The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Chapter Six
THE MYSTERY OF THE SPANISH CHEST

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 he said for voluptuous curves. He liked women to be women. He liked them lush, highly colored, 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. "Can you tell me, Miss Lemon, what exactly is a Spanish chest?"

"I suppose, M. Poirot, that it is a chest that came originally from Spain."

"One might reasonably suppose so. You have then, no expert knowledge?"

"They are usually of the Elizabethan period, I believe. Large, and with a good deal of brass decoration on them. They look very nice when well kept and polished. My sister bought one at a sale. She keeps household linen in it. It looks very nice."

"I am sure that in the house of any sister of yours, all the furniture would be well kept," said Poirot, bowing gracefully.

Miss Lemon replied sadly that servants did not seem to know what elbow grease was nowadays.

Poirot looked a little puzzled, but decided not to inquire into the inward meaning of the mysterious phrase "elbow grease."

He looked down again at the newspaper, conning over the names: Major Rich, Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, Commander McLaren, Mr. and Mrs. Spence. Names, nothing but names to him; yet all possessed of human personalities, hating, loving, fearing. A drama, this, in which he, Hercule Poirot, had no part. And he would have liked to have a part in it! Six people at an evening party, in a room with a big Spanish chest against the wall, six people, five of them talking, eating a buffet supper, putting records on the gramophone, dancing, and the sixth dead, in the Spanish chest...

Ah, thought Poirot. How my dear friend Hastings would have enjoyed this! What romantic flights of imagination he would have had. What ineptitudes he would have uttered! Ah, ce cher Hastings, at this moment, today, I miss him. Instead -

He sighed and looked at Miss Lemon. Miss Lemon, intelligently perceiving that Poirot was in no mood to dictate letters, had uncovered her typewriter and was awaiting her moment to get on with certain arrears of work. Nothing could have interested her less than sinister Spanish chests containing dead bodies.

Poirot sighed and looked down at a photographed face. Reproductions in newsprint were never very good, and this was decidedly smudgy - but what a face! Mrs. Clayton, the wife of the murdered man...

On an impulse, he thrust the paper at Miss Lemon.

"Look," he demanded. "Look at that face."

Miss Lemon looked at it obediently, without emotion.

"What do you think of her, Miss Lemon? That is Mrs. Clayton."

Miss Lemon took the paper, glanced casually at the picture, and remarked:

"She's a little like the wife of our bank manager when we lived at Croydon Heath."

"Interesting," said Poirot. "Recount to me, if you will be so kind, the history of your bank manager's wife."

"Well, it's not really a very pleasant story, M. Poirot."

"It was in my mind that it might not be. Continue."

"There was a good deal of talk - about Mrs. Adams and a young artist. Then Mr. Adams shot himself. But Mrs. Adams wouldn't marry the other man and he took some kind of poison - but they pulled him through all right; and finally Mrs. Adams married a young solicitor. I believe there was more trouble after that, only of course we'd left Croydon Heath by then so I didn't hear very much more about it."

Hercule Poirot nodded gravely. "She was beautiful?"

"Well - not really what you'd call beautiful - But there seemed to be something about her -"

"Exactly. What is that something that they possess - the sirens of this world, the Helens of Troy, the Cleopatras -?"

Miss Lemon inserted a piece of paper vigorously into her typewriter.

"Really, M. Poirot, I've never thought about it. It seems all very silly to me. If people would just go on with their jobs and didn't think about such things it would be much better."

Having thus disposed of human frailty and passion, Miss Lemon let her fingers hover over the keys of the typewriter, waiting impatiently to be allowed to begin her work.

"That is your view," said Poirot. "And at this moment it is your desire that you should be allowed to get on with your job. But your job, Miss Lemon, is not only to take down my letters, to file my papers, to deal with my telephone calls, to typewrite my letters - all these things you do admirably. But me, I deal not only with documents but with human beings. And there, too, I need assistance."

"Certainly, M. Poirot," said Miss Lemon patiently. "What is it you want me to do?"

"This case interests me. I should be glad if you would make a study of this morning's report of it in all the papers and also of any additional reports in the evening papers - make me a precis of the facts."

"Very good, M. Poirot."

Poirot withdrew to his sitting room, a rueful smile on his face.

"It is indeed the irony," he said to himself, "that after my dear friend Hastings I should have Miss Lemon. What greater contrast can one imagine? Ce cher Hastings - how he would have enjoyed himself. How he would have walked up and down talking about it, putting the most romantic construction on every incident, believing as gospel truth every word the papers have printed about it. And my poor Miss Lemon, what I have asked her to do, she will not enjoy at all!"

Miss Lemon came to him in due course with a typewritten sheet.

"I've got the information you wanted, M. Poirot. I'm afraid though, it can't be regarded as reliable. The papers vary a good deal in their accounts. I shouldn't like to guarantee that the facts as stated are more than sixty per cent accurate."

"That is probably a conservative estimate," murmured Poirot. "Thank you, Miss Lemon, for the trouble you have taken."

The facts were sensational but clear enough. Major Charles Rich, a well-to-do bachelor, had given an evening party to a few of his friends, at his apartment. These friends consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, Mr. and Mrs. Spence, and a Commander McLaren. Commander McLaren was a very old friend of both Rich and the Claytons. Mr. and Mrs. Spence, a younger couple, were fairly recent acquaintances. Arnold Clayton was in the Treasury. Jeremy Spence was a junior civil servant. Major Rich was forty-eight, Arnold Clayton was fifty-five, Commander McLaren was forty-six, Jeremy Spence was thirty-seven. Mrs. Clayton was said to be "some years younger than her husband." One person was unable to attend the party. At the last moment, Mr. Clayton was called away to Scotland on urgent business, and was supposed to have left King's Cross by the 8:15 train.

The party proceeded as such parties do. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. It was neither a wild party nor a drunken one. It broke up about 11:45. The four guests left together and shared a taxi. Commander McLaren was dropped first at his club and then the Spences dropped Margharita Clayton at Cardigan Gardens just off Sloane Street and went on themselves to their house in Chelsea.

The gruesome discovery was made on the following morning by Major Rich's manservant, William Burgess. The latter did not live in. He arrived early so as to clear up the sitting room before calling Major Rich with his early morning tea. It was whilst clearing up that Burgess was startled to find a big stain discoloring the light-colored rug on which stood the Spanish chest. It seemed to have seeped through from the chest, and the valet immediately lifted up the lid of the chest and looked inside. He was horrified to find there the body of Mr. Clayton, stabbed through the neck.

Obeying his first impulse, Burgess rushed out into the street and fetched the nearest policeman.

Such were the bald facts of the case. But there were further details. The police had immediately broken the news to Mrs. Clayton, who had been "completely prostrated." She had seen her husband for the last time at a little after six o'clock on the evening before. He had come home much annoyed, having been summoned to Scotland on urgent business in connection with some property that he owned. He had urged his wife to go to the party without him. Mr. Clayton had then called in at his and Commander McLaren's club, had had a drink with his friend, and had explained the position. He had then said, looking at his watch, that he had just time on his way to King's Cross, to call in on Major Rich and explain. He had already tried to telephone him, but the line had seemed to be out of order.

According to William Burgess, Mr. Clayton arrived at the flat at about 7:55. Major Rich was out but was due to return any moment, so Burgess suggested that Mr. Clayton should come in and wait. Clayton said he had no time but would come in and write a note. He explained that he was on his way to catch a train at King's Cross. The valet showed him into the sitting room and himself returned to the kitchen, where he was engaged in the preparation of canapes for the party. The valet did not hear his master return, but about ten minutes later, Major Rich looked into the kitchen and told Burgess to hurry out and get some Turkish cigarettes, which were Mrs. Spence's favorite smoking. The valet did so and brought them to his master in the sitting room. Mr. Clayton was not there, but the valet naturally thought he had already left to catch his train.

Major Rich's story was short and simple. Mr. Clayton was not in the flat when he himself came in and he had no idea that he had been there. No note had been left for him and the first he heard of Mr. Clayton's journey to Scotland was when Mrs. Clayton and the others arrived.

There were two additional items in the evening papers. Mrs. Clayton who was "prostrated with shock" had left her flat in Cardigan Gardens and was believed to be staying with friends.

The second item was in the stop press. Major Charles Rich had been charged with the murder of Arnold Clayton and had been taken into custody.

"So that is that," said Poirot, looking up at Miss Lemon. "The arrest of Major Rich was to be expected. But what a remarkable case. What a very remarkable case! Do you not think so?"

"I suppose such things do happen, M. Poirot," said Miss Lemon without interest.

"Oh certainly! They happen every day. Or nearly every day. But usually they are quite understandable - though distressing."

"It is certainly a very unpleasant business."

"To be stabbed to death and stowed away in a Spanish chest is certainly unpleasant for the victim - supremely so. But when I say this is a remarkable case, I refer to the remarkable behavior of Major Rich."

Miss Lemon said with faint distaste: "There seems to be a suggestion that Major Rich and Mrs. Clayton were very close friends... It was a suggestion and not a proved fact, so I did not include it."

"That was very correct of you. But it is an inference that leaps to the eye. Is that all you have to say?"

Miss Lemon looked blank. Poirot sighed, and missed the rich colorful imagination of his friend Hastings. Discussing a case with Miss Lemon was uphill work.

"Consider for a moment this Major Rich. He is in love with Mrs. Clayton - granted... He wants to dispose of her husband - that, too, we grant, though if Mrs. Clayton is in love with him, and they are having the affair together, where is the urgency? It is, perhaps, that Mr. Clayton will not give his wife the divorce? But it is not of all this that I talk. Major Rich, he is a retired soldier, and it is said sometimes that soldiers are not brainy. But, tout de meme, this Major Rich, is he, can he be, a complete imbecile?"

Miss Lemon did not reply. She took this to be a purely rhetorical question.

"Well," demanded Poirot. "What do you think about it all?"

"What do I think?" Miss Lemon was startled.

"Mais oui - you!"

Miss Lemon adjusted her mind to the strain put upon it. She was not given to mental speculation of any kind unless asked for it. In such leisure moments as she had, her mind was filled with the details of a superlatively perfect filing system. It was her only mental recreation.

"Well -" she began, and paused.

"Tell me just what happened - what you think happened, on that evening. Mr. Clayton is in the sitting room writing a note, Major Rich comes back - what then?"

"He finds Mr. Clayton there. They - I suppose they have a quarrel. Major Rich stabs him. Then, when he sees what he has done, he - he puts the body in the chest. After all, the guests, I suppose, might be arriving any minute."

"Yes, yes. The guests arrive! The body is in the chest. The evening passes. The guests depart. And then -"

"Well, then, I suppose Major Rich goes to bed and - Oh!"

"Ah," said Poirot. "You see it now. You have murdered a man. You have concealed his body in a chest. And then - you go peacefully to bed, quite unperturbed by the fact that your valet will discover the crime in the morning."

"I suppose it's possible that the valet might never have looked inside the chest?"

"With an enormous pool of blood on the carpet underneath it?"

"Perhaps Major Rich didn't realize that the blood was there."

"Was it not somewhat careless of him not to look and see?"

"I dare say he was upset," said Miss Lemon. Poirot threw up his hands in despair.

Miss Lemon seized the opportunity to hurry from the room.

The mystery of the Spanish chest was, strictly speaking, no business of Poirot's. He was engaged at the moment in a delicate mission for one of the large oil companies where one of the high ups was possibly involved in some questionable transaction. It was hush-hush, important, and exceedingly lucrative. It was sufficiently involved to command Poirot's attention, and had the great advantage that it required very little physical activity. It was sophisticated and bloodless. Crime at the highest levels.

The mystery of the Spanish chest was dramatic and emotional, two qualities which Poirot had often declared to Hastings could be much overrated - and indeed frequently were so by the latter. He had been severe with ce cher Hastings on this point, and now here he was, behaving much as his friend might have done, obsessed with beautiful women, crimes of passion, jealousy, hatred, and all the other romantic causes of murder! He wanted to know about it all. He wanted to know what Major Rich was like, and what his manservant, Burgess, was like, and what Margharita Clayton was like (though that, he thought, he knew) and what the late Arnold Clayton had been like (since he held that the character of the victim was of the first importance in a murder case), and even what Commander McLaren, the faithful friend, and Mr. and Mrs. Spence, the recently acquired acquaintances, were like.

And he did not see exactly how he was going to gratify his curiosity!

He reflected on the matter later in the day.

Why did the whole business intrigue him so much? He decided, after reflection, that it was because - as the facts were related - the whole thing was more or less impossible! Yes, there was a Euclidean flavor.

Starting from what one could accept, there had been a quarrel between two men. Cause, presumably, a woman. One man killed the other in the heat of rage. Yes, that happened - though it would be more acceptable if the husband had killed the lover. Still - the lover had killed the husband, stabbed him with a dagger (?), somehow a rather unlikely weapon. Perhaps Major Rich had had an Italian mother? Somewhere - surely - there should be something to explain the choice of a dagger as a weapon. Anyway, one must accept the dagger (some papers called it a stiletto!). It was to hand and was used. The body was concealed in the chest. That was common sense and inevitable. The crime had not been premeditated, and as the valet was returning at any moment, and four guests would be arriving before very long, it seemed the only course indicated.

The party is held, the guests depart, the manservant is already gone - and - Major Rich goes to bed!

To understand how that could happen, one must see Major Rich and find out what kind of a man acts in that way.

Could it be that, overcome with horror at what he had done and the long strain of an evening trying to appear his normal self, he had taken a sleeping pill of some kind or a tranquilizer which had put him into a heavy slumber which lasted long beyond his usual hour of waking? Possible. Or was it a case, rewarding to a psychologist, where Major Rich's feeling of subconscious guilt made him want the crime to be discovered?

To make up one's mind on that point one would have to see Major Rich. It all came back to -

The telephone rang. Poirot let it ring for some moments, until he realized that Miss Lemon after bringing him his letters to sign, had gone home some time ago, and that George had probably gone out.

He picked up the receiver.

"M. Poirot?"

"Speaking!"

"Oh how splendid." Poirot blinked slightly at the fervor of the charming female voice. "It's Abbie Chatterton."

"Ah, Lady Chatterton. How can I serve you?"

"By coming over as quickly as you can right away to a simply frightful cocktail party I am giving. Not just for the cocktail party - it's for something quite different really. I need you. It's absolutely vital. Please, please, please don't let me down! Don't say you can't manage it."

Poirot had not been going to say anything of the kind. Lord Chatterton, apart from being a peer of the realm and occasionally making a very dull speech in the House of Lords, was nobody in particular. But Lady Chatterton was one of the brightest jewels in what Poirot called le haute monde. Everything she did or said was news. She had brains, beauty, originality, and enough vitality to activate a rocket to the moon.

She said again: "I need you. Just give that wonderful moustache of yours a lovely twirl, and come!"

It was not quite so quick as that. Poirot had first to make a meticulous toilet. The twirl to the moustaches was added and he then set off.

The door of Lady Chatterton's delightful house in Cheriton Street was ajar and a noise as of animals mutinying at the zoo sounded from within. Lady Chatterton, who was holding two ambassadors, an international rugger player, and an American evangelist in play, neatly jettisoned them with the rapidity of sleight of hand and was at Poirot's side.

"M. Poirot, how wonderful to see you! No, don't have that nasty Martini. I've got something special for you - a kind of sirop that the sheikhs drink in Morocco. It's in my own little room upstairs."

She led the way upstairs and Poirot followed her. She paused to say over her shoulder: "I didn't put these people off, because it's absolutely essential that no one should know there's anything special going on here, and I've promised the servants enormous bonuses if not a word leaks out. After all, one doesn't want one's house besieged by reporters. And, poor darling, she's been through so much already."

Lady Chatterton did not stop at the first-floor landing; instead she swept on up to the floor above.

Gasping for breath and somewhat bewildered, Hercule Poirot followed.

Lady Chatterton paused, gave a rapid glance downwards over the banisters, and then flung open a door, exclaiming as she did so: "I've got him, Margharita! I've got him! Here he is!"

She stood aside in triumph to let Poirot enter, then performed a rapid introduction.

"This is Margharita Clayton. She's a very, very dear friend of mine. You'll help her, won't you? Margharita, this is that wonderful Hercule Poirot. He'll do just everything you want - you will, won't you, dear M. Poirot?"

And without waiting for the answer which she obviously took for granted (Lady Chatterton had not been a spoiled beauty all her life for nothing), she dashed out of the door and down the stairs, calling back rather indiscreetly, "I've got to go back to all these awful people."

The woman who had been sitting in a chair by the window rose and came towards him. He would have recognized her even if Lady Chatterton had not mentioned her name. Here was that wide, that very wide brow, the dark hair that sprang away from it like wings, the grey eyes set far apart. She wore a close-fitting high-necked gown of dull black that showed up the beauty of her body and the magnolia-whiteness of her skin. It was an unusual face rather than a beautiful one - one of those oddly proportioned faces that one sometimes sees in an Italian primitive. There was about her a kind of medieval simplicity - a strange innocence that could be, Poirot thought, more devastating than any voluptuous sophistication. When she spoke it was with a kind of childlike candor.

"Abbie says you will help me -" She looked at him gravely and inquiringly.

For a moment he stood quite still, scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a famous consultant gives a new patient.

"Are you sure, madame," he said at last, "that I can help you?"

A little flush rose to her cheeks.

"I don't know what you mean."

"What is it, madame, that you want me to do?"

"Oh," she seemed surprised. "I thought - you knew who I was?"

"I know who you are. Your husband was killed - stabbed, and a Major Rich has been arrested and charged with his murder."

The flush heightened.

"Major Rich did not kill my husband."

Quick as a flash Poirot said:

"Why not?"

She stared, puzzled. "I - I beg your pardon?"

"I have confused you - because I have not asked the question that everybody asks - the police - the lawyers 'Why should Major Rich kill Arnold Clayton?' But I ask the opposite. I ask you, madame, why you are sure that Major Rich did not kill him?"

"Because" - she paused a moment - "because I know Major Rich so well."

"You know Major Rich so well," repeated Poirot tonelessly. He paused and then said sharply:

"How well?"

Whether she understood his meaning, he could not guess. He thought to himself. 'Here is either a woman of great simplicity or of great subtlety...' Many people, he thought, must have wondered that about Margharita Clayton...

"How well?" She was looking at him doubtfully. "Five years - no, nearly six."

"That was not precisely what I meant. You must understand, madame, that I shall have to ask you the impertinent questions. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie sometimes. Women must defend themselves, and the lie, it can be a good weapon. But there are three people, madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father confessor, to her hairdresser, and to her private detective - if she trusts him. Do you trust me, madame?"

Margharita Clayton drew a deep breath.

"Yes," she said. "I do." And added: "I must."

"Very well, then. What is it you want me to do - find out who killed your husband?"

"I suppose so - yes."

"But it is not essential? You want me, then, to clear Major Rich from suspicion?"

She nodded quickly - gratefully.

"That - and that only?"

It was, he saw, an unnecessary question. Margharita Clayton was a woman who saw only one thing at a time.

"And now," he said, "for the impertinence. You and Major Rich, you are lovers, yes?"

"Do you mean, were we having an affair together? No."

"But he was in love with you?"

"Yes."

"And you - were in love with him?"

"I think so."

"You do not seem quite sure?"

"I am sure - now."

"Ah! You did not, then, love your husband?"

"No."

"You reply with an admirable simplicity. Most women would wish to explain at great length just exactly what their feelings were. How long had you been married?"

"Eleven years."

"Can you tell me a little about your husband - what kind of a man he was?"

She frowned. "It's difficult. I don't really know what kind of a man Arnold was. He was very quiet - very reserved. One didn't know what he was thinking. He was clever, of course - everyone said he was brilliant - in his work, I mean. He didn't - how can I put it - he never explained himself at all."

"Was he in love with you?"

"Oh, yes. He must have been. Or he wouldn't have minded so much..." she came to a sudden stop.

"About other men? That is what you were going to say? He was jealous?"

Again she said:

"He must have been." And then, as though she felt that the phrase needed explanation, she said,

"Sometimes, for days, he wouldn't speak -"

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"This violence - that has come into your life. Is it the first that you have known?"

"Violence?" She frowned, then flushed. "I - you mean - that poor boy who shot himself?"

"Yes," said Poirot. "I expect that is what I mean -"

"I'd no idea he felt like that... I was sorry for him - he seemed so shy - so lonely. He must have been very neurotic, I think. And there were two Italians and a duel... it was ridiculous! Anyway, nobody was killed, thank goodness. And honestly, I didn't care about either of them! I never even pretended to care."

"No. You were just - there! And where you are things happen! I have seen that before in my life. It is because you do not care that men are driven mad. But for Major Rich you do care. So we must do what we can -"

He was silent for a moment or two.

She sat there gravely, watching him.

"We turn from personalities, which are the really important things, to plain facts. I know only what has been in the papers. On the facts as given there, only two persons had the opportunity of killing your husband, only two persons could have killed him - Major Rich and Major Rich's manservant."

She said, stubbornly:

"I know Charles didn't kill him."

"So, then, it must have been the valet. You agree?"

She said doubtfully:

"I see what you mean -"

"But you are dubious about it?"

"It just seems  -  fantastic!"

"Yet the possibility is there. Your husband undoubtedly came to the flat, since his body was found there. If the valet's story is true, Major Rich killed him. But if the valet's story is false? Then the valet killed him and hid the body in the chest before his master returned. An excellent way of disposing of the body from his point of view. He has only got to 'notice the bloodstain' the next morning and 'discover' it. Suspicion will immediately fall on Rich."

"But why should he want to kill Arnold?"

"Ah why? The motive cannot be an obvious one - or the police would have investigated it. It is possible that your husband knew something to the valet's discredit, and was about to acquaint Major Rich with the facts. Did your husband ever say anything to you about this man Burgess?"

She shook her head.

"Do you think he would have done so - if that had indeed been the case?"

She frowned.

"It's difficult to say. Possibly not. Arnold never talked much about people. I told you he was reserved. He wasn't - he was never - a chatty man."

"He was a man who kept his own counsel. Yes, now what is your opinion of Burgess?"

"He's not the kind of man you notice very much. A fairly good servant. Adequate, but not polished."

"What age?"

"About thirty-seven or eight, I should think. He'd been an orderly in the army during the war, but he wasn't a regular soldier."

"How long had he been with Major Rich?"

"Not very long. About a year and a half, I think."

"You never noticed anything odd about his manner towards your husband?"

"We weren't there so very often. No, I noticed nothing at all."

"Tell me now about the events of that evening. What time were you invited?"

"Eight-fifteen for half past."

"And just what kind of a party was it to be?"

"Well, there would be drinks, and a kind of buffet supper - usually a very good one. Foie gras and hot toast. Smoked salmon. Sometimes there was a hot rice dish - Charles had a special recipe he'd got in the Near East - but that was more for winter. Then we used to have music - Charles had got a very good stereophonic gramophone. Both my husband and Jock McLaren were very fond of classical records. And we had dance music - the Spences were very keen dancers. It was that sort of thing - a quiet informal evening. Charles was a very good host."

"And this particular evening - it was like other evenings there? You noticed nothing unusual - nothing out of place?"

"Out of place?" she frowned for a moment. "When you said that I - no, it's gone. There was something -"

She shook her head again. "No. To answer your question, there was nothing unusual at all about that evening. We enjoyed ourselves. Everybody seemed relaxed and happy." She shivered. "And to think that all the time -"

Poirot held up a quick hand.

"Do not think. This business that took your husband to Scotland, how much do you know about that?"

"Not very much. There was some dispute over the restrictions on selling a piece of land which belonged to my husband. The sale had apparently gone through and then some sudden snag turned up."

"What did your husband tell you exactly?"

"He came in with a telegram in his hand. As far as I remember, he said, 'This is most annoying. I shall have to take the night mail to Edinburgh and see Johnston first thing tomorrow morning. Too bad, when one thought the thing was going through smoothly at last.' Then he said, 'Shall I ring up Jock and get him to call for you?' and I said, 'Nonsense, I'll just take a taxi,' and he said that Jock or the Spences would see me home. I said did he want anything packed and he said he'd just throw a few things into a bag, and have a quick snack at the club, before catching the train. Then he went off and - and that's the last time I saw him."

Her voice broke a little on the last words.

Poirot looked at her very hard.

"Did he show you the telegram?"

"No."

"A pity."