply." Emily read it. Narracott 2 Drysdale Road Exeter. Certainly confirm Mr. Dering’s statement. He was in my company all Friday afternoon. Rosenkraun. "Oh!—bother," said Emily, selecting a milder word than she had meant to use, knowing that the police force was old-fashioned and easily shocked. "Ye-es," said Inspector Narracott reflectively. "It’s annoying, isn’t it?" And his slow Devonshire smile broke out again. "But I am a suspicious man, Miss Trefusis. Mr. Dering’s reasons sounded very plausible—but I thought it a pity to play into his hands too completely. So I sent another wireless message." Again he handed her two pieces of paper. The first ran: Information wanted re murder of Captain Trevelyan. Do you support Martin Dering’s statement of alibi for Friday afternoon. Divisional Inspector Narracott Exeter. The return message showed agitation and a reckless disregard for expense. Had no idea it was criminal case did not see Martin Dering Friday Agreed support his statement as one friend to another believed his wife was having him watched for divorce proceedings. "Oh," said Emily. "Oh!—you are clever, Inspector." The Inspector evidently thought that he had been rather clever. His smile was gentle and contented. "How men do stick together," went on Emily looking over the telegrams. "Poor Sylvia. In some ways I really think that men are beasts. That’s why," she added, "it’s so nice when one finds a man on whom one can really rely." And she smiled admiringly at the Inspector. "Now, all this is very confidential, Miss Trefusis," the Inspector warned her. "I have gone further than I should in letting you know about this." "I think it’s adorable of you," said Emily. "I shall never never forget it." "Well, mind," the Inspector warned her. "Not a word to anybody." "You mean that I am not to tell Charles—Mr. Enderby." "Journalists will be journalists," said Inspector Narracott. "However well you have got him tamed, Miss Trefusis—well, news is news, isn’t it?" "I won’t tell him then," said Emily. "I think I’ve got him muzzled all right, but as you say newspaper men will be newspaper men." "Never part with information unnecessarily. That’s my rule," said Inspector Narracott. A faint twinkle appeared in Emily’s eyes, her unspoken thought being that Inspector Narracott had infringed this rule rather badly during the last half hour. A sudden recollection came into her mind, not of course that it probably mattered now. Everything seemed to be pointing in a totally different direction. But still it would be nice to know. "Inspector Narracott!" she said suddenly. "Who is Mr. Duke?" "Mr. Duke?" She thought the Inspector was rather taken aback by her questions. "You remember," said Emily, "we met you coming out of his cottage in Sittaford." "Ah, yes, yes, I remember. To tell you the truth, Miss Trefusis, I thought I would like to have an independent account of that table-turning business. Major Burnaby is not a first-rate hand at description." "And yet," said Emily thoughtfully, "if I had been you, I should have gone to somebody like Mr. Rycroft for it. Why Mr. Duke?" There was a silence and then the Inspector said: "Just a matter of opinion." "I wonder. I wonder if the police know something about Mr. Duke." Inspector Narracott didn’t answer. He had got his eyes fixed very steadily on the blotting paper. "The man who leads a blameless life!" said Emily, "that seems to describe Mr. Duke awfully accurately, but perhaps he hasn’t always led a blameless life? Perhaps the police know that?"

She was very fair, and Celia was never quite sure what she looked like, and her character was variable. Vera de Vete, Sue’s half sister, was the romantic personality of "the school’. She was fourteen. She had straw-coloured hair and deep forget-me-not blue eyes. There was mystery about her past – and in the end Celia knew that she would turn out to have been changed at birth and that she was really the Lady Vera, the daughter of one of the proudest noblemen in the land. There was a new girl – Lena, and one of Celia’s favourite plays was to be Lena arriving at the school. Miriam knew vaguely about "the girls" but she never asked questions about them – for which Celia was passionately grateful. On wet days "the girls" gave a concert in the schoolroom, different pieces being allotted to them. It annoyed Celia very much that her fingers stumbled over Ethel’s piece, which she was anxious to play well, and that though she always allotted Isabella the most difficult, it went perfectly. "The girls" played cribbage against each other also, and here again Isabella always seemed to have an annoying run of luck. Sometimes, when Celia went to stay with Grannie, she was taken by her to a musical comedy. They would have a four-wheeler to the station then train to Victoria, four-wheeler to lunch at the Army and Navy Stores, where Grannie would do immense lists of shopping in the grocery with the special old man who always attended to her. Then they would go up to the restaurant and have lunch, finishing with "a small cup of coffee in a large cup’, so that plenty of milk could be added. Then they would go to the confectionery department and buy half a pound of chocolate coffee creams, and then into another four- wheeler and off to the theatre, which Grannie enjoyed every bit as much as Celia did. Very often, afterwards, Grannie would buy Celia the score of the music. That opened up a new field of activity to "the girls’. They now blossomed into musical comedy stars. Isabella and Vera had soprano voices – Isabella’s was bigger, but Vera’s was sweeter. Ethel had a magnificent contralto – Elsie had a pretty little voice. Annie, Ella, and Sue had unimportant parts, but Sue gradually developed into taking the soubrette roles. The Country Girl was Celia’s favourite. "Under the Deodars" seemed to her the loveliest song that had ever been written. She sang it until she was hoarse. Vera was given the part of the Princess, so that she could sing it and the heroine’s role given to Isabella. The Cingalee was another favourite, because it had a good part for Ethel. Miriam, who suffered from headaches and whose bedroom was below the piano, at last forbade Celia to play for more than three hours on end. 2 At last Celia’s early ambition was realized. She had an accordion-pleated dancing dress, and she stayed behind for the skirt-dancing class. She was now one of the elect. She would no longer dance with Dorothy Pine who only wore a plain white party frock. The accordion-pleated girls only danced with each other – unless they were being self-consciously "kind’. Celia and Janet Maitland paired off. Janet danced beautifully. They were engaged for the waltz in perpetuity. And they also partnered each other for the march, but there they were sometimes torn apart, since Celia was a head and a half taller than Janet, and Miss Mackintosh liked her marching pairs to look symmetrical. The polka it was the fashion to dance with the little ones. Each elder girl took a tot. Six girls stayed behind for skirt dancing. It was a source of bitter disappointment to Celia that she always remained in the second row. Janet, Celia did not mind, because Janet danced better than anyone else, but Daphne danced badly and made lots of mistakes. Celia always felt it was very unfair, and the true solution of the mystery, that Miss Mackintosh put the shorter girls in front and the taller ones behind, never once occurred to her. Miriam was quite as excited as Celia over what colour her accordion pleat should be.

"But—oh, I see—no, I don’t. Or do I begin to see what you are hinting at…?" "I doubt it!" said Poirot. "But if you do, you realize, I hope, the supreme importance of that statement." He fixed me with a fierce eye. "Of course. Of course," I said hurriedly. "And then," continued Poirot, "various other things happen. Charles and Theresa come for the weekend, and Miss Arundell shows the new will to Charles—or so he says." "Don’t you believe him?" "I only believe statements that are checked. Miss Arundell does not show it to Theresa." "Because she thought Charles would tell her." "But he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he?" "According to Charles himself he did tell her." "Theresa said quite positively that he didn’t—a very interesting and suggestive little clash. And when we depart she calls him a fool." "I’m getting fogged, Poirot," I said plaintively. "Let us return to the sequence of events. Dr. Tanios comes down on Sunday—possibly without the knowledge of his wife." "I should say certainly without her knowledge." "Let us say probably. To proceed! Charles and Theresa leave on the Monday. Miss Arundell is in good health and spirits. She eats a good dinner and sits in the dark with the Tripps and the Lawson. Towards the end of the séance she is taken ill. She retires to bed and dies four days later and Miss Lawson inherits all her money, and Captain Hastings says she died a natural death!" "Whereas Hercule Poirot says she was given poison in her dinner on no evidence at all!" "I have some evidence, Hastings. Think over our conversation with the Misses Tripp. And also one statement that stood out from Miss Lawson’s somewhat rambling conversation." "Do you mean the fact that she had curry for dinner? Curry would mask the taste of a drug. Is that what you meant?" Poirot said slowly: "Yes, the curry has a certain significance, perhaps." "But," I said, "if what you advance (in defiance of all the medical evidence) is true, only Miss Lawson or one of the maids could have killed her." "I wonder." "Or the Tripp women? Nonsense. I can’t believe that! All these people are palpably innocent." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Remember this, Hastings, stupidity—or even silliness, for that matter—can go hand in hand with intense cunning. And do not forget the original attempt at murder. That was not the handiwork of a particularly clever or complex brain. It was a very simple little murder, suggested by Bob and his habit of leaving the ball at the top of the stairs. The thought of putting a thread across the stairs was quite simple and easy—a child could have thought of it!" I frowned. "You mean—" "I mean that what we are seeking to find here is just one thing—the wish to kill. Nothing more than that." "But the poison must have been a very skilful one to leave no trace," I argued. "Something that the ordinary person would have difficulty in getting hold of. Oh, damn it all, Poirot. I simply can’t believe it now. You can’t know! It’s all pure hypothesis." "You are wrong, my friend. As the result of our various conversations this morning. I have now something definite to go upon. Certain faint but unmistakable indications. The only thing is—I am afraid." "Afraid? Of what?" He said gravely: "Of disturbing the dogs that sleep. That is one of your proverbs, is it not? To let the sleeping dogs lie! That is what our murderer does at present—sleeps happily in the sun… Do we not know, you and I, Hastings, how often a murderer, his confidence disturbed, turns and kills a second—or even a third time!" "You are afraid of that happening?" He nodded. "Yes. If there is a murderer in the woodpile—and I think there is, Hastings. Yes, I think there is…." Nineteen VISIT TO MR. PURVIS Poirot called for his bill and paid it. "What do we do next?" I asked. "We are going to do what you suggested earlier in the morning. We are going to Harchester to interview Mr. Purvis. That is why I telephoned from the Durham Hotel." "You telephoned to Purvis?"

AGATHA CHRISTIE writing as MARY WESTMACOTT Unfinished Portrait Foreword My Dear Mary: I send you this because I don’t know what to do with it. I suppose, really, I want it to see the light of day. One does. I suppose the complete genius keeps his pictures stacked in the studio and never shows them to anybody. I was never like that, but then I was never a genius – just Mr Larraby, the promising young portrait painter. Well, my dear, you know what it is, none better – to be cut off from the thing you loved doing and did well because you loved doing it. That’s why we were friends, you and I. And you know about this writing business – I don’t. If you read this manuscript, you’ll see that I’ve taken Barge’s advice. You remember? He said, "Try a new medium." This is a portrait – and probably a damned bad one because I don’t know my medium. If you say it’s no good, I’ll take your word for it, but if you think it has, in the smallest degree, that significant form we both believe to be the fundamental basis of art – well, then, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be published. I’ve put the real names, but you can change them. And who is to mind? Not Michael. And as for Dermot he would never recognize himself! He isn’t made that way. Anyway, as Celia herself said, her story is a very ordinary story. It might happen to anybody. In fact, it frequently does. It isn’t her story I’ve been interested in. All along it’s been Celia herself. Yes, Celia herself … You see I wanted to nail her in paint to a canvas, and that being out of the question, I’ve tried to get her in another way. But I’m working in an unfamiliar medium – these words and sentences and commas and full stops – they’re not my craft. You’ll remark, I dare say, que ça se voit! I’ve seen her, you know, from two angles. First, from my own. And secondly, owing to the peculiar circumstances of twenty-four hours, I’ve been able – at moments – to get inside her skin and see her from her own. And the two don’t always agree. That’s what’s so tantalizing and fascinating to me! I should like to be God and know the truth. But a novelist can be God to the creatures he creates. He has them in his power to do what he likes with – or so he thinks. But they do give him surprises. I wonder if the real God finds that too … Yes, I wonder … Well, my dear, I won’t wander on any more. Do what you can for me. Yours ever, J.L. Book One The Island There is a lonely isle Set apart In the midst of the sea Where the birds rest awhile On their long flight To the South They rest a night Then take wing and depart To the Southern seas … I am an island set apart In the midst of the sea And a bird from the mainland Rested on me … 1 The Woman in the Garden 1 Do you know the feeling you have when you know something quite well and yet for the life of you can’t recollect it? I had that feeling all the way down the winding white road to the town. It was with me when I started from the plateau overhanging the sea in the Villa gardens. And with every step I took, it grew stronger and – somehow – more urgent. And at last, just when the avenue of palm trees runs down to the beach, I stopped. Because, you see, I knew it was now or never. This shadowy thing that was lurking at the back of my brain had got to be pulled out into the open, had got to be probed and examined and nailed down, so that I knew what it was. I’d got to pin the thing down – otherwise it would be too late. I did what one always does do when trying to remember things. I went over the facts. The walk up from the town – with the dust and the sun on the back of my neck. Nothing there. The grounds of the Villa – cool and refreshing with the great cypresses standing dark against the skyline. The green grass path that led to the plateau where the seat was placed overlooking the sea. The surprise and slight annoyance at finding a woman occupying the seat. For a moment I had felt awkward.

Thirdly, your sneak thief is rarely a murderer. Fourthly, as he has been in prison since Saturday, it would be too much of a coincidence that he is able to give so accurate a description of Lowen." Japp nodded. "I don’t say you’re not right. But all the same, you won’t get a jury to take much note of a jailbird’s evidence. What seems odd to me is that Lowen couldn’t find a cleverer way of disposing of the ring." Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Well, after all, if it were found in the neighbourhood, it might be argued that Davenheim himself had dropped it." "But why remove it from the body at all?" I cried. "There might be a reason for that," said Japp. "Do you know that just beyond the lake, a little gate leads out on to the hill, and not three minutes" walk brings you to—what do you think?—a lime kiln." "Good heavens!" I cried. "You mean that the lime which destroyed the body would be powerless to affect the metal of the ring?" "Exactly." "It seems to me," I said, "that that explains everything. What a horrible crime!" By common consent we both turned and looked at Poirot. He seemed lost in reflection, his brow knitted, as though with some supreme mental effort. I felt at last his keen intellect was asserting itself. What would his first words be? We were not long left in doubt. With a sigh, the tension of his attitude relaxed and turning to Japp, he asked: "Have you any idea, my friend, whether Mr. and Mrs. Davenheim occupied the same bedroom?" The question seemed so ludicrously inappropriate that for a moment we both stared in silence. Then Japp burst into a laugh. "Good Lord, Monsieur Poirot, I thought you were coming out with something startling. As to your question, I’m sure I don’t know." "You could find out?" asked Poirot with curious persistence. "Oh, certainly—if you really want to know." "Merci, mon ami. I should be obliged if you would make a point of it." Japp stared at him a few minutes longer, but Poirot seemed to have forgotten us both. The detective shook his head sadly at me, and murmuring, "Poor old fellow! War’s been too much for him!" gently withdrew from the room. As Poirot seemed sunk in a daydream, I took a sheet of paper, and amused myself by scribbling notes upon it. My friend’s voice aroused me. He had come out of his reverie, and was looking brisk and alert. "Que faites-vous là, mon ami?" "I was jotting down what occurred to me as the main points of interest in this affair." "You become methodical—at last!" said Poirot approvingly. I concealed my pleasure. "Shall I read them to you?" "By all means." I cleared my throat. " "One: All the evidence points to Lowen having been the man who forced the safe. " "Two: He had a grudge against Davenheim. " "Three: He lied in his first statement that he had never left the study. " "Four: If you accept Billy Kellett’s story as true, Lowen is unmistakably implicated." " I paused. "Well?" I asked, for I felt that I had put my finger on all the vital facts. Poirot looked at me pityingly, shaking his head very gently. "Mon pauvre ami! But it is that you have not the gift! The important detail, you appreciate him never! Also, your reasoning is false." "How?" "Let me take your four points." "One: Mr. Lowen could not possibly know that he would have the chance to open the safe. He came for a business interview. He could not know beforehand that Mr. Davenheim would be absent posting a letter, and that he would consequently be alone in the study!" "He might have seized the opportunity," I suggested. "And the tools? City gentlemen do not carry round housebreaker’s tools on the off chance! And one could not cut into that safe with penknife, bien entendu!" "Well, what about Number Two?" "You say Lowen had a grudge against Mr. Davenheim. What you mean is that he had once or twice got the better of him. And presumably those transactions were entered into with the view of benefiting himself.

This way of describing events almost caused me to smile, but I stuck to my guns. "So, having—pardon the expression—rather made a mess of things, don’t you think it would be more graceful to leave immediately?" "And the dinner, the without doubt excellent dinner, that the chef of Lord Yardly has prepared?" "Oh, what’s dinner!" I said impatiently. Poirot held up his hands in horror. "Mon Dieu! It is that in this country you treat the affairs gastronomic with a criminal indifference." "There’s another reason why we should get back to London as soon as possible," I continued. "What is that, my friend?" "The other diamond," I said, lowering my voice. "Miss Marvell’s." "Eh bien, what of it?" "Don’t you see?" His unusual obtuseness annoyed me. What had happened to his usually keen wits? "They’ve got one, now they’ll go for the other." "Tiens!" cried Poirot, stepping back a pace and regarding me with admiration. "But your brain marches to a marvel, my friend! Figure to yourself that for the moment I had not thought of that! But there is plenty of time. The full of the moon, it is not until Friday." I shook my head dubiously. The full of the moon theory left me entirely cold. I had my way with Poirot, however, and we departed immediately, leaving behind us a note of explanation and apology for Lord Yardly. My idea was to go at once to the Magnificent, and relate to Miss Marvell what had occurred, but Poirot vetoed the plan, and insisted that the morning would be time enough. I gave in rather grudgingly. In the morning Poirot seemed strangely disinclined to stir out. I began to suspect that, having made a mistake to start with, he was singularly loath to proceed with the case. In answer to my persuasions, he pointed out, with admirable common sense, that as the details of the affair at Yardly Chase were already in the morning papers the Rolfs would know quite as much as we could tell them. I gave way unwillingly. Events proved my forebodings to be justified. About two o’clock, the telephone rang. Poirot answered it. He listened for some moments, then with a brief "Bien, j’y serai" he rang off, and turned to me. "What do you think, mon ami?" He looked half ashamed, half excited. "The diamond of Miss Marvell, it has been stolen." "What?" I cried, springing up. "And what about the "full of the moon" now?" Poirot hung his head. "When did this happen?" "This morning, I understand." I shook my head sadly. "If only you had listened to me. You see I was right." "It appears so, mon ami," said Poirot cautiously. "Appearances are deceptive, they say, but it certainly appears so." As we hurried in a taxi to the Magnificent, I puzzled out the true inwardness of the scheme. "That "full of the moon" idea was clever. The whole point of it was to get us to concentrate on the Friday, and so be off our guard beforehand. It is a pity you did not realize that." "Ma foi!" said Poirot airily, his nonchalance quite restored after its brief eclipse. "One cannot think of everything!" I felt sorry for him. He did so hate failure of any kind. "Cheer up," I said consolingly. "Better luck next time." At the Magnificent, we were ushered at once into the manager’s office. Gregory Rolf was there with two men from Scotland Yard. A pale-faced clerk sat opposite them. Rolf nodded to us as we entered. "We’re getting to the bottom of it," he said. "But it’s almost unbelievable. How the guy had the nerve I can’t think." A very few minutes sufficed to give us the facts. Mr. Rolf had gone out of the hotel at 11:15. At 11:30, a gentleman, so like him in appearance as to pass muster, entered the hotel and demanded the jewel case from the safe deposit. He duly signed the receipt, remarking carelessly as he did so: "Looks a bit different from my ordinary one, but I hurt my hand getting out of the taxi." The clerk merely smiled and remarked that he saw very little difference.

Cornelia shook her head. "I tried to go once or twice, but she made me stay, and I was getting very, very uncomfortable. And then Mr. Fanthorp got up and went out—" "It was a little embarrassing," said Fanthorp. "I thought I’d make an unobtrusive exit. Miss de Bellefort was clearly working up for a scene." "And then she pulled out the pistol," went on Cornelia, "and Mr. Doyle jumped up to try and get it away from her, and it went off and shot him through the leg; and then she began to sob and cry—and I was scared to death and ran out after Mr. Fanthorp, and he came back with me, and Mr. Doyle said not to make a fuss, and one of the Nubian boys heard the noise of the shot and came along, but Mr. Fanthorp told him it was all right; and then we got Jacqueline away to her cabin, and Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her while I got Miss Bowers." Cornelia paused breathless. "What time was this?" asked Race. Cornelia said again, "Mercy, I don’t know," but Fanthorp answered promptly: "It must have been about twenty minutes past twelve. I know that it was actually half-past twelve when I finally got to my cabin." "Now let me be quite sure on one or two points," said Poirot. "After Madame Doyle left the saloon, did any of you four leave it?" "No." "You are quite certain Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not leave the saloon at all?" Fanthorp answered promptly: "Positive. Neither Doyle, Miss de Bellefort, Miss Robson, nor myself left the saloon." "Good. That establishes the fact that Mademoiselle de Bellefort could not possibly have shot Madame Doyle before—let us say—twenty past twelve. Now, Mademoiselle Robson, you went to fetch Mademoiselle Bowers. Was Mademoiselle de Bellefort alone in her cabin during that period?" "No. Mr. Fanthorp stayed with her." "Good! So far, Mademoiselle de Bellefort has a perfect alibi. Mademoiselle Bowers is the next person to interview, but, before I send for her, I should like to have your opinion on one or two points. Monsieur Doyle, you say, was very anxious that Mademoiselle de Bellefort should not be left alone. Was he afraid, do you think, that she was contemplating some further rash act?" "That is my opinion," said Fanthorp. "He was definitely afraid she might attack Madame Doyle?" "No." Fanthorp shook his head. "I don’t think that was his idea at all. I think he was afraid she might—er—do something rash to herself." "Suicide?" "Yes. You see, she seemed completely sobered and heartbroken at what she had done. She was full of self-reproach. She kept saying she would be better dead." Cornelia said timidly: "I think he was rather upset about her. He spoke—quite nicely. He said it was all his fault—that he’d treated her badly. He—he was really very nice." Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. "Now about that pistol," he went on. "What happened to that?" "She dropped it," said Cornelia. "And afterwards?" Fanthorp explained how he had gone back to search for it, but had not been able to find it. "Aha!" said Poirot. "Now we begin to arrive. Let us, I pray you, be very precise. Describe to me exactly what happened." "Miss de Bellefort let it fall. Then she kicked it away from her with her foot." "She sort of hated it," explained Cornelia. "I know just what she felt." "And it went under a settee, you say. Now be very careful. Mademoiselle de Bellefort did not recover that pistol before she left the saloon?" Both Fanthorp and Cornelia were positive on that point. "Précisément. I seek only to be very exact, you comprehend. Then we arrive at this point.

He touched his hat and, still grinning, departed. "Such a day as I’ve had," said Grannie, untying her bonnet strings. She displayed no signs of fatigue and had obviously enjoyed herself. "The Stores were packed, my dear." Apparently with other old ladies, all carrying off hams in four-wheeled cabs. 9 Celia never took up Red Cross work. Several things happened. First, Rouncy broke up and went home to live with her brother. Celia and her mother did the work of the house with the disapproving aid of Gregg, who "didn’t hold" with war and ladies doing things they weren’t meant to do. Then Grannie wrote to Miriam. Dearest Miriam: You suggested some years ago that I should make my home with you. I refused then, as I felt too old to make a move. But Dr Holt (such a clever man – and enjoys a good story – I’m afraid his wife doesn’t really appreciate him) says my eyesight is failing and that nothing can be done about it. That is God’s will and I accept it, but I do not fancy being left at the mercy of maids. Such wicked things as one reads of nowadays – and I have missed several things lately. Do not mention this when you write – they may open my letters. I am posting this myself. So I think that it will be best for me to come to you. It will make things easier, as my income will help. I do not like the idea of Celia doing things in the house. The dear child should reserve her strength. You remember Mrs Pinchin’s Eva? Just that same delicate complexion. She overdid things and is now in a Sanatorium in Switzerland. You and Celia must come and help me to move. It will be a terrible business, I’m afraid. It was a terrible business. Grannie had lived in the house at Wimbledon for fifty years, and, true product of a thrifty generation, she had never thrown away anything that might possibly "come in’. There were vast wardrobes and chests of drawers of solid mahogany, each drawer and shelf crammed with neatly rolled bundles of materials and odds and ends put away safely by Grannie and forgotten. There were innumerable "remnants’, odd lengths of silks and satins, and prints and cottons. There were dozens of needle books "for the maids at Christmas’, with the needles rusted in them. There were old scraps and pieces of gowns. There were letters and papers and diaries and recipes and newspaper cuttings. There were forty-four pin-cushions and thirty-five pairs of scissors. There were drawers and drawers full of fine linen underclothes all gone into holes, but preserved because of "the good embroidery, my dear’. Saddest of all there was the store cupboard (memory of Celia’s youth). The store cupboard had defeated Grannie. She could no longer penetrate into its depths. Stores had lain there undisturbed while fresh stores accumulated on top of them. Weevily flour, crumbling biscuits, mouldy jams, liquescent mass of preserved fruits – all these were disinterred from the depths and thrown away while Grannie sat and wept and lamented the "shameful waste’. "Surely, Miriam, they would do very nicely for puddings for the kitchen?" Poor Grannie – so able and energetic and thrifty a housewife – defeated by age and failing sight, and forced to sit and see alien eyes surveying her defeat … She fought tooth and nail for every one of her treasures that this ruthless younger generation wanted to throw away. "Not my brown velvet. That’s my brown velvet. Madame Bonserot made it for me in Paris. So Frenchy! Everyone admired me in it." "But it’s all worn, dear, the nap has gone. It’s in holes." "It would do up. I’m sure it would do up." Poor Grannie – old, defenceless, at the mercy of these younger folk – so scornful, so full of their "That’s no good, throw it away." She had been brought up never to throw away anything. It might come in some day. They didn’t know that, these young folk. They tried to be kind.

Tuppence smiled, gratified at the success of her efforts. "We haven’t exactly proved it yet. But we’re after her. And"—she produced a long drawn-out wink—"I guess she won’t get away with the goods this time." Albert uttered another ejaculation indicative of delight. "Mind you, sonny, not a word of this," said Tuppence suddenly. "I guess I oughtn’t to have put you wise, but in the States we know a real smart lad when we see one." "I’ll not breathe a word," protested Albert eagerly. "Ain’t there anything I could do? A bit of shadowing, maybe, or suchlike?" Tuppence affected to consider, then shook her head. "Not at the moment, but I’ll bear you in mind, son. What’s this about the girl you say is leaving?" "Annie? Regular turn up, they ’ad. As Annie said, servants is someone nowadays, and to be treated accordingly, and, what with her passing the word round, she won’t find it so easy to get another." "Won’t she?" said Tuppence thoughtfully. "I wonder—" An idea was dawning in her brain. She thought a minute or two, then tapped Albert on the shoulder. "See here, son, my brain’s got busy. How would it be if you mentioned that you’d got a young cousin, or a friend of yours had, that might suit the place. You get me?" "I’m there," said Albert instantly. "You leave it to me, miss, and I’ll fix the whole thing up in two ticks." "Some lad!" commented Tuppence, with a nod of approval. "You might say that the young woman could come right away. You let me know, and if it’s O.K. I’ll be round tomorrow at eleven o’clock." "Where am I to let you know to?" "Ritz," replied Tuppence laconically. "Name of Cowley." Albert eyed her enviously. "It must be a good job, this tec business." "It sure is," drawled Tuppence, "especially when old man Rysdale backs the bill. But don’t fret, son. If this goes well, you shall come in on the ground floor." With which promise she took leave of her new ally, and walked briskly away from South Audley Mansions, well pleased with her morning’s work. But there was no time to be lost. She went straight back to the Ritz and wrote a few brief words to Mr. Carter. Having dispatched this, and Tommy not having yet returned—which did not surprise her—she started off on a shopping expedition which, with an interval for tea and assorted creamy cakes, occupied her until well after six o’clock, and she returned to the hotel jaded, but satisfied with her purchases. Starting with a cheap clothing store, and passing through one or two secondhand establishments, she had finished the day at a well-known hairdresser’s. Now, in the seclusion of her bedroom, she unwrapped that final purchase. Five minutes later she smiled contentedly at her reflection in the glass. With an actress’s pencil she had slightly altered the line of her eyebrows, and that, taken in conjunction with the new luxuriant growth of fair hair above, so changed her appearance that she felt confident that even if she came face to face with Whittington he would not recognize her. She would wear elevators in her shoes, and the cap and apron would be an even more valuable disguise. From hospital experience she knew only too well that a nurse out of uniform is frequently unrecognized by her patients. "Yes," said Tuppence aloud, nodding at the pert reflection in the glass, "you’ll do." She then resumed her normal appearance. Dinner was a solitary meal. Tuppence was rather surprised at Tommy’s nonreturn. Julius, too, was absent—but that to the girl’s mind was more easily explained. His "hustling" activities were not confined to London, and his abrupt appearances and disappearances were fully accepted by the Young Adventurers as part of the day’s work. It was quite on the cards that Julius P. Hersheimmer had left for Constantinople at a moment’s notice if he fancied that a clue to his cousin’s disappearance was to be found there.

"That remains to be seen," said Sir James gravely. The other hesitated. "You do not think I ought to go to the police?" "No, no. In all probability the young lady is with other relations." The doctor was not completely satisfied, but he saw that Sir James was determined to say no more, and realized that to try to extract more information from the famous K.C. would be mere waste of labour. Accordingly, he wished them good-bye, and they left the hotel. For a few minutes they stood by the car talking. "How maddening," cried Tuppence. "To think that Julius must have been actually under the same roof with her for a few hours." "I was a darned idiot," muttered Julius gloomily. "You couldn’t know," Tuppence consoled him. "Could he?" She appealed to Sir James. "I should advise you not to worry," said the latter kindly. "No use crying over spilt milk, you know." "The great thing is what to do next," added Tuppence the practical. Sir James shrugged his shoulders. "You might advertise for the nurse who accompanied the girl. That is the only course I can suggest, and I must confess I do not hope for much result. Otherwise there is nothing to be done." "Nothing?" said Tuppence blankly. "And—Tommy?" "We must hope for the best," said Sir James. "Oh yes, we must go on hoping." But over her downcast head his eyes met Julius’s, and almost imperceptibly he shook his head. Julius understood. The lawyer considered the case hopeless. The young American’s face grew grave. Sir James took Tuppence’s hand. "You must let me know if anything further comes to light. Letters will always be forwarded." Tuppence stared at him blankly. "You are going away?" "I told you. Don’t you remember? To Scotland." "Yes, but I thought—" The girl hesitated. Sir James shrugged his shoulders. "My dear young lady, I can do nothing more, I fear. Our clues have all ended in thin air. You can take my word for it that there is nothing more to be done. If anything should arise, I shall be glad to advise you in any way I can." His words gave Tuppence an extraordinary desolate feeling. "I suppose you’re right," she said. "Anyway, thank you very much for trying to help us. Good-bye." Julius was bending over the car. A momentary pity came into Sir James’s keen eyes, as he gazed into the girl’s downcast face. "Don’t be too disconsolate, Miss Tuppence," he said in a low voice. "Remember, holiday time isn’t always all playtime. One sometimes manages to put in some work as well." Something in his tone made Tuppence glance up sharply. He shook his head with a smile. "No, I shan’t say anymore. Great mistake to say too much. Remember that. Never tell all you know—not even to the person you know best. Understand? Good-bye." He strode away. Tuppence stared after him. She was beginning to understand Sir James’s methods. Once before he had thrown her a hint in the same careless fashion. Was this a hint? What exactly lay behind those last brief words? Did he mean that, after all, he had not abandoned the case: that secretly, he would be working on it still while— Her meditations were interrupted by Julius, who adjured her to "get right in." "You’re looking kind of thoughtful," he remarked as they started off. "Did the old guy say anything more?" Tuppence opened her mouth impulsively, and then shut it again. Sir James’s words sounded in her ears: "Never tell all you know—not even to the person you know best." And like a flash there came into her mind another memory. Julius before the safe in the flat, her own question and the pause before his reply, "Nothing." Was there really nothing? Or had he found something he wished to keep to himself? If he could make a reservation, so could she. "Nothing particular," she replied. She felt rather than saw Julius throw a sideways glance at her. "Say, shall we go for a spin in the park?" "If you like." For a while they ran on under the trees in silence. It was a beautiful day. The keen rush through the air brought a new exhilaration to Tuppence. "Say, Miss Tuppence, do you think I’m ever going to find Jane?"

