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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The case Poirot and I came across at Stanwood Manor was a most remarkable one, not only with regards to the investigation and the exceptional truth that was revealed in its wake, but also in a more personal respect. During the course of events, I have not only learnt much about Poirot, who—although we consider each other good friends—still likes to uphold an enigma about many aspects of his personality even to me, but, moreover, I experienced a revelation or two about myself. The latter is, naturally, much harder to admit, for a man likes to believe he knows himself; however, I will try to tell the whole affair as truthfully as lies in my capacity.

The story begins on a beautiful day in late August when Poirot and I sat together over breakfast in our joint sitting-room. The interim solution of our sharing rooms had turned out to be rather a pleasant arrangement, and over time, without ever talking about it, both Poirot and I had stopped thinking about moving out in the immediate future. We had easily got used to each other's quirks and had settled into a daily routine which some compared to the life of a long-married couple, an idea which, at the time, I found nothing more than amusing. In retrospect, I can only hope that those remarks were as innocent as I had perceived them to be—though I will not digress by jumping to the end of my narrative. Instead, I will tell the events in the exact order in which they happened.

It had become part of said daily routine that Poirot, always the lark to my owl, would leaf through the mail while I was still sipping a little drowsily at my tea; that day in August was no exception.

"Ah, quelle joie!" Poirot exclaimed suddenly and held up an envelope. I looked up at him—observing how he opened it neatly, unfolded the letter contained within, and started to read. His delighted expression widened into a smile as his eyes darted over the words, and I could not help smiling myself despite the early hour of the morning. Seeing my friend in such high spirits made for a good start to the day, even for me.

"How do you feel about a holiday, mon ami?" Poirot finally asked.

"A holiday?" I enquired. "What is the occasion?"

Poirot waved the letter cheerfully in the air. "The occasion," he said, "is the forty-seventh birthday of my dear friend Edna Stanwood. She has invited me to stay at Stanwood Manor in September." There was an amorous twinkle in his eyes, and even though it had nothing to do with me it left me slightly rattled.

"Oh. Well, I'm very pleased for you," I said, not entirely truthful, and averted my gaze. I had mistaken Poirot's initial question to mean a holiday for the two of us together, and although I was inwardly scolding myself for believing Poirot would invite me on a trip that was anything other than professional, I still felt a little disappointed.

Poirot looked at me for a few seconds. Then he said, "Does that mean you will not come with me?"

I merely blinked at him. Surely he would not want me around if he and his dear friend...?

"Mon cher Hastings, sometimes I wonder if you leave your brain in your bed when you get up, and when you will be so inclined as to go fetch it?" Poirot chuckled. "I was hoping you would accompany me. Madame Stanwood positively encourages me to bring company."

Feeling at the same time both stupid for having prematurely jumped to conclusions, as I was prone to do, and delighted at Poirot's invitation, I laughed. "Well, in that case, I'd love to go on holiday with you." As an afterthought, I added, "Though I hope I won't be a disappointment to your friend. I can imagine it was rather the female variant of company she had in mind. Most women nowadays seem to have made it their business to play matchmaker for every single man older than twenty-five."

"Oh, I can assure you, Madame Stanwood is not an ordinary woman. Au contraire!"

Poirot meticulously folded the letter he still held in his hand, slipped it back into the envelope and placed it on the table; and, with that, the matter was settled.

Over the course of the following days, we prepared for our short stay at Stanwood Manor. Poirot was in good humour, almost excited, and I found his cheerfulness to be rather contagious. It did not take much reasoning to deduce that Poirot was very fond of Edna Stanwood, a fact which sparked my curiosity, for there were not many women I knew who had this effect on my friend. In fact, I could not remember that he had ever mentioned a woman with whom he had been particularly close. Yet the name Edna Stanwood sounded vaguely familiar, and I wondered where I had heard it before.

The remainder of August passed quickly, and the second week of September found Poirot and me seated in a train heading out of London in the direction of Winchester.

"I say, Poirot, this Mrs Stanwood of yours, who is she? How long have you known each other?" I asked when we had left the last houses of London behind.

"You might have heard of her," Poirot answered. "She is a doctor and well-established at the Royal Society. She directed a few exploring expeditions in her younger days, too."

"Oh!" I exclaimed, surprised. "Why yes, the name did sound familiar to me; I just couldn't place it."

Ever since the first mention of Edna Stanwood, an image of her had started to develop in my mind. Partly because of my own taste in women, partly because Poirot was an old-fashioned gentleman in many aspects, my idea of a woman who was in Poirot's good graces inclined to the more conservative and modest specimen of the fair sex. I certainly had not anticipated a successful scientist who must have stood up to many a man and many a social convention to reach her current position.

Poirot watched me with a mixture of scrutiny and amusement, and, like so often before, I had the feeling he knew exactly what I was thinking.

"It is as I told you," he said, "she is not an ordinary woman. I met her during one of my first cases here in England. Her knowledge in medicine was of the most helpful to me, and we soon became good friends. We have been writing to each other ever since, and met on some occasions, although not as often as I would have liked. Madame Stanwood is a busy woman."

"And you are a busy man," I remarked.

"C'est vrai," Poirot admitted. "I do not ask for them, but somehow the cases, they always seem to find Poirot."

The little man sighed dramatically, then fell silent. After a few minutes, he said thoughtfully, "I wonder what her latest research project is. I have always tried to keep up with her work, and often she could help me with a question that had arisen during one of my investigations. She has not published anything in quite a while now."

When we arrived at Winchester station, Mrs Stanwood’s car was already waiting for us. Our route quickly brought us out of town and into the country, where we encountered only a few lonely houses. The afternoon sun caught in the yellows, oranges and browns of the autumn trees bordering the road, a sight so lovely and peaceful that I felt all the more content for having been invited on this trip. I let my eyes wander to get a first glimpse of the Stanwood estate through the branches of trees flying by, and I was impressed by its size and the neat state in which it was kept. We passed wide pastures, on some of which horses grazed, and finally reached a group of three buildings—the spacious main building with a stable to its left, and a barn a small distance away.

Not long after the car had stopped in front of the main entrance, a boy of about twenty came running down the steps.

"Mrs Stanwood is waiting for you," he said with a perfect bow and gestured towards the building.

Poirot thanked the boy, who was already busying himself with our luggage, and we turned to climb the few steps leading up to the door.

Barely inside, we were greeted with a delighted little cry. "My dear Monsieur Poirot!"

"Madame Stanwood, ma chère!" Poirot answered with equal pleasure.

Edna Stanwood was a tall, slender woman. Her long dark hair, laced with silver strands, was gathered in an artistic knot at the back of her head. Her face was not one I could describe as conventionally beautiful—her nose was a little too long, her mouth a little too wide, and there was a line between her brows which was too deep even for a woman her age—but still it held something that fascinated the eye. I was not sure whether it was her elegant, high cheekbones, the delicate curve of her upper lip, or her intense brown eyes that intrigued me so; perhaps it was a barely noticeable hint of an interesting personality displayed in her features.

Poirot took Mrs Stanwood's hand and gallantly raised it to his lips. Mrs Stanwood laughed.

"Monsieur Poirot, ever the perfect gentleman! I'm glad you haven't changed a bit!"

Then she pulled him close and kissed him gently on the cheeks.

"And you look beautiful as always," Poirot said.

"Ah, don't flatter me; we both know that's not true," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and turned towards me. Before Poirot had the chance to introduce us, she asked, "Captain Hastings, I presume?"

I nodded and we shook hands; her grip was warm and firm.

"I've heard much about you." Mrs Stanwood smiled.

"Have you indeed?" I asked, pleasantly surprised. I threw a sidelong glance towards Poirot, who looked a little sheepish and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"Well, it's nearly time for dinner already," our hostess remarked. "What do you think of having Ashley," she nodded towards the boy who had greeted us outside and was carrying our luggage, "show you to your rooms, and meeting in the dining room at seven o'clock? You can then meet the rest of the family."

"Formidable!" Poirot exclaimed.

Once in my room, I swiftly unpacked my suitcase and made quick work of dressing for dinner. Knowing that my friend with his fanatic affection for order and a neat appearance would take much longer than I did, I looked around my room, wondering what to do with the rest of the time before I decided to go down early.

The other guests still seemed to be out, as the house was quiet except for the sound of a clock chiming half past the hour. I idly strolled into the sitting-room, and only after I was halfway across the room did I notice that a group of armchairs in the far corner was already occupied–by a newspaper. I am not referring to the newspapers lying on the coffee table, no, I mean the newspaper that was, there is no other word to describe the sight, sitting in one of the chairs, with a pair of trouser-clad legs poking out beneath it.

The person behind the newspaper did not seem to have heard me, so I cleared my throat audibly. Instantaneously, the sheet slid down, and the face of a man, somewhere in his fifties and with greying hair, appeared.

"Good evening," I said when I approached the man.

"If you say so," he grumbled and looked me over with what could only be described as bored arrogance.

I tried not to be taken aback and introduced myself as pleasantly as I could but his eyes had already darted back towards the article he had been reading.

"Julius Ashford," was the only thing he said by way of introduction before he disappeared behind the sheet once more, as if the matter were settled.

I stood indecisively for a few seconds, then sat down in an empty chair across from Mr Ashford. My eyes fell on the newspaper still lying on the table.

"May I?" I asked and picked up the topmost section.

Mr Ashford, from behind his sheet, gave a noise I interpreted as an affirmative, and so I settled into a comfortable position and began reading. Before I could finish the first page, however, the front door clattered and the hall filled with chatter and laughter. A female voice called out, "Father!", and steps approached the sitting-room. I got up, happy to meet the other guests of the house and hoping for some company more talkative than Mr Ashford.

"Father, we have..."

A girl, probably not much older than twenty, came flying in and stopped in her tracks when she saw me. "Oh!" she exclaimed, breathlessly.

She was a real beauty. Blond, wavy hair framed a perfect face with dark blue eyes, and her cheeks and lips were flushed in the most attractive way. Her figure was slender but womanly, belying the childish excitement with which she had stormed into the room.

The young girl smiled at me, then she threw an expectant look at Mr Ashford. From the way she was trying to discreetly get his attention, I wondered if he was her father, and if it was him she was searching for. When it was clear that Mr Ashford showed no intention of introducing us and Emily started to fidget in embarrassment, I boldly stepped forward, holding out my hand towards her.

"Good evening. My name is Captain Arthur Hastings. And you are..."

"I'm Emily Ashford," she replied with relief. "I see you have already met my father?"

So it was true! Though I found it hard to believe that such an unpleasant man could be father to such a divine creature as Emily Ashford, there she was, smiling affectionately towards Mr Ashford, obviously used to his cranky demeanour.

The rest of Emily's company poured through the door, and I was quickly introduced to Mrs Margaret Ashford, mother of Emily and sister of Mrs Stanwood, and to James Dillingham, Mrs Stanwood's nephew. Mrs Ashford had red hair, eyes as blue as her daughter's, and the same long nose and wide mouth as her sister—but, lacking Mrs Stanwood's charisma, the awkwardness of her face was much more noticeable despite her younger age.

Looking at James, I realised that the nose seemed to be a family trait; while it looked too long on the women's faces, however, it suited the male face perfectly, and combined with his dark hair and athletic figure, James was a handsome man.

He greeted me warmly.

"Welcome to the house. I live with Edna." A small smile flashed across his face. "At least during the time I don't have courses to attend."

"Oh, do you go to university?" I asked.

"I’m reading law. I would love to be a solicitor one day."

I immediately liked James. The young man had an honest air about him and he was reserved in a pleasant way; I could picture him very well as a solicitor. During our exchange, one of the servants brought in lemonade, of which I gratefully accepted a glass. I remained in James’ company, and while I enjoyed our conversation, I couldn’t help throwing admiring glances at Emily every so often. She had sat down next to her father, recounting to him the details of her day, and it was the first time—and also the last time, I might add—that I saw Mr Ashford smiling, if only briefly.

The time passed quickly, and just when our little group was moving into the dining room Poirot came down the stairs, punctual to the second. With not a little affection, I noticed the attention his entrance provoked among the other guests. In their defence, I must say that Poirot was, as always, rather an extraordinary sight. He was small, hardly more than five feet, four inches, but moved with natural dignity. The most remarkable features of his egg-shaped head were the stiff military moustache and the intense green eyes. His apparel was neat to perfection, a little quaint and, frankly, dandified. Most people who did not know Poirot tended to underestimate him, and I was already looking forward to the surprised expressions my friend would undoubtedly cause when he would tell bits and pieces from his famous cases.

There were a few more introductions made and hands shaken before we finally settled down at the long dinner table. The meal was delicious—although I could almost hear in my head how Poirot would criticise the food and English cuisine in general if asked his opinion—the atmosphere was friendly, and the formal conversation at the dinner table soon evolved into more lively debate when we moved into the drawing room. Mrs Stanwood, after she was satisfied that all her guests were content and in good humour, allowed herself to sit down on the settee with Poirot, and once in a while I heard her laughter ripple through the room. I found myself in a conversation with James, discussing some aspects of law I had learnt about from working with Poirot but of which I wanted to acquire a deeper understanding.

It was without doubt a pleasant evening, but the longer we sat together, the more I got the impression that something was peculiar about the situation. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, however, and promised myself to be watchful. To the occasional reader, such behaviour might appear overly suspicious, but after years of solving cases with Poirot I have made it a habit to notice even the smallest details—although I have to admit that I am nowhere as good at it as the old man himself. Especially when it comes to drawing the right conclusions from one's observations I am not able to hold a candle to him.

Thus, try as much as I might, at the end of the evening I was none the wiser. Maybe Mrs Ashford was a bit too cheerful, James a bit too quiet, Emily a bit too occupied at being lovely, and Mr Ashford a bit too grumpy, but since I hardly knew them I could not be sure about what exactly it was that was unusual. I told Poirot about my observations as soon as we were alone, and he beamed at me proudly.

"Ah, you have noticed it too!"

"I feel rather paranoid for brooding over strangers when there isn't even a case at hand," I admitted.

"But a detective, he can never be paranoid enough!" Poirot exclaimed.

I smiled. After a while, I said, "Your friend is a remarkable woman."

"Yes, she is. So, I take it you like her? Or did you only have eyes for your Mademoiselle Emily?"

I blushed. There was little Poirot would not notice, even when his attention seemed to be focused elsewhere. Moreover, he knew me far too well, so although I had not spent much time with Emily he had still observed that I was fascinated by her. I was not willing to talk about the matter, however, so I ignored his second question and simply said, "Yes, I do like Mrs Stanwood."

"That is good," he said, and I could not help wondering why he would want to seek my approval. Unless... That amorous spark which I had thought I had seen in Poirot when he had received the invitation, and which I had dismissed as a misinterpretation, now came back to me.

"Is there a Mister Stanwood?" I asked.

"No, not anymore. He died very young. Long before I met Mrs Stanwood."

"Ah," I said, suddenly at a loss for words. Here was Poirot, and a lady he obviously adored, who seemed to return his feelings, who was available and very suitable for my friend, and I—I was shocked at the realisation. I knew I should be happy for him, but I was not.

"Mon ami," Poirot said, "are you not well?"

"Why, yes, I'm fine. A little tired, that's all," I lied.

Poirot looked at me, eyebrows raised. I got up and excused myself, not able to bear his piercing gaze any longer, knowing all too well how easily he could see through my lies and right into my soul.

I fled into my own room, where, still slightly out of breath, I tried to gather my thoughts. Of course Poirot would still be my friend even if there was a woman in his life, so why was I upset? We would still solve cases together. We would not be living together anymore, but I had not expected to share rooms with him forever, had I? I was pursuing marriage myself, and God knew I had shown interest in many a woman in my life, leaving Poirot in a situation similar to the one in which I now found myself. I was being unfair towards my friend, having left him in the sitting-room with not even a word. I was being irrational over nothing, I was well aware of that, so why could I not help feeling ... what exactly? Disappointed? Betrayed even? I was not sure.

When I finally prepared for bed and drew the curtains, it was already late and I was so tired that the fact that a boy was running across the lawn away from the house in the middle of the night did not strike me as odd until much later.

Chapter Text

The next morning, my jealous thoughts—for that was what they were, even if I did not realise that at the time—were nearly forgotten. I had slept longer than I had planned, which was not a surprise seeing how late I had gone to bed, and had to hurry in order to be in time for breakfast.

Poirot's disapproving gaze across the table told me that I had been careless with my appearance—probably my collar was in disorder or my tie a little askew. For him, neatness and order were of the utmost importance, and seeing clothes and things disarranged, even when they were not his own, pained him. In front of the other guests he kept silent, but I could see how his fingers twitched to tug the offending part of clothing into place whenever his eyes fell upon me. I promised silently to have a look in the mirror as soon as we had finished breakfast.

"I fancy I will go for a ride," James announced. "The horses could do with the exercise."

"Oh, Emily dear!" Mrs Ashford said sweetly. "Why don't you accompany James?"

"Well, actually I was thinking of taking the long route through the woods, which isn't exactly suitable for a lady," James said. The moment the words were out of his mouth, however, he seemed to be shocked at himself and looked genuinely uncomfortable.

To make things worse, Emily shot James a look I could not place and opened her mouth, but then she thought better of it and pressed her lips with a muffled snort.

"But if you want to come with me," James hastened to add, "I could always change my plans, of course."

"No, no, it's fine," Emily replied coolly.

"Are you sure?"

Emily nodded emphatically.

"In that case," I intervened, "would you care to show me the grounds, Miss Emily?"

Several pairs of eyes suddenly rested upon me. Poirot's were amused, James' relieved, wile Mrs Ashford looked at me with newly raised interest, and Emily just smiled at me.

"Why not?" she said.

It was a perfect day for taking a walk about the estate. The air was unusually warm for September, but not too hot, with a gentle breeze rustling through the withering leaves. I offered Emily my arm, and we followed one of the paths through the woodland.

"I hope I didn't intervene with your mother's plans for you and James," I said.

"Oh, are her intentions so obvious?" Emily rolled her eyes. "She is convinced that James is the perfect match for me. He comes from a respected family, he has inherited a great deal from his father, he is going to be a solicitor, and he is the nicest gentleman there is."

Feeling her reluctance, I prodded, "But?"

"I don't love him, and never will. He is so ... boring and old-fashioned!"

"I'm afraid I have been called old-fashioned myself, so you might not be much better off with me," I said truthfully. "And I'm not sure how exciting I am, either."

She looked at me and laughed. "Well, for a start, your friend is a detective. That is rather unusual."

"He is rather unusual."

It was quite advantageous having a famous detective as a friend, and I have to admit I have sometimes told about his cases to fascinate one woman or another, and a few times I might even have exaggerated my own importance in solving those crimes. Since Emily had raised the topic herself, I gladly jumped at the opportunity and told her about the 'Western Star', a very beautiful diamond Poirot and I had helped to return to its rightful owner.

Emily was an agreeable listener, and I was just warming to my role as narrator when we saw James riding across the fields in the distance. He was accompanied by Ashley, the servant, both of them riding their horses in a perfect canter. Emily watched them wistfully.

"He is beautiful, isn't he?" she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"James' stallion. He is wonderful."

"Oh!" I observed the dark bay horse for a few seconds. "Yes, you are right."

"I wish James would let me ride him."

At just that moment, the stallion spooked at the sight of a pheasant flying up, and burst into a fast gallop. It took some time for James to get him back under control.

"Well, I don't know, he looks jolly boisterous."

Emily threw me a sidelong glance, and we continued our walk in silence.

When we returned to the house, two more guests had arrived. Violet Rowley, a cousin of Mrs Stanwood and about her age, was a very restless and very thin person. We had barely shaken hands and exchanged the usual pleasantries when she had already turned around and focused her attention on something else. Oscar Rowley, her husband, a stout man with thin hair and a moustache, was much calmer but his small eyes were constantly darting to and fro. When I mentioned that I had come here with Poirot, he looked at me with interest.

"Hercule Poirot, the detective?"

"Why yes," I answered, surprised. "Do you know him?"

"I have heard a great deal about him. Tell me, how is it to work with him? Where is he?" He craned his neck to glimpse into the adjacent rooms.

"I don't know where he is right now. Somewhere in the house, I suppose."

"It was the Havering case, wasn't it, that Mr Poirot solved without even being at the scene of the crime? Were you with him on the case?"

"Yes," I said, "I had taken over investigations while he was ill."

"Oh, yes, I remember reading about it in the papers although the articles were very brief. Please tell me all about the affair! It was Mr Havering himself who asked for your services, wasn't it?"

I have already mentioned that I usually do not mind recounting our cases, on the contrary. However, with Mr Rowley I felt more like being interrogated than telling a story. He was very obtrusive, asking me about so many details that in the end I was glad when we ran into Poirot and he turned his attention towards my friend.

"Mr Poirot, Captain Hastings and I were just talking about the Havering case. Is it true that the murderer was never convicted? And how did you do it, solving the crime while being ill at home?"

Poirot puffed his chest. "Oh, nothing easier than that! Of course, the police with all their scientific fadaise, they were in the dark. But Poirot knew from the start!" He tapped his forefinger against his temple. "I know how to employ my little grey cells." He bestowed Mr Rowley with an interested look. "So, tell me, Monsieur Rowley, do you work for the police?"

"Ah, no. I run a trading company, coffee and cocoa mostly. Rather boring compared to your work, I suppose."

Poirot raised an eyebrow at him. "That is most interesting. This case, it is not very widely known among the public."

"Well, I'm just very interested in such things," Mr Rowley replied, a little embarrassed. "I read a lot of crime stories, you know."

"Ah, but crime stories, they are not the reality! I do not read them, they annoy me. All these fictional detectives—Pah!—these persons with their measuring tapes, their magnifying glasses, all this talk of the big evil..."

Poirot had talked himself into a perfect little rage, and his moustache quivered. Mr Rowley was not intimidated, though; he leaned in conspiratorially and said, "Then tell me, Mr Poirot, what is real crime like? What are your methods?"

It seemed that Mr Rowley knew how to flatter Poirot's ego, for Poirot smiled magnanimously at him and started an elaborate analysis of the Havering case. Since I already knew the story, and since I had often enough heard Poirot delightfully point out all the times when the police—and I—had not seen the truth despite being on the ground, and how he had deduced everything from a distance, I turned and left him and Mr Rowley to themselves. I still did not like Mr Rowley's unusual interest in crime, so I promised myself to keep an eye on him, especially when I feared that Poirot's judgement regarding Mr Rowley might be biased. Normally, Poirot was very astute and could see through strangers and friends alike, but pride was one of his little weaknesses.

Even today I do not know if I was being overly possessive about Poirot, or if my mind was unconsciously set out to investigate even before Poirot and I actually had a case.

The birthday party was held that afternoon. I was rather surprised that, next to the members of the family I had already met, there were only two close friends of Mrs Stanwood present. I had expected more guests to be invited and was inclined to feel like an intruder to a private party, but Mrs Stanwood was such a lovely hostess that I felt welcomed all the same.

"So, how long have you known Monsieur Poirot?" she asked me over a glass of lemonade.

"I met him in Belgium, when he was still with the Belgian police," I answered. "He was right in the middle of a case..."

"He seems to be in the middle of a case most of the time," Mrs Stanwood laughed.

"Yes, rather." I smiled and searched the room for my friend, who was engaged in a conversation with Doctor Charles Lewiston, one of Mrs Stanwood's friends. "The second time we met, here in England, we had a case the very next day. It is as if we can hardly go anywhere without stumbling into some mystery or other, and of course, if we stay at home, the clients know where to find us. Not that I'm complaining, mind!" On the contrary, the busy, exciting detective work suited me as much as it did Poirot.

Mrs Stanwood watched me intensely. "I'm glad he has you."

For some reason, her unexpected statement, or perhaps the grave way she said it, made me feel uneasy, and I searched frantically for another topic to talk about.

"I heard you have been to Africa?" I finally said.

"Oh yes, several times, actually. It was back in the days when I worked in epidemiology. Our focus was on yellow fever. The first expedition was organised by my husband. We worked so long to prepare everything, but, in the end, nothing can prepare for such a trip." She shook her head. "It was hard, but worth it. After my husband died, I took over and led another two expeditions."

"That must have been quite a task..." I began, but then stopped.

"For a woman?" she finished for me.

I nodded ruefully, sensing that my train of thought might not sit well with her.

"Well, I am told that a lot. It's not so much the work itself that makes it hard for a woman, but the men. Oh, I could tell you a lot about how idiotic people can be, but I won't, not tonight."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

Mrs Stanwood waved a hand dismissively. "It's all right."

Her glance went back to Poirot and Doctor Lewiston, and her features softened. Next to Lewiston, who was a very tall man, Poirot looked even smaller than usual. When Poirot made a flamboyant gesture towards him and, despite the height difference, managed to look down his nose at the flabbergasted man, Mrs Stanwood smiled affectionately.

I tore my eyes away from the strange pair and turned my attention back towards Mrs Stanwood.

"Well. What are you working on now?" I asked.

"Nothing as spectacular as the expeditions to Africa, I fear. Nothing as successful, either." A hint of a shadow passed over her face, but it was gone as fast as it had appeared, and she flashed me another of her wide-mouthed smiles.

"Problems?" I asked nonetheless.

"Just science. Dead ends are part of it."

The better part of the evening I spent dancing with Emily. In her evening dress, she looked even more beautiful than usual, and she was a very good dancer, too. Besides dancing, however, her interest in me seemed to have diminished; probably she had decided that I was as boring and old-fashioned as James. Oddly enough, I did not care much.

The feeling that something was not quite right I had had at dinner the previous night returned, and still I did not know what to make of it. I searched for Poirot to ask him his opinion, but he was so engrossed in a conversation with Mrs Stanwood that I did not want to disturb him. I stood around foolishly for a while, thinking of how I would have liked to be alone with him speculating about people, enjoying his astute observations and brilliant deductions, or how I would have liked just to share a drink with him in silence, if nothing else. Fortunately, I realised how ridiculous my wishes were; after all, it was only twenty-four hours since we had arrived and since I had had Poirot all to myself, so I searched for something else with which to occupy myself.

My eyes fell upon Mr Ashford, who sat alone in his favourite armchair in a remote corner of the room. He had finished his newspaper a while ago, and now he stared dourly into his drink. I acquired a drink of my own and went over to him.

"You seem to be the only one not enjoying yourself," I remarked.

"I'm the only one not pretending to enjoy myself," he answered drily.

"Really? What makes you say such a thing?"

"No-one in our family likes Edna very much."

I was surprised. "Why is that?" I asked.

"Oh, listing all the reasons would require me to use more words than I’ve said all week."

I waited for him to continue, but he seemed to have finished. I did not enquire any further, but wondered if he could be right, and if so whether it could explain the strange feeling I had about the atmosphere among the guests.

It was already very late when I was finally able to talk to Poirot alone. I had just danced a few rounds with Mrs Rowley, who was much calmer and more enjoyable than when we were introduced to each other, and was going to take a rest on the settee when I found that it was already occupied by my little friend. He was smoking one of his tiny brown cigarettes with obvious pleasure.

"Ah, Hastings. Asseyez-vous," he said when he spotted me, patting the seat beside him. I obliged and sat down, lighting one of my own cigarettes.

"I have been thinking," Poirot said after a while, and his eyes rested mischievously upon me.

"What about?"

"I have been thinking: what is it always with my friend Hastings and beautiful young women?"

"Mrs Rowley is hardly young," I said.

"Oh, I was not thinking of Madame Rowley, but rather of Mademoiselle Emily, hein?" He looked at me expectantly.

Although his question was nothing but warranted, and although I was absolutely aware of my weakness for beauty, his enquiry annoyed me. I had already settled for myself that I was not interested in Emily in the way Poirot clearly presumed I was, and it was obvious she was not interested in me either.

"What about you and Mrs Stanwood?" I countered. My words came out more coolly than I had intended.

Poirot arched a surprised eyebrow at me. "Do you believe Mrs Stanwood and Hercule Poirot would make a jolie paire?"

Not very eager to discuss the topic any further, I merely shrugged. All my desire of sharing with him my observations of the evening had gone, so I stayed silent. Little did I know how soon Poirot and I would have a case on our hands.

Chapter Text

The next morning, I was awoken early by an impatient knock on the door—it was not my door, though, but that of one of the adjacent rooms.

"Mr Poirot? Mr Poirot, please wake up!" someone called, unmistakably in despair.

Immediately, I leapt out of bed and pulled on my dressing gown. My heart pounded and I had the uneasy feeling that something sensational must have happened. I stepped out into the hall where I could see one of the maids rapping on Poirot's door. Tears were running down her face.

"Un moment! J'arrive, j'arrive!" I could hear Poirot's muffled reply through the door.

When he finally opened the door, tying the belt of his garish silk dressing gown, the maid cried out, "She's dead!"

"Who is dead?" Poirot asked, but the maid was too hysterical to listen.

"You must come! Hurry! You must do something!" Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heels and ran down the hall.

Poirot followed her. In all the time I have known Poirot, and also during the time we had been living together, I had never witnessed him being anything other than neatly dressed and well-groomed; even those few times when he had been ill and had to stay in bed he had always taken care of his appearance as best as he was able to before he had let me, or the doctor, see him. Looking at him now in his pyjamas and dressing gown, with his hair still ruffled from sleep and even his moustache out of order, would on its own be enough for me to perceive the urgency of the situation.

We left the west wing and entered a hall where I suspected the private bedrooms of James and Mrs Stanwood to be. One of the doors stood open, and a small crowd of people had gathered in front of it. Poirot pushed his way through, gently but decidedly. I followed.

The room was in chaotic disarray. Sheets of paper were scattered all over the floor, and under the window was a large puddle of water. The white linen of the bed was covered in dirty stains, still damp. A glass decanter had fallen from the nightstand and had shattered into pieces on the floor. On the rug in front of the washstand lay lifelessly and with open eyes—Mrs Stanwood.

Poirot knelt down beside her and felt her pulse.

"The body, it is already cooling," he muttered.

"I ... am sorry to have woken you," James stuttered and raked a hand through his hair. "But ... I don't know what to do..."

Poirot stood up. "You have done the right thing," he said soothingly. "Have you sent for a docteur?"

"Yes. Doctor Lewiston should be here soon."

"Very good. Who found her?"

"Mary did. The maid." James nodded towards the girl who had awoken Poirot.

Poirot turned towards her. "What happened?"

"Mistress asked to be woken at 6 o'clock, as she does every day. So I knocked at her door this morning. She’s a very light sleeper, mistress is, so I was surprised when she didn't answer. I knocked louder, and finally I opened the door. And there she lay..." Mary sobbed.

Poirot nodded. "I see. Thank you, Mary." Addressing no-one in particular, he added, "Has anyone touched anything?"

"Well, we have touched Edna to see if she's ... you know," James answered. "But other than that, no, I suppose not."

Poirot nodded. "Who has closed the window?"

James raised an eyebrow at him. "Window?"

"The window must have been open tonight."

Mary lowered her head. "I did, sir."

Poirot nodded again. James looked at him sceptically.

"Why are you asking all of this? Do you think Edna has been murdered?"

"I do not know that yet. But from what I have seen so far, it seems most probable that she either had a stroke—or has been poisoned."

Mary gasped and quickly covered her mouth with her hand. James turned white.

"That is, of course, for the doctor to find out," Poirot added.

Although the little man had himself perfectly under control, I knew him well enough to realise that he struggled to keep his composure. In his career, he had seen countless crimes, criminals and motives, and he was all too familiar with the evil of mankind—but being confronted with the sudden death of someone close must have been hard even for him.

At a loss for what to do, I touched his elbow lightly to comfort him.

It did not take long until Doctor Lewiston arrived. He was not only a close friend of Mrs Stanwood, but also her family doctor. Gravely, he greeted James, Poirot and me before he settled down to examine the body.

"She must have been dead for a few hours. I don't see any outward signs as to explain the cause of death," he said after a while.

"That is my opinion also," said Poirot. "Do you think a stroke to be likely?"

"No. She was..." Lewiston stopped, then started again. "No, she had a very strong heart."

"She shall be examined for poison, then," Poirot announced.

Lewiston nodded his approval. Then he gently closed Mrs Stanwood’s eyes and tucked back a loose strand that had fallen across her forehead, before finally standing up. I believed I saw great grief in his eyes.

Poirot turned towards James. "Is it possible to lock this room? I shall like to examine it thoroughly, but I would prefer to get dressed first. The little grey cells cannot work in order if the body is in such great disorder."

"Of course, Mr Poirot. Mary, can you get the keys?"

"And the spare keys, if you please," Poirot added.

The maid nodded and disappeared.

When all arrangements were made to Poirot's satisfaction, we returned to our rooms to get dressed. James asked us to join him for breakfast before starting the investigation, and Poirot agreed, stating that 'the brain does not work well with an empty stomach'.

The meal was a very depressing affair. Of course, everyone had been informed, so we sat together silently, shocked that just a few hours ago we all had gathered together in this very same room in celebration, unable to fathom that Mrs Stanwood was not going to join us any longer. Emily's eyes were red, and every now and then her hand reached up to brush away a silent tear. James was still unnaturally pale, and everyone else stared bleakly at their plates. Only Mr Ashford looked the same as always, but then I could hardly imagine how he could be more gloomy than he usually was.

The first to speak at the table was Mr Rowley. "Is it true you suspect her to be poisoned? Do you think someone killed her?" he asked Poirot.

"At the moment, I do not believe anything. I would like to gather more information first," Poirot answered, and bestowed Mr Rowley with an intense stare.

"Ah, yes," Mr Rowley said, returning his attention to his meal.

"However," Poirot added, "I would like everyone to stay until we know more. If that is not a problem, Monsieur James?"

"I suppose not," James said helplessly, obviously unprepared for being addressed as the master of the house.

"Tell me, Hastings, what do you see?" Poirot asked when we stood once more at the door of Edna Stanwood's bedroom.

I let my gaze wander across the place.

"There is a lot of water on the floor next to the window. And the linen of the bed is wet, too. Maybe the window had been left open, and the rain came in?"

"Très bien!" said Poirot. "There was quite a storm last night. It woke me up. Of course," he added as he saw my look of surprise, "you would not hear it, famous sleeper that you are."

I shrugged, then a thought struck me. "That would explain the mess in the room!" I ejaculated. "The papers might have been blown about by the wind."

"And the decanter, she might also be blown down by the wind," Poirot said.

"Impossible. It’s far too heavy!"

"Ta, ta, ta," Poirot chided. "Think more carefully!"

I tried, but I really could not imagine how the wind, regardless of how strong a storm there was, could cause a heavy glass decanter to fall down.

"I don't know," I admitted.

"The window was open, yes?"

"Of course the window was... Oh!" I exclaimed. "The window swings over the nightstand!"

Poirot nodded encouragingly, and I bent down to examine the height of the nightstand and of the window.

"So when the window opened too far, it knocked the decanter down. The glass, which is smaller, remained on the table," I finished proudly.

"Voilà!" said Poirot and gingerly stepped into the room. He looked closely at the papers strewn across the floor, and I followed his example. Most of the sheets were blank. Some of them contained hastily scribbled notes which must have been related to Mrs Stanwood's work—I recognised chemical formulae and medical terms without understanding their meaning. On a yellowed sheet with worn edges stood in fading ink:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I recognised it as the last verse of Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken'. Another piece of paper contained a list of errands scribbled down, and names of the servants assigned them. There was also a more expensive sheet of paper, which was inscribed in energetic handwriting:

My dearest,

receive an early birthday present.

Yours,
Ch.

On the nightstand, next to the glass, lay a book, its cover stained and the pages wavy from being exposed to the incoming rain. The fringe of a leathery bookmark jutted out from it, marking a page in the middle of the book. I looked at the title: it was The Body in the Sewer by Carso, a crime novel of which I knew only that it had caused quite a scandal on its publication a year ago, due to its very detailed description of an exceptionally gruesome murder.

While I was still examining the book, Poirot had lowered himself on his hands and knees and was now looking closely at the broken fragments of the decanter. He sniffed at them and at the wet floor surrounding the debris, and shook his head. Then he got up again and sniffed also at the glass on the nightstand, which was empty.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Nothing," Poirot said, disappointed.

He went over to Mrs Stanwood's washstand and looked at the toiletries.

"One burnt-down candle," he remarked, "and two tubes of toothpaste. Curious..."

"One is empty, and the other one full," I said. "Surely she had just switched to a new tube."

"Yes," Poirot said thoughtfully.

Armed with a handkerchief, he went carefully through the drawers of the washstand. Then he planted himself on the rug, in exactly the same spot where Mrs Stanwood's body had been discovered, and looked about. Finally, he went to the window and glanced outside.

He announced, "Come, mon ami, I have seen enough. I want to go outside!"

Reluctantly, I followed the little man. I was concerned for him; I did not like the fact that he felt obliged to investigate the death of a close friend. Since the early morning he had shown no sign of shock or grief, but I knew that he could mask his feelings very well if he chose to do so. Or perhaps the investigation was his way to keep his mind occupied, to block out what had happened—was he not a little too eager to believe in a crime when it was probably just a natural death, or suicide? Should he not, this once, at least wait for the police?

Outside it was still wet, but the rain we had had the previous night had stopped. We went around the house towards the east wing, carefully sidestepping several puddles. While I was idly wondering what we were searching for, Poirot stopped so suddenly in his tracks that I nearly bumped into him.

"This must be her window," he said and pointed up. "Do you see the thick ivy branches? Very convenient."

"There's ivy all over the house," I remarked.

My friend nodded reflectively. "Alas, after the rain tonight, we will not find any footprints."

"Poirot..." I said, "We don't know the cause of death yet. It might have been natural."

"It might have been," Poirot answered.

"And if it was poison, she might have taken it willingly..."

Poirot looked at me, his green eyes inscrutable. "She might have. But if she did, where is the container she kept the poison in?"

I sighed. I feared that he was trying desperately to construct a case and that, if it turned out not to be a case at all, he would be hurt all the more. "Poirot..." I said