"It’s the best thing I’ve done," Everard declared aggressively. "We’re getting on," said Isobel. "Lady Charmington wants you to paint her." "Oh, Lord!" He frowned. "I’m not a fashionable portrait painter, you know." "You will be. You’ll get to the top of the tree." "That’s not the tree I want to get to the top of." "But, Alan dear, that’s the way to make mints of money." "Who wants mints of money?" "Perhaps I do," she said smiling. At once he felt apologetic, ashamed. If she had not married him she could have had her mints of money. And she needed it. A certain amount of luxury was her proper setting. "We’ve not done so badly just lately," he said wistfully. "No, indeed; but the bills are coming in rather fast." Bills–always bills! He walked up and down. "Oh, hang it! I don’t want to paint Lady Charmington," he burst out, rather like a petulant child. Isobel smiled a little. She stood by the fire without moving. Alan stopped his restless pacing and came nearer to her. What was there in her, in her stillness, her inertia, that drew him–drew him like a magnet? How beautiful she was–her arms like sculptured white marble, the pure gold of her hair, her lips–red full lips. He kissed them–felt them fasten on his own. Did anything else matter? What was there in Isobel that soothed you, that took all your cares from you? She drew you into her own beautiful inertia and held you there, quiet and content. Poppy and mandragora; you drifted there, on a dark lake, asleep. "I’ll do Lady Charmington," he said presently. "What does it matter? I shall be bored–but after all, painters must eat. There’s Mr Pots the painter, Mrs Pots the painter’s wife, and Miss Pots the painter’s daughter–all needing sustenance." "Absurd boy!" said Isobel. "Talking of our daughter–you ought to go and see Jane some time. She was here yesterday, and said she hadn’t seen you for months." "Jane was here?" "Yes–to see Winnie." Alan brushed Winnie aside. "Did she see the picture of you?" "Yes." "What did she think of it?" "She said it was splendid." "Oh!" He frowned, lost in thought. "Mrs Lemprière suspects you of a guilty passion for Jane, I think," remarked Isobel. "Her nose twitched a good deal." "That woman!" said Alan, with deep disgust. "That woman! What wouldn’t she think? What doesn’t she think?" "Well, I don’t think," said Isobel, smiling. "So go and see Jane soon." Alan looked across at her. She was sitting now on a low couch by the fire. Her face was half turned away, the smile still lingered on her lips. And at that moment he felt bewildered, confused, as though a mist had formed round him, and, suddenly parting, had given him a glimpse into a strange country. Something said to him: "Why does she want you to go and see Jane? There’s a reason." Because with Isobel, there was bound to be a reason. There was no impulse in Isobel, only calculation. "Do you like Jane?" he asked suddenly. "She’s a dear," said Isobel. "Yes, but do you really like her?" "Of course. She’s so devoted to Winnie. By the way, she wants to carry Winnie off to the seaside next week. You don’t mind, do you? It will leave us free for Scotland." "It will be extraordinarily convenient." It would, indeed, be just that. Extraordinarily convenient. He looked across at Isobel with a sudden suspicion. Had she asked Jane? Jane was so easily imposed upon. Isobel got up and went out of the room, humming to herself. Oh, well, it didn’t matter. Anyway, he would go and see Jane. III Jane Haworth lived at the top of a block of mansion flats overlooking Battersea Park. When Everard had climbed four flights of stairs and pressed the bell, he felt annoyed with Jane. Why couldn’t she live somewhere more get- at-able? When, not having obtained an answer, he had pressed the bell three times, his annoyance had grown greater.

I suggested she should look at properties in England. Then I said when she was twenty-one she could buy one of her own and say good-bye to all that New York lot." "Greta always has wonderful ideas," said Ellie. "She thinks of things I’d probably never have thought of myself." What were those words Mr. Lippincott had said to me? "She has too much influence over Ellie." I wondered if it was true. Queerly enough I didn’t really think so. I felt that there was a core somewhere in Ellie that Greta, for all that she knew her so well, had never quite appreciated. Ellie, I was sure, would always accept any ideas that matched with the ideas she wanted to have herself. Greta had preached rebellion to Ellie but Ellie herself wanted to rebel, only she was not sure how to do so. But I felt that Ellie, now that I was coming to know her better, was one of those very simple people who have unexpected reserves. I thought Ellie would be quite capable of taking a stand of her own if she wished to. The point was that she wouldn’t very often wish to and I thought then how difficult everyone was to understand. Even Ellie. Even Greta. Even perhaps my own mother…The way she looked at me with fear in her eyes. I wondered about Mr. Lippincott. I said, as we were peeling some outsize peaches: "Mr. Lippincott seems to have taken our marriage very well really. I was surprised." "Mr. Lippincott," said Greta, "is an old fox." "You always say so, Greta," said Ellie, "but I think he’s rather a dear. Very strict and proper and all that." "Well, go on thinking so if you like," said Greta. "Myself, I wouldn’t trust him an inch." "Not trust him!" said Ellie. Greta shook her head. "I know. He’s a pillar of respectability and trustworthiness. He’s everything a trustee and a lawyer should be." Ellie laughed and said, "Do you mean he’s embezzled my fortune? Don’t be silly, Greta. There are thousands of auditors and banks and check-ups and all that sort of thing." "Oh, I expect he’s all right really," said Greta. "All the same, those are the people that do embezzle. The trustworthy ones. And then everyone says afterwards, "I’d never have believed it of Mr. A. or Mr. B. The last man in the world." Yes, that’s what they say. "The last man in the world.’" Ellie said thoughtfully that her Uncle Frank, she thought, was much more likely to go in for dishonest practices. She did not seem unduly worried or surprised by the idea. "Oh well he looks like a crook," said Greta. "That handicaps him to start with. All that geniality and bonhomie. But he’ll never be in a position to be a crook in a big way." "Is he your mother’s brother?" I asked. I always got confused over Ellie’s relations. "He’s my father’s sister’s husband," said Ellie. "She left him and married someone else and died about six or seven years ago. Uncle Frank has more or less stuck on with the family." "There are three of them," said Greta kindly and helpfully. "Three leeches hanging round, as you might say. Ellie’s actual uncles were killed, one in Korea and one in a car accident, so what she’s got is a much-damaged stepmother, an Uncle Frank, an amiable hanger-on in the family home, and her cousin Reuben whom she calls Uncle but he’s only a cousin and Andrew Lippincott, and Stanford Lloyd." "Who is Stanford Lloyd?" I asked, bewildered. "Oh another sort of trustee, isn’t he, Ellie? At any rate he manages your investments and things like that. Which can’t really be very difficult because when you’ve got as much money as Ellie has, it sort of makes more money all the time without anyone having to do much about it. Those are the main surrounding group," Greta added, "and I have no doubt that you will be meeting them fairly soon. They’ll be over here to have a look at you." I groaned, and looked at Ellie.

I never saw any. I was shown into Richard Symmington’s inner office which had the agreeable mustiness of a long-established legal firm. Vast numbers of deed boxes, labelled Lady Hope, Sir Everard Carr, William Yatesby-Hoares, Esq., Deceased, etc., gave the required atmosphere of decorous county families and legitimate long-established business. Studying Mr. Symmington as he bent over the documents I had brought, it occurred to me that if Mrs. Symmington had encountered disaster in her first marriage, she had certainly played safe in her second. Richard Symmington was the acme of calm respectability, the sort of man who would never give his wife a moment’s anxiety. A long neck with a pronounced Adam’s apple, a slightly cadaverous face and a long thin nose. A kindly man, no doubt, a good husband and father, but not one to set the pulses madly racing. Presently Mr. Symmington began to speak. He spoke clearly and slowly, delivering himself of much good sense and shrewd acumen. We settled the matter in hand and I rose to go, remarking as I did so: "I walked down the hill with your stepdaughter." For a moment Mr. Symmington looked as though he did not know who his stepdaughter was, then he smiled. "Oh yes, of course, Megan. She—er—has been back from school some time. We’re thinking about finding her something to do—yes, to do. But of course she’s very young still. And backward for her age, so they say. Yes, so they tell me." I went out. In the outer office was a very old man on a stool writing slowly and laboriously, a small cheeky-looking boy and a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and pinze-nez who was typing with some speed and dash. If this was Miss Ginch I agreed with Owen Griffith that tender passages between her and her employer were exceedingly unlikely. I went into the baker’s and said my piece about the currant loaf. It was received with the exclamation and incredulity proper to the occasion, and a new currant loaf was thrust upon me in replacement—"fresh from the oven this minute"—as its indecent heat pressed against my chest proclaimed to be no less than truth. I came out of the shop and looked up and down the street hoping to see Joanna with the car. The walk had tired me a good deal and it was awkward getting along with my sticks and the currant loaf. But there was no sign of Joanna as yet. Suddenly my eyes were held in glad and incredulous surprise. Along the pavement towards me there came floating a goddess. There is really no other word for it. The perfect features, the crisply curling golden hair, the tall exquisitely- shaped body! And she walked like a goddess, without effort, seeming to swim nearer and nearer. A glorious, an incredible, a breathtaking girl! In my intense excitement something had to go. What went was the currant loaf. It slipped from my clutches. I made a dive after it and lost my stick, which clattered to the pavement, and I slipped and nearly fell myself. It was the strong arm of the goddess that caught and held me. I began to stammer: "Th-thanks awfully, I’m f-f-frightfully sorry." She had retrieved the currant loaf and handed it to me together with the stick. And then she smiled kindly and said cheerfully: "Don’t mention it. No trouble, I assure you," and the magic died completely before the flat, competent voice. A nice healthy-looking well set-up girl, no more. I fell to reflecting what would have happened if the Gods had given Helen of Troy exactly those flat accents. How strange that a girl could trouble your inmost soul so long as she kept her mouth shut, and that the moment she spoke the glamour could vanish as though it had never been. I had known the reverse happen, though. I had seen a little sad monkey-faced woman whom no one would turn to look at twice. Then she opened her mouth and suddenly enchantment had lived and bloomed and Cleopatra had cast her spell anew. Joanna had drawn up at the kerb beside me without my noticing her arrival. She asked if there was anything the matter. "Nothing," I said, pulling myself together. "I was reflecting on Helen of Troy and others." "What a funny place to do it," said Joanna.

"Are you quite mad, Ariadne?" "Probably," said Mrs. Oliver, "raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoy being in London. You needn’t worry. She’s not going to have any operation. That’s what’s called "cover" in spy stories. We’ll take her to a theatre, or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole I think it would be best to take her to the ballet." "I’m frightened," said Judith. Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. She looked more than ever, Mrs. Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked divorced from reality. "Come on," said Mrs. Oliver, "I promised Hercule Poirot I’d bring you when he gave me the word. Well, he’s given me the word." "What’s going on in this place?" said Judith. "I can’t think why I ever came here." "I sometimes wondered why you did," said Mrs. Oliver, "but there’s no accounting for where people go to live. A friend of mine went to live in Moreton-in-the-Marsh the other day. I asked him why he wanted to go and live there. He said he’d always wanted to and thought about it. Whenever he retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn’t been to it myself but it sounded to me bound to be damp. What was it actually like? He said he didn’t know what it was like because he’d never been there himself. But he had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too." "Did he go?" "Yes." "Did he like it when he got there?" "Well, I haven’t heard that yet," said Mrs. Oliver. "But people are very odd, aren’t they? The things they want to do, the things they simply have to do…" She went to the garden and called, "Miranda, we’re going to London." Miranda came slowly towards them. "Going to London?" "Ariadne’s going to drive us there," said her mother. "We’ll go and see a theatre there. Mrs. Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet. Would you like to go to the ballet?" "I’d love it," said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. "I must go and say goodbye to one of my friends first." "We’re going practically at once." "Oh, I shan’t be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things I promised to do." She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate. "Who are Miranda’s friends?" asked Mrs. Oliver, with some curiosity." "I never really know," said Judith. "She never tells one things, you know. Sometimes I think that the only things that she really feels are her friends are the birds she looks at in the woods. Or squirrels or things like that. I think everybody likes her but I don’t know that she has any particular friends. I mean, she doesn’t bring back girls to tea and things like that. Not as much as other girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reynolds." She added vaguely: "Joyce used to tell her fantastic things about elephants and tigers." She roused herself. "Well, I must go up and pack, I suppose, as you insist. But I don’t want to leave here. There are lots of things I’m in the middle of doing, like this jelly and—" "You’ve got to come," said Mrs. Oliver. She was quite firm about it. Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Miranda ran in through the side door, somewhat out of breath. "Aren’t we going to have lunch first?" she demanded. In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child who liked her food. "We’ll stop for lunch on the way," said Mrs. Oliver. "We’ll stop at The Black Boy at Haversham. That would be about right. It’s about three-quarters of an hour from here and they give you quite a good meal. Come on, Miranda, we’re going to start now." "I shan’t have time to tell Cathie I can’t go to the pictures with her tomorrow. Oh, perhaps I could ring her up." "Well, hurry up," said her mother. Miranda ran into the sitting room where the telephone was situated. Judith and Mrs.

"But the packet of stropanthin was found in Douglas Gold’s pocket!" "A very simple matter to slip it there when we were all crowding round the dying woman." It was quite two minutes before Pamela got her breath. "But I don’t understand a word! The triangle—you said yourself—" Hercule Poirot nodded his head vigorously. "I said there was a triangle—yes. But you, you imagined the wrong one. You were deceived by some very clever acting! You thought, as you were meant to think, that both Tony Chantry and Douglas Gold were in love with Valentine Chantry. You believed, as you were meant to believe, that Douglas Gold, being in love with Valentine Chantry (whose husband refused to divorce her) took the desperate step of administering a powerful heart poison to Chantry and that, by a fatal mistake, Valentine Chantry drank that poison instead. All that is illusion. Chantry has been meaning to do away with his wife for some time. He was bored to death with her, I could see that from the first. He married her for her money. Now he wants to marry another woman—so he planned to get rid of Valentine and keep her money. That entailed murder." "Another woman?" Poirot said slowly: "Yes, yes—the little Marjorie Gold. It was the eternal triangle all right! But you saw it the wrong way round. Neither of those two men cared in the least for Valentine Chantry. It was her vanity and Marjorie Gold’s very clever stage managing that made you think they did! A very clever woman, Mrs. Gold, and amazingly attractive in her demure Madonna, poor-little-thing-way! I have known four women criminals of the same type. There was Mrs. Adams who was acquitted of murdering her husband, but everybody knows she did it. Mary Parker did away with an aunt, a sweetheart and two brothers before she got a little careless and was caught. Then there was Mrs. Rowden, she was hanged all right. Mrs. Lecray escaped by the skin of her teeth. This woman is exactly the same type. I recognized it as soon as I saw her! That type takes to crime like a duck to water! And a very pretty bit of well-planned work it was. Tell me, what evidence did you ever have that Douglas Gold was in love with Valentine Chantry? When you come to think it out, you will realize that there was only Mrs. Gold’s confidences and Chantry’s jealous bluster. Yes? You see?" "It’s horrible," cried Pamela. "They were a clever pair," said Poirot with professional detachment. "They planned to "meet" here and stage their crime. That Marjorie Gold, she is a cold-blooded devil! She would have sent her poor, innocent fool of a husband to the scaffold without the least remorse." Pamela cried out: "But he was arrested and taken away by the police last night." "Ah," said Hercule Poirot, "but after that, me, I had a few little words with the police. It is true that I did not see Chantry put the stropanthin in the glass. I, like everyone else, looked up when the ladies came in. But the moment I realized that Valentine Chantry had been poisoned, I watched her husband without taking my eyes off him. And so, you see, I actually saw him slip the packet of stropanthin in Douglas Gold’s coat pocket. . . ." He added with a grim expression on his face: "I am a good witness. My name is well-known. The moment the police heard my story they realized that it put an entirely different complexion on the matter." "And then?" demanded Pamela, fascinated. "Eh bien, then they asked Commander Chantry a few questions. He tried to bluster it out, but he is not really clever, he soon broke down." "So Douglas Gold was set at liberty?" "Yes." "And—Marjorie Gold?" Poirot’s face grew stern. "I warned her," he said. "Yes, I warned her . . . Up on the Mount of the Prophet . . . It was the only chance of averting the crime. I as good as told her that I suspected her. She understood. But she believed herself too clever . . . I told her to leave the island if she valued her life.

Tried not to admit it to myself. She was damned fond of him. Fond of a murderer! Well, he’ll hang as well as the woman. I’m glad he went to pieces and gave the show away." Miss Marple said: "She was always the strong character. It was her plan throughout. The irony of it is that she got the girl down here herself, never dreaming that she would take Mr. Jefferson’s fancy and ruin all her own prospects." Jefferson said: "Poor lass. Poor little Ruby…." Adelaide Jefferson and Hugo McLean came in. Adelaide looked almost beautiful tonight. She came up to Conway Jefferson and laid a hand on his shoulder. She said, with a little catch in her breath: "I want to tell you something, Jeff. At once. I’m going to marry Hugo." Conway Jefferson looked up at her for a moment. He said gruffly: "About time you married again. Congratulations to you both. By the way, Addie, I’m making a new will tomorrow." She nodded. "Oh yes, I know." Jefferson said: "No, you don’t. I’m settling ten thousand pounds on you. Everything else I have goes to Peter when I die. How does that suit you, my girl?" "Oh, Jeff!" Her voice broke. "You’re wonderful!" "He’s a nice lad. I’d like to see a good deal of him—in the time I’ve got left." "Oh, you shall!" "Got a great feeling for crime, Peter has," said Conway Jefferson meditatively. "Not only has he got the fingernail of the murdered girl—one of the murdered girls, anyway—but he was lucky enough to have a bit of Josie’s shawl caught in with the nail. So he’s got a souvenir of the murderess too! That makes him very happy!" II Hugo and Adelaide passed by the ballroom. Raymond came up to them. Adelaide said, rather quickly: "I must tell you my news. We’re going to be married." The smile on Raymond’s face was perfect—a brave, pensive smile. "I hope," he said, ignoring Hugo and gazing into her eyes, "that you will be very, very happy…." They passed on and Raymond stood looking after them. "A nice woman," he said to himself. "A very nice woman. And she would have had money too. The trouble I took to mug up that bit about the Devonshire Starrs … Oh well, my luck’s out. Dance, dance, little gentleman!" And Raymond returned to the ballroom.

Very nice of Doctor to be so optimistic, Nurse would think, but surely Doctor was wrong. Doctor very often wasn’t wrong. He knew that people who were in pain, helpless, crippled, even unhappy, still liked living and wanting to live. They would take one of Doctor’s pills to help them pass the night, but they had no intention of taking a few more than necessary of Doctor’s pills, just in order to pass the threshold to a world that they did not as yet know anything about! Mr. Rafiel. That was the person Miss Marple was thinking about as she looked across the garden with unseeing eyes. Mr. Rafiel? She felt now that she was getting a little closer to understanding the task laid upon her, the project suggested to her. Mr. Rafiel was a man who made plans. Made them in the same way that he planned financial deals and takeovers. In the words of her servant, Cherry, he had had a problem. When Cherry had a problem, she often came and consulted Miss Marple about it. This was a problem that Mr. Rafiel could not deal with himself, which must have annoyed him very much, Miss Marple thought, because he could usually deal with any problem himself and insisted on doing so. But he was bedridden and dying. He could arrange his financial affairs, communicate with his lawyers, with his employees and with such friends and relations as he had, but there was something or someone that he had not arranged for. A problem he had not solved, a problem he still wanted to solve, a project he still wanted to bring about. And apparently it was not one that could be settled by financial aid, by business dealings, by the services of a lawyer. "So he thought of me," said Miss Marple. It still surprised her very much. Very much indeed. However, in the sense she was now thinking of it, his letter had been quite explicit. He had thought she had certain qualifications for doing something. It had to do, she thought once again, with something in the nature of crime or affected by crime. The only other thing he knew about Miss Marple was that she was devoted to gardens. Well it could hardly be a gardening problem that he wanted her to solve. But he might think of her in connection with crime. Crime in the West Indies and crimes in her own neighbourhood at home. A crime—where? Mr. Rafiel had made arrangements. Arrangements, to begin with, with his lawyers. They had done their part. After the right interval of time they had forwarded to her his letter. It had been, she thought, a well considered and well thought out letter. It would have been simpler, certainly, to tell her exactly what he wanted her to do and why he wanted it. She was surprised in a way that he had not, before his death, sent for her, probably in a somewhat peremptory way and more or less lying on what he would have assured her was his deathbed, and would then have bullied her until she consented to do what he was asking her. But no, that would not really have been Mr. Rafiel’s way, she thought. He could bully people, none better, but this was not a case for bullying, and he did not wish either, she was sure, to appeal to her, to beg her to do him a favour, to urge her to redress a wrong. No. That again would not have been Mr. Rafiel’s way. He wanted, she thought, as he had probably wanted all his life, to pay for what he required. He wanted to pay her and therefore he wanted to interest her enough to enjoy doing certain work. The pay was offered to intrigue her, not really to tempt her. It was to arouse her interest. She did not think that he had said to himself, "Offer enough money and she’ll leap at it" because, as she knew very well herself, the money sounded very agreeable but she was not in urgent need of money. She had her dear and affectionate nephew who, if she was in straits for money of any kind, if she needed repairs to her house or a visit to a specialist or special treats, dear Raymond would always provide them. No. The sum he offered was to be exciting. It was to be exciting in the same way as it was exciting when you had a ticket for the Irish Sweep.

It was an escape. When he was painting he didn’t care, he shook off Caroline and her nagging and all the ceaseless rows and quarrels. They were endless, you know. Not a week passed without a thundering row over one thing or another. She enjoyed it. Having rows stimulated her, I believe. It was an outlet. She could say all the hard bitter stinging things she wanted to say. She’d positively purr after one of those set-tos—go off looking as sleek and well-fed as a cat. But it took it out of him. He wanted peace—rest—a quiet life. Of course a man like that ought never to marry—he isn’t out for domesticity. A man like Crale should have affairs but no binding ties. They’re bound to chafe him." "He confided in you?" "Well—he knew that I was a pretty devoted pal. He let me see things. He didn’t complain. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sometimes he’d say, "Damn all women." Or he’d say, "Never get married, old boy. Wait for hell till after this life.’" "You knew about his attachment to Miss Greer?" "Oh yes—at least I saw it coming on. He told me he’d met a marvellous girl. She was different, he said, from anything or anyone he’d ever met before. Not that I paid much attention to that. Amyas was always meeting one woman or other who was "different." Usually a month later he’d stare at you if you mentioned them, and wonder who you were talking about! But this Elsa Greer really was different. I realized that when I came down to Alderbury to stay. She’d got him, you know, hooked him good and proper. The poor mutt fairly ate out of her hand." "You did not like Elsa Greer either?" "No, I didn’t like her. She was definitely a predatory creature. She, too, wanted to own Crale body and soul. But I think, all the same, that she’d have been better for him than Caroline. She might conceivably have let him alone once she was sure of him. Or she might have got tired of him and moved on to someone else. The best thing for Amyas would have been to be quite free of female entanglements." "But that, it would seem, was not to his taste?" Philip Blake said with a sigh: "The damned fool was always getting himself involved with some woman or other. And yet, in a way, women really meant very little to him. The only two women who really made any impression on him at all in his life were Caroline and Elsa." Poirot said: "Was he fond of the child?" "Angela? Oh! we all liked Angela. She was such a sport. She was always game for anything. What a life she led that wretched governess of hers. Yes, Amyas liked Angela all right—but sometimes she went too far and then he used to get really mad with her—and then Caroline would step in—Caro was always on Angela’s side and that would finish Amyas altogether. He hated it when Caro sided with Angela against him. There was a bit of jealousy all round, you know. Amyas was jealous of the way Caro always put Angela first and would do anything for her. And Angela was jealous of Amyas and rebelled against his overbearing ways. It was his decision that she should go to school that autumn, and she was furious about it. Not, I think, because she didn’t like the idea of school, she really rather wanted to go, I believe—but it was Amyas’s high-handed way of settling it all offhand that infuriated her. She played all sorts of tricks on him in revenge. Once she put ten slugs in his bed. On the whole, I think Amyas was right. It was time she got some discipline. Miss Williams was very efficient, but even she confessed that Angela was getting too much for her." He paused. Poirot said: "When I asked if Amyas was fond of the child—I referred to his own child, his daughter?" "Oh, you mean little Carla? Yes, she was a great pet. He enjoyed playing with her when he was in the mood. But his affection for her wouldn’t have deterred him from marrying Elsa, if that’s what you mean. He hadn’t that kind of feeling for her."

But I, Hercule Poirot, say that Madame Renauld lied. The crime took place at least two hours earlier." "But the doctors—" "They declared, after examination of the body, that death had taken place between ten and seven hours previously. Mon ami, for some reason it was imperative that the crime should seem to have taken place later than it actually did. You have read of a smashed watch or clock recording the exact hour of a crime? So that the time should not rest on Madame Renauld’s testimony alone, someone moved on the hands of that wristwatch to two o’clock, and then dashed it violently to the ground. But, as is often the case, they defeated their own object. The glass was smashed, but the mechanism of the watch was uninjured. It was a most disastrous manoeuvre on their part, for it at once drew my attention to two points—first, that Madame Renauld was lying; secondly, that there must be some vital reason for the postponement of the time." "But what reason could there be?" "Ah, that is the question! There we have the whole mystery. As yet, I cannot explain it. There is only one idea that presents itself to me as having a possible connexion." "And that is?" "The last train left Merlinville at seventeen minutes past twelve." I followed it out slowly. "So that, the crime apparently taking place some two hours later, anyone leaving by that train would have an unimpeachable alibi!" "Perfect, Hastings! You have it!" I sprang up. "But we must inquire at the station! Surely they cannot have failed to notice two foreigners who left by that train! We must go there at once!" "You think so, Hastings?" "Of course. Let us go there now." Poirot restrained my ardour with a light touch upon the arm. "Go by all means if you wish, mon ami—but if you go, I should not ask for particulars of two foreigners." I stared and he said rather impatiently: "Là, là, you do not believe all that rigmarole, do you? The masked men and all the rest of cette histoire-là!" His words took me so much aback, that I hardly knew how to respond. He went on serenely: "You heard me say to Giraud, did you not, that all the details of this crime were familiar to me? Eh bien, that presupposes one of two things, either the brain that planned the first crime also planned this one, or else an account read of a cause célèbre unconsciously remained in our assassin’s memory and prompted the details. I shall be able to pronounce definitely on that after—" He broke off. I was revolving sundry matters in my mind. "But Mr. Renauld’s letter? It distinctly mentions a secret and Santiago!" "Undoubtedly there was a secret in Monsieur Renauld’s life—there can be no doubt of that. On the other hand, the word Santiago, to my mind, is a red herring, dragged continually across the track to put us off the scent. It is possible that it was used in the same way on Monsieur Renauld, to keep him from directing his suspicions to a quarter nearer at hand. Oh, be assured, Hastings, the danger that threatened him was not in Santiago, it was near at hand, in France." He spoke so gravely, and with such assurance, that I could not fail to be convinced. But I essayed one final objection: "And the match and cigarette end found near the body? What of them?" A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot’s face. "Planted! Deliberately planted there for Giraud or one of his tribe to find! Ah, he is smart, Giraud, he can do his tricks! So can a good retriever dog. He comes in so pleased with himself. For hours he has crawled on his stomach. "See what I have found," he says. And then again to me: "What do you see here?" Me, I answer, with profound and deep truth, "Nothing." And Giraud, the great Giraud, he laughs, he thinks to himself, "Oh, he is imbecile, this old one!" But we shall see…." But my mind had reverted to the main facts. "Then all this story of the masked men—?" "Is false." "What really happened?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "One person could tell us—Madame Renauld.

This will be terrible for him—" She paused. "Or do you think not?" "There are a lot of other girls in America," said Hercule Poirot. "And but for you his mother would be in prison—in prison—with her hair cut off—sitting in a cell—and smelling of disinfectant! Ah, but you are wonderful—wonderful." Surging forward she clasped Poirot in her arms and embraced him with Slavonic fervour. Mr. Higgs looked on appreciatively. The dog Cerberus beat his tail upon the floor. Into the midst of this scene of rejoicing came the trill of a bell. "Japp!" exclaimed Poirot, disengaging himself from the Countess’s arms. "It would be better, perhaps, if I went into the other room," said the Countess. She slipped through the connecting door. Poirot started towards the door to the hall. "Guv’nor," wheezed Mr. Higgs anxiously, "better look at yourself in the glass, ’adn’t you?" Poirot did so and recoiled. Lipstick and mascara ornamented his face in a fantastic medley. "If that’s Mr. Japp from Scotland Yard, ’e’d think the worst—sure to," said Mr. Higgs. He added, as the bell pealed again, and Poirot strove feverishly to remove crimson grease from the points of his moustache: "What do yer want me to do—’ook it too? What about this ’ere ’Ell ’Ound?" "If I remember rightly," said Hercule Poirot, "Cerberus returned to Hell." "Just as you like," said Mr. Higgs. "As a matter of fact I’ve taken a kind of fancy to ’im . . . Still, ’e’s not the kind I’d like to pinch—not permanent—too noticeable, if you know what I mean. And think what he’d cost me in shin of beef or ’orseflesh! Eats as much as a young lion, I expect." "From the Nemean Lion to the Capture of Cerberus," murmured Poirot. "It is complete." VII A week later Miss Lemon brought a bill to her employer. "Excuse me, M. Poirot. Is it in order for me to pay this? Leonora, Florist. Red Roses. Eleven pounds, eight shillings and sixpence. Sent to Countess Vera Rossakoff, Hell, 13 End St, WC1." As the hue of red roses, so were the cheeks of Hercule Poirot. He blushed, blushed to the eyeballs. "Perfectly in order, Miss Lemon. A little—er, tribute—to—to an occasion. The Countess’s son has just become engaged in America—to the daughter of his employer, a steel magnate. Red roses are—I seem to remember, her favourite flower." "Quite," said Miss Lemon. "They’re very expensive this time of year." Hercule Poirot drew himself up. "There are moments," he said, "when one does not economize." Humming a little tune, he went out of the door. His step was light, almost sprightly. Miss Lemon stared after him. Her filing system was forgotten. All her feminine instincts were aroused. "Good gracious," she murmured. "I wonder . . . Really—at his age! . . . Surely not. . . ." Two THE LERNEAN HYDRA Hercule Poirot looked encouragingly at the man seated opposite him. Dr. Charles Oldfield was a man of perhaps forty. He had fair hair slightly grey at the temples and blue eyes that held a worried expression. He stooped a little and his manner was a trifle hesitant. Moreover, he seemed to find difficulty in coming to the point. He said, stammering slightly: "I’ve come to you, M. Poirot, with rather an odd request. And now that I’m here, I’m inclined to funk the whole thing. Because, as I see very well now, it’s the sort of thing that no one can possibly do anything about." Hercule Poirot murmured: "As to that, you must let me judge." Oldfield muttered: "I don’t know why I thought that perhaps—" He broke off. Hercule Poirot finished the sentence. "That perhaps I could help you?

Although unable to see how Poirot had deduced Mr. Ventnor’s existence and personal appearance, I was keenly excited. "Tell me," I cried, "was this gentleman one of the first to land when you got to New York?" The steward shook his head. "No, indeed, sir, he was one of the last off the boat." I retired crestfallen, and observed Poirot grinning at me. He thanked the steward, a note changed hands, and we took our departure. "It’s all very well," I remarked heatedly, "but that last answer must have damned your precious theory, grin as you please!" "As usual, you see nothing, Hastings. That last answer is, on the contrary, the copingstone of my theory." I flung up my hands in despair. "I give it up." II When we were in the train, speeding towards London, Poirot wrote busily for a few minutes, sealing up the result in an envelope. "This is for the good Inspector McNeil. We will leave it at Scotland Yard in passing, and then to the Rendezvous Restaurant, where I have asked Miss Esmée Farquhar to do us the honour of dining with us." "What about Ridgeway?" "What about him?" asked Poirot with a twinkle. "Why, you surely don’t think—you can’t—" "The habit of incoherence is growing upon you, Hastings. As a matter of fact I did think. If Ridgeway had been the thief—which was perfectly possible—the case would have been charming; a piece of neat methodical work." "But not so charming for Miss Farquhar." "Possibly you are right. Therefore all is for the best. Now, Hastings, let us review the case. I can see that you are dying to do so. The sealed package is removed from the trunk and vanishes, as Miss Farquhar puts it, into thin air. We will dismiss the thin air theory, which is not practicable at the present stage of science, and consider what is likely to have become of it. Everyone asserts the incredulity of its being smuggled ashore—" "Yes, but we know—" "You may know, Hastings, I do not. I take the view that, since it seemed incredible, it was incredible. Two possibilities remain: it was hidden on board—also rather difficult—or it was thrown overboard." "With a cork on it, do you mean?" "Without a cork." I stared. "But if the bonds were thrown overboard, they couldn’t have been sold in New York." "I admire your logical mind, Hastings. The bonds were sold in New York, therefore they were not thrown overboard. You see where that leads us?" "Where we were when we started." "Jamais de la vie! If the package was thrown overboard and the bonds were sold in New York, the package could not have contained the bonds. Is there any evidence that the package did contain the bonds? Remember, Mr. Ridgeway never opened it from the time it was placed in his hands in London." "Yes, but then—" Poirot waved an impatient hand. "Permit me to continue. The last moment that the bonds are seen as bonds is in the office of the London and Scottish Bank on the morning of the 23rd. They reappear in New York half an hour after the Olympia gets in, and according to one man, whom nobody listens to, actually before she gets in. Supposing then, that they have never been on the Olympia at all? Is there any other way they could get to New York? Yes. The Gigantic leaves Southampton on the same day as the Olympia, and she holds the record for the Atlantic. Mailed by the Gigantic, the bonds would be in New York the day before the Olympia arrived. All is clear, the case begins to explain itself. The sealed packet is only a dummy, and the moment of its substitution must be in the office in the bank. It would be an easy matter for any of the three men present to have prepared a duplicate package which could be substituted for the genuine one. Très bien, the bonds are mailed to a confederate in New York, with instructions to sell as soon as the Olympia is in, but someone must travel on the Olympia to engineer the supposed moment of robbery." "But why?" "Because if Ridgeway merely opens the packet and finds it a dummy, suspicion flies at once to London.

"No," said Mrs. Oliver firmly. "I’d like to meet her. Good yarns she writes." He lowered his voice. "But they say she drinks like a fish." He hurried off and Mrs. Oliver said indignantly, "Really! That’s most unfair when I only like lemonade!" "And have you not just perpetrated the greatest unfairness in helping that young man towards the next clue?" "Considering he’s the only one who’s got here so far, I thought he ought to be encouraged." "But you wouldn’t give him your autograph." "That’s different," said Mrs. Oliver. "Sh! Here come some more." But these were not clue hunters. They were two women who having paid for admittance were determined to get their money’s worth by seeing the grounds thoroughly. They were hot and dissatisfied. "You’d think they’d have some nice flower beds," said one to the other. "Nothing but trees and more trees. It’s not what I call a garden." Mrs. Oliver nudged Poirot, and they slipped quietly away. "Supposing," said Mrs. Oliver distractedly, "that nobody ever finds my body?" "Patience, Madame, and courage," said Poirot. "The afternoon is still young." "That’s true," said Mrs. Oliver, brightening. "And it’s half price admission after four-thirty, so probably lots of people will flock in. Let’s go and see how that Marlene child is getting on. I don’t really trust that girl, you know. No sense of responsibility. I wouldn’t put it past her to sneak away quietly, instead of being a corpse, and go and have tea. You know what people are like about their teas." They proceeded amicably along the woodland path and Poirot commented on the geography of the property. "I find it very confusing," he said. "So many paths, and one is never sure where they lead. And trees, trees everywhere." "You sound like that disgruntled woman we’ve just left." They passed the Folly and zigzagged down the path to the river. The outlines of the boathouse showed beneath them. Poirot remarked that it would be awkward if the Murder searchers were to light upon the boathouse and find the body by accident. "A sort of short cut? I thought of that. That’s why the last clue is just a key. You can’t unlock the door without it. It’s a Yale. You can only open it from the inside." A short steep slope led down to the door of the boathouse which was built out over the storage space for boats. Mrs. Oliver took a key from a pocket concealed amongst her purple folds and unlocked the door. "We’ve just come to cheer you up, Marlene," she said brightly as she entered. She felt slightly remorseful at her unjust suspicions of Marlene’s loyalty, for Marlene, artistically arranged as "the body," was playing her part nobly, sprawled on the floor by the window. Marlene made no response. She lay quite motionless. The wind blowing gently through the open window rustled a pile of "Comics" spread out on the table. "It’s all right," said Mrs. Oliver impatiently. "It’s only me and M. Poirot. Nobody’s got any distance with the clues yet." Poirot was frowning. Very gently he pushed Mrs. Oliver aside and went and bent over the girl on the floor. A suppressed exclamation came from his lips. He looked up at Mrs. Oliver. "So –" he said. "That which you expected has happened." "You don’t mean – " Mrs. Oliver’s eyes widened in horror. She grasped for one of the basket chairs and sat down. "You can’t mean – She isn’t dead?" Poirot nodded. "Oh, yes," he said. "She is dead. Though not very long dead." "But how –?" He lifted the corner of the gay scarf bound round the girl’s head, so that Mrs. Oliver could see the ends of the clothes line. "Just like my murder," said Mrs. Oliver unsteadily. "But who? And why?" "That is the question," said Poirot. He forebore to add that those had also been her questions.

Mr Mayherne looked at him for a moment or two in silence. Though he had no intention of saying so, his belief in Leonard Vole's innocence was at that moment strengthened. He knew something of the mentality of elderly ladies. He saw Miss French, infatuated with the good-looking young man, hunting about for pretexts that would bring him to the house. What more likely than that she should plead ignorance of business, and beg him to help her with her money affairs? She was enough of a woman of the world to realize that any man is slightly flattered by such an admission of his superiority. Leonard Vole had been flattered. Perhaps, too, she had not been averse to letting this young man know that she was wealthy. Emily French had been a strong-willed old woman, willing to pay her price for what she wanted. All this passed rapidly through Mr Mayherne's mind, but he gave no indication of it, and asked instead a further question. "And you did handle her affairs for her at request?" "I did." "Mr Vole," said the solicitor, "I am going to ask you a very serious question, and one to which it is vital I should have a truthful answer. You were in low water financially. You had the handling of an old lady's affairs - an old lady who, according to her own statement, knew little or nothing of business. Did you at any time, or in any manner, convert to your own use the securities which you handled? Did you engage in any transaction for your own pecuniary advantage which will not bear the light of day?" He quelled the other's response. "Wait a minute before you answer. There are two courses open to us. Either we can make a feature of your probity and honesty in conducting her affairs whilst pointing out how unlikely it is that you would commit murder to obtain money which you might have obtained by such infinitely easier means. If, on the other hand, there is anything in your dealings which the prosecution will get hold of - if, to put it baldly, it can be proved that you swindled the old lady in any way, we must take the line that you had no motive for the murder, since she was already a profitable source of income to you. You perceive the distinction. Now, I beg of you, take your time before you reply." But Leonard Vole took no time at all. "My dealings with Miss French's affairs were all perfectly fair and above board. I acted for her interests to the very best of my ability, as anyone will find who looks into the matter." "Thank you," said Mr Mayherne. "You relieve my mind very much. I pay you the compliment of believing that you are far too clever to lie to me over such an important matter." "Surely," said Vole eagerly, "the strongest point in my favor is the lack of motive. Granted that I cultivated the acquaintanceship of a rich old lady in the hopes of getting money out of her - that, I gather, is the substance of what you have been saying - surely her death frustrates all my hopes?" The solicitor looked at him steadily. Then, very deliberately, he repeated his unconscious trick with his pince-nez. It was not until they were firmly replaced on his nose that he spoke. "Are you not aware, Mr Vole, that Miss French left a will under which you are the principal beneficiary?" "What?" The prisoner sprang to his feet. His dismay was obvious and unforced. "My God! What are you saying? She left her money to me?" Mr Mayherne nodded slowly. Vole sank down again, his head in his hands. "You pretend you know nothing of this will?" "Pretend? There's no pretense about it I knew nothing about it." "What would you say if I told you that the maid, Janet Mackenzie, swears that you did know? That her mistress told her distinctly that she had consulted you in the matter, and told you of her intentions?" "Say? That she's lying! No, I go too fast. Janet is an elderly woman. She was a faithful watchdog to her mistress, and she didn't like me. She was jealous and suspicious. I should say that Miss French confided her intentions to Janet, and that Janet either mistook something she said, or else was convinced in her own mind that I had persuaded the old lady into doing it.

"And the story was put about, very cleverly, that he had frequently mentioned to people that he had high blood pressure. But you know, it’s very easy to put about a story. Very easy. I’ve seen a lot of it in my time." "I bet you have," said Mr. Rafiel. "It only needs a murmur here and there," said Miss Marple. "You don’t say it of your own knowledge, you just say that Mrs. B. told you that Colonel C. told her. It’s always at second hand or third hand or fourth hand and it’s very difficult to find out who was the original whisperer. Oh yes, it can be done. And the people you say it to go on and repeat it to others as if they know it of their own knowledge." "Somebody’s been clever," said Mr. Rafiel thoughtfully. "Yes," said Miss Marple, "I think somebody’s been quite clever." "This girl saw something, or knew something and tried blackmail, I suppose," said Mr. Rafiel. "She mayn’t have thought of it as blackmail," said Miss Marple. "In these large hotels, there are often things the maids know that some people would rather not have repeated. And so they hand out a larger tip or a little present of money. The girl possibly didn’t realize at first the importance of what she knew." "Still, she got a knife in her back all right," said Mr. Rafiel brutally. "Yes. Evidently someone couldn’t afford to let her talk." "Well? Let’s hear what you think about it all." Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully. "Why should you think I know any more than you do, Mr. Rafiel?" "Probably you don’t," said Mr. Rafiel, "but I’m interested to hear your ideas about what you do know." "But why?" "There’s not very much to do out here," said Mr. Rafiel, "except make money." Miss Marple looked slightly surprised. "Make money? Out here?" "You can send out half a dozen cables in code every day if you like," said Mr. Rafiel. "That’s how I amuse myself." "Take-over bids?" Miss Marple asked doubtfully, in the tone of one who speaks a foreign language. "That kind of thing," agreed Mr. Rafiel. "Pitting your wits against other people’s wits. The trouble is it doesn’t occupy enough time, so I’ve got interested in this business. It’s aroused my curiosity. Palgrave spent a good deal of his time talking to you. Nobody else would be bothered with him, I expect. What did he say?" "He told me a good many stories," said Miss Marple. "I know he did. Damn" boring, most of them. And you hadn’t only got to hear them once. If you got anywhere within range you heard them three or four times over." "I know," said Miss Marple. "I’m afraid that does happen when gentlemen get older." Mr. Rafiel looked at her very sharply. "I don’t tell stories," he said. "Go on. It started with one of Palgrave’s stories, did it?" "He said he knew a murderer," said Miss Marple. "There’s nothing really special about that," she added in her gentle voice, "because I suppose it happens to nearly everybody." "I don’t follow you," said Mr. Rafiel. "I don’t mean specifically," said Miss Marple, "but surely, Mr. Rafiel, if you cast over in your mind your recollections of various events in your life, hasn’t there nearly always been an occasion when somebody has made some careless reference such as "Oh yes I knew the So-and-So’s quite well—he died very suddenly and they always say his wife did him in, but I dare say that’s just gossip." You’ve heard people say something like that, haven’t you?" "Well, I suppose so—yes, something of the kind. But not—well, not seriously." "Exactly," said Miss Marple, "but Major Palgrave was a very serious man. I think he enjoyed telling this story. He said he had a snapshot of the murderer. He was going to show it to me but—actually—he didn’t." "Why?" "Because he saw something," said Miss Marple. "Saw someone, I suspect. His face got very red and he shoved back the snapshot into his wallet and began talking on another subject."

The lawyer laid down his knife and fork sharply. "Has anything happened to Miss Tuppence?" His voice was keen-edged. "She’s disappeared," said Julius. "When?" "A week ago." "How?" Sir James’s questions fairly shot out. Between them Tommy and Julius gave the history of the last week and their futile search. Sir James went at once to the root of the matter. "A wire signed with your name? They knew enough of you both for that. They weren’t sure of how much you had learnt in that house. Their kidnapping of Miss Tuppence is the countermove to your escape. If necessary they could seal your lips with what might happen to her." Tommy nodded. "That’s just what I thought, sir." Sir James looked at him keenly. "You had worked that out, had you? Not bad—not at all bad. The curious thing is that they certainly did not know anything about you when they first held you prisoner. You are sure that you did not in any way disclose your identity?" Tommy shook his head. "That’s so," said Julius with a nod. "Therefore I reckon someone put them wise—and not earlier than Sunday afternoon." "Yes, but who?" "That almighty omniscient Mr. Brown, of course!" There was a faint note of derision in the American’s voice which made Sir James look up sharply. "You don’t believe in Mr. Brown, Mr. Hersheimmer?" "No, sir, I do not," returned the young American with emphasis. "Not as such, that is to say. I reckon it out that he’s a figurehead—just a bogy name to frighten the children with. The real head of this business is that Russian chap Kramenin. I guess he’s quite capable of running revolutions in three countries at once if he chose! The man Whittington is probably the head of the English branch." "I disagree with you," said Sir James shortly. "Mr. Brown exists." He turned to Tommy. "Did you happen to notice where that wire was handed in?" "No, sir, I’m afraid I didn’t." "H’m. Got it with you?" "It’s upstairs, sir, in my kit." "I’d like to have a look at it sometime. No hurry. You’ve wasted a week,"—Tommy hung his head—"a day or so more is immaterial. We’ll deal with Miss Jane Finn first. Afterwards, we’ll set to work to rescue Miss Tuppence from bondage. I don’t think she’s in any immediate danger. That is, so long as they don’t know that we’ve got Jane Finn, and that her memory has returned. We must keep that dark at all costs. You understand?" The other two assented, and, after making arrangements for meeting on the morrow, the great lawyer took his leave. At ten o’clock, the two young men were at the appointed spot. Sir James had joined them on the doorstep. He alone appeared unexcited. He introduced them to the doctor. "Mr. Hersheimmer—Mr. Beresford—Dr. Roylance. How’s the patient?" "Going on well. Evidently no idea of the flight of time. Asked this morning how many had been saved from the Lusitania. Was it in the papers yet? That, of course, was only what was to be expected. She seems to have something on her mind, though." "I think we can relieve her anxiety. May we go up?" "Certainly." Tommy’s heart beat sensibly faster as they followed the doctor upstairs. Jane Finn at last! The long-sought, the mysterious, the elusive Jane Finn! How wildly improbable success had seemed! And here in this house, her memory almost miraculously restored, lay the girl who held the future of England in her hands. A half groan broke from Tommy’s lips. If only Tuppence could have been at his side to share in the triumphant conclusion of their joint venture! Then he put the thought of Tuppence resolutely aside. His confidence in Sir James was growing. There was a man who would unerringly ferret out Tuppence’s whereabouts. In the meantime, Jane Finn! And suddenly a dread clutched at his heart. It seemed too easy . . . Suppose they should find her dead . . . stricken down by the hand of Mr. Brown?

Bollard, and you won’t forget which the four things are, will you?" In another minute, she was out of the door. Turning rapidly to the left and then to the left again, she stopped in the arcade of a shoe shop until Bridget, rather breathless, rejoined her. "Oh," said Bridget, "I was terrified. I thought I was going to be killed. And I’ve torn a hole in my stocking, too." "Never mind," said Elvira and walked her friend rapidly along the street and round yet another corner to the right. "Come on." "Is it—was it—all right?" Elvira’s hand slipped into her pocket and out again showing the diamond and sapphire bracelet in her palm. "Oh, Elvira, how you dared!" "Now, Bridget, you’ve got to get along to that pawnshop we marked down. Go in and see how much you can get for this. Ask for a hundred." "Do you think—supposing they say—I mean—I mean, it might be on a list of stolen things—" "Don’t be silly. How could it be on a list so soon? They haven’t even noticed it’s gone yet." "But Elvira, when they do notice it’s gone, they’ll think—perhaps they’ll know—that you must have taken it." "They might think so—if they discover it soon." "Well, then they’ll go to the police and—" She stopped as Elvira shook her head slowly, her pale yellow hair swinging to and fro and a faint enigmatic smile curving up the corners of her mouth. "They won’t go to the police, Bridget. Certainly not if they think I took it." "Why—you mean—?" "As I told you, I’m going to have a lot of money when I’m twenty-one. I shall be able to buy lots of jewels from them. They won’t make a scandal. Go on and get the money quick. Then go to Aer Lingus and book the ticket—I must take a taxi to Prunier’s. I’m already ten minutes late. I’ll be with you tomorrow morning by half past ten." "Oh, Elvira, I wish you wouldn’t take such frightful risks," moaned Bridget. But Elvira had hailed a taxi. II Miss Marple had a very enjoyable time at Robinson & Cleaver’s. Besides purchasing expensive but delicious sheets—she loved linen sheets with their texture and their coolness—she also indulged in a purchase of good quality red-bordered glass cloths. Really the difficulty in getting proper glass cloths nowadays! Instead, you were offered things that might as well have been ornamental tablecloths, decorated with radishes or lobsters or the Tour Eiffel or Trafalgar Square, or else littered with lemons and oranges. Having given her address in St. Mary Mead, Miss Marple found a convenient bus which took her to the Army & Navy Stores. The Army & Navy Stores had been a haunt of Miss Marple’s aunt in days long gone. It was not, of course, quite the same nowadays. Miss Marple cast her thoughts back to Aunt Helen seeking out her own special man in the grocery department, settling herself comfortably in a chair, wearing a bonnet and what she always called her "black poplin" mantle. Then there would ensue a long hour with nobody in a hurry and Aunt Helen thinking of every conceivable grocery that could be purchased and stored up for future use. Christmas was provided for, and there was even a far-off look towards Easter. The young Jane had fidgeted somewhat, and had been told to go and look at the glass department by way of amusement. Having finished her purchases, Aunt Helen would then proceed to lengthy inquiries about her chosen shop-assistant’s mother, wife, second boy and crippled sister-in-law. Having had a thoroughly pleasant morning, Aunt Helen would say in the playful manner of those times, "And how would a little girl feel about some luncheon?" Whereupon they went up in the lift to the fourth floor and had luncheon which always finished with a strawberry ice. After that, they bought half a pound of coffee chocolate creams and went to a matinée in a four wheeler. Of course, the Army & Navy Stores had had a good many face lifts since those days. In fact, it was now quite unrecognizable from the old times. It was gayer and much brighter.

"What time was that?" "About ten minutes past six, sir." "Yes—well?" "I sent word to Jennings, sir. And it wasn’t till I came in here to shut the windows and draw the curtains at seven o’clock that I saw—" Melrose cut him short. "Yes, yes, you needn’t go into all that. You didn’t touch the body, or disturb anything, did you?" "Oh! No indeed, sir! I went as fast as I could go to the telephone to ring up the police." "And then?" "I told Jane—her ladyship’s maid, sir—to break the news to her ladyship." "You haven’t seen your mistress at all this evening?" Colonel Melrose put the question casually enough, but Mr. Satterthwaite’s keen ears caught anxiety behind the words. "Not to speak to, sir. Her ladyship has remained in her own apartments since the tragedy." "Did you see her before?" The question came sharply, and everyone in the room noted the hesitation before the butler replied. "I—I just caught a glimpse of her, sir, descending the staircase." "Did she come in here?" Mr. Satterthwaite held his breath. "I—I think so, sir." "What time was that?" You might have heard a pin drop. Did the old man know, Mr. Satterthwaite wondered, what hung on his answer? "It was just upon half past six, sir." Colonel Melrose drew a deep breath. "That will do, thank you. Just send Jennings, the valet, to me, will you?" Jennings answered the summons with promptitude. A narrow-faced man with a catlike tread. Something sly and secretive about him. A man, thought Mr. Satterthwaite, who would easily murder his master if he could be sure of not being found out. He listened eagerly to the man’s answers to Colonel Melrose’s questions. But his story seemed straightforward enough. He had brought his master down some soft hide slippers and removed the brogues. "What did you do after that, Jennings?" "I went back to the stewards" room, sir." "At what time did you leave your master?" "It must have been just after a quarter past six, sir." "Where were you at half past six, Jennings?" "In the stewards" room, sir." Colonel Melrose dismissed the man with a nod. He looked across at Curtis inquiringly. "Quite correct, sir, I checked that up. He was in the stewards" room from about six twenty until seven o’clock." "Then that lets him out," said the chief constable a trifle regretfully. "Besides, there’s no motive." They looked at each other. There was a tap at the door. "Come in," said the colonel. A scared-looking lady’s maid appeared. "If you please, her ladyship has heard that Colonel Melrose is here and she would like to see him." "Certainly," said Melrose. "I’ll come at once. Will you show me the way?" But a hand pushed the girl aside. A very different figure now stood in the doorway. Laura Dwighton looked like a visitor from another world. She was dressed in a clinging medieval tea gown of dull blue brocade. Her auburn hair was parted in the middle and brought down over her ears. Conscious of the fact she had a style of her own, Lady Dwighton had never had her hair cut. It was drawn back into a simple knot on the nape of her neck. Her arms were bare. One of them was outstretched to steady herself against the frame of the doorway, the other hung down by her side, clasping a book. She looks, Mr. Satterthwaite thought, like a Madonna from an early Italian canvas. She stood there, swaying slightly from side to side. Colonel Melrose sprang toward her. "I’ve come to tell you—to tell you—" Her voice was low and rich. Mr. Satterthwaite was so entranced with the dramatic value of the scene that he had forgotten its reality. "Please, Lady Dwighton—" Melrose had an arm round her, supporting her. He took her across the hall into a small anteroom, its walls hung with faded silk. Quin and Satterthwaite followed. She sank down on the low settee, her head resting back on a rust-coloured cushion, her eyelids closed. The three men watched her. Suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up.

"Not entirely conjecture, Dr. Calgary. The knife was in his pocket." "The actual knife?" "Yes. It had blood on it. We’re going to test it, but it’ll be her blood all right. Her blood and the blood of Philip Durrant!" "But—it couldn’t have been." "Who says it couldn’t have been?" "Hester. I rang her up and she told me all about it." "She did, did she? Well, the facts are very simple. Mary Durrant went down to the kitchen, leaving her husband alive, at ten minutes to four—at that time there were in the house Leo Argyle and Gwenda Vaughan in the library, Hester Argyle in her bedroom on the first floor, and Kirsten Lindstrom in the kitchen. Just after four o’clock, Micky and Tina drove up. Micky went into the garden and Tina went upstairs, following close on Kirsten’s foosteps, who had just gone up with coffee and biscuits for Philip. Tina stopped to speak to Hester, then went on to join Miss Lindstrom and together they found Philip dead." "And all this time Micky was in the garden. Surely that’s a perfect alibi?" "What you don’t know, Dr. Calgary, is that there’s a big magnolia tree growing up by the side of the house. The kids used to climb it. Micky in particular. It was one of his ways in and out of the house. He could have shinned up that tree, gone into Durrant’s room, stabbed him, back and out again. Oh, it needed split-second timing, but it’s astonishing what audacity will do sometimes. And he was desperate. At all costs he had to prevent Tina and Durrant meeting. To be safe, he had to kill them both." Calgary thought for a moment or two. "You said just now, Superintendent, that Tina has recovered consciousness. Wasn’t she able to say definitely who stabbed her?" "She wasn’t very coherent," said Huish slowly. "In fact I doubt if she was conscious in the proper sense of the term." He gave a tired smile. "All right, Dr. Calgary, I’ll tell you exactly what she said. First of all she said a name. Micky…." "She has accused him, then," said Calgary. "That’s what it looks like," said Huish, nodding his head. "The rest of what she said didn’t make sense. It’s a bit fantastic." "What did she say?" Huish looked down at the pad in front of him. ""Micky." Then a pause. Then, "The cup was empty …" then another pause, and then, "The dove on the mast.’" He looked at Calgary. "Can you make any sense of that?" "No," said Calgary. He shook his head and said wonderingly: "The dove on the mast… That seems a very extraordinary thing to say." "No masts and no doves as far as we know," said Huish. "But it meant something to her, something in her own mind. But it mayn’t, you know, have been anything to do with the murder. Goodness knows what realms of fancy she’s floating in." Calgary was silent for some moments. He sat thinking things over. He said: "You’ve arrested Micky?" "We’ve detained him. He will be charged within twenty-four hours." Huish looked curiously at Calgary. "I gather that this lad, Micky, wasn’t your answer to the problem?" "No," said Calgary. "No, Micky wasn’t my answer. Even now—I don’t know." He got up. "I still think I’m right," he said, "but I quite see that I’ve not got enough to go on for you to believe me. I must go out there again. I must see them all." "Well," said Huish, "be careful of yourself, Dr. Calgary. What is your idea, by the way?" "Would it mean anything to you," said Calgary, "if I told you that it is my belief that this was a crime of passion?" Huish’s eyebrows rose. "There are a lot of passions, Dr. Calgary," he said. "Hate, avarice, greed, fear, they’re all passions." "When I said a crime of passion," said Calgary, "I meant exactly what one usually means by that term."

We found Mrs. Price Ridley talking at a high rate of speed to a somewhat bewildered-looking police constable. That she was extremely indignant I knew from the way the bow in her hat was trembling. Mrs. Price Ridley wears what, I believe, are known as "Hats for Matrons"—they make a speciality of them in our adjacent town of Much Benham. They perch easily on a superstructure of hair and are somewhat overweighted with large bows of ribbon. Griselda is always threatening to get a matron’s hat. Mrs. Price Ridley paused in her flow of words upon our entrance. "Mrs. Price Ridley?" inquired Colonel Melchett, lifting his hat. "Let me introduce Colonel Melchett to you, Mrs. Price Ridley," I said. "Colonel Melchett is our Chief Constable." Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me coldly, but produced the semblance of a gracious smile for the Colonel. "We’ve just been round to your house, Mrs. Price Ridley," explained the Colonel, "and heard you had come down here." Mrs. Price Ridley thawed altogether. "Ah!" she said, "I’m glad some notice is being taken of the occurrence. Disgraceful, I call it. Simply disgraceful." There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see. "Have you any light to throw upon the matter?" he asked. "That’s your business. It’s the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?" One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year! "We’re doing our best, Mrs. Price Ridley," said the Chief Constable. "But the man here hadn’t even heard of it till I told him about it!" cried the lady. We all looked at the constable. "Lady been rung up on the telephone," he said. "Annoyed. Matter of obscene language, I understand." "Oh! I see." The Colonel’s brow cleared. "We’ve been talking at cross purposes. You came down here to make a complaint, did you?" Melchett is a wise man. He knows that when it is a question of an irate middle-aged lady, there is only one thing to be done—listen to her. When she had said all that she wants to say, there is a chance that she will listen to you. Mrs. Price Ridley surged into speech. "Such disgraceful occurrences ought to be prevented. They ought not to occur. To be rung up in one’s own house and insulted—yes, insulted. I’m not accustomed to such things happening. Ever since the war there has been a loosening of moral fibre. Nobody minds what they say, and as to the clothes they wear—" "Quite," said Colonel Melchett hastily. "What happened exactly?" Mrs. Price Ridley took breath and started again. "I was rung up—" "When?" "Yesterday afternoon—evening to be exact. About half past six. I went to the telephone, suspecting nothing. Immediately I was foully attacked, threatened—" "What actually was said?" Mrs. Price Ridley got slightly pink. "That I decline to state." "Obscene language," murmured the constable in a ruminative bass. "Was bad language used?" asked Colonel Melchett. "It depends on what you call bad language." "Could you understand it?" I asked. "Of course I could understand it." "Then it couldn’t have been bad language," I said. Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me suspiciously. "A refined lady," I explained, "is naturally unacquainted with bad language." "It wasn’t that kind of thing," said Mrs. Price Ridley. "At first, I must admit, I was quite taken in. I thought it was a genuine message. Then the—er—person became abusive." "Abusive?" "Most abusive. I was quite alarmed." "Used threatening language, eh?" "Yes. I am not accustomed to being threatened." "What did they threaten you with? Bodily damage?" "Not exactly." "I’m afraid, Mrs. Price Ridley, you must be more explicit. In what way were you threatened?" This Mrs. Price Ridley seemed singularly reluctant to answer. "I can’t remember exactly. It was all so upsetting.

M. de Saint Alard had rushed out and told François to fetch the doctor immediately. He said it was without doubt an apoplexy, explained the man. But when the doctor arrived, the patient was past help. Mr. John Wilson, to whom I was presented by Mademoiselle Virginie, was what was known in those days as a regular John Bull Englishman, middle-aged and burly. His account, delivered in very British French, was substantially the same. "Déroulard went very red in the face, and down he fell." There was nothing further to be found out there. Next I went to the scene of the tragedy, the study, and was left alone there at my own request. So far there was nothing to support Mademoiselle Mesnard’s theory. I could not but believe that it was a delusion on her part. Evidently she had entertained a romantic passion for the dead man which had not permitted her to take a normal view of the case. Nevertheless, I searched the study with meticulous care. It was just possible that a hypodermic needle might have been introduced into the dead man’s chair in such a way as to allow of a fatal injection. The minute puncture it would cause was likely to remain unnoticed. But I could discover no sign to support the theory. I flung myself down in the chair with a gesture of despair. "Enfin, I abandon it!" I said aloud. "There is not a clue anywhere! Everything is perfectly normal." As I said the words, my eyes fell on a large box of chocolates standing on a table near by, and my heart gave a leap. It might not be a clue to M. Déroulard’s death, but here at least was something that was not normal. I lifted the lid. The box was full, untouched; not a chocolate was missing—but that only made the peculiarity that had caught my eye more striking. For, see you, Hastings, while the box itself was pink, the lid was blue. Now, one often sees a blue ribbon on a pink box, and vice versa, but a box of one colour, and a lid of another—no, decidedly—ça ne se voit jamais! I did not as yet see that this little incident was of any use to me, yet I determined to investigate it as being out of the ordinary. I rang the bell for François, and asked him if his late master had been fond of sweets. A faint melancholy smile came to his lips. "Passionately fond of them, monsieur. He would always have a box of chocolates in the house. He did not drink wine of any kind, you see." "Yet this box has not been touched?" I lifted the lid to show him. "Pardon, monsieur, but that was a new box purchased on the day of his death, the other being nearly finished." "Then the other box was finished on the day of his death," I said slowly. "Yes, monsieur, I found it empty in the morning and threw it away." "Did M. Déroulard eat sweets at all hours of the day?" "Usually after dinner, monsieur." I began to see light. "François," I said, "you can be discreet?" "If there is need, monsieur." "Bon! Know, then, that I am of the police. Can you find me that other box?" "Without doubt, monsieur. It will be in the dustbin." He departed, and returned in a few minutes with a dust-covered object. It was the duplicate of the box I held, save for the fact that this time the box was blue and the lid was pink. I thanked François, recommended him once more to be discreet, and left the house in the Avenue Louise without more ado. Next I called upon the doctor who had attended M. Déroulard. With him I had a difficult task. He entrenched himself prettily behind a wall of learned phraseology, but I fancied that he was not quite as sure about the case as he would like to be. "There have been many curious occurrences of the kind," he observed, when I had managed to disarm him somewhat. "A sudden fit of anger, a violent emotion—after a heavy dinner, c’est entendu—then, with an access of rage, the blood flies to the head, and pst!—there you are!" "But M. Déroulard had had no violent emotion." "No?

If anyone had said that mental homes would be even fuller as the result of shutting out repressions nobody would have believed him." Stafford Nye interrupted her: "I want to know something," said Sir Stafford Nye. "What is it?" "Where are we going next?" "South America. Possibly Pakistan or India on the way. And we must certainly go to the USA. There’s a lot going on there that’s very interesting indeed. Especially in California–" "Universities?" Sir Stafford sighed. "One gets very tired of universities. They repeat themselves so much." They sat silent for some minutes. The light was failing, but a mountain peak showed softly red. Stafford Nye said in a nostalgic tone: "If we had some more music now–this moment–do you know what I’d order?" "More Wagner? Or have you torn yourself free from Wagner?" "No–you’re quite right–more Wagner. I’d have Hans Sachs sitting under his elder tree, saying of the world: "Mad, mad, all mad"–" "Yes–that expresses it. It’s lovely music, too. But we’re not mad. We’re sane." "Eminently sane," said Stafford Nye. "That is going to be the difficulty. There’s one more thing I want to know." "Well?" "Perhaps you won’t tell me. But I’ve got to know. Is there going to be any fun to be got out of this mad business that we’re attempting?" "Of course there is. Why not?" "Mad, mad, all mad–but we’ll enjoy it all very much. Will our lives be long, Mary Ann?" "Probably not," said Renata. "That’s the spirit. I’m with you, my comrade, and my guide. Shall we get a better world as a result of our efforts?" "I shouldn’t think so, but it might be a kinder one. It’s full of beliefs without kindness at present." "Good enough," said Stafford Nye. "Onward!" Book 3 At Home And Abroad Chapter 13 Conference In Paris In a room in Paris five men were sitting. It was a room that had seen historic meetings before. Quite a number of them. This meeting was in many ways a meeting of a different kind yet it promised to be no less historic. Monsieur Grosjean was presiding. He was a worried man doing his best to slide over things with facility and a charm of manner that had often helped him in the past. He did not feel it was helping him so much today. Signor Vitelli had arrived from Italy by air an hour before. His gestures were feverish, his manner unbalanced. "It is beyond anything," he was saying, "it is beyond anything one could have imagined." "These students," said Monsieur Grosjean, "do we not all suffer?" "This is more than students. It is beyond students. What can one compare this to? A swarm of bees. A disaster of nature intensified. Intensified beyond anything one could have imagined. They march. They have machine-guns. Somewhere they have acquired planes. They propose to take over the whole of North Italy. But it is madness, that! They are children–nothing more. And yet they have bombs, explosives. In the city of Milan alone they outnumber the police. What can we do, I ask you? The military? The army too–it is in revolt. They say they are with les jeunes. They say there is no hope for the world except in anarchy. They talk of something they call the Third World, but this cannot just happen." Monsieur Grosjean sighed. "It is very popular among the young," he said, "the anarchy. A belief in anarchy. We know that from the days of Algeria, from all the troubles from which our country and our colonial empire has suffered. And what can we do? The military? In the end they back the students." "The students, ah, the students," said Monsieur Poissonier. He was a member of the French government to whom the word "student" was anathema. If he had been asked he would have admitted to a preference for Asian ’flu or even an outbreak of bubonic plague. Either was preferable in his mind to the activities of students. A world with no students in it! That was what Monsieur Poissonier sometimes dreamt about. They were good dreams, those. They did not occur often enough.

Her lover, what had done her in. And he bricked up all the fireplace, they say, and nailed a big sheet of iron over it. Anyway, she was never seen again, poor soul, walking about in her fine dresses. Some said, of course, she’d gone away with him. Gone away to live in town or back to some other place. People used to hear noises and see lights in the house, and a lot of people don’t go near it after dark." "But what happened later?" said Tuppence, feeling that to go back beyond the reign of Queen Victoria seemed a little too far into the past for what she was looking for. "Well, I don’t rightly know as there was very much. A farmer called Blodgick took it over when it came up for sale, I believe. He weren’t there long either. What they called a gentleman farmer. That’s why he liked the house, I suppose, but the farming land wasn’t much use to him, and he didn’t know how to deal with it. So he sold it again. Changed hands ever so many times it has—Always builders coming along and making alterations—new bathrooms—that sort of thing—A couple had it who were doing chicken farming, I believe, at one time. But it got a name, you know, for being unlucky. But all that’s a bit before my time. I believe Mr. Boscowan himself thought of buying it at one time. That was when he painted the picture of it." "What sort of age was Mr. Boscowan when he was down here?" "Forty, I would say, or maybe a bit more than that. He was a good-looking man in his way. Run into fat a bit, though. Great one for the girls, he was." "Ah," said Mr. Copleigh. It was a warning grunt this time. "Ah well, we all know what artists are like," said Mrs. Copleigh, including Tuppence in this knowledge. "Go over to France a lot, you know, and get French ways, they do." "He wasn’t married?" "Not then he wasn’t. Not when he was first down here. Bit keen he was on Mrs. Charrington’s daughter, but nothing came of it. She was a lovely girl, though, but too young for him. She wasn’t more than twenty-five." "Who was Mrs. Charrington?" Tuppence felt bewildered at this introduction of new characters. "What the hell am I doing here, anyway?" she thought suddenly as waves of fatigue swept over her—"I’m just listening to a lot of gossip about people, and imagining things like murder which aren’t true at all. I can see now—It started when a nice but addleheaded old pussy got a bit mixed up in her head and began reminiscing about stories this Mr. Boscowan, or someone like him who may have given the picture to her, told about the house and the legends about it, of someone being walled up alive in a fireplace and she thought it was a child for some reason. And here I am going round investigating mares" nests. Tommy told me I was a fool, and he was quite right—I am a fool." She waited for a break to occur in Mrs. Copleigh’s even flow of conversation, so that she could rise, say good night politely and go upstairs to bed. Mrs. Copleigh was still in full and happy spate. "Mrs. Charrington? Oh, she lived in Watermead for a bit," said Mrs. Copleigh. "Mrs. Charrington, and her daughter. She was a nice lady, she was, Mrs. Charrington. Widow of an army officer, I believe. Badly off, but the house was being rented cheap. Did a lot of gardening. She was very fond of gardening. Not much good at keeping the house clean, she wasn’t. I went and obliged for her, once or twice, but I couldn’t keep it up. I had to go on my bicycle, you see, and it’s over two miles. Weren’t any buses along that road." "Did she live there long?" "Not more than two or three years, I think. Got scared, I expect, after the troubles came. And then she had her own troubles about her daughter, too. Lilian, I think her name was."

Yes, but the thief, who is also the murderer, knows something, too, that Sir Claud does not. The thief knows that in a very few minutes Sir Claud will be silenced for ever. He – or she – has one problem that has to be solved, and one only – to hide the paper safely during those few moments of darkness. Shut your eyes, Hastings, as I shut mine. The lights have gone out, and we can see nothing. But we can hear. Repeat to me, Hastings, as accurately as you can, the words of Miss Amory when she described this scene for us." Hastings shut his eyes. Then he began to speak, slowly, with an effort of memory and several pauses. "Gasps," he uttered. Poirot nodded. "A lot of little gasps," Hastings went on, and Poirot nodded again. Hastings concentrated for a time, and then continued, "The noise of a chair falling – a metallic clink – that must have been the key, I imagine." "Quite right," said Poirot. "The key. Continue." "A scream. That was Lucia screaming. She called out to Sir Claud – Then the knocking came at the door – Oh! Wait a moment – right at the beginning, the noise of tearing silk." Hastings opened his eyes. "Yes, tearing silk," Poirot exclaimed. He rose, moved to the desk, and then crossed to the fireplace. "It is all there, Hastings, in those few moments of darkness. All there. And yet our ears tell us – nothing." He stopped at the mantelpiece and mechanically straightened the vase of spills. "Oh, do stop straightening those damned things, Poirot," Hastings complained. "You’re always at it." His attention arrested, Poirot removed his hand from the vase. "What is that you say?" he asked. "Yes, it is true." He stared at the vase of spills. "I remember straightening them but a little hour ago. And now – it is necessary that I straighten them again." He spoke excitedly. "Why, Hastings – why is that?" "Because they’re crooked, I suppose," Hastings replied in a bored tone. "It’s just your little mania for neatness." "Tearing silk!" exclaimed Poirot. "No, Hastings! The sound is the same." He stared at the paper spills, and snatched up the vase that contained them. "Tearing paper –" he continued as he moved away from the mantelpiece. His excitement communicated itself to his friend. "What is it?" Hastings asked, springing up and moving to him. Poirot stood, tumbling out the spills onto the settee, and examining them. Every now and then he handed one to Hastings, muttering, "Here is one. Ah, another, and yet another." Hastings unfolded the spills and scrutinized them. "C19 N23 –" he began to read aloud from one of them. "Yes, yes!" exclaimed Poirot. "It is the formula!" "I say, that’s wonderful!" "Quick! Fold them up again!" Poirot ordered, and Hastings began to do so. "Oh, you are so slow!" Poirot admonished him. "Quick! Quick!" Snatching the spills from Hastings, he put them back into the vase and hastened to return it to the mantelpiece. Looking dumbfounded, Hastings joined him there. Poirot beamed. "It intrigues you what I do there, yes? Tell me, Hastings, what is it that I have here in this vase?" "Why, spills, of course," Hastings replied in a tone of tremendous irony. "No, mon ami , it is cheese." " Cheese? " "Precisely, my friend, cheese." "I say, Poirot," Hastings enquired sarcastically, "you’re all right, aren’t you? I mean, you haven’t got a headache or anything?" Poirot’s reply ignored his friend’s frivolous question. "For what do you use cheese, Hastings? I will tell you, mon ami. You use it to bait a mousetrap. We wait now for one thing only – the mouse." "And the mouse –" "The mouse will come, my friend," Poirot assured Hastings. "Rest assured of that. I have sent him a message. He will not fail to respond."

"M. Poirot—would you mind? Just below the right shoulder blade—I can’t reach to rub it in properly." M. Poirot obliged and then wiped his oily hand carefully on his handkerchief. Miss Lyall, whose principal interests in life were the observation of people round her and the sound of her own voice, continued to talk. "I was right about that woman—the one in the Chanel model—it is Valentine Dacres—Chantry, I mean. I thought it was. I recognized her at once. She’s really rather marvellous, isn’t she? I mean I can understand how people go quite crazy about her. She just obviously expects them to! That’s half the battle. Those other people who came last night are called Gold. He’s terribly good-looking." "Honeymooners?" murmured Sarah in a stifled voice. Miss Lyall shook her head in an experienced manner. "Oh, no—her clothes aren’t new enough. You can always tell brides! Don’t you think it’s the most fascinating thing in the world to watch people, M. Poirot, and see what you can find out about them by just looking?" "Not just looking, darling," said Sarah sweetly. "You ask a lot of questions, too." "I haven’t even spoken to the Golds yet," said Miss Lyall with dignity. "And anyway I don’t see why one shouldn’t be interested in one’s fellow creatures? Human nature is simply fascinating. Don’t you think so, M. Poirot?" This time she paused long enough to allow her companion to reply. Without taking his eyes off the blue water, M. Poirot replied: "Ça depend." Pamela was shocked. "Oh, M. Poirot! I don’t think anything’s so interesting—so incalculable as a human being!" "Incalculable? That, no." "Oh, but they are. Just as you think you’ve got them beautifully taped—they do something completely unexpected." Hercule Poirot shook his head. "No, no, that is not true. It is most rare that anyone does an action that is not dans son caractère. It is in the end monotonous." "I don’t agree with you at all!" said Miss Pamela Lyall. She was silent for quite a minute and a half before returning to the attack. "As soon as I see people I begin wondering about them—what they’re like—what relations they are to each other—what they’re thinking and feeling. It’s—oh, it’s quite thrilling." "Hardly that," said Hercule Poirot. "Nature repeats herself more than one would imagine. The sea," he added thoughtfully, "has infinitely more variety." Sarah turned her head sideways and asked: "You think that human beings tend to reproduce certain patterns? Stereotyped patterns?" "Précisément," said Poirot, and traced a design in the sand with his finger. "What’s that you’re drawing?" asked Pamela curiously. "A triangle," said Poirot. But Pamela’s attention had been diverted elsewhere. "Here are the Chantrys," she said. A woman was coming down the beach—a tall woman, very conscious of herself and her body. She gave a half nod and smile and sat down a little distance away on the beach. The scarlet and gold silk wrap slipped down from her shoulders. She was wearing a white bathing dress. Pamela sighed. "Hasn’t she got a lovely figure?" But Poirot was looking at her face—the face of a woman of thirty-nine who had been famous since sixteen for her beauty. He knew, as everyone knew, all about Valentine Chantry. She had been famous for many things—for her caprices, for her wealth, for her enormous sapphire- blue eyes, for her matrimonial ventures and adventures. She had had five husbands and innumerable lovers. She had in turn been the wife of an Italian count, of an American steel magnate, of a tennis professional, of a racing motorist. Of these four the American had died, but the others had been shed negligently in the divorce court. Six months ago she had married a fifth time—a commander in the navy. He it was who came striding down the beach behind her. Silent, dark—with a pugnacious jaw and a sullen manner. A touch of the primeval ape about him. She said: "Tony darling—my cigarette case . . ."

Giles said: "But, Miss Marple, if everybody felt like that—" She interrupted him. "Oh, I know. There are times when it is one’s duty—an innocent person accused—suspicion resting on various other people—a dangerous criminal at large who may strike again. But you must realize that this murder is very much in the past. Presumably it wasn’t known for murder—if so, you would have heard fast enough from your old gardener or someone down there—a murder, however long ago, is always news. No, the body must have been disposed of somehow, and the whole thing never suspected. Are you sure—are you really sure, that you are wise to dig it all up again?" "Miss Marple," cried Gwenda, "you sound really concerned?" "I am, my dear. You are two very nice and charming young people (if you will allow me to say so). You are newly married and happy together. Don’t, I beg of you, start to uncover things that may—well, that may—how shall I put it?—that may upset and distress you." Gwenda stared at her. "You’re thinking of something special—of something—what is it you’re hinting at?" "Not hinting, dear. Just advising you (because I’ve lived a long time and know how very upsetting human nature can be) to let well alone. That’s my advice: let well alone." "But it isn’t letting well alone." Giles’s voice held a different note, a sterner note. "Hillside is our house, Gwenda’s and mine, and someone was murdered in that house, or so we believe. I’m not going to stand for murder in my house and do nothing about it, even if it is eighteen years ago!" Miss Marple sighed. "I’m sorry," she said. "I imagine that most young men of spirit would feel like that. I even sympathize and almost admire you for it. But I wish—oh, I do wish—that you wouldn’t do it." II On the following day, news went round the village of St. Mary Mead that Miss Marple was at home again. She was seen in the High Street at eleven o’clock. She called at the Vicarage at ten minutes to twelve. That afternoon three of the gossipy ladies of the village called upon her and obtained her impressions of the gay Metropolis and, this tribute to politeness over, themselves plunged into details of an approaching battle over the fancywork stall at the Fête and the position of the tea tent. Later that evening Miss Marple could be seen as usual in her garden, but for once her activities were more concentrated on the depredations of weeds than on the activities of her neighbours. She was distraite at her frugal evening meal, and hardly appeared to listen to her little maid Evelyn’s spirited account of the goings-on of the local chemist. The next day she was still distraite, and one or two people, including the Vicar’s wife, remarked upon it. That evening Miss Marple said that she did not feel very well and took to her bed. The following morning she sent for Dr. Haydock. Dr. Haydock had been Miss Marple’s physician, friend and ally for many years. He listened to her account of her symptoms, gave her an examination, then sat back in his chair and waggled his stethoscope at her. "For a woman of your age," he said, "and in spite of that misleading frail appearance, you’re in remarkably good fettle." "I’m sure my general health is sound," said Miss Marple. "But I confess I do feel a little overtired—a little run-down." "You’ve been gallivanting about. Late nights in London." "That, of course. I do find London a little tiring nowadays. And the air—so used up. Not like fresh seaside air." "The air of St. Mary Mead is nice and fresh." "But often damp and rather muggy. Not, you know, exactly bracing." Dr. Haydock eyed her with a dawning of interest. "I’ll send you round a tonic," he said obligingly. "Thank you, Doctor. Easton’s syrup is always very helpful." "There’s no need for you to do my prescribing for me, woman." "I wondered if, perhaps, a change of air—?" Miss Marple looked questioningly at him with guileless blue eyes. "You’ve just been away for three weeks." "I know. But to London which, as you say, is enervating.

Taxation makes it difficult to keep anything up properly. However, now the children are out in the world, the worst strain is over." "How many children have you?" "Two boys. One’s in the Army. The other’s just come down from Oxford. He’s going into a publishing firm." His glance went to the mantelpiece and Gwenda’s eyes followed his. There was a photograph there of two boys—presumably about eighteen and nineteen, taken a few years ago, she judged. There was pride and affection in his expression. "They’re good lads," he said, "though I say it myself." "They look awfully nice," said Gwenda. "Yes," said Erskine. "I think it’s worth it—really. Making sacrifices for one’s children, I mean," he added in answer to Gwenda’s enquiring look. "I suppose—often—one has to give up a good deal," said Gwenda. "A great deal sometimes…." Again she caught a dark undercurrent, but Mrs. Erskine broke in, saying in her deep authoritative voice, "And you are really looking for a house in this part of the world? I’m afraid I don’t know of anything at all suitable round here." And wouldn’t tell me if you did, thought Gwenda, with a faint spurt of mischief. That foolish old woman is actually jealous, she thought. Jealous because I’m talking to her husband and because I’m young and attractive! "It depends how much of a hurry you’re in," said Erskine. "No hurry at all really," said Giles cheerfully. "We want to be sure of finding something we really like. At the moment we’ve got a house in Dillmouth—on the south coast." Major Erskine turned away from the tea table. He went to get a cigarette box from a table by the window. "Dillmouth," said Mrs. Erskine. Her voice was expressionless. Her eyes watched the back of her husband’s head. "Pretty little place," said Giles. "Do you know it at all?" There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs. Erskine said in that same expressionless voice, "We spent a few weeks there one summer—many, many years ago. We didn’t care for it—found it too relaxing." "Yes," said Gwenda. "That’s just what we find. Giles and I feel we’d prefer more bracing air." Erskine came back with the cigarettes. He offered the box to Gwenda. "You’ll find it bracing enough round here," he said. There was a certain grimness in his voice. Gwenda looked up at him as he lighted her cigarette for her. "Do you remember Dillmouth at all well?" she asked artlessly. His lips twitched in what she guessed to be a sudden spasm of pain. In a noncommittal voice he answered, "Quite well, I think. We stayed—let me see—at the Royal George—no, Royal Clarence Hotel." "Oh yes, that’s the nice old-fashioned one. Our house is quite near there. Hillside it’s called, but it used to be called St.—St.—Mary’s, was it, Giles?" "St. Catherine’s," said Giles. This time there was no mistaking the reaction. Erskine turned sharply away, Mrs. Erskine’s cup clattered on her saucer. "Perhaps," she said abruptly, "you would like to see the garden." "Oh yes, please." They went out through the french windows. It was a well-kept, well-stocked garden, with a long border and flagged walks. The care of it was principally Major Erskine’s, so Gwenda gathered. Talking to her about roses, about herbaceous plants, Erskine’s dark, sad face lit up. Gardening was clearly his enthusiasm. When they finally took their leave, and were driving away in the car, Giles asked hesitantly, "Did you—did you drop it?" Gwenda nodded. "By the second clump of delphiniums." She looked down at her finger and twisted the wedding ring on it absently. "And supposing you never find it again?" "Well, it’s not my real engagement ring. I wouldn’t risk that." "I’m glad to hear it." "I’m very sentimental about that ring. Do you remember what you said when you put it on my finger? A green emerald because I was an intriguing green-eyed little cat."

"Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Craddock. I told you she would tire quite suddenly." Later, he asked the nurse: "The only thing I hadn’t time to ask Mrs. Goedler was whether she had any old photographs? If so, I wonder—" She interrupted him. "I’m afraid there’s nothing of that kind. All her personal papers and things were stored with their furniture from the London house at the beginning of the war. Mrs. Goedler was desperately ill at the time. Then the storage despository was blitzed. Mrs. Goedler was very upset at losing so many personal souvenirs and family papers. I’m afraid there’s nothing of that kind." So that was that, Craddock thought. Yet he felt his journey had not been in vain. Pip and Emma, those twin wraiths, were not quite wraiths. Craddock thought, "Here’s a brother and sister brought up somewhere in Europe. Sonia Goedler was a rich woman at the time of her marriage, but money in Europe hasn’t remained money. Queer things have happened to money during these war years. And so there are two young people, the son and daughter of a man who had a criminal record. Suppose they came to England, more or less penniless. What would they do? Find out about any rich relatives. Their uncle, a man of vast fortune, is dead. Possibly the first thing they’d do would be to look up their uncle’s will. See if by any chance money had been left to them or to their mother. So they go to Somerset House and learn the contents of his will, and then, perhaps, they learn of the existence of Miss Letitia Blacklock. Then they make inquiries about Randall Goedler’s widow. She’s an invalid, living up in Scotland, and they find out she hasn’t long to live. If this Letitia Blacklock dies before her, they will come into a vast fortune. What then?" Craddock thought, "They wouldn’t go to Scotland. They’d find out where Letitia Blacklock is living now. And they’d go there—but not as themselves … They’d go together—or separately? Emma … I wonder?… Pip and Emma … I’ll eat my hat if Pip, or Emma, or both of them, aren’t in Chipping Cleghorn now…." Fifteen DELICIOUS DEATH I In the kitchen at Little Paddocks, Miss Blacklock was giving instructions to Mitzi. "Sardine sandwiches as well as the tomato ones. And some of those little scones you make so nicely. And I’d like you to make that special cake of yours." "Is it a party then, that you want all these things?" "It’s Miss Bunner’s birthday, and some people will be coming to tea." "At her age one does not have birthdays. It is better to forget." "Well, she doesn’t want to forget. Several people are bringing her presents—and it will be nice to make a little party of it." "That is what you say last time—and see what happened!" Miss Blacklock controlled her temper. "Well, it won’t happen this time." "How do you know what may happen in this house? All day long I shiver and at night I lock my door and I look in the wardrobe to see no one is hidden there." "That ought to keep you nice and safe," said Miss Blacklock, coldly. "The cake that you want me to make, it is the—?" Mitzi uttered a sound that to Miss Blacklock’s English ear sounded like Schwitzebzr or alternatively like cats spitting at each other. "That’s the one. The rich one." "Yes. It is rich. For it I have nothing! Impossible to make such a cake. I need for it chocolate and much butter, and sugar and raisins." "You can use this tin of butter that was sent us from America. And some of the raisins we were keeping for Christmas, and here is a slab of chocolate and a pound of sugar." Mitzi’s face suddenly burst into radiant smiles. "So, I make him for you good—good," she cried, in an ecstasy. "It will be rich, rich, of a melting richness! And on top I will put the icing—chocolate icing—I make him so nice—and write on it Good Wishes. These English people with their cakes that tastes of sand, never never, will they have tasted such a cake.

Lady Angkatell uttered the last few words in the most conversational of tones. "Lady Angkatell has been entertaining a few friends for a murder this autumn," Midge could not help saying. "Yes," said Lucy meditatively. "I suppose it did sound like that. A party for the shooting. You know, when you come to think of it, that’s just what it has been!" Midge gave a faint shiver and said: "Well, at any rate, it’s over now." "It’s not exactly over—the inquest was only adjourned. And that nice Inspector Grange has got men all over the place simply crashing through the chestnut woods and startling all the pheasants, and springing up like jacks in the box in the most unlikely places." "What are they looking for?" asked Edward. "The revolver that Christow was shot with?" "I imagine that must be it. They even came to the house with a search warrant. The inspector was most apologetic about it, quite shy, but of course I told him we should be delighted. It was really most interesting. They looked absolutely everywhere. I followed them round, you know, and I suggested one or two places which even they hadn’t thought of. But they didn’t find anything. It was most disappointing. Poor Inspector Grange, he is growing quite thin and he pulls and pulls at that moustache of his. His wife ought to give him specially nourishing meals with all this worry he is having—but I have a vague idea that she must be one of those women who care more about having the linoleum really well polished than in cooking a tasty little meal. Which reminds me, I must go and see Mrs. Medway. Funny how servants cannot bear the police. Her cheese soufflé last night was quite uneatable. Soufflés and pastry always show if one is off balance. If it weren’t for Gudgeon keeping them all together I really believe half the servants would leave. Why don’t you two go and have a nice walk and help the police look for the revolver?" Hercule Poirot sat on the bench overlooking the chestnut groves above the pool. He had no sense of trespassing since Lady Angkatell had very sweetly begged him to wander where he would at any time. It was Lady Angkatell’s sweetness which Hercule Poirot was considering at this moment. From time to time he heard the cracking of twigs in the woods above or caught sight of a figure moving through the chestnut groves below him. Presently Henrietta came along the path from the direction of the lane. She stopped for a moment when she saw Poirot, then she came and sat down by him. "Good morning, M. Poirot. I have just been to call upon you. But you were out. You look very Olympian. Are you presiding over the hunt? The inspector seems very active. What are they looking for, the revolver?" "Yes, Miss Savernake." "Will they find it, do you think?" "I think so. Quite soon now, I should say." She looked at him inquiringly. "Have you an idea, then, where it is?" "No. But I think it will be found soon. It is time for it to be found." "You do say odd things, M. Poirot!" "Odd things happen here. You have come back very soon from London, Mademoiselle." Her face hardened. She gave a short, bitter laugh. "The murderer returns to the scene of the crime? That is the old superstition, isn’t it? So you do think that I—did it! You don’t believe me when I tell you that I wouldn’t—that I couldn’t kill anybody?" Poirot did not answer at once. At last he said thoughtfully: "It has seemed to me from the beginning that either this crime was very simple—so simple that it was difficult to believe its simplicity (and simplicity, Mademoiselle, can be strangely baffling) or else it was extremely complex. That is to say, we were contending against a mind capable of intricate and ingenious inventions, so that every time we seemed to be heading for the truth, we were actually being led on a trail that twisted away from the truth and led us to a point which—ended in nothingness. This apparent futility, this continual barrenness, is not real—it is artificial, it is planned.

Then he changes his name, and he starts building up a new personality for himself in some other country, some other job." Laura stared at him for a moment, then left the desk and went to sit in the armchair. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, then opened her eyes and looked at him again. Starkwedder continued with his speculative narrative. "He keeps tabs on what’s going on over here, and when he knows that you’ve left Norfolk and come to this part of the world, he makes his plans. He shaves his beard, and dyes his hair, and all that sort of thing, of course. Then, on a misty night, he comes here. Now, let’s say it goes like this." He went and stood by the french windows. "Let’s say MacGregor says to Richard, "I’ve got a gun, and so have you. I count three, and we both fire. I’ve come to get you for the death of my boy."" Laura stared at him, appalled. "You know," Starkwedder went on, "I don’t think that your husband was quite the fine sporting fellow you think he was. I have an idea he mightn’t have waited for a count of three. You say he was a damn good shot, but this time he missed, and the bullet went out here’–he gestured as he walked out onto the terrace–"into the garden where there are a good many other bullets. But MacGregor doesn’t miss. He shoots and kills." Starkwedder came back into the room. "He drops his gun by the body, takes Richard’s gun, goes out of the window, and presently he comes back." "Comes back?" Laura asked. "Why does he come back?" Starkwedder looked at her for a few seconds without speaking. Then, taking a deep breath, he asked, "Can’t you guess?" Laura looked at him wonderingly. She shook her head. "No, I’ve no idea," she replied. He continued to regard her steadily. After a pause, he spoke slowly and with an effort. "Well," he said, "suppose MacGregor has an accident with his car and can’t get away from here. What else can he do? Only one thing–come up to the house and discover the body!" "You speak–" Laura gasped, "you speak as though you know just what happened." Starkwedder could no longer restrain himself. "Of course I know," he burst out passionately. "Don’t you understand? I’m MacGregor!" He leaned back against the curtains, shaking his head desperately. Laura rose, an incredulous look on her face. She stepped towards him, half raising her arm, unable to grasp the full meaning of his words. "You–" she murmured. "You–" Starkwedder walked slowly towards Laura. "I never meant any of this to happen," he told her, his voice husky with emotion. "I mean–finding you, and finding that I cared about you, and that–Oh God, it’s hopeless. Hopeless." As she stared at him, dazed, Starkwedder took her hand and kissed the palm. "Goodbye, Laura," he said, gruffly. He went quickly out through the french windows and disappeared into the mist. Laura ran out onto the terrace and called after him, "Wait–wait. Come back!" The mist swirled, and the Bristol fog signal began to boom. "Come back, Michael, come back!" Laura cried. There was no reply. "Come back, Michael," she called again. "Please come back! I care about you too." She listened intently, but heard only the sound of a car starting up and moving off. The fog signal continued to sound as she collapsed against the window and burst into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing.

"George’s formerly kind feeling towards Zarida underwent a change. He knew his wife was perfectly capable of insisting on moving to a new house if the caprice got hold of her. " "What else did she say?" he asked. " "She couldn’t tell me very much. She was so upset. One thing she did say. I had some violets in a glass. She pointed at them and cried out: " "Take those away. No blue flowers—never have blue flowers. Blue flowers are fatal to you—remember that." " " "And you know," added Mrs Pritchard, "I always have told you that blue as a colour is repellent to me. I feel a natural instinctive sort of warning against." "George was much too wise to remark that he had never heard her say so before. Instead he asked what the mysterious Zarida was like. Mrs Pritchard entered with gusto upon a description. " "Black hair in coiled knobs over her ears—her eyes were half closed—great black rims round them—she had a black veil over her mouth and chin—and she spoke in a kind of singing voice with a marked foreign accent—Spanish, I think—" " "In fact all the usual stock-in-trade," said George cheerfully. "His wife immediately closed her eyes. " "I feel extremely ill," she said. "Ring for nurse. Unkindness upsets me, as you know only too well." "It was two days later that Nurse Copling came to George with a grave face. " "Will you come to Mrs Pritchard, please. She has had a letter which upsets her greatly." "He found his wife with the letter in her hand. She held it out to him. " "Read it," she said. "George read it. It was on heavily scented paper, and the writing was big and black. "I have seen the future. Be warned before it is too late. Beware of the Full Moon. The Blue Primrose means Warning; the Blue Hollyhock means Danger; the Blue Geranium means Death… "Just about to burst out laughing, George caught Nurse Copling’s eye. She made a quick warning gesture. He said rather awkwardly, "The woman’s probably trying to frighten you, Mary. Anyway there aren’t such things as blue primroses and blue geraniums." "But Mrs Pritchard began to cry and say her days were numbered. Nurse Copling came out with George upon the landing. " "Of all the silly tomfoolery," he burst out. " "I suppose it is." "Something in the nurse’s tone struck him, and he stared at her in amazement. " "Surely, nurse, you don’t believe—" " "No, no, Mr Pritchard. I don’t believe in reading the future—that’s nonsense. What puzzles me is the meaning of this. Fortune-tellers are usually out for what they can get. But this woman seems to be frightening Mrs Pritchard with no advantage to herself. I can’t see the point. There’s another thing—" " "Yes?" " "Mrs Pritchard says that something about Zarida was faintly familiar to her." " "Well?" " "Well, I don’t like it, Mr Pritchard, that’s all." " "I didn’t know you were so superstitious, nurse." " "I’m not superstitious; but I know when a thing is fishy." "It was about four days after this that the first incident happened. To explain it to you, I shall have to describe Mrs Pritchard’s room—" "You’d better let me do that," interrupted Mrs Bantry. "It was papered with one of those new wall-papers where you apply clumps of flowers to make a kind of herbaceous border. The effect is almost like being in a garden—though, of course, the flowers are all wrong. I mean they simply couldn’t be in bloom all at the same time—" "Don’t let a passion for horticultural accuracy run away with you, Dolly," said her husband. "We all know you’re an enthusiastic gardener." "Well, it is absurd," protested Mrs Bantry. "To have bluebells and daffodils and lupins and hollyhocks and Michaelmas daisies all grouped together." "Most unscientific," said Sir Henry. "But to proceed with the story."

You have not left him anything, but you had left Esther Walters money, though you weren’t going to let her have any inkling of the fact. Isn’t that right?" "Yes, it’s quite right, but I don’t know how you knew." "Well, it’s the way you insisted on the point," said Miss Marple. "I have a certain experience of the way people tell lies." "I give in," said Mr. Rafiel. "All right. I left Esther £50,000. It would come as a nice surprise to her when I died. I suppose that, knowing this, Tim Kendal decided to exterminate his present wife with a nice dose of something or other and marry £50,000 and Esther Walters. Possibly to dispose of her also in good time. But how did he know she was going to have £50,000?" "Jackson told him, of course," said Miss Marple. "They were very friendly, those two. Tim Kendal was nice to Jackson and, quite, I should imagine, without ulterior motive. But amongst the bits of gossip that Jackson let slip I think Jackson told him that unbeknownst to herself, Esther Walters was going to inherit a fat lot of money, and he may have said that he himself hoped to induce Esther Walters to marry him though he hadn’t had much success so far in taking her fancy. Yes, I think that’s how it happened." "The things you imagine always seem perfectly plausible," said Mr. Rafiel. "But I was stupid," said Miss Marple, "very stupid. Everything fitted in really, you see. Tim Kendal was a very clever man as well as being a very wicked one. He was particularly good at putting about rumours. Half the things I’ve been told here came from him originally, I imagine. There were stories going around about Molly wanting to marry an undesirable young man, but I rather fancy that the undesirable young man was actually Tim Kendal himself, though that wasn’t the name he was using then. Her people had heard something, perhaps that his background was fishy. So he put on a high indignation act, refused to be taken by Molly to be "shown off" to her people and then he brewed up a little scheme with her which they both thought great fun. She pretended to sulk and pine for him. Then a Mr. Tim Kendal turned up, primed with the names of various old friends of Molly’s people, and they welcomed him with open arms as being the sort of young man who would put the former delinquent one out of Molly’s head. I am afraid Molly and he must have laughed over it a good deal. Anyway, he married her, and with her money he bought out the people who ran this place and they came out here. I should imagine that he ran through her money at a pretty fair rate. Then he came across Esther Walters and he saw a nice prospect of more money." "Why didn’t he bump me off?" said Mr. Rafiel. Miss Marple coughed. "I expect he wanted to be fairly sure of Mrs. Walters first. Besides—I mean …" She stopped, a little confused. "Besides, he realized he wouldn’t have to wait long," said Mr. Rafiel, "and it would clearly be better for me to die a natural death. Being so rich. Deaths of millionaires are scrutinized rather carefully, aren’t they, unlike mere wives?" "Yes, you’re quite right. Such a lot of lies as he told," said Miss Marple. "Look at the lies he got Molly herself to believe—putting that book on mental disorders in her way. Giving her drugs which would give her dreams and hallucinations. You know, your Jackson was rather clever over that. I think he recognized certain of Molly’s symptoms as being the result of drugs. And he came into the bungalow that day to potter about a bit in the bathroom. That face cream he examined. He might have got some idea from the old tales of witches rubbing themselves with ointments that had belladonna in them. Belladonna in face cream could have produced just that result. Molly would have blackouts. Times she couldn’t account for, dreams of flying through the air. No wonder she got frightened about herself. She had all the signs of mental illness, Jackson was on the right track.

Anyway, you mustn’t pay me too many compliments—but surely you’ll stay and have tea. I’m sure Mary will give you some tea." He looked round. "Oh, she’s gone away. Nice girl." "Yes, indeed, and very handsome. I expect she has been a great comfort to you for many years." "Oh! They’ve only married recently. She’s my nephew’s second wife. I’ll be frank with you. I’ve never cared very much for this nephew of mine, Andrew—not a steady chap. Always restless. His elder brother Simon was my favourite. Not that I knew him well, either. As for Andrew, he behaved very badly to his first wife. Went off, you know. Left her high and dry. Went off with a thoroughly bad lot. Everybody knew about her. But he was infatuated with her. The whole thing broke up in a year or two: silly fellow. The girl he’s married seems all right. Nothing wrong with her as far as I know. Now Simon was a steady chap—damned dull, though. I can’t say I liked it when my sister married into that family. Marrying into trade, you know. Rich, of course, but money isn’t everything—we’ve usually married into the Services. I never saw much of the Restarick lot." "They have, I believe, a daughter. A friend of mine met her last week." "Oh, Norma. Silly girl. Goes about in dreadful clothes and has picked up with a dreadful young man. Ah well, they’re all alike nowadays. Long-haired young fellows, beatniks, Beatles, all sorts of names they’ve got. I can’t keep up with them. Practically talk a foreign language. Still, nobody cares to hear an old man’s criticisms, so there we are. Even Mary—I always thought she was a good, sensible sort, but as far as I can see she can be thoroughly hysterical in some ways—mainly about her health. Some fuss about going to hospital for observation or something. What about a drink? Whisky? No? Sure you won’t stop and have a drop of tea?" "Thank you, but I am staying with friends." "Well, I must say I have enjoyed this chat with you very much. Nice to remember some of the things that happened in the old days. Sonia, dear, perhaps you’ll take Monsieur—sorry, what’s your name, it’s gone again—ah, yes, Poirot. Take him down to Mary, will you?" "No, no," Hercule Poirot hastily waved aside the offer. "I could not dream of troubling Madame anymore. I am quite all right. Quite all right. I can find my way perfectly. It has been a great pleasure to meet you again." He left the room. "Haven’t the faintest idea who that chap was," said Sir Roderick, after Poirot had gone. "You do not know who he was?" Sonia asked, looking at him in a startled manner. "Personally I don’t remember who half the people are who come up and talk to me nowadays. Of course, I have to make a good shot at it. One learns to get away with that, you know. Same thing at parties. Up comes a chap and says, "Perhaps you don’t remember me. I last saw you in 1939." I have to say "Of course I remember," but I don’t. It’s a handicap being nearly blind and deaf. We got pally with a lot of frogs like that towards the end of the war. Don’t remember half of them. Oh, he’d been there all right. He knew me and I knew a good many of the chaps he talked about. That story about me and the stolen car, that was true enough. Exaggerated a bit, of course, they made a pretty good story of it at the time. Ah well, I don’t think he knew I didn’t remember him. Clever chap, I should say, but a thorough frog, isn’t he? You know, mincing and dancing and bowing and scraping. Now then, where were we?" Sonia picked up a letter and handed it to him. She tentatively proffered a pair of spectacles which he immediately rejected. "Don’t want those damned things—I can see all right."

I was clearing away a lot of stuff, adding to the compost heap, and all that." "Wonderful thing, a compost heap," said Hardcastle, solemnly. Mr. McNaughton brightened immediately. "Absolutely. Nothing like it. Ah! The number of people I’ve converted. Using all these chemical manures! Suicide! Let me show you." He drew Hardcastle eagerly by the arm and trundling his barrow, went along the path to the edge of the fence that divided his garden from that of No. 19. Screened by lilac bushes, the compost heap was displayed in its glory. Mr. McNaughton wheeled the wheelbarrow to a small shed beside it. Inside the shed were several nicely arranged tools. "Very tidy you keep everything," remarked Hardcastle. "Got to take care of your tools," said McNaughton. Hardcastle was looking thoughtfully towards No. 19. On the other side of the fence was a rose pergola which led up to the side of the house. "You didn’t see anyone in the garden at Number 19 or looking out of the window in the house, or anything like that while you were at your compost heap?" McNaughton shook his head. "Didn’t see anything at all," he said. "Sorry I can’t help you, Inspector." "You know, Angus," said his wife, "I believe I did see a figure skulking in the garden of 19." "I don’t think you did, my dear," said her husband firmly. "I didn’t, either." "That woman would say she’d seen anything," Hardcastle growled when they were back in the car. "You don’t think she recognized the photograph?" Hardcastle shook his head. "I doubt it. She just wants to think she’s seen him. I know that type of witness only too well. When I pinned her down to it, she couldn’t give chapter or verse, could she?" "No." "Of course she may have sat opposite him in a bus or something. I’ll allow you that. But if you ask me, it’s wishful thinking. What do you think?" "I think the same." "We didn’t get much," Hardcastle sighed. "Of course there are things that seem queer. For instance, it seems almost impossible that Mrs. Hemming—no matter how wrapped up in her cats she is—should know so little about her neighbour, Miss Pebmarsh, as she does. And also that she should be so extremely vague and uninterested in the murder." "She is a vague kind of woman." "Scatty!" said Hardcastle. "When you meet a scatty woman—well, fires, burglaries, murders can go on all round them and they wouldn’t notice it." "She’s very well fenced in with all that wire netting, and that Victorian shrubbery doesn’t leave you much of a view." They had arrived back at the police station. Hardcastle grinned at his friend and said: "Well, Sergeant Lamb, I can let you go off duty now." "No more visits to pay?" "Not just now. I must pay one more later, but I’m not taking you with me." "Well, thanks for this morning. Can you get these notes of mine typed up?" He handed them over. "Inquest is the day after tomorrow you said? What time?" "Eleven." "Right. I’ll be back for it." "Are you going away?" "I’ve got to go up to London tomorrow—make my report up to date." "I can guess who to." "You’re not allowed to do that." Hardcastle grinned. "Give the old boy my love." "Also, I may be going to see a specialist," said Colin. "A specialist? What for? What’s wrong with you?" "Nothing—bar thickheadedness. I don’t mean that kind of a specialist. One in your line." "Scotland Yard?" "No. A private detective—a friend of my Dad’s—and a friend of mine. This fantastic business of yours will be just down his street. He’ll love it—it will cheer him up. I’ve an idea he needs cheering up." "What’s his name?" "Hercule Poirot." "I’ve heard of him. I thought he was dead." "He’s not dead. But I have a feeling he’s bored. That’s worse." Hardcastle looked at him curiously. "You’re an odd fellow, Colin. You make such unlikely friends." "Including you," Colin said, and grinned.

And just at present we all feel we must take notice of Peculiar Things." "Perfectly amazing," I said. "Was she going to—er—sleep in the barrow by any chance?" "She didn’t, at any rate," said Miss Marple. "Because quite a short time afterwards she came back, and she hadn’t got the suitcase with her." Eighteen The inquest was held that afternoon (Saturday) at two o’clock at the Blue Boar. The local excitement was, I need hardly say, tremendous. There had been no murder in St. Mary Mead for at least fifteen years. And to have someone like Colonel Protheroe murdered actually in the Vicarage study is such a feast of sensation as rarely falls to the lot of a village population. Various comments floated to my ears which I was probably not meant to hear. "There’s Vicar. Looks pale, don’t he? I wonder if he had a hand in it. ’Twas done at Vicarage, after all." "How can you, Mary Adams? And him visiting Henry Abbott at the time." "Oh! But they do say him and the Colonel had words. There’s Mary Hill. Giving herself airs, she is, on account of being in service there. Hush, here’s coroner." The coroner was Dr. Roberts of our adjoining town of Much Benham. He cleared his throat, adjusted his eyeglasses, and looked important. To recapitulate all the evidence would be merely tiresome. Lawrence Redding gave evidence of finding the body, and identified the pistol as belonging to him. To the best of his belief he had seen it on the Tuesday, two days previously. It was kept on a shelf in his cottage, and the door of the cottage was habitually unlocked. Mrs. Protheroe gave evidence that she had last seen her husband at about a quarter to six when they separated in the village street. She agreed to call for him at the Vicarage later. She had gone to the Vicarage about a quarter past six, by way of the back lane and the garden gate. She had heard no voices in the study and had imagined that the room was empty, but her husband might have been sitting at the writing table, in which case she would not have seen him. As far as she knew, he had been in his usual health and spirits. She knew of no enemy who might have had a grudge against him. I gave evidence next, told of my appointment with Protheroe and my summons to the Abbotts." I described how I had found the body and my summoning of Dr. Haydock. "How many people, Mr. Clement, were aware that Colonel Protheroe was coming to see you that evening?" "A good many, I should imagine. My wife knew, and my nephew, and Colonel Protheroe himself alluded to the fact that morning when I met him in the village. I should think several people might have overheard him, as, being slightly deaf, he spoke in a loud voice." "It was, then, a matter of common knowledge? Anyone might know?" I agreed. Haydock followed. He was an important witness. He described carefully and technically the appearance of the body and the exact injuries. It was his opinion that the deceased had been shot at approximately 6:20 to 6:30—certainly not later than 6:35. That was the outside limit. He was positive and emphatic on that point. There was no question of suicide, the wound could not have been self-inflicted. Inspector Slack’s evidence was discreet and abridged. He described his summons and the circumstances under which he had found the body. The unfinished letter was produced and the time on it—6:20—noted. Also the clock. It was tacitly assumed that the time of death was 6:22. The police were giving nothing away. Anne Protheroe told me afterwards that she had been told to suggest a slightly earlier period of time than 6:20 for her visit. Our maid, Mary, was the next witness, and proved a somewhat truculent one. She hadn’t heard anything, and didn’t want to hear anything. It wasn’t as though gentlemen who came to see the Vicar usually got shot. They didn’t. She’d got her own jobs to look after. Colonel Protheroe had arrived at a quarter past six exactly.

He reminded me of an intelligent terrier. I believe that there was no corner of the house that he left unsearched; yet it was all done so quietly and methodically that no attention was directed to his movements. Clearly, at the end, he remained unsatisfied. We had tea on the terrace with Miss Saunders, who had not been included in the party. "The boys will enjoy it," she murmured in her faded way, "though I hope they will behave nicely, and not damage the flower-beds, or go near the bees—" Poirot paused in the very act of drinking. He looked like a man who has seen a ghost. "Bees?" he demanded in a voice of thunder. "Yes, M. Poirot, bees. Three hives. Lady Claygate is very proud of her bees—" "Bees?" cried Poirot again. Then he sprang from the table and walked up and down the terrace with his hands to his head. I could not imagine why the little man should be so agitated at the mere mention of bees. At that moment we heard the car returning. Poirot was on the doorstep as the party alighted. "Ronald’s been stung," cried Gerald excitedly. "It’s nothing," said Mrs Lemesurier. "It hasn’t even swollen. We put ammonia on it." "Let me see, my little man," said Poirot. "Where was it?" "Here, on the side of my neck," said Ronald importantly. "But it doesn’t hurt. Father said: "Keep still—there’s a bee on you." And I kept still, and he took it off, but it stung me first, though it didn’t really hurt, only like a pin, and I didn’t cry, because I’m so big and going to school next year." Poirot examined the child’s neck, then drew away again. He took me by the arm and murmured: "Tonight, mon ami, tonight we have a little affair on! Say nothing—to anyone." He refused to be more communicative, and I went through the evening devoured by curiosity. He retired early and I followed his example. As we went upstairs, he caught me by the arm and delivered his instructions: "Do not undress. Wait a sufficient time, extinguish your light and join me here." I obeyed, and found him waiting for me when the time came. He enjoined silence on me with a gesture, and we crept quietly along the nursery wing. Ronald occupied a small room of his own. We entered it and took up our position in the darkest corner. The child’s breathing sounded heavy and undisturbed. "Surely he is sleeping very heavily?" I whispered. Poirot nodded. "Drugged," he murmured. "Why?" "So that he should not cry out at—" "At what?" I asked, as Poirot paused. "At the prick of the hypodermic needle, mon ami! Hush, let us speak no more—not that I expect anything to happen for some time." VI But in this Poirot was wrong. Hardly ten minutes had elapsed before the door opened softly, and someone entered the room. I heard a sound of quick hurried breathing. Footsteps moved to the bed, and then there was a sudden click. The light of a little electric lantern fell on the sleeping child—the holder of it was still invisible in the shadow. The figure laid down the lantern. With the right hand it brought forth a syringe; with the left it touched the boy’s neck— Poirot and I sprang at the same minute. The lantern rolled to the floor, and we struggled with the intruder in the dark. His strength was extraordinary. At last we overcame him. "The light, Hastings, I must see his face—though I fear I know only too well whose face it will be." So did I, I thought as I groped for the lantern. For a moment I had suspected the secretary, egged on by my secret dislike of the man, but I felt assured by now that the man who stood to gain by the death of his two childish cousins was the monster we were tracking. My foot struck against the lantern. I picked it up and switched on the light. It shone full on the face of—Hugo Lemesurier, the boy’s father! The lantern almost dropped from my hand. "Impossible," I murmured hoarsely. "Impossible!" VII Lemesurier was unconscious.

"Precisely. Why not? Does not one stifle in London today? Would not the country air be agreeable?" "Well, if you put it like that," I said. "Shall we go in the car?" I had acquired a secondhand Austin. "Excellent. A very pleasant day for motoring. One will hardly need the muffler. A light overcoat, a silk scarf—" "My dear fellow, you’re not going to the North Pole!" I protested. "One must be careful of catching the chill," said Poirot sententiously. "On a day like this?" Disregarding my protests, Poirot proceeded to don a fawn-coloured overcoat and wrap his neck up with a white silk handkerchief. Having carefully placed the wetted stamp face downwards on the blotting paper to dry, we left the room together. Six WE GO TO LITTLEGREEN HOUSE I don’t know what Poirot felt like in his coat and muffler but I myself felt roasted before we got out of London. An open car in traffic is far from being a refreshing place on a hot summer’s day. Once we were outside London, however, and getting a bit of pace on the Great West Road my spirits rose. Our drive took us about an hour and a half, and it was close upon twelve o’clock when we came into the little town of Market Basing. Originally on the main road, a modern bypass now left it some three miles to the north of the main stream of traffic and in consequence it had kept an air of old-fashioned dignity and quietude about it. Its one wide street and ample market square seemed to say, "I was a place of importance once and to any person of sense and breeding I am still the same. Let this modern speeding world dash along their newfangled road; I was built to endure in a day when solidarity and beauty went hand in hand." There was a parking area in the middle of the big square, though there were only a few cars occupying it. I duly parked the Austin, Poirot divested himself of his superfluous garments, assured himself that his moustaches were in their proper condition of symmetrical flamboyance and we were then ready to proceed. For once in a way our first tentative inquiry did not meet with the usual response, "Sorry, but I’m a stranger in these parts." It would seem indeed probable that there were no strangers in Market Basing! It had that effect! Already, I felt, Poirot and myself (and especially Poirot) were somewhat noticeable. We tended to stick out from the mellow background of an English market town secure in its traditions. "Littlegreen House?" The man, a burly, ox-eyed fellow, looked us over thoughtfully. "You go straight up the High Street and you can’t miss it. On your left. There’s no name on the gate, but it’s the first big house after the bank." He repeated again, "You can’t miss it." His eyes followed us as we started on our course. "Dear me," I complained. "There is something about this place that makes me feel extremely conspicuous. As for you, Poirot, you look positively exotic." "You think it is noticed that I am a foreigner—yes?" "The fact cries aloud to heaven," I assured him. "And yet my clothes are made by an English tailor," mused Poirot. "Clothes are not everything," I said. "It cannot be denied, Poirot, that you have a noticeable personality. I have often wondered that it has not hindered you in your career." Poirot sighed. "That is because you have the mistaken idea implanted in your head that a detective is necessarily a man who puts on a false beard and hides behind a pillar! The false beard, it is vieux jeu, and shadowing is only done by the lowest branch of my profession. The Hercule Poirots, my friend, need only to sit back in a chair and think." "Which explains why we are walking along this exceedingly hot street on an exceedingly hot morning." "That is very neatly replied, Hastings. For once, I admit, you have made the score off me." We found Littlegreen House easily enough, but a shock awaited us—a house agent’s board. As we were staring at it, a dog’s bark attracted my attention. The bushes were thin at that point and the dog could be easily seen.

Poirot detained Mrs Waverly for a minute behind her husband. "Madame, the truth, if you please. Do you share your husband’s faith in the butler, Tredwell?" "I have nothing against him, Monsieur Poirot, I cannot see how he can have been concerned in this, but—well, I have never liked him—never!" "One other thing, madame, can you give me the address of the child’s nurse?" "149 Netherall Road, Hammersmith. You don’t imagine—" "Never do I imagine. Only—I employ the little grey cells. And sometimes, just sometimes, I have a little idea." Poirot came back to me as the door closed. "So madame has never liked the butler. It is interesting, that, eh, Hastings?" I refused to be drawn. Poirot has deceived me so often that I now go warily. There is always a catch somewhere. After completing an elaborate outdoor toilet, we set off for Netherall Road. We were fortunate enough to find Miss Jessie Withers at home. She was a pleasant-faced woman of thirty-five, capable and superior. I could not believe that she could be mixed up in the affair. She was bitterly resentful of the way she had been dismissed, but admitted that she had been in the wrong. She was engaged to be married to a painter and decorator who happened to be in the neighbourhood, and she had run out to meet him. The thing seemed natural enough. I could not quite understand Poirot. All his questions seemed to me quite irrelevant. They were concerned mainly with the daily routine of her life at Waverly Court. I was frankly bored and glad when Poirot took his departure. "Kidnapping is an easy job, mon ami," he observed, as he hailed a taxi in the Hammersmith Road and ordered it to drive to Waterloo. "That child could have been abducted with the greatest ease any day for the last three years." "I don’t see that that advances us much," I remarked coldly. "Au contraire, it advances us enormously, but enormously! If you must wear a tie pin, Hastings, at least let it be in the exact centre of your tie. At present it is at least a sixteenth of an inch too much to the right." Waverly Court was a fine old place and had recently been restored with taste and care. Mr Waverly showed us the council chamber, the terrace, and all the various spots connected with the case. Finally, at Poirot’s request, he pressed a spring in the wall, a panel slid aside, and a short passage led us into the priest’s hole. "You see," said Waverly. "There is nothing here." The tiny room was bare enough, there was not even the mark of a footstep on the floor. I joined Poirot where he was bending attentively over a mark in the corner. "What do you make of this, my friend?" There were four imprints close together. "A dog," I cried. "A very small dog, Hastings." "A Pom." "Smaller than a Pom." "A griffon?" I suggested doubtfully. "Smaller even than a griffon. A species unknown to the Kennel Club." I looked at him. His face was alight with excitement and satisfaction. "I was right," he murmured. "I knew I was right. Come, Hastings." As we stepped out into the hall and the panel closed behind us, a young lady came out of a door farther down the passage. Mr Waverly presented her to us. "Miss Collins." Miss Collins was about thirty years of age, brisk and alert in manner. She had fair, rather dull hair, and wore pince-nez. At Poirot’s request, we passed into a small morning-room, and he questioned her closely as to the servants and particularly as to Tredwell. She admitted that she did not like the butler. "He gives himself airs," she explained. They then went into the question of the food eaten by Mrs Waverly on the night of the 28th. Miss Collins declared that she had partaken of the same dishes upstairs in her sitting-room and had felt no ill effects. As she was departing I nudged Poirot. "The dog," I whispered. "Ah, yes, the dog!" He smiled broadly. "Is there a dog kept here by any chance, mademoiselle?" "There are two retrievers in the kennels outside." "No, I mean a small dog, a toy dog."

I did not tell mother about these terrible fits of anxiety, and I don’t think she ever guessed at them. I used also to have fears, when she had gone out into the town, that she might have been run over. It all seems silly now, so unnecessary. It wore off gradually, I think, and probably lasted only for a year or two. Later I slept in father’s dressing-room, off her bedroom, with the door slightly ajar, so that if she did have an attack in the night I could go in, raise her head, and fetch her brandy and sal volatile. Once I felt that I was on the spot, I no longer suffered from the awful pangs of anxiety. I was, I suppose, always over-burdened with imagination. That has served me well in my profession–it must, indeed, be the basis of the novelist’s craft–but it can give you some bad sessions in other respects. The conditions of our life changed after my father’s death. Social occasions practically ceased. My mother saw a few old friends but nobody else. We were very badly off and had to economise in every way. It was, of course, all we could do to keep up Ashfield. My mother no longer gave luncheon or dinner parties. She had two servants instead of three. She tried to tell Jane that we were now badly off and that she would have to manage with two young, inexpensive maids, but she stressed that Jane, with her magnificent cooking, could command a large salary, and that she ought to have it. Mother would look about and find Jane a place where she would get good wages and also have a kitchenmaid under her. "You deserve it," said mother. Jane displayed no emotion; she was eating at the time, as usual. She nodded her head slowly, continued to chew, then said: "Very well, Ma’am. Just as you say. You know best." The next morning, however, she reappeared. "I’d just like a word with you, Ma’am. I’ve been thinking things over and I would prefer to stay here. I quite understand what you said, and I would be prepared to take less wages, but I have been here a very long time. In any case, my brother’s been urging me to come and keep house for him and I have promised I will do so when he retires; that will probably be in four or five year’s time. Until then I would like to stay here." "That is very, very good of you," said my mother, emotionally. Jane, who had a horror of emotion, said, "It will be convenient," and moved majestically from the room. There was only one drawback to this arrangement. Having cooked in one way for so many years, Jane could not stop cooking in the same strain. If we had a joint it was always an enormous roast. Colossal beefsteak pies, huge tarts, and gargantuan steam puddings would be put on the table. Mother would say, "Only enough for two, remember, Jane," or "Only enough for four," but Jane could never understand. Jane’s own scale of hospitality was terribly expensive for the household; every day of the week, seven or eight of her friends were wont to arrive for tea, and eat pastries, buns, scones, rock cakes and jam tarts. In the end, in desperation, seeing the household books mounting up, my mother said gently that perhaps, as things were different now, Jane would have one day a week when she could have her friends. This would save a certain amount of waste, in case a lot was cooked and then people did not turn up. Thenceforward Jane held court on Wednesdays only. Our own meals was now very different from the normal three-or four-course feasts. Dinners were cut out altogether, and mother and I had a macaroni cheese or a rice pudding or something like that in the evening. I’m afraid this saddened Jane a great deal. Also, little by little, mother managed to take over the ordering, which formerly had been done by Jane. It had been one of my father’s friend’s great delights, when staying in the house, to hear Jane ordering on the telephone in her deep bass Devonshire voice: "And I want six lobsters, hen lobsters, and prawns–not less than…" It became a favourite phrase in our family.

Miss Lemprière’s hallucination, or vision, is interesting certainly, but I do not see clearly the point on which she wishes us to pronounce." "Indigestion and coincidence," said Raymond, "and anyway you can’t be sure that they were the same people. Besides, the curse, or whatever it was, would only apply to the actual inhabitants of Rathole." "I feel," said Sir Henry, "that the sinister seafaring man has something to do with this tale. But I agree with Mr Petherick, Miss Lemprière has given us very little data." Joyce turned to Dr Pender who smilingly shook his head. "It is a most interesting story," he said, "but I am afraid I agree with Sir Henry and Mr Petherick that there is very little data to go upon." Joyce then looked curiously at Miss Marple, who smiled back at her. "I, too, think you are just a little unfair, Joyce dear," she said. "Of course, it is different for me. I mean, we, being women, appreciate the point about clothes. I don’t think it is a fair problem to put to a man. It must have meant a lot of rapid changing. What a wicked woman! And a still more wicked man." Joyce stared at her. "Aunt Jane," she said. "Miss Marple, I mean, I believe – I do really believe you know the truth." "Well, dear," said Miss Marple, "it is much easier for me sitting here quietly than it was for you – and being an artist you are so susceptible to atmosphere, aren’t you? Sitting here with one’s knitting, one just sees the facts. Bloodstains dropped on the pavement from the bathing dress hanging above, and being a red bathing dress, of course, the criminals themselves did not realize it was bloodstained. Poor thing, poor young thing!" "Excuse me, Miss Marple," said Sir Henry, "but you do know that I am entirely in the dark still. You and Miss Lemprière seem to know what you are talking about, but we men are still in utter darkness." "I will tell you the end of the story now," said Joyce. "It was a year later. I was at a little east coast seaside resort, and I was sketching, when suddenly I had that queer feeling one has of something having happened before. There were two people, a man and a woman, on the pavement in front of me, and they were greeting a third person, a woman dressed in a scarlet poinsettia chintz dress. "Carol, by all that is wonderful! Fancy meeting you after all these years. You don’t know my wife? Joan, this is an old friend of mine, Miss Harding." "I recognized the man at once. It was the same Denis I had seen at Rathole. The wife was different – that is, she was a Joan instead of a Margery; but she was the same type, young and rather dowdy and very inconspicuous. I thought for a minute I was going mad. They began to talk of going bathing. I will tell you what I did. I marched straight then and there to the police station. I thought they would probably think I was off my head, but I didn’t care. And as it happened everything was quite all right. There was a man from Scotland Yard there, and he had come down just about this very thing. It seems – oh, it’s horrible to talk about – that the police had got suspicions of Denis Dacre. That wasn’t his real name – he took different names on different occasions. He got to know girls, usually quiet inconspicuous girls without many relatives or friends, he married them and insured their lives for large sums and then – oh, it’s horrible! The woman called Carol was his real wife, and they always carried out the same plan. That is really how they came to catch him. The insurance companies became suspicious. He would come to some quiet seaside place with his new wife, then the other woman would turn up and they would all go bathing together. Then the wife would be murdered and Carol would put on her clothes and go back in the boat with him. Then they would leave the place, wherever it was, after inquiring for the supposed Carol and when they got outside the village Carol would hastily change back into her own flamboyant clothes and her vivid make-up and would go back there and drive off in her own car.

She left the car outside Laurel Cottage and went in. A thin, energetic woman with grey hair, of about fifty years of age, opened the door and displayed instant signs of recognition. "Why, so it’s you, Mrs Oliver. Ah well, now. Not seen you for years and years, I haven’t." "Oh, it’s a very long time." "Well, come in then, come in. Can I make you a nice cup of tea?" "I’m afraid not," said Mrs Oliver, "because I’ve had tea already with a friend, and I’ve got to get back to London. As it happened, I went into the chemist for something I wanted and I saw Marlene there." "Yes, she’s got a very good job there. They think a lot of her in that place. They say she’s got a lot of enterprise." "Well, that’s very nice. And how are you, Mrs Buckle? You look very well. Hardly older than when I saw you last." "Oh, I wouldn’t like to say that. Grey hairs, and I’ve lost a lot of weight." "This seems to be a day when I meet a lot of friends I knew formerly," said Mrs Oliver, going into the house and being led into a small, rather over- cluttered sitting-room. "I don’t know if you remember Mrs Carstairs – Mrs Julia Carstairs." "Oh, of course I do. Yes, rather. She must be getting on." "Oh yes, she is, really. But we talked over a few old days, you know. In fact, we went as far as talking about that tragedy that occurred. I was in America at the time so I didn’t know much about it. People called Ravenscroft." "Oh, I remember that well." "You worked for them, didn’t you, at one time, Mrs Buckle?" "Yes. I used to go in three mornings a week. Very nice people they were. You know, real military lady and gentleman, as you might say. The old school." "It was a very tragic thing to happen." "Yes, it was, indeed." "Were you still working for them at that time?" "No. As a matter of fact, I’d given up going there. I had my old Aunt Emma come to live with me and she was rather blind and not very well, and I couldn’t really spare the time any more to go out doing things for people. But I’d been with them up to about a month or two before that." "It seemed such a terrible thing to happen," said Mrs Oliver. "I understand that they thought it was a suicide pact." "I don’t believe that," said Mrs Buckle. "I’m sure they’d never have committed suicide together. Not people like that. And living so pleasantly together as they did. Of course, they hadn’t lived there very long." "No, I suppose they hadn’t," said Mrs Oliver. "They lived somewhere near Bournemouth, didn’t they, when they first came to England?" "Yes, but they found it was a bit too far for getting to London from there, and so that’s why they came to Chipping Bartram. Very nice house it was, and a nice garden." "Were they both in good health when you were working for them last?" "Well, he felt his age a bit as most people do. The General, he’d had some kind of heart trouble or a slight stroke. Something of that kind, you know. They’d take pills, you know, and lie up a bit from time to time." "And Lady Ravenscroft?" "Well, I think she missed the life she’d had abroad, you know. They didn’t know so very many people there, although they got to know a good many families, of course, being the sort of class they were. But I suppose it wasn’t like Malaya or those places. You know, where you have a lot of servants. I suppose gay parties and that sort of thing." "You think she missed her gay parties?" "Well, I don’t know that exactly." "Somebody told me she’d taken to wearing a wig." "Oh, she’d got several wigs," said Mrs Buckle, smiling slightly. "Very smart ones and very expensive. You know, from time to time she’d send one back to the place she’d got it from in London, and they’d re-dress it for her again and send it. There were all kinds. You know, there was one with auburn hair, and one with little grey curls all over her head. Really, she looked very nice in that one.

She then turned to Isabella and plunged into reminiscences of the old days at St Ninian’s. It seemed to me a conversation in which one of the two participants did not really know her part. Anne Mordaunt had to help her out more than once. Mrs Carslake murmured apologetically to Teresa: "I’m so sorry Dick is late. I cannot think what is keeping him. He expected to be home by half-past four." Isabella said, "I think Major Gabriel is with him. He passed along the terrace about a quarter of an hour ago." I was surprised. I had not heard anyone pass. Isabella was sitting with her back to the window and could not possibly have seen anyone go by. I had had my eyes on her and she certainly had not turned her head or shown any awareness of anybody. Of course, her hearing was unusually quick, I knew that. But I wondered how she had known it was Gabriel. Teresa said, "Isabella, I wonder if you would mind – no, please don’t move, Mrs Carslake – would you go along next door and ask them both if they wouldn’t like to come and have some tea." We watched Isabella’s tall figure disappear through the doorway and Mrs Mordaunt said: "Isabella really hasn’t changed at all. She’s just the same. She always was the oddest girl. Walked about as though she were in a dream. We always put it down to her being so brainy." "Brainy?" I said sharply. She turned to me. "Yes, didn’t you know? Isabella’s frightfully clever. Miss Curtis – the head – was simply heartbroken because she wouldn’t go on to Somerville. She matriculated when she was only fifteen and had several distinctions." I was still inclined to think of Isabella as a creature charming to look at but not over-gifted with brains. I still stared at Anne Mordaunt unbelievingly. "What were her special subjects?" I asked. "Oh, astronomy and mathematics – she was frightfully good at maths – and Latin and French. She could learn anything she put her mind to. And yet, you know, she just didn’t care a bit. It quite broke Miss Curtis’s heart. All Isabella seemed to want to do was to come back and settle down in this stuffy old castle place." Isabella came back with Captain Carslake and Gabriel. The tea-party went with a swing. "What is so bewildering to me, Teresa," I said later that evening, "is the impossibility of ever knowing what any particular human being is really like. Take Isabella Charteris. That Mordaunt woman described her as brainy. I myself used to think she was practically a moron. Then again, I should have said that one of her special characteristics was honesty. Mrs Carslake, however, says that she’s sly. Sly! An odious word. John Gabriel says she’s smug and stuck- up. You – well, actually I don’t know what you think – because you hardly ever say anything personal about people. But – well – what is the real truth of a human creature who can appear so differently to different people?" Robert, who seldom joined in our conversations, moved restlessly and said rather unexpectedly: "But isn’t that just the point? People do appear differently to different people. So do things. Trees, for instance, or the sea. Two painters would give you an entirely different idea of St Loo harbour." "You mean one painter would paint it naturalistically and another symbolically?" Robert shook his head rather wearily. He hated talking about painting. He never could find the words to express what he meant. "No," he said. "They’d actually see it differently. Probably – I don’t know – you pick out of everything the things in it which are significant to you." "And one does the same to people, you think? But you can’t have two diametrically opposite qualities. Take Isabella, she can’t be brainy and a moron!" "I think you’re wrong there, Hugh," said Teresa. "My dear Teresa!" Teresa smiled. She spoke slowly and thoughtfully. "You can have a quality and not use it. Not, that is, if you have a simpler method that gives the same results, or that – yes, that’s more probable – costs you less trouble.

The person who did not share my enthusiasm was the wretched Max. He wanted his photography to be the opposite of what I was now doing. Things had to look exactly what they were, with as much detail as possible, exact perspective, and so on. "Don’t you think this necklace looks rather dull like that?" I would say. "No, I don’t," said Max. "The way you’ve got it, it’s all blurred and twisted." "But it looks so exciting that way!" "I don’t want it to look exciting," said Max. "I want it to look like what it is. And you haven’t put a scale rod in." "It ruins the artistic aspect of a photograph if you have to have a scale rod, It looks awful." "You’ve got to show what size it is," said Max. "It is most important." "You can put it underneath, can’t you, in the caption?" "It’s not the same thing. You want to see exactly the scale." I sighed. I could see I had been betrayed by my artistic fancies into straying from what I had promised to do, so I got my instructor to give me extra lessons on photographing things in exact perspective. He was rather bored at having to do this, and disapproving of the results. However, it was going to be useful to me. I had learnt one thing at least: there was no such thing as taking a photograph of something, and later taking another one because that one didn’t come out well. Nobody at the Reinhardt School ever took less than ten negatives of any subject; a great many of them took twenty. It was singularly exhausting, and I used to come home so weary that I wished I had never started. However, that had gone by the next morning. Rosalind came out to Syria one year, and I think enjoyed being on our dig. Max got her to do some of the drawings. Actually she draws exceptionally well, and she made a good job of it, but the trouble with Rosalind is that, unlike her slap-happy mother, she is a perfectionist. Unless she could get a thing perfectly as she wanted it, she would immediately tear it up. She did a series of these drawings, and then said to Max: "They are no good really–I shall tear them up." "You are not to tear them up," said Max. "I shall tear them up," said Rosalind. They then had an enormous fight, Rosalind trembling with rage, Max also really angry. The drawings of the painted pots were salvaged, and appeared in Max’s book of Tell Brak–but Rosalind never professed herself satisfied with them. Horses were procured from the Sheikh, and Rosalind went riding, accompanied by Guilford Bell, the young architect nephew of my Australian friend, Aileen Bell. He was a very dear boy and he did some extraordinarily lovely pencil drawings of our amulets at Brak. They were beautiful little things–frogs, lions, rams, bulls–and the delicate shading of his pencil drawings made a perfect medium for them. That summer Guilford came to stay with us at Torquay, and one day we saw that a house was up for sale that I had known when I was young–Greenway House, on the Dart, a house that my mother had always said, and I had thought also, was the most perfect of the various properties on the Dart. "Let’s go and look at it," I said. "It would be lovely to see it again. I haven’t seen it since I went there calling with Mother when I was a child." So we went over to Greenway, and very beautiful the house and grounds were. A white Georgian house of about 1780 or 90, with woods sweeping down to the Dart below, and a lot of fine shrubs and trees–the ideal house, a dream house. Since we had an order to view, I asked its price, though without much interest. I didn’t think I had heard the answer correctly. "Sixteen thousand, did you say?" "Six thousand." "Six thousand?" I could hardly believe it. We drove home talking about it. "It’s incredibly cheap," I said. "It’s got thirty-three acres. It doesn’t look in bad condition either; wants decorating, that’s all." "Why don’t you buy it?" asked Max. I was so startled, this coming from Max, that it took my breath away. "You’ve been getting worried about Ashfield, you know," I knew what he meant.

He was successful, resourceful, brave, sunny-tempered, a delightful companion." She paused, and seemed to be remembering. Then she continued. "There were, I must admit, always the defects of those qualities in him. He was impatient of controls, of restraints. He had a cruel streak in him, and he had a kind of fatal arrogance. So long as he was successful, all was well. But he did not have the kind of nature that could deal with adversity, and for some time now I have watched him slowly go downhill." Starkwedder quietly seated himself on the stool, facing her. "If I say that he had become a monster," Richard Warwick’s mother continued, "it would sound exaggerated. And yet, in some ways he was a monster–a monster of egoism, of pride, of cruelty. Because he had been hurt himself, he had an enormous desire to hurt others." A hard note crept into her voice. "So others began to suffer because of him. Do you understand me?" "I think so–yes," Starkwedder murmured softly. Mrs Warwick’s voice became gentle again as she went on. "Now, I am very fond of my daughter-in-law. She has spirit, she is warm-hearted, and she has a very brave power of endurance. Richard swept her off her feet, but I don’t know whether she was ever really in love with him. However, I will tell you this–she did everything a wife could do to make Richard’s illness and inaction bearable." She thought for a moment, and her voice was sad as she continued, "But he would have none of her help. He rejected it. I think at times he hated her, and perhaps that’s more natural than one might suppose. So, when I tell you that the inevitable happened, I think you will understand what I mean. Laura fell in love with another man, and he with her." Starkwedder regarded Mrs Warwick thoughtfully. "Why are you telling me all this?" he asked. "Because you are a stranger," she replied, firmly. "These loves and hates and tribulations mean nothing to you, so you can hear about them unmoved." "Possibly." As though she had not heard him, Mrs Warwick went on speaking. "So there came a time," she said, "when it seemed that only one thing would solve all the difficulties. Richard’s death." Starkwedder continued to study her face. "And so," he murmured, "conveniently, Richard died?" "Yes," Mrs Warwick answered. There was a pause. Then Starkwedder rose, moved around the stool, and went to the table to stub out his cigarette. "Excuse me putting this bluntly, Mrs Warwick," he said, "but are you confessing to murder?" Chapter 17 Mrs Warwick was silent for a few moments. Then she said sharply, "I will ask you a question, Mr Starkwedder. Can you understand that someone who has given life might also feel themselves entitled to take that life?" Starkwedder paced around the room as he thought about this. Finally, "Mothers have been known to kill their children, yes," he admitted. "But it’s usually been for a sordid reason–insurance–or perhaps they have two or three children already and don’t want to be bothered with another one." Turning back suddenly to face her, he asked quickly, "Does Richard’s death benefit you financially?" "No, it does not," Mrs Warwick replied firmly. Starkwedder made a deprecatory gesture. "You must forgive my frankness–" he began, only to be interrupted by Mrs Warwick, who asked with more than a touch of asperity in her voice, "Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?" "Yes, I think I do," he replied. "You’re telling me that it’s possible for a mother to kill her son." He walked over to the sofa and leaned across it as he continued. "And you’re telling me–specifically–that it’s possible that you killed your son." He paused, and looked at her steadily. "Is that a theory," he asked, "or am I to understand it as a fact?" "I am not confessing to anything," Mrs Warwick answered. "I am merely putting before you a certain point of view. An emergency might arise at a time when I was no longer here to deal with it.

'Go on,' she said. 'I will put the case against you, mademoiselle. You loved Captain Marshall. You also loved money. Your adopted father he would never have consented to you marrying Captain Marshall, but if he dies you are fairly sure that you get everything. So you go out, step over the flower border to the window which is open, you have with you the pistol which you have taken from the writing table drawer. You go up to your victim talking amiably. You fire. You drop the pistol by his hand, having wiped it and pressed his fingers on it. You go out again, shaking the window till the bolt drops. You come into the house. Is that how it happened? I am asking you, mademoiselle.' 'No,' Diana screamed. 'No - no!' He looked at her, then he smiled. 'No,' he said, 'it was not like that. It might have been so - it is plausible - it is possible - but it cannot have been like that for two reasons. The first is that you picked Michaelmas daisies at seven o'clock, the second arises from something that mademoiselle here told me.' He turned to Joan, who stared at him in bewilderment. He nodded encouragement. 'But yes, mademoiselle. You told me that you hurried downstairs because you thought it was the second gong sounding, having already heard the first.' He shot a rapid glance around the room. 'You do not see what that means?' he cried. 'You do not see. Look! Look!' He sprang forward to the chair where the victim sat. 'Did you notice how the body was? Not sitting square to the desk - no, sitting sideways to the desk, facing the window. Is that a natural way to commit suicide? Jamais, jamais! You write your apologia "sorry" on a piece of paper - you open the drawer, you take out the pistol, you hold it to your head and you fire. That is the way of suicide. But now consider murder! The victim sits at his desk, the murderer stands beside him - talking. And talking still - fires. Where does the bullet go then?' He paused. 'Straight through the head, through the door if it is open, and so - hits the gong. 'Ah! you begin to see? This was the first gong - heard only by mademoiselle, since her room is above. 'What does our murderer do next? Shuts the door, locks it, puts the key in the dead man's pocket, then turns the body sideways in the chair, presses the dead man's fingers on the pistol and then drops it by his side, cracks the mirror on the wall as a final spectacular touch - in short, "arranges" his suicide. Then out through the window, the bolt is shaken home, the murderer steps not on the grass, where footprints must show, but on the flower bed, where they can be smoothed out behind him, leaving no trace. Then back into the house, and at twelve minutes past eight, when he is alone in the drawing room, he fires a service revolver out of the drawing room window and dashes out into the hall. Is that how you did it, Mr Geoffrey Keene?' Fascinated, the secretary stared at the accusing figure drawing nearer to him. Then, with a gurgling cry, he fell to the ground. 'I think I am answered,' said Poirot. 'Captain Marshall, will you ring up the police?' He bent over the prostrate form. 'I fancy he will be still unconscious when they come.' 'Geoffrey Keene,' murmured Diana. 'But what motive had he?' 'I fancy that as secretary he had certain opportunities - accounts - cheques. Something awakened Mr Lytcham-Roche's suspicions. He sent for me.' 'Why for you? Why not for the police?' 'I think, mademoiselle, you can answer that question. Monsieur suspected there was something between you and that young man. To divert his mind from Captain Marshall, you had flirted shamelessly with Mr Keene. But yes, you need not deny! Mr Keene gets wind of my coming and acts promptly. The essence of his scheme is that the crime must seem to take place at 8:12, when he has an alibi.

"It’s a mix-up," confessed Anthony. "I’ve been away on a wild-goose chase. Made a thorough ass of myself. Look here, to me the whole question seems to resolve itself into this: did the men find what they were looking for last night?" "Supposing they didn’t?" said Virginia. "I’m pretty sure they didn’t, as a matter of fact." "Just this, I believe they’ll come again. They know, or they soon will know, that Battle’s in London. They’ll take the risk and come again tonight." "Do you really think so?" "It’s a chance. Now we three will form a little syndicate. Eversleigh and I will conceal ourselves with due precautions in the Council Chamber—" "What about me?" interrupted Virginia. "Don’t think you’re going to leave me out of it." "Listen to me, Virginia," said Bill. "This is men’s work—" "Don’t be an idiot, Bill. I’m in on this. Don’t you make any mistake about it. The syndicate will keep watch tonight." It was settled thus, and the details of the plan were laid. After the party had retired to bed, first one and then another of the syndicate crept down. They were all armed with powerful electric torches, and in the pocket of Anthony’s coat lay a revolver. Anthony had said that he believed another attempt to resume the search would be made. Nevertheless, he did not expect that the attempt would be made from outside. He believed that Virginia had been correct in her guess that someone had passed her in the dark the night before, and as he stood in the shadow of an old oak dresser it was towards the door and not the window that his eyes were directed. Virginia was crouching behind a figure in armour on the opposite wall, and Bill was by the window. The minutes passed, at interminable length. One o’clock chimed, then the half hour, then two, then half hour. Anthony felt stiff and cramped. He was coming slowly to the conclusion that he had been wrong. No attempt would be made tonight. And then he stiffened suddenly, all his senses on the alert. He had heard a footstep on the terrace outside. Silence again, and then a low scratching noise at the window. Suddenly it ceased, and the window swung open. A man stepped across the still into the room. He stood quite still for a moment, peering round as though listening. After a minute or two, seemingly satisfied, he switched on a torch he carried, and turned it rapidly round the room. Apparently he saw nothing unusual. The three watchers held their breath. He went over to the same bit of panelled wall he had been examining the night before. And then a terrible knowledge smote Bill. He was going to sneeze! The wild race through the dew-laden park the night before had given him a chill. All day he had sneezed intermittently. A sneeze was due now, and nothing on earth would stop it. He adopted all the remedies he could think of. He pressed his upper lip, swallowed hard, threw back his head and looked at the ceiling. As a last resort he held his nose and pinched it violently. It was of no avail. He sneezed. A stifled, checked, emasculated sneeze, but a startling sound in the deadly quiet of the room. The stranger sprang round, and in the same minute, Anthony acted. He flashed on his torch, and jumped full for the stranger. In another minute they were down on the floor together. "Lights," shouted Anthony. Virginia was ready at the switch. The lights came on true and full tonight. Anthony was on top of his man. Bill leant down to give him a hand. "And now," said Anthony, "let’s see who you are, my fine fellow." He rolled his victim over. It was the neat, dark-bearded stranger from the Cricketers. "Very nice indeed," said an approving voice. They all looked up startled. The bulky form of Superintendent Battle was standing in the open doorway. "I thought you were in London, Superintendent Battle," said Anthony. Battle’s eyes twinkled. "Did you sir?" he said. "Well, I thought it would be a good thing if I was thought to be going." "And it has been," agreed Anthony, looking down at his prostrate foe. To his surprise there was a slight smile on the stranger’s face. "May I get up, gentlemen?" he inquired.

It was nice of him to be worried about me. He was nice…" She paused again. "The next day he left. I’ve never seen him again. "My baby was born nine months later. I was wonderfully happy all the time. To be able to have a baby so peacefully, with no one to hurt you or make you miserable. I wished I’d remembered to ask my English boy his Christian name. I would have called the baby after him. It seemed unkind not to. It seemed rather unfair. He’d given me the thing I wanted most in the world, and he would never even know about it! But of course I told myself that he wouldn’t look at it that way–that to know would probably only worry and annoy him. I had been just a passing amusement for him, that was all." "And the baby?" asked Mr Satterthwaite. "He was splendid. I called him John. Splendid. I wish you could see him now. He’s twenty. He’s going to be a mining engineer. He’s been the best and dearest son in the world to me. I told him his father had died before he was born." Mr Satterthwaite stared at her. A curious story. And somehow, a story that was not completely told. There was, he felt sure, something else. "Twenty years is a long time," he said thoughtfully. "You’ve never contemplated marrying again?" She shook her head. A slow, burning blush spread over her tanned cheeks. "The child was enough for you–always?" She looked at him. Her eyes were softer than he had yet seen them. "Such queer things happen!" she murmured. "Such queer things…You wouldn’t believe them–no, I’m wrong, you might, perhaps. I didn’t love John’s father, not at the time. I don’t think I even knew what love was. I assumed, as a matter of course, that the child would be like me. But he wasn’t. He mightn’t have been my child at all. He was like his father–he was like no one but his father. I learnt to know that man–through his child. Through the child, I learnt to love him. I love him now. I always shall love him. You may say that it’s imagination, that I’ve built up an ideal, but it isn’t so. I love the man, the real, human man. I’d know him if I saw him tomorrow–even though it’s over twenty years since we met. Loving him has made me into a woman. I love him as a woman loves a man. For twenty years I’ve lived loving him. I shall die loving him." She stopped abruptly–then challenged her listener. "Do you think I’m mad–to say these strange things?" "Oh! my dear," said Mr Satterthwaite. He took her hand again. "You do understand?" "I think I do. But there’s something more, isn’t there? Something that you haven’t yet told me?" Her brow clouded over. "Yes, there’s something. It was clever of you to guess. I knew at once you weren’t the sort one can hide things from. But I don’t want to tell you–and the reason I don’t want to tell you is because it’s best for you not to know." He looked at her. Her eyes met his bravely and defiantly. He said to himself: "This is the test. All the clues are in my hand. I ought to be able to know. If I reason rightly I shall know." There was a pause, then he said slowly: "Something’s gone wrong." He saw her eyelids give the faintest quiver and knew himself to be on the right track. "Something’s gone wrong–suddenly–after all these years." He felt himself groping–groping–in the dark recesses of her mind where she was trying to hide her secret from him. "The boy–it’s got to do with him. You wouldn’t mind about anything else." He heard the very faint gasp she gave and knew he had probed correctly. A cruel business but necessary. It was her will against his. She had got a dominant, ruthless will, but he too had a will hidden beneath his meek manners. And he had behind him the Heaven-sent assurance of a man who is doing his proper job.

"Oh, yes, you will some day, my child. You’re young. But we needn’t discuss that. There’s no other trouble. You’re not worried about—money, for instance?" "No, I’m quite all right." "I know you get anxious sometimes about your boy’s education. That’s why I want to tell you something. I drove into Milchester this afternoon to see Mr. Beddingfeld, my lawyer. Things haven’t been very settled lately and I thought I would like to make a new will—in view of certain eventualities. Apart from Bunny’s legacy, everything goes to you, Phillipa." "What?" Phillipa spun round. Her eyes stared. She looked dismayed, almost frightened. "But I don’t want it—really I don’t … Oh, I’d rather not … And anyway, why? Why to me?" "Perhaps," said Miss Blacklock in a peculiar voice, "because there’s no one else." "But there’s Patrick and Julia." "Yes, there’s Patrick and Julia." The odd note in Miss Blacklock’s voice was still there. "They are your relations." "Very distant ones. They have no claim on me." "But I—I haven’t either—I don’t know what you think … Oh, I don’t want it." Her gaze held more hostility than gratitude. There was something almost like fear in her manner. "I know what I’m doing, Phillipa. I’ve become fond of you—and there’s the boy … You won’t get very much if I should die now—but in a few weeks" time it might be different." Her eyes met Phillipa’s steadily. "But you’re not going to die!" Phillipa protested. "Not if I can avoid it by taking due precautions." "Precautions?" "Yes. Think it over … And don’t worry any more." She left the room abruptly. Phillipa heard her speaking to Julia in the hall. Julia entered the drawing room a few moments later. There was a slightly steely glitter in her eyes. "Played your cards rather well, haven’t you, Phillipa? I see you’re one of those quiet ones … a dark horse." "So you heard—?" "Yes, I heard. I rather think I was meant to hear." "What do you mean?" "Our Letty’s no fool … Well, anyway, you’re all right, Phillipa. Sitting pretty, aren’t you?" "Oh, Julia—I didn’t mean—I never meant—" "Didn’t you? Of course you did. You’re fairly up against things, aren’t you? Hard up for money. But just remember this—if anyone bumps off Aunt Letty now, you’ll be suspect No. 1." "But I shan’t be. It would be idiotic if I killed her now when—if I waited—" "So you do know about old Mrs. Whatsername dying up in Scotland? I wondered … Phillipa, I’m beginning to believe you’re a very dark horse indeed." "I don’t want to do you and Patrick out of anything." "Don’t you, my dear? I’m sorry—but I don’t believe you." Sixteen INSPECTOR CRADDOCK RETURNS Inspector Craddock had had a bad night on his night journey home. His dreams had been less dreams than nightmares. Again and again he was racing through the grey corridors of an old-world castle in a desperate attempt to get somewhere, or to prevent something, in time. Finally he dreamt that he awoke. An enormous relief surged over him. Then the door of his compartment slid slowly open, and Letitia Blacklock looked in at him with blood running down her face, and said reproachfully: "Why didn’t you save me? You could have if you’d tried." This time he really awoke. Altogether, the Inspector was thankful finally to reach Milchester. He went straight away to make his report to Rydesdale who listened carefully. "It doesn’t take us much further," he said. "But it confirms what Miss Blacklock told you. Pip and Emma—h’m, I wonder." "Patrick and Julia Simmons are the right age, sir. If we could establish that Miss Blacklock hadn’t seen them since they were children—" With a very faint chuckle, Rydesdale said: "Our ally, Miss Marple, has established that for us. Actually Miss Blacklock had never seen either of them at all until two months ago." "Then, surely, sir—" "It’s not so easy as all that, Craddock. We’ve been checking up.

MURDER IN THE MEWS Eight Major Eustace received the two men with the easy assurance of a man of the world. His flat was small, a mere pied à terre, as he explained. He offered the two men a drink and when that was refused he took out his cigarette case. Both Japp and Poirot accepted a cigarette. A quick glance passed between them. "You smoke Turkish, I see," said Japp as he twirled the cigarette between his fingers. "Yes. I’m sorry, do you prefer a gasper? I’ve got one somewhere about." "No, no, this will do me very well." Then he leaned forward—his tone changed. "Perhaps you can guess, Major Eustace, what it was I came to see you about?" The other shook his head. His manner was nonchalant. Major Eustace was a tall man, good-looking in a somewhat coarse fashion. There was a puffiness round the eyes—small, crafty eyes that belied the good-humoured geniality of his manner. He said: "No—I’ve no idea what brings such a big gun as a chief inspector to see me. Anything to do with my car?" "No, it is not your car. I think you knew a Mrs. Barbara Allen, Major Eustace?" The major leant back, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and said in an enlightened voice: "Oh, so that’s it! Of course, I might have guessed. Very sad business." "You know about it?" "Saw it in the paper last night. Too bad." "You knew Mrs. Allen out in India, I think." "Yes, that’s some years ago now." "Did you also know her husband?" There was a pause—a mere fraction of a second—but during that fraction the little pig eyes flashed a quick look at the faces of the two men. Then he answered: "No, as a matter of fact, I never came across Allen." "But you know something about him?" "Heard he was by way of being a bad hat. Of course, that was only rumour." "Mrs. Allen did not say anything?" "Never talked about him." "You were on intimate terms with her?" Major Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "We were old friends, you know, old friends. But we didn’t see each other very often." "But you did see her that last evening? The evening of November fifth?" "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did." "You called at her house, I think." Major Eustace nodded. His voice took on a gentle, regretful note. "Yes, she asked me to advise her about some investments. Of course, I can see what you’re driving at—her state of mind—all that sort of thing. Well, really, it’s very difficult to say. Her manner seemed normal enough and yet she was a bit jumpy, come to think of it." "But she gave you no hint as to what she contemplated doing?" "Not the least in the world. As a matter of fact, when I said goodbye I said I’d ring her up soon and we’d do a show together." "You said you’d ring her up. Those were your last words?" "Yes." "Curious. I have information that you said something quite different." Eustace changed colour. "Well, of course, I can’t remember the exact words." "My information is that what you actually said was, "Well, think it over and let me know." " "Let me see, yes I believe you’re right. Not exactly that. I think I was suggesting she should let me know when she was free." "Not quite the same thing, is it?" said Japp. Major Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "My dear fellow, you can’t expect a man to remember word for word what he said on any given occasion." "And what did Mrs. Allen reply?" "She said she’d give me a ring. That is, as near as I can remember." "And then you said, "All right. So long." " "Probably. Something of the kind anyway." Japp said quietly: "You say that Mrs. Allen asked you to advise her about her investments. Did she, by any chance, entrust you with the sum of two hundred pounds in cash to invest for her?" Eustace’s face flushed a dark purple. He leaned forward and growled out: "What the devil do you mean by that?" "Did she or did she not?" "That’s my business, Mr. Chief Inspector." Japp said quietly: "Mrs.

Expect this is his idea. Nephew or something. Funny idea, though, sticking it in the paper." "It was in the Personal Column. We might never have seen it. I suppose it is an invitation, Archie?" "Funny kind of invitation. I can tell you one thing. They can count me out." "Oh, Archie," Mrs. Easterbrook’s voice rose in a shrill wail. "Short notice. For all they know I might be busy." "But you’re not, are you, darling?" Mrs. Easterbrook lowered her voice persuasively. "And I do think, Archie, that you really ought to go—just to help poor Miss Blacklock out. I’m sure she’s counting on you to make the thing a success. I mean, you know so much about police work and procedure. The whole thing will fall flat if you don’t go and help to make it a success. After all, one must be neighbourly." Mrs. Easterbrook put her synthetic blonde head on one side and opened her blue eyes very wide. "Of course, if you put it like that, Laura …" Colonel Easterbrook twirled his grey moustache again, importantly, and looked with indulgence on his fluffy little wife. Mrs. Easterbrook was at least thirty years younger than her husband. "If you put it like that, Laura," he said. "I really do think it’s your duty, Archie," said Mrs. Easterbrook solemnly. IV The Chipping Cleghorn Gazette had also been delivered at Boulders, the picturesque three cottages knocked into one inhabited by Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd. "Hinch?" "What is it, Murgatroyd?" "Where are you?" "Henhouse." "Oh." Padding gingerly through the long wet grass, Miss Amy Murgatroyd approached her friend. The latter, attired in corduroy slacks and battledress tunic, was conscientiously stirring in handfuls of balancer meal to a repellently steaming basin full of cooked potato peelings and cabbage stumps. She turned her head with its short man-like crop and weather-beaten countenance toward her friend. Miss Murgatroyd, who was fat and amiable, wore a checked tweed skirt and a shapeless pullover of brilliant royal blue. Her curly bird’s nest of grey hair was in a good deal of disorder and she was slightly out of breath. "In the Gazette," she panted. "Just listen—what can it mean? A murder is announced … and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation." She paused, breathless, as she finished reading, and awaited some authoritative pronouncement. "Daft," said Miss Hinchcliffe. "Yes, but what do you think it means?" "Means a drink, anyway," said Miss Hinchcliffe. "You think it’s a sort of invitation?" "We’ll find out what it means when we get there," said Miss Hinchcliffe. "Bad sherry, I expect. You’d better get off the grass, Murgatroyd. You’ve got your bedroom slippers on still. They’re soaked." "Oh, dear." Miss Murgatroyd looked down ruefully at her feet. "How many eggs today?" "Seven. That damned hen’s still broody. I must get her into the coop." "It’s a funny way of putting it, don’t you think?" Amy Murgatroyd asked, reverting to the notice in the Gazette. Her voice was slightly wistful. But her friend was made of sterner and more single-minded stuff. She was intent on dealing with recalcitrant poultry and no announcement in a paper, however enigmatic, could deflect her. She squelched heavily through the mud and pounced upon a speckled hen. There was a loud and indignant squawking. "Give me ducks every time," said Miss Hinchcliffe. "Far less trouble…." V "Oo, scrumptious!" said Mrs. Harmon across the breakfast table to her husband, the Rev. Julian Harmon, "there’s going to be a murder at Miss Blacklock’s." "A murder?" said her husband, slightly surprised. "When?" "This afternoon … at least, this evening. 6:30. Oh, bad luck, darling, you’ve got your preparations for confirmation then. It is a shame. And you do so love murders!"

"I—I don’t understand," said Sandford. "You understand that the girl Rose Emmott was drowned last night?" "I know. Oh! it’s too, too distressing. Really, I haven’t slept a wink. I’ve been incapable of any work today. I feel responsible—terribly responsible." He ran his hands through his hair, making it untidier still. "I never meant any harm," he said piteously. "I never thought. I never dreamt she’d take it that way." He sat down at a table and buried his face in his hands. "Do I understand you to say, Mr. Sandford, that you refuse to make a statement as to where you were last night at eight thirty?" "No, no—certainly not. I was out. I went for a walk." "You went to meet Miss Emmott?" "No. I went by myself. Through the woods. A long way." "Then how do you account for this note, sir, which was found in the dead girl’s pocket?" And Inspector Drewitt read it unemotionally aloud. "Now, sir," he finished. "Do you deny that you wrote that?" "No—no. You’re right. I did write it. Rose asked me to meet her. She insisted. I didn’t know what to do. So I wrote that note." "Ah, that’s better," said the Inspector. "But I didn’t go!" Sandford’s voice rose high and excited. "I didn’t go! I felt it would be much better not. I was returning to town tomorrow. I felt it would be better not—not to meet. I intended to write from London and—and make—some arrangement." "You are aware, sir, that this girl was going to have a child, and that she had named you as its father?" Sandford groaned, but did not answer. "Was that statement true, sir?" Sandford buried his face deeper. "I suppose so," he said in a muffled voice. "Ah!" Inspector Drewitt could not disguise the satisfaction. "Now about this "walk" of yours. Is there anyone who saw you last night?" "I don’t know. I don’t think so. As far as I can remember, I didn’t meet anybody." "That’s a pity." "What do you mean?" Sandford stared wildly at him. "What does it matter whether I was out for a walk or not? What difference does that make to Rose drowning herself?" "Ah!" said the Inspector. "But you see, she didn’t. She was thrown in deliberately, Mr. Sandford." "She was—" It took him a minute or two to take in all the horror of it. "My God! Then—" He dropped into a chair. Colonel Melchett made a move to depart. "You understand, Sandford," he said. "You are on no account to leave this house." The three men left together. The Inspector and the Chief Constable exchanged glances. "That’s enough, I think, sir," said the Inspector. "Yes. Get a warrant made out and arrest him." "Excuse me," said Sir Henry, "I’ve forgotten my gloves." He reentered the house rapidly. Sandford was sitting just as they had left him, staring dazedly in front of him. "I have come back," said Sir Henry, "to tell you that I personally, am anxious to do all I can to assist you. The motive of my interest in you I am not at liberty to reveal. But I am going to ask you, if you will, to tell me as briefly as possible exactly what passed between you and this girl Rose." "She was very pretty," said Sandford. "Very pretty and very alluring. And—and she made a dead seat at me. Before God, that’s true. She wouldn’t let me alone. And it was lonely down here, and nobody liked me much, and—and, as I say she was amazingly pretty and she seemed to know her way about and all that—" His voice died away. He looked up. "And then this happened. She wanted me to marry her. I didn’t know what to do. I’m engaged to a girl in London. If she ever gets to hear of this—and she will, of course—well, it’s all up. She won’t understand. How could she? And I’m a rotter, of course. As I say, I didn’t know what to do. I avoided seeing Rose again.

Twenty-nine I don’t know how long I sat there—only a few minutes in reality, I suppose. Yet it seemed as though an eternity had passed when I heard the door open and, turning my head, looked up to see Melchett entering the room. He stared at Hawes asleep in his chair, then turned to me. "What’s this, Clement? What does it all mean?" Of the two letters in my hand I selected one and passed it to him. He read it aloud in a low voice. "My dear Clement,—It is a peculiarly unpleasant thing that I have to say. After all, I think I prefer writing it. We can discuss it at a later date. It concerns the recent peculations. I am sorry to say that I have satisfied myself beyond any possible doubt as to the identity of the culprit. Painful as it is for me to have to accuse an ordained priest of the church, my duty is only too painfully clear. An example must be made and—" He looked at me questioningly. At this point the writing tailed off in an undistinguishable scrawl where death had overtaken the writer’s hand. Melchett drew a deep breath, then looked at Hawes. "So that’s the solution! The one man we never even considered. And remorse drove him to confess!" "He’s been very queer lately," I said. Suddenly Melchett strode across to the sleeping man with a sharp exclamation. He seized him by the shoulder and shook him, at first gently, then with increasing violence. "He’s not asleep! He’s drugged! What’s the meaning of this?" His eye went to the empty cachet box. He picked it up. "Has he—" "I think so," I said. "He showed me these the other day. Told me he’d been warned against an overdose. It’s his way out, poor chap. Perhaps the best way. It’s not for us to judge him." But Melchett was Chief Constable of the County before anything else. The arguments that appealed to me had no weight with him. He had caught a murderer and he wanted his murderer hanged. In one second he was at the telephone, jerking the receiver up and down impatiently until he got a reply. He asked for Haydock’s number. Then there was a further pause during which he stood, his ear to the telephone and his eyes on the limp figure in the chair. "Hallo—hallo—hallo—is that Dr. Haydock’s? Will the doctor come round at once to High Street? Mr. Hawes. It’s urgent … what’s that?… Well, what number is it then?… Oh, sorry." He rang off, fuming. "Wrong number, wrong number—always wrong numbers! And a man’s life hanging on it. HALLO—you gave me the wrong number … Yes—don’t waste time—give me three nine—nine, not five." Another period of impatience—shorter this time. "Hallo—is that you, Haydock? Melchett speaking. Come to 19 High Street at once, will you? Hawes has taken some kind of overdose. At once, man, it’s vital." He rang off, strode impatiently up and down the room. "Why on earth you didn’t get hold of the doctor at once, Clement, I cannot think. Your wits must have all gone wool gathering." Fortunately it never occurs to Melchett that anyone can possibly have different ideas on conduct to those he holds himself. I said nothing, and he went on: "Where did you find this letter?" "Crumpled on the floor—where it had fallen from his hand." "Extraordinary business—that old maid was right about its being the wrong note we found. Wonder how she tumbled to that. But what an ass the fellow was not to destroy this one. Fancy keeping it—the most damaging evidence you can imagine!" "Human nature is full of inconsistencies." "If it weren’t, I doubt if we should ever catch a murderer! Sooner or later they always do some fool thing. You’re looking very under the weather, Clement. I suppose this has been the most awful shock to you?" "It has. As I say, Hawes has been queer in his manner for some time, but I never dreamed—" "Who would? Hallo, that sounds like a car." He went across to the window, pushing up the sash and leaning out. "Yes, it’s Haydock all right."

The question was: How was that morphia administered? She was not on morphia. She was not a patient who suffered pain. There were three possibilities, of course. She might have taken it by accident. Unlikely. She might have got hold of some other patient’s medicine by mistake but that again is not particularly likely. Patients are not entrusted with supplies of morphia, and we do not accept drug addicts who might have a supply of such things in their possession. It could have been deliberate suicide but I should be very slow to accept that. Mrs. Moody, though a worrier, was of a perfectly cheerful disposition and I am quite sure had never thought of ending her life. The third possibility is that a fatal overdose was deliberately administered to her. But by whom, and why? Naturally, there are supplies of morphia and other drugs which Miss Packard as a registered hospital nurse and matron, is perfectly entitled to have in her possession and which she keeps in a locked cupboard. In such cases as sciatica or rheumatoid arthritis there can be such severe and desperate pain that morphia is occasionally administered. We have hoped that we may come across some circumstance in which Mrs. Moody had a dangerous amount of morphia administered to her by mistake or which she herself took under the delusion that it was a cure for indigestion or insomnia. We have not been able to find any such circumstances possible. The next thing we have done, at Miss Packard’s suggestion and I agreed with her, is to look carefully into the records of such deaths as have taken place at Sunny Ridge in the last two years. There have not been many of them, I am glad to say. I think seven in all, which is a pretty fair average for people of that age group. Two deaths of bronchitis, perfectly straightforward, two of flu, always a possible killer during the winter months owing to the slight resistance offered by frail, elderly women. And three others." He paused and said, "Mr. Beresford, I am not satisfied about those three others, certainly not about two of them. They were perfectly probable, they were not unexpected, but I will go as far as saying that they were unlikely. They are not cases that on reflection and research I am entirely satisfied about. One has to accept the possibility that, unlikely as it seems, there is someone at Sunny Ridge who is, possibly for mental reasons, a killer. An entirely unsuspected killer." There was silence for some moments. Tommy gave a sigh. "I don’t doubt what you’ve told me," he said, "but all the same, frankly, it seems unbelievable. These things—surely, they can’t happen." "Oh yes," said Dr. Murray grimly, "they happen all right. You go over some of the pathological cases. A woman who took on domestic service. She worked as a cook in various households. She was a nice, kind, pleasant-seeming woman, gave her employers faithful service, cooked well, enjoyed being with them. Yet, sooner or later, things happened. Usually a plate of sandwiches. Sometimes picnic food. For no apparent motive arsenic was added. Two or three poisoned sandwiches among the rest. Apparently sheer chance dictated who took and ate them. There seemed no personal venom. Sometimes no tragedy happened. The same woman was three or four months in a situation and there was no trace of illness. Nothing. Then she left to go to another job, and in that next job, within three weeks, two of the family died after eating bacon for breakfast. The fact that all these things happened in different parts of England and at irregular intervals made it some time before the police got on her track. She used a different name, of course, each time. But there are so many pleasant, capable, middle-aged women who can cook, it was hard to find out which particular woman it was." "Why did she do it?" "I don’t think anybody has ever really known. There have been several different theories, especially of course by psychologists. She was a somewhat religious woman and it seems possible that some form of religious insanity made her feel that she had a divine command to rid the world of certain people, but it does not seem that she herself had borne them any personal animus. "Then there was the French woman, Jeanne Gebron, who was called The Angel of Mercy.

Then I ran round the house, in at the front door and through that door and over to John and picked the revolver up. I thought, you see, that first they’d think I had done it, and then they’d find that it wasn’t the right revolver and so I’d be cleared. And then I meant to put the revolver that had shot him into that film woman’s house and they’d think that she’d done it. Only she left her bag—so it was easier still. I slipped it into that later in the day. I can’t think why they haven’t arrested her. (Her voice rises.) They should have. (Hysterically) It was because of her I had to kill John. HENRIETTA. (Moving below the Left end of the sofa) You wiped your fingerprints off the second revolver you shot him with? GERDA. Of course. I’m cleverer than people think. I got rid of the revolver. (She frowns.) But I did forget about the holster. HENRIETTA. Don’t worry about that. I’ve got it now. I think you’re quite safe, Gerda. (She sits Left of GERDA on the sofa.) You must go away and live in the country quietly somewhere—and forget. GERDA. (Unhappily) Yes, yes, I suppose I must. I don’t know what to do. I don’t really know where to go. I can’t make up my mind—John always decided everything. My head aches. HENRIETTA. (Rising) I’ll go and get the tea. (She crosses and exits Left. GERDA looks cunningly towards the door Left, rises, moves to the drinks table, takes a small poison bottle out of her handbag and stretches out her hand towards HENRIETTA’s glass. She pauses, takes a handkerchief from her handbag and lifts the glass with it. HENRIETTA reenters quietly Left. She carries a tray of tea. GERDA, with her back to HENRIETTA, is unaware of the entry. As HENRIETTA watches, GERDA tips the contents of the poison bottle into HENRIETTA’s glass, then replaces the bottle and handkerchief in her handbag. HENRIETTA quietly exits. GERDA turns, moves below the sofa and sits. HENRIETTA reenters, crosses to the coffee table and puts the tray on it.) Here’s your tea, Gerda. GERDA. Thank you so much, Henrietta. HENRIETTA. (Moving to the drinks table) Now, where’s my drink? (She picks up her glass.) GERDA. (Pouring milk into the cup) This is just what I wanted. You are very good to me, Henrietta. HENRIETTA. (Moving slowly down Right.) Shall I have this? Or shall I have a cup of tea with you? GERDA. (Pouring the tea; cunningly) You don’t really like tea, do you, Henrietta? HENRIETTA. (Sharply) I think, today, I prefer it. (She puts her glass on the coffee table and crosses to the door Left.) I’ll go and get another cup. (She exits Left. GERDA frowns with annoyance, and rises. She looks around, sees the revolver on the mantelpiece, glances at the door Left, then runs to the mantelpiece and picks up the revolver. She examines it, notes that it is loaded, nods with satisfaction and utters a little sob. The INSPECTOR enters down Right.) INSPECTOR. What are you doing with that gun, Mrs. Cristow? GERDA. (Turning; startled) Oh, Inspector, how you startled me. (She puts her hand over her heart.) My heart—my heart isn’t strong, you know. INSPECTOR. (Crossing to Right of GERDA) What were you doing with that gun? GERDA. I found it here. INSPECTOR. (Taking the revolver from GERDA) You know all about loading a gun, don’t you? (He unloads it, puts the cartridges in one pocket and the revolver in another.) GERDA. Sir Henry very kindly showed me. Is—is the inquest over? INSPECTOR. Yes. GERDA. And the verdict? INSPECTOR. It was adjourned. GERDA. That’s not right.

There was a great deal of latitude in what they did, and if they did not want to do a thing they were not pressed to do it, because, so the Headmistress said, they then came to want to do things of their own accord. There was a certain amount of artistic training, and, again, I liked the Headmistress. She was an original-minded person, warm-hearted, enthusiastic, and full of ideas. I went home, thought about it, and finally decided to take Rosalind with me and visit each of them once more. We did this. I left Rosalind to consider for a couple of days, then said: "Now, which do you think you’d like?" Rosalind, thank goodness, has always known her own mind. "Oh, Caledonia," she said, "every time. I shouldn’t like the other; it would be too much like being at a party. One doesn’t want being at school to be like being at a party, does one?" So we settled on Caledonia, and it was a great success. The teaching was extremely good, and the children were interested in what they learned. It was highly organised, but Rosalind was the kind of child who liked to be highly organised. As she said with gusto in the holidays, "There’s never a moment’s leisure for anyone." Not at all what I should have liked. Sometimes the answers I would get to questions seemed quite extraordinary: "What time do you get up in the morning, Rosalind?" "I don’t know, really. A bell rings." "Don’t you want to know the time the bell rings?" "Why should I?" said Rosalind. "It’s to get us up, that’s all. And then we have breakfast about half an hour afterwards, I suppose." Miss Wynne kept parents in their place. I asked her once if Rosalind could come out with us on Sunday dressed in her everyday clothes instead of her Sunday silk frock, because we were going to have a picnic and a ramble over the downs. Miss Wynne replied: "All my pupils go out on Sunday in their Sunday clothes." And that was that. However, Carlo and I would pack a small bag with Rosalind’s rougher country clothes, and in a convenient wood or copse she would change from her silk Liberty frock, straw hat and neat shoes into something more suitable to the rough and tumble of our picnic. No one ever found us out. She was a woman of remarkable personality. Once I asked her what she did on Sports Day if it rained. "Rain?" said Miss Wynne in a tone of surprise, "It has never rained on Sports Day that I can remember." She could, it seemed, dictate even to the elements: or, as one of Rosalind’s friends said, "I expect, you know, God would be on Miss Wynne’s side." I had managed to write the best part of a new book, The Mystery of The Blue Train, while we were in the Canary Islands. It had not been easy, and had certainly not been rendered easier by Rosalind. Rosalind, unlike her mother, was not a child who could amuse herself by any exercise of imagination: she required something concrete. Give her a bicycle and she would go off for half an hour. Give her a difficult puzzle when it was wet, and she would work on it. But in the garden of the hotel at Oratava in Tenerife there was nothing for Rosalind to do but walk around the flower-beds, or occasionally bowl a hoop–and a hoop meant little to Rosalind, again unlike her mother. To her it was only a hoop. "Look here, Rosalind," I said, "you must not interrupt. I’ve got some work to do. I’ve got to write another book. Carlo and I are going to be busy for the next hour with that. You must not interrupt." "Oh, all right," said Rosalind, gloomily, and went away. I looked at Carlo, sitting there with pencil poised, and I thought, and thought, and thought–cudgelling my brain. Finally, hesitantly, I began. After a few minutes, I noticed that Rosalind was just across the path, standing there looking at us. "What is it, Rosalind?" I asked. "What do you want?" "Is it half an hour yet," she said.

Brown. Yes"—as Tuppence made a movement—"not a doubt of it—Mr. Brown is here. . . ." "In this house?" "In this room . . . You don’t understand? I am Mr. Brown. . . ." Stupefied, unbelieving, they stared at him. The very lines of his face had changed. It was a different man who stood before them. He smiled a slow cruel smile. "Neither of you will leave this room alive! You said just now we had succeeded. I have succeeded! The draft treaty is mine." His smile grew wider as he looked at Tuppence. "Shall I tell you how it will be? Sooner or later the police will break in, and they will find three victims of Mr. Brown—three, not two, you understand, but fortunately the third will not be dead, only wounded, and will be able to describe the attack with a wealth of detail! The treaty? It is in the hands of Mr. Brown. So no one will think of searching the pockets of Sir James Peel Edgerton!" He turned to Jane. "You outwitted me. I make my acknowledgments. But you will not do it again." There was a faint sound behind him, but intoxicated with success he did not turn his head. He slipped his hand into his pocket. "Checkmate to the Young Adventurers," he said, and slowly raised the big automatic. But, even as he did so, he felt himself seized from behind in a grip of iron. The revolver was wrenched from his hand, and the voice of Julius Hersheimmer said drawlingly: "I guess you’re caught red-handed with the goods upon you." The blood rushed to the K.C.’s face, but his self-control was marvellous, as he looked from one to the other of his two captors. He looked longest at Tommy. "You," he said beneath his breath. "You! I might have known." Seeing that he was disposed to offer no resistance, their grip slackened. Quick as a flash his left hand, the hand which bore the big signet ring, was raised to his lips. . . . " "Ave Caesar! te morituri salutant," " he said, still looking at Tommy. Then his face changed, and with a long convulsive shudder he fell forward in a crumpled heap, whilst an odour of bitter almonds filled the air. Twenty-seven A SUPPER PARTY AT THE SAVOY The supper party given by Mr. Julius Hersheimmer to a few friends on the evening of the 30th will long be remembered in catering circles. It took place in a private room, and Mr. Hersheimmer’s orders were brief and forcible. He gave carte blanche—and when a millionaire gives carte blanche he usually gets it! Every delicacy out of season was duly provided. Waiters carried bottles of ancient and royal vintage with loving care. The floral decorations defied the seasons, and fruits of the earth as far apart as May and November found themselves miraculously side by side. The list of guests was small and select. The American Ambassador, Mr. Carter, who had taken the liberty, he said, of bringing an old friend, Sir William Beresford, with him, Archdeacon Cowley, Dr. Hall, those two youthful adventurers, Miss Prudence Cowley and Mr. Thomas Beresford, and last, but not least, as guest of honour, Miss Jane Finn. Julius had spared no pains to make Jane’s appearance a success. A mysterious knock had brought Tuppence to the door of the apartment she was sharing with the American girl. It was Julius. In his hand he held a cheque. "Say, Tuppence," he began, "will you do me a good turn? Take this, and get Jane regularly togged up for this evening. You’re all coming to supper with me at the Savoy. See? Spare no expense. You get me?" "Sure thing," mimicked Tuppence. "We shall enjoy ourselves! It will be a pleasure dressing Jane. She’s the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen." "That’s so," agreed Mr. Hersheimmer fervently. His fervour brought a momentary twinkle to Tuppence’s eye.

She stopped when she saw him; her eyes, wide and slightly glazed, stared at him, expressing such a complete lack of emotion that it was almost shocking. "Dearest, is your head better? This is Dr Knox. My wife." Llewellyn came forward, took her limp hand, said formally: "I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Wilding." The wide stare became human; it showed, very faintly, relief. She sat in the chair that Wilding pushed forward for her and began talking rapidly, with a staccato effect. "So you’re Dr Knox? I’ve read about you, of course. How odd that you should come here – to the island. Why did you? I mean, what made you? People don’t usually, do they, Richard?" She half turned her head, hurried on, inconsequently: "I mean they don’t stay in the island. They come in on boats, and go out again. Where? I’ve often wondered. They buy fruit and those silly little dolls and the straw hats they make here, and then they go back with them to the boat, and the boat sails away. Where do they go back to? Manchester? Liverpool? Chichester, perhaps, and wear a plaited straw hat to church in the cathedral. That would be funny. Things are funny. People say: "I don’t know whether I’m going or coming." My old nurse used to say it. But it’s true, isn’t it? It’s life. Is one going or coming? I don’t know." She shook her head and suddenly laughed. She swayed a little as she sat. Llewellyn thought: "In a minute or two, she’ll pass out. Does he know, I wonder?" But a quick sideways glance at Wilding decided that for him. Wilding, that experienced man of the world, had no idea. He was leaning over his wife, his face alight with love and anxiety. "Darling, you’re feverish. You shouldn’t have got up." "I felt better – all those pills I took; it’s killed the pain, but it’s made me dopey." She gave a slight, uncertain laugh, her hands pushed the pale, shining hair back from her forehead. "Don’t fuss about me, Richard. Give Dr Knox a drink." "What about you? A spot of brandy? It would do you good." She made a quick grimace: "No, just lime and soda for me." She thanked him with a smile as he brought her glass to her. "You’ll never die of drink," he said. For a moment her smile stiffened. She said: "Who knows?" "I know. Knox, what about you? Soft drink? Whisky?" "Brandy and soda, if I may." Her eyes were on the glass as he held it. She said suddenly: "We could go away. Shall we go away, Richard?" "Away from the villa? From the island?" "That’s what I meant." Wilding poured his own whisky, came back to stand behind her chair. "We’ll go anywhere you please, dearest. Anywhere and at any time. Tonight if you like." She sighed, a long, deep sigh. "You’re so – good to me. Of course I don’t want to leave here. Anyway, how could you? You’ve got the estate to run. You’re making headway at last." "Yes, but that doesn’t really matter. You come first." "I might go away – by myself – just for a little." "No, we’ll go together. I want you to feel looked after, someone beside you – always." "You think I need a keeper?" She began to laugh. It was slightly uncontrolled laughter. She stopped suddenly, hand to her mouth. "I want you to feel – always – that I’m there," said Wilding. "Oh, I do feel it – I do." "We’ll go to Italy. Or to England, if you like. Perhaps you’re home-sick for England." "No," she said. "We won’t go anywhere. We’ll stay here. It would be the same wherever we went. Always the same." She slumped a little in her chair. Her eyes stared sombrely ahead of her. Then suddenly she looked up over her shoulder, up into Wilding’s puzzled, worried face. "Dear Richard," she said. "You are so wonderful to me. So patient always."

Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done. Then our organist, who is distinctly "touchy," had taken offence and had to be smoothed down. And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it. I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate. "Firmness," he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. "That’s what’s needed nowadays—firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I’ll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We’re too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. You’re always being asked to consider a man’s wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It’s all the same to me—no matter what a man is—doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel—if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I’m sure." "You forget," I said. "My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others—the quality of mercy." "Well, I’m a just man. No one can deny that." I did not speak, and he said sharply: "Why don’t you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man." I hesitated, then I decided to speak. "I was thinking," I said, "that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me…." "Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I’ve always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I’ll be along this evening, as I said. We’ll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to see a man in the village." "That will suit me quite well." He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill. I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed. I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train. I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study. I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard. He turned abruptly at my entrance. "Look here, sir. I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday. I’ve had a sleepless night thinking about it. You’re right. I’ve got to cut and run." "My dear boy," I said. "You were right in what you said about Anne. I’ll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She’s—she’s too good for anything else. I see I’ve got to go. I’ve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me." "I think you have made the only decision possible," I said. "I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end." I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn’t know what he was talking about. "You’ll look after Anne? She needs a friend." "You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power." "Thank you, sir." He wrung my hand.

She was devoted to the man. I just made it my business to find out as much as I could about them. One has a lot of opportunities doing one’s needlework round the fire. Mrs Sanders (Gladys, her name was) was only too willing to talk. It seems they had not been married very long. Her husband had some property that was coming to him, but for the moment they were very badly off. In fact, they were living on her little income. One has heard that tale before. She bemoaned the fact that she could not touch the capital. It seems that somebody had had some sense somewhere! But the money was hers to will away – I found that out. And she and her husband had made wills in favour of each other directly after their marriage. Very touching. Of course, when Jack’s affairs came right – That was the burden all day long, and in the meantime they were very hard up indeed – actually had a room on the top floor, all among the servants – and so dangerous in case of fire, though, as it happened, there was a fire escape just outside their window. I inquired carefully if there was a balcony – dangerous things, balconies. One push – you know! "I made her promise not to go out on the balcony; I said I’d had a dream. That impressed her – one can do a lot with superstition sometimes. She was a fair girl, rather washed-out complexion, and an untidy roll of hair on her neck. Very credulous. She repeated what I had said to her husband, and I noticed him looking at me in a curious way once or twice. He wasn’t credulous; and he knew I’d been on that tram. "But I was very worried – terribly worried – because I couldn’t see how to circumvent him. I could prevent anything happening at the Hydro, just by saying a few words to show him I suspected. But that only meant his putting off his plan till later. No, I began to believe that the only policy was a bold one – somehow or other to lay a trap for him. If I could induce him to attempt her life in a way of my own choosing – well, then he would be unmasked, and she would be forced to face the truth however much of a shock it was to her." "You take my breath away," said Dr Lloyd. "What conceivable plan could you adopt?" "I’d have found one – never fear," said Miss Marple. "But the man was too clever for me. He didn’t wait. He thought I might suspect, and so he struck before I could be sure. He knew I would suspect an accident. So he made it murder." A little gasp went round the circle. Miss Marple nodded and set her lips grimly together. "I’m afraid I’ve put that rather abruptly. I must try and tell you exactly what occurred. I’ve always felt very bitterly about it – it seems to me that I ought, somehow, to have prevented it. But doubtless Providence knew best. I did what I could at all events. "There was what I can only describe as a curiously eerie feeling in the air. There seemed to be something weighing on us all. A feeling of misfortune. To begin with, there was George, the hall porter. Had been there for years and knew everybody. Bronchitis and pneumonia, and passed away on the fourth day. Terribly sad. A real blow to everybody. And four days before Christmas too. And then one of the housemaids – such a nice girl – a septic finger, actually died in twenty-four hours. "I was in the drawing-room with Miss Trollope and old Mrs Carpenter, and Mrs Carpenter was being positively ghoulish – relishing it all, you know. ""Mark my words," she said. " This isn’t the end. You know the saying? Never two without three. I’ve proved it true time and again. There’ll be another death. Not a doubt of it. And we shan’t have long to wait. Never two without three." "As she said the last words, nodding her head and clicking her knitting needles, I just chanced to look up and there was Mr Sanders standing in the doorway. Just for a minute he was off guard, and I saw the look in his face as plain as plain.

I say, Bundle—are you there still?" "Of course I’m here." "Well, you haven’t said anything for an age. I began to think that you had gone away." "No, I was just thinking over something." Should she tell Bill of Ronny’s death? She decided against it—it was not the sort of thing to be said over the telephone. But soon, very soon, she must have a meeting with Bill. In the meantime— "Bill?" "Hullo." "I might dine with you tomorrow night." "Good, and we’ll dance afterwards. I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. As a matter of fact I’ve been rather hard hit—the foulest luck— "Well, tell me about it tomorrow," said Bundle, cutting him short rather unkindly. "In the meantime, what is Jimmy Thesiger’s address?" "Jimmy Thesiger?" "That’s what I said." "He’s got rooms in Jermyn Street—do I mean Jermyn Street or the other one?" "Bring that class A brain to bear upon it." "Yes, Jermyn Street. Wait a bit and I’ll give you the number." There was a pause. "Are you still there?" "I’m always here." "Well, one never knows with these dashed telephones. The number is 103. Got it?" "103. Thank you, Bill." "Yes, but, I say—what do you want it for? You said you didn’t know him." "I don’t, but I shall in half an hour." "You’re going round to his rooms?" "Quite right, Sherlock." "Yes, but, I say—well, for one thing he won’t be up." "Won’t be up?" "I shouldn’t think so. I mean, who would be if they hadn’t got to? Look at it that way. You’ve no idea what an effort it is for me to get here at eleven every morning, and the fuss Codders makes if I’m behind time is simply appalling. You haven’t the least idea, Bundle, what a dog’s life this is—" "You shall tell me all about it tomorrow night," said Bundle hastily. She slammed down the receiver and took stock of the situation. First she glanced at the clock. It was five and twenty minutes to twelve. Despite Bill’s knowledge of his friend’s habits, she inclined to her belief that Mr. Thesiger would by now be in a fit state to receive visitors. She took a taxi to 103 Jermyn Street. The door was opened by a perfect example of the retired gentleman’s gentleman. His face, expessionless and polite, was such a face as may be found by the score in that particular district of London. "Will you come this way, madam?" He ushered her upstairs into an extremely comfortable sitting room containing leather-covered armchairs of immense dimensions. Sunk in one of those monstrosities was another girl, rather younger than Bundle. A small, fair girl, dressed in black. "What name shall I say, madam?" "I won’t give any name," said Bundle. "I just want to see Mr. Thesiger on important business." The grave gentleman bowed and withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. There was a pause. "It’s a nice morning," said the fair girl timidly. "It’s an awfully nice morning," agreed Bundle. There was another pause. "I motored up from the country this morning," said Bundle, plunging once more into speech. "And I thought it was going to be one of those foul fogs. But it wasn’t." "No," said the other girl. "It wasn’t." And she added: "I’ve come up from the country too." Bundle eyed her more attentively. She had been slightly annoyed at finding the other there. Bundle belonged to the energetic order of people who liked "to get on with it," and she foresaw that the second visitor would have to be disposed of and got rid of before she could broach her own business. It was not a topic she could introduce before a stranger. Now, as she looked more closely, an extraordinary idea rose to her brain. Could it be? Yes, the girl was in deep mourning; her black-clad ankles showed that. It was a long shot, but Bundle was convinced that her idea was right. She drew a long breath. "Look here," she said, "are you by any chance Loraine Wade?" Loraine’s eyes opened wide. "Yes, I am. How clever of you to know. We’ve never met, have we?" "I wrote to you yesterday, though.

She was writing down a message on a pad. Turning her head over her shoulder she said: "It’s a telegram." The call concluded, she replaced the receiver and handed the pad on which she had been writing to the inspector. The place of origin was Paris and the message ran as follows: Fortescue Yewtree Lodge Baydon Heath Surrey. Sorry your letter delayed. Will be with you tomorrow about teatime. Shall expect roast veal for dinner. Lance. Inspector Neele raised his eyebrows. "So the Prodigal Son had been summoned home," he said. Chapter Six At the moment when Rex Fortescue had been drinking his last cup of tea, Lance Fortescue and his wife had been sitting under the trees on the Champs Elysées watching the people walking past. "It’s all very well to say "describe him," Pat. I’m a rotten hand at descriptions. What do you want to know? The Guvnor’s a bit of an old crook, you know. But you won’t mind that? You must be used to that more or less." "Oh, yes," said Pat. "Yes—as you say—I’m acclimatized." She tried to keep a certain forlornness out of her voice. Perhaps, she reflected, the whole world was really crooked—or was it just that she herself had been unfortunate? She was a tall, long-legged girl, not beautiful but with a charm that was made-up of vitality and a warm-hearted personality. She moved well, and had lovely gleaming chestnut brown hair. Perhaps from a long association with horses, she had acquired the look of a thoroughbred filly. Crookedness in the racing world she knew about—now, it seemed, she was to encounter crookedness in the financial world. Though for all that, it seemed that her father-in-law, whom she had not yet met, was, as far as the law was concerned, a pillar of rectitude. All these people who went about boasting of "smart work" were the same—technically they always managed to be within the law. Yet it seemed to her that her Lance, whom she loved, and who had admittedly strayed outside the ringed fence in earlier days, had an honesty that these successful practitioners of the crooked lacked. "I don’t mean," said Lance, "that he’s a swindler—not anything like that. But he knows how to put over a fast one." "Sometimes," said Pat, "I feel I hate people who put over fast ones." She added: "You’re fond of him." It was a statement, not a question. Lance considered it for a moment, and then said in a surprised kind of voice: "Do you know, darling, I believe I am." Pat laughed. He turned his head to look at her. His eyes narrowed. What a darling she was! He loved her. The whole thing was worth it for her sake. "In a way, you know," he said, "it’s hell going back. City life. Home on the 5:18. It’s not my kind of life. I’m far more at home among the down and outs. But one’s got to settle down sometime, I suppose. And with you to hold my hand the process may even be quite a pleasant one. And since the old boy has come round, one ought to take advantage of it. I must say I was surprised when I got his letter . . . Percival, of all people, blotting his copybook. Percival, the good little boy. Mind you, Percy was always sly. Yes, he was always sly." "I don’t think," said Patricia Fortescue, "that I’m going to like your brother Percival." "Don’t let me put you against him. Percy and I never got on—that’s all there is to it. I blued my pocket money, he saved his. I had disreputable but entertaining friends, Percy made what’s called "worthwhile contacts." Poles apart we were, he and I. I always thought him a poor fish, and he—sometimes, you know, I think he almost hated me. I don’t know why exactly. . . ." "I think I can see why." "Can you, darling? You’re so brainy. You know I’ve always wondered—it’s a fantastic thing to say—but—" "Well? Say it."

Peters. The note had been sent up to her. A few minutes later she had come down with the two children and a suitcase. The children had then left with the visitor. Mrs. Peters had gone to the office and explained that she should only want the one room after all. She had not appeared exceptionally distressed or upset, indeed she had seemed quite calm and collected. She had had dinner about seven thirty and had gone to her room soon afterwards. On calling her in the morning the chambermaid had found her dead. A doctor had been sent for and had pronounced her to have been dead for some hours. An empty glass was found on the table by the bed. It seemed fairly obvious that she had taken a sleeping draught, and by mistake, taken an overdose. Chloral hydrate, the doctor said, was a somewhat uncertain drug. There were no indications of suicide. No letter had been left. Searching for means of notifying her relations, Miss Lawson’s name and address had been found and she had been communicated with by telephone. Poirot asked if anything had been found in the way of letters or papers. The letter, for instance, brought by the man who had called for the children. No papers of any kind had been found, the man said, but there was a pile of charred paper on the hearth. Poirot nodded thoughtfully. As far as anyone could say, Mrs. Peters had had no visitors and no one had come to her room—with the solitary exception of the man who had called for the two children. I questioned the porter myself as to his appearance, but the man was very vague. A man of medium height—he thought fair-haired—rather military build—of somewhat nondescript appearance. No, he was positive the man had no beard. "It wasn’t Tanios," I murmured to Poirot. "My dear Hastings! Do you really believe that Mrs. Tanios, after all the trouble she was taking to get the children away from their father, would quite meekly hand them over to him without the least fuss or protest? Ah, that, no!" "Then who was the man?" "Clearly it was someone in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence or rather it was someone sent by a third person in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence." "A man of medium height," I mused. "You need hardly trouble yourself about his appearance, Hastings. I am quite sure that the man who actually called for the children was some quite unimportant personage. The real agent kept himself in the background!" "And the note was from this third person?" "Yes." "Someone in whom Mrs. Tanios had confidence?" "Obviously." "And the note is now burnt?" "Yes, she was instructed to burn it." "What about that résumé of the case that you gave her?" Poirot’s face looked unusually grim. "That, too, is burned. But that does not matter!" "No?" "No. For you see—it is all in the head of Hercule Poirot." He took me by the arm. "Come, Hastings, let us leave here. Our concern is not with the dead but with the living. It is with them I have to deal." Twenty-nine INQUEST AT LITTLEGREEN HOUSE It was eleven o’clock the following morning. Seven people were assembled at Littlegreen House. Hercule Poirot stood by the mantelpiece. Charles and Theresa were on the sofa, Charles on the arm of it with his hand on Theresa’s shoulder. Dr. Tanios sat in a grandfather chair. His eyes were red rimmed and he wore a black band round his arm. On an upright chair by a round table sat the owner of the house, Miss Lawson. She, too, had red eyes. Her hair was even untidier than usual. Dr. Donaldson sat directly facing Poirot. His face was quite expressionless. My interest quickened as I looked at each face in turn. In the course of my association with Poirot I had assisted at many such a scene. A little company of people, all outwardly composed with well-bred masks for faces. And I had seen Poirot strip the mask from one face and show it for what it was—the face of a killer! Yes, there was no doubt of it. One of these people was a murderer! But which? Even now I was not sure. Poirot cleared his throat—a little pompously as was his habit—and began to speak.

Yes, I see it all. Louisa was the only danger with her endless talk about her superstitious fancies. Someone might realize the significance of the train and then–goodbye to that excellent alibi." "Wonderful," commented Mr Quin. Mr Satterthwaite turned to him, flushed with success. "The only thing is–how to proceed now?" "I should suggest Sylvia Dale," said Mr Quin. Mr Satterthwaite looked doubtful. "I mentioned to you," he said, "she seemed to me a little–er–stupid." "She has a father and brothers who will take the necessary steps." "That is true," said Mr Satterthwaite, relieved. A very short time afterwards he was sitting with the girl telling her the story. She listened attentively. She put no questions to him but when he had done she rose. "I must have a taxi–at once." "My dear child, what are you going to do?" "I am going to Sir George Barnaby." "Impossible. Absolutely the wrong procedure. Allow me to–" He twittered on by her side. But he produced no impression. Sylvia Dale was intent on her own plans. She allowed him to go with her in the taxi, but to all his remonstrances she addressed a deaf ear. She left him in the taxi while she went into Sir George’s city office. It was half an hour later when she came out. She looked exhausted, her fair beauty drooping like a waterless flower. Mr Satterthwaite received her with concern. "I’ve won," she murmured, as she leant back with half-closed eyes. "What?" He was startled. "What did you do? What did you say?" She sat up a little. "I told him that Louisa Bullard had been to the police with her story. I told him that the police had made inquiries and that he had been seen going into his own grounds and out again a few minutes after half-past six. I told him that the game was up. He–he went to pieces. I told him that there was still time for him to get away, that the police weren’t coming for another hour to arrest him. I told him that if he’d sign a confession that he’d killed Vivien I’d do nothing, but that if he didn’t I’d scream and tell the whole building the truth. He was so panicky that he didn’t know what he was doing. He signed the paper without realizing what he was doing." She thrust it into his hands. "Take it–take it. You know what to do with it so that they’ll set Martin free." "He actually signed it," cried Mr Satterthwaite, amazed. "He is a little stupid, you know," said Sylvia Dale. "So am I," she added as an afterthought. "That’s why I know how stupid people behave. We get rattled, you know, and then we do the wrong thing and are sorry afterwards." She shivered and Mr Satterthwaite patted her hand. "You need something to pull you together," he said. "Come, we are close to a very favourite resort of mine–the Arlecchino. Have you ever been there?" She shook her head. Mr Satterthwaite stopped the taxi and took the girl into the little restaurant. He made his way to the table in the recess, his heart beating hopefully. But the table was empty. Sylvia Dale saw the disappointment in his face. "What is it?" she asked. "Nothing," said Mr Satterthwaite. "That is, I half expected to see a friend of mine here. It doesn’t matter. Some day, I expect, I shall see him again…" Chapter 5 The Soul of the Croupier Mr Satterthwaite was enjoying the sunshine on the terrace at Monte Carlo. Every year regularly on the second Sunday in January, Mr Satterthwaite left England for the Riviera. He was far more punctual than any swallow. In the month of April he returned to England, May and June he spent in London, and had never been known to miss Ascot. He left town after the Eton and Harrow match, paying a few country house visits before repairing to Deauville or Le Touquet. Shooting parties occupied most of September and October, and he usually spent a couple of months in town to wind up the year. He knew everybody and it may safely be said that everybody knew him. This morning he was frowning.

He took her hand in his. "Look, Renisenb. Look out from here across the valley to the River and beyond. That is Egypt, our land. Broken by war and strife for many long years, divided into petty kingdoms, but now–very soon–to come together and form once more a united land–Upper and Lower Egypt once again welded into one–I hope and believe to recover her former greatness! In those days, Egypt will need men and women of heart and courage–women such as you, Renisenb. It is not men like Imhotep, forever preoccupied with his own narrow gains and losses, nor men like Sobek, idle and boastful, nor boys like Ipy who thinks only of what he can gain for himself, no, nor even conscientious, honest sons like Yahmose whom Egypt will need in that hour. Sitting here, literally amongst the dead, reckoning up gains and losses, casting accounts, I have come to see gains that cannot be reckoned in terms of wealth, and losses that are more damaging than loss of a crop…I look at the River and I see the life blood of Egypt that has existed before we lived and that will exist after we die…Life and death, Renisenb, are not of such great account. I am only Hori, Imhotep’s man of business, but when I look out over Egypt I know a peace–yes, and an exultation that I would not exchange to be Governor of the Province. Do you understand at all what I mean, Renisenb?" "I think so, Hori–a little You are different from the others down there–I have known that for some time. And sometimes when I am with you here, I can feel what you feel–but dimly–not very clearly. But I do know what you mean. When I am here the things down there," she pointed, "do not seem to matter any longer. The quarrels and the hatreds and the incessant bustle and fuss. Here one escapes from all that." She paused, her brow puckering, and went on, stammering a little. "Sometimes I–I am glad to have escaped. And yet–I do not know–there is something–down there–that calls me back." Hori dropped her hand and stepped back a pace. He said gently: "Yes–I see–Kameni singing in the courtyard." "What do you mean, Hori? I was not thinking of Kameni." "You may not have been thinking of him. But all the same, Renisenb, I think it is his songs that you are hearing without knowing it." Renisenb stared at him, her brow puckered. "What extraordinary things you say, Hori. One could not possibly hear him singing up here. It is much too far away." Hori sighed gently and shook his head. The amusement in his eyes puzzled her. She felt a little angry and bewildered because she could not understand. CHAPTER TWELVE FIRST MONTH OF SUMMER 23RD DAY "Can I speak with you a minute, Esa?" Esa peered sharply towards Henet who stood in the doorway of the room, an ingratiating smile upon her face. "What is it?" the old woman asked sharply. "It’s nothing really–at least I don’t suppose so–but I thought I’d just like to ask–" Esa cut her short. "Come in, then, come in. And you–" she tapped the little black slave girl, who was threading beads, on the shoulder with her stick–"go to the kitchen. Get me some olives–and make me a drink of pomegranate juice." The little girl ran off and Esa beckoned Henet impatiently. "It’s just this, Esa." Esa peered down at the article Henet was holding out to her. It was a small jewel box with a sliding lid, the top fastened with two buttons. "What about it?" "It’s hers. And I found it now–in her room." "Who are you talking about? Satipy?" "No, no, Esa. The other." "Nofret, you mean? What of it?" "All her jewels and her toilet vases and her perfume jars–everything–was buried with her." Esa twirled the string from the buttons and opened the box. In it was a string of small carnelian beads and half of a green glazed amulet which had been broken in two. "Pooh," said Esa. "Nothing much here.

The soul of Hercule Poirot approved. Here, he considered, was an orderly mind. Now that he saw her at close quarters he realized that Angela Warren might easily have been a very handsome woman. Her features were regular, though severe. She had finely marked dark brows, clear intelligent brown eyes, a fine pale skin. She had very square shoulders and a slightly mannish walk. There was certainly about her no suggestion of the little pig who cries "Wee Wee." But on the right cheek, disfiguring and puckering the skin, was that healed scar. The right eye was slightly distorted, the corner pulled downwards by it but no one would have realized that the sight of that eye was destroyed. It seemed to Hercule Poirot almost certain that she had lived with her disability so long that she was now completely unconscious of it. And it occurred to him that of the five people in whom he had become interested as a result of his investigations, those who might have been said to start with the fullest advantages were not those who had actually wrested the most success and happiness from life. Elsa, who might have been said to start with all advantages—youth, beauty, riches—had done worst. She was like a flower overtaken by untimely frost—still in bud—but without life. Cecilia Williams, to outward appearances, had no assets of which to boast. Nevertheless, to Poirot’s eye, there was no despondency there and no sense of failure. Miss Williams’s life had been interesting to her—she was still interested in people and events. She had that enormous mental and moral advantage of a strict Victorian upbringing denied to us in these days—she had done her duty in that station of life to which it had pleased God to call her, and that assurance encased her in an armour impregnable to the slings and darts of envy, discontent and regret. She had her memories, her small pleasures, made possible by stringent economies, and sufficient health and vigour to enable her still to be interested in life. Now, in Angela Warren—that young creature handicapped by disfigurement and its consequent humiliation, Poirot believed he saw a spirit strengthened by its necessary fight for confidence and assurance. The undisciplined schoolgirl had given place to a vital and forceful woman, a woman of considerable mental power and gifted with abundant energy to accomplish ambitious purposes. She was a woman, Poirot felt sure, both happy and successful. Her life was full and vivid and eminently enjoyable. She was not, incidentally, the type of woman that Poirot really liked. Though admiring the clear-cut precision of her mind, she had just a sufficient nuance of the femme formidable about her to alarm him as a mere man. His taste had always been for the flamboyant and extravagant. With Angela Warren it was easy to come to the point of his visit. There was no subterfuge. He merely recounted Carla Lemarchant’s interview with him. Angela Warren’s severe face lighted up appreciatively. "Little Carla? She is over here? I would like to see her so much." "You have not kept in touch with her?" "Hardly as much as I should have done. I was a schoolgirl at the time she went to Canada, and I realized, of course, that in a year or two she would have forgotten us. Of late years, an occasional present at Christmas has been the only link between us. I imagined that she would, by now, be completely immersed in the Canadian atmosphere and that her future would lie over there. Better so, in the circumstances." Poirot said: "One might think so, certainly. A change of name—a change of scene. A new life. But it was not to be so easy as that." And he then told of Carla’s engagement, the discovery she had made upon coming of age and her motives in coming to England. Angela Warren listened quietly, her disfigured cheek resting on one hand. She betrayed no emotion during the recital, but as Poirot finished, she said quietly: "Good for Carla." Poirot was startled. It was the first time that he had met with this reaction. He said: "You approve, Miss Warren?" "Certainly. I wish her every success. Anything I can do to help, I will. I feel guilty, you know, that I haven’t attempted anything myself."

Vera went into her room and shut the door. She reappeared in under a minute dressed in a tight-fitting silk rucked bathing dress. Wargrave nodded approval. "Thank you, Miss Claythorne. Now if you will remain here, we will search your room." Vera waited patiently in the corridor until they emerged. Then she went in, dressed, and came out to where they were waiting. The judge said: "We are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the drugs in a safe place. There is, I think, a silver chest, is there not, in the pantry?" Blore said: "That’s all very well, but who’s to have the key? You, I suppose." Mr Justice Wargrave made no reply. He went down to the pantry and the others followed him. There was a small case there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. By the judge’s directions, the various drugs were placed in this and it was locked. Then, still on Wargrave’s instructions, the chest was lifted into the plate cupboard and this in turn was locked. The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard and the key of the cupboard to Blore. He said: "You two are the strongest physically. It would be difficult for either of you to get the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To break open the cupboard—or the plate chest—would be a noisy and cumbersome proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without attention being attracted to what was going on." He paused, then went on: "We are still faced by one very grave problem. What has become of Mr Lombard’s revolver?" Blore said: "Seems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that." A white dint showed in Philip Lombard’s nostrils. He said: "You damned pig-headed fool! I tell you it’s been stolen from me!" Wargrave asked: "When did you see it last?" "Last night. It was in the drawer when I went to bed—ready in case anything happened." The judge nodded. He said: "It must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for Rogers or after his dead body was discovered." Vera said: "It must be hidden somewhere about the house. We must look for it." Mr Justice Wargrave’s finger was stroking his chin. He said: "I doubt if our search will result in anything. Our murderer has had plenty of time to devise a hiding-place. I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily." Blore said forcefully: "I don’t know where the revolver is, but I’ll bet I know where something else is—that hypodermic syringe. Follow me." He opened the front door and led the way round the house. A little distance away from the dining-room window he found the syringe. Beside it was a smashed china figure—a sixth broken soldier boy. Blore said in a satisfied voice: "Only place it could be. After he’d killed her, he opened the window and threw out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on with that." There were no prints on the syringe. It had been carefully wiped. Vera said in a determined voice: "Now let us look for the revolver." Mr Justice Wargrave said: "By all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we separate, the murderer gets his chance." They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The revolver was still missing. Chapter 13 I "One of us…One of us…One of us…" Three words, endlessly repeated, dinning themselves hour after hour into receptive brains. Five people—five frightened people. Five people who watched each other, who now hardly troubled to hide their state of nervous tension. There was little pretence now—no formal veneer of conversation. They were five enemies linked together by a mutual instinct of self-preservation. And all of them, suddenly, looked less like human beings. They were reverting to more bestial types. Like a wary old tortoise, Mr Justice Wargrave sat hunched up, his body motionless, his eyes keen and alert. Ex-Inspector Blore looked coarser and clumsier in build. His walk was that of a slow padding animal.

Now my car—" "My car, I think, John." Mrs Clapperton’s voice was shrill and penetrating. He showed no annoyance at her ungraciousness. Either he was used to it by this time, or else— "Or else?" thought Poirot and let himself speculate. "Certainly, my dear, your car," Clapperton bowed to his wife and finished what he had been saying, perfectly unruffled. "Voilà ce qu’on appelle le pukka sahib," thought Poirot. "But the General Forbes says that Clapperton is no gentleman at all. I wonder now." There was a suggestion of bridge. Mrs Clapperton, General Forbes and a hawk- eyed couple sat down to it. Miss Henderson had excused herself and gone out on deck. "What about your husband?" asked General Forbes, hesitating. "John won’t play," said Mrs Clapperton. "Most tiresome of him." The four bridge players began shuffling the cards. Pam and Kitty advanced on Colonel Clapperton. Each one took an arm. "You’re coming with us!" said Pam. "To the boat deck. There’s a moon." "Don’t be foolish, John," said Mrs Clapperton. "You’ll catch a chill." "Not with us, he won’t," said Kitty. "We’re hot stuff!" He went with them, laughing. Poirot noticed that Mrs Clapperton said No Bid to her initial bid of Two Clubs. He strolled out on to the promenade deck. Miss Henderson was standing by the rail. She looked round expectantly as he came to stand beside her and he saw the drop in her expression. They chatted for a while. Then presently as he fell silent she asked: "What are you thinking about?" Poirot replied: "I am wondering about my knowledge of English. Mrs Clapperton said: "John won’t play bridge." Is not "can’t play" the usual term?" "She takes it as a personal insult that he doesn’t, I suppose," said Ellie drily. "The man was a fool ever to have married her." In the darkness Poirot smiled. "You don’t think it’s just possible that the marriage may be a success?" he asked diffidently. "With a woman like that?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Many odious women have devoted husbands. An enigma of nature. You will admit that nothing she says or does appears to gall him." Miss Henderson was considering her reply when Mrs Clapperton’s voice floated out through the smoking-room window. "No—I don’t think I will play another rubber. So stuffy. I think I’ll go up and get some air on the boat deck." "Good night," said Miss Henderson. "I’m going to bed." She disappeared abruptly. Poirot strolled forward to the lounge—deserted save for Colonel Clapperton and the two girls. He was doing card tricks for them and noting the dexterity of his shuffling and handling of the cards, Poirot remembered the General’s story of a career on the music hall stage. "I see you enjoy the cards even though you do not play bridge," he remarked. "I’ve my reasons for not playing bridge," said Clapperton, his charming smile breaking out. "I’ll show you. We’ll play one hand." He dealt the cards rapidly. "Pick up your hands. Well, what about it?" He laughed at the bewildered expression on Kitty’s face. He laid down his hand and the others followed suit. Kitty held the entire club suit, M. Poirot the hearts, Pam the diamonds and Colonel Clapperton the spades. "You see?" he said. "A man who can deal his partner and his adversaries any hand he pleases had better stand aloof from a friendly game! If the luck goes too much his way, ill-natured things might be said." "Oh!" gasped Kitty. "How could you do that? It all looked perfect ordinary." "The quickness of the hand deceives the eye," said Poirot sententiously—and caught the sudden change in the Colonel’s expression. It was as though he realized that he had been off his guard for a moment or two. Poirot smiled. The conjuror had shown himself through the mask of the pukka sahib. III The ship reached Alexandria at dawn the following morning. As Poirot came up from breakfast he found the two girls all ready to go on shore.

I must try and get hold of Micky." He replaced the receiver. Gwenda Vaughan came towards the telephone. "Shall I try and get Micky now?" Hester said: "If this is going to take a little time, could I ring up first, please, Gwenda? I want to ring up Donald." "Of course," said Leo. "You are going out with him this evening, aren’t you?" "I was," said Hester. Her father gave her a sharp glance. "Has this upset you very much, darling?" "I don’t know," said Hester. "I don’t know quite what I feel." Gwenda made way for her at the telephone and Hester dialed a number. "Could I speak to Dr. Craig, please? Yes. Yes. Hester Argyle speaking." There was a moment or two of delay and then she said: "Is that you, Donald?… I rang up to say that I don’t think I can come with you to the lecture tonight … No, I’m not ill—it’s not that, it’s just—well, just that we’ve—we’ve had some rather queer news." Again Dr. Craig spoke. Hester turned her head towards her father. She laid her hand over the receiver and said to him: "It isn’t a secret, is it?" "No," said Leo slowly. "No, it isn’t exactly a secret but—well, I should just ask Donald to keep it to himself for the present, perhaps. You know how rumours get around, get magnified." "Yes, I know." She spoke again into the receiver. "In a way I suppose it’s what you’d call good news, Donald, but—it’s rather upsetting. I’d rather not talk about it over the telephone … No, no, don’t come here … Please not. Not this evening. Tomorrow some time. It’s about—Jacko. Yes—yes—my brother—it’s just that we’ve found out that he didn’t kill my mother after all … But please don’t say anything, Donald, or talk to anyone. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow … No, Donald, no… I just can’t see anyone this evening—not even you. Please. And don’t say anything." She put down the receiver, and motioned to Gwenda to take over. Gwenda asked for a Drymouth number. Leo said gently: "Why don’t you go to the lecture with Donald, Hester? It will take your mind off things." "I don’t want to, Father. I couldn’t." Leo said: "You spoke—you gave him the impression that it wasn’t good news. But you know, Hester, that’s not so. We were startled. But we’re all very happy about it—very glad … What else could we be?" "That’s what we’re going to say, is it?" said Hester. Leo said warningly: "My dear child—" "But it’s not true, is it?" said Hester. "It’s not good news. It’s just terribly upsetting." Gwenda said: "Micky’s on the line." Again Leo came and took the receiver from her. He spoke to his son very much as he had spoken to his daughter. But his news was received rather differently from the way it had been received by Mary Durrant. Here there was no protest, surprise or disbelief. Instead there was quick acceptance. "What the hell!" said Micky’s voice. "After all this time? The missing witness! Well, well, Jacko’s luck was out that night." Leo spoke again. Micky listened. "Yes," he said, "I agree with you. We’d better get together as quickly as possible, and get Marshall to advise us, too." He gave a sudden quick laugh, the laugh that Leo remembered so well from the small boy who had played in the garden outside the window. "What’s the betting?" he said. "Which of us did it?" Leo dropped the receiver down and left the telephone abruptly. "What did he say?" Gwenda asked. Leo told her. "It seems to me a silly sort of joke to make," said Gwenda. Leo shot a quick glance at her. "Perhaps," he said gently, "it wasn’t altogether a joke." II Mary Durrant crossed the room and picked up some fallen petals from a vase of chrysanthemums. She put them carefully into the wastepaper basket.

On the other hand, if Rupert Carrington killed her, why take the jewels which would incriminate him fatally?" "As a blind." "Perhaps you are right, my friend. Ah, here is Japp! I recognize his knock." The inspector was beaming good-humouredly. "Morning, Poirot. Only just got back. I’ve done some good work! And you?" "Me, I have arranged my ideas," replied Poirot placidly. Japp laughed heartily. "Old chap’s getting on in years," he observed beneath his breath to me. "That won’t do for us young folk," he said aloud. "Quel dommage?" Poirot inquired. "Well, do you want to hear what I’ve done?" "You permit me to make a guess? You have found the knife with which the crime was committed, by the side of the line between Weston and Taunton, and you have interviewed the paperboy who spoke to Mrs. Carrington at Weston!" Japp’s jaw fell. "How on earth did you know? Don’t tell me it was those almighty "little grey cells" of yours!" "I am glad you admit for once that they are all mighty! Tell me, did she give the paperboy a shilling for himself?" "No, it was half a crown!" Japp had recovered his temper, and grinned. "Pretty extravagant, these rich Americans!" "And in consequence the boy did not forget her?" "Not he. Half-crowns don’t come his way every day. She hailed him and bought two magazines. One had a picture of a girl in blue on the cover. "That’ll match me," she said. Oh, he remembered her perfectly. Well, that was enough for me. By the doctor’s evidence, the crime must have been committed before Taunton. I guessed they’d throw the knife away at once, and I walked down the line looking for it; and sure enough, there it was. I made inquiries at Taunton about our man, but of course it’s a big station, and it wasn’t likely they’d notice him. He probably got back to London by a later train." Poirot nodded. "Very likely." "But I found another bit of news when I got back. They’re passing the jewels, all right! That large emerald was pawned last night—by one of the regular lot. Who do you think it was?" "I don’t know—except that he was a short man." Japp stared. "Well, you’re right there. He’s short enough. It was Red Narky." "Who is Red Narky?" I asked. "A particularly sharp jewel thief, sir. And not one to stick at murder. Usually works with a woman—Gracie Kidd; but she doesn’t seem to be in it this time—unless she’s got off to Holland with the rest of the swag." "You’ve arrested Narky?" "Sure thing. But mind you, it’s the other man we want—the man who went down with Mrs. Carrington in the train. He was the one who planned the job, right enough. But Narky won’t squeal on a pal." I noticed Poirot’s eyes had become very green. "I think," he said gently, "that I can find Narky’s pal for you, all right." "One of your little ideas, eh?" Japp eyed Poirot sharply. "Wonderful how you manage to deliver the goods sometimes, at your age and all. Devil’s own luck, of course." "Perhaps, perhaps," murmured my friend. "Hastings, my hat. And the brush. So! My galoshes, if it still rains! We must not undo the good work of that tisane. Au revoir, Japp!" "Good luck to you, Poirot." Poirot hailed the first taxi we met, and directed the driver to Park Lane. When we drew up before Halliday’s house, he skipped out nimbly, paid the driver and rang the bell. To the footman who opened the door he made a request in a low voice, and we were immediately taken upstairs. We went up to the top of the house, and were shown into a small neat bedroom. Poirot’s eyes roved round the room and fastened themselves on a small black trunk. He knelt in front of it, scrutinized the labels on it, and took a small twist of wire from his pocket. "Ask Mr.

He was not the type of a young man one would want anyone one was fond of to marry. She was a very lovely girl and a very sweet girl. I don’t know why she didn’t marry him. Nobody has ever told me." She sighed and then said, "Anyway, she died…." "Why did she die?" said Miss Marple. Elizabeth Temple stared at the peonies for some minutes. When she spoke she uttered one word. It echoed like the tone of a deep bell—so much so that it was startling. "Love!" she said. Miss Marple queried the word sharply. "Love?" "One of the most frightening words there is in the world," said Elizabeth Temple. Again her voice was bitter and tragic. "Love…." Seven AN INVITATION I Miss Marple decided to miss out on the afternoon’s sightseeing. She admitted to being somewhat tired and would perhaps give a miss to an ancient church and its 14th-century glass. She would rest for a while and join them at the tearoom which had been pointed out to her in the main street. Mrs. Sandbourne agreed that she was being very sensible. Miss Marple, resting on a comfortable bench outside the tearoom, reflected on what she planned to do next and whether it would be wise to do it or not. When the others joined her at teatime it was easy for her to attach herself unobtrusively to Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow and sit with them at a table for four. The fourth chair was occupied by Mr. Caspar whom Miss Marple considered as not sufficiently conversant with the English language to matter. Leaning across the table, as she nibbled a slice of Swiss roll, Miss Marple said to Miss Cooke, "You know, I am quite sure we have met before. I have been wondering and wondering about it—I’m not as good as I was at remembering faces, but I’m sure I have met you somewhere." Miss Cooke looked kindly but doubtful. Her eyes went to her friend, Miss Barrow. So did Miss Marple’s. Miss Barrow showed no signs of helping to probe the mystery. "I don’t know if you’ve ever stayed in my part of the world," went on Miss Marple, "I live in St. Mary Mead. Quite a small village, you know. At least, not so small nowadays, there is so much building going on everywhere. Not very far from Much Benham and only twelve miles from the coast at Loomouth." "Oh," said Miss Cooke, "let me see. Well, I know Loomouth quite well and perhaps—" Suddenly Miss Marple made a pleased exclamation. "Why, of course! I was in my garden one day at St. Mary Mead and you spoke to me as you were passing by on the footpath. You said you were staying down there, I remember, with a friend—" "Of course," said Miss Cooke. "How stupid of me. I do remember you now. We spoke of how difficult it was nowadays to get anyone—to do job gardening, I mean—anyone who was any use." "Yes. You were not living there, I think? You were staying with someone." "Yes, I was staying with … with …" for a moment Miss Cooke hesitated, with the air of one who hardly knows or remembers a name. "With a Mrs. Sutherland, was it?" suggested Miss Marple. "No, no, it was … er … Mrs.—" "Hastings," said Miss Barrow firmly as she took a piece of chocolate cake. "Oh yes, in one of the new houses," said Miss Marple. "Hastings," said Mr. Caspar unexpectedly. He beamed. "I have been to Hastings—I have been to Eastbourne, too." He beamed again. "Very nice—by the sea." "Such a coincidence," said Miss Marple, "meeting again so soon—such a small world, isn’t it?" "Oh, well, we are all so fond of gardens," said Miss Cooke vaguely. "Flowers very pretty," said Mr. Caspar. "I like very much—" He beamed again. "So many rare and beautiful shrubs," said Miss Cooke. Miss Marple went full speed ahead with a gardening conversation of some technicality—Miss Cooke responded. Miss Barrow put in an occasional remark. Mr. Caspar relapsed into smiling silence. Later, as Miss Marple took her usual rest before dinner, she conned over what she had collected.

He had only a vision—a vision of a small cottage garden thickly planted with sweet-smelling, brightly coloured blossoms. He had asked, almost pathetically, for instruction, and had noted down Miss Marple’s replies to questions in a little book. He was a man of quiet method. It was, perhaps, because of this trait, that the police were interested in him when his wife was found murdered. With patience and perseverance they learned a good deal about the late Mrs. Spenlow—and soon all St. Mary Mead knew it, too. The late Mrs. Spenlow had begun life as a between-maid in a large house. She had left that position to marry the second gardener, and with him had started a flower shop in London. The shop had prospered. Not so the gardener, who before long had sickened and died. His widow carried on the shop and enlarged it in an ambitious way. She had continued to prosper. Then she had sold the business at a handsome price and embarked upon matrimony for the second time—with Mr. Spenlow, a middle-aged jeweller who had inherited a small and struggling business. Not long afterwards, they had sold the business and came down to St. Mary Mead. Mrs. Spenlow was a well-to-do woman. The profits from her florist’s establishment she had invested—"under spirit guidance," as she explained to all and sundry. The spirits had advised her with unexpected acumen. All her investments had prospered, some in quite a sensational fashion. Instead, however, of this increasing her belief in spiritualism, Mrs. Spenlow basely deserted mediums and sittings, and made a brief but wholehearted plunge into an obscure religion with Indian affinities which was based on various forms of deep breathing. When, however, she arrived at St. Mary Mead, she had relapsed into a period of orthodox Church-of-England beliefs. She was a good deal at the vicarage, and attended church services with assiduity. She patronized the village shops, took an interest in the local happenings, and played village bridge. A humdrum, everyday life. And—suddenly—murder. Colonel Melchett, the chief constable, had summoned Inspector Slack. Slack was a positive type of man. When he had made up his mind, he was sure. He was quite sure now. "Husband did it, sir," he said. "You think so?" "Quite sure of it. You’ve only got to look at him. Guilty as hell. Never showed a sign of grief or emotion. He came back to the house knowing she was dead." "Wouldn’t he at least have tried to act the part of the distracted husband?" "Not him, sir. Too pleased with himself. Some gentlemen can’t act. Too stiff." "Any other woman in his life?" Colonel Melchett asked. "Haven’t been able to find any trace of one. Of course, he’s the artful kind. He’d cover his tracks. As I see it, he was just fed up with his wife. She’d got the money, and I should say was a trying woman to live with—always taking up with some "ism" or other. He cold-bloodedly decided to do away with her and live comfortably on his own." "Yes, that could be the case, I suppose." "Depend upon it, that was it. Made his plans careful. Pretended to get a phone call—" Melchett interrupted him. "No call been traced?" "No, sir. That means either that he lied, or that the call was put through from a public telephone booth. The only two public phones in the village are at the station and the post office. Post office it certainly wasn’t. Mrs. Blade sees everyone who comes in. Station it might be. Train arrives at two twenty-seven and there’s a bit of a bustle then. But the main thing is he says it was Miss Marple who called him up, and that certainly isn’t true. The call didn’t come from her house, and she herself was away at the Institute." "You’re not overlooking the possibility that the husband was deliberately got out of the way—by someone who wanted to murder Mrs. Spenlow?" "You’re thinking of young Ted Gerard, aren’t you, sir? I’ve been working on him—what we’re up against there is lack of motive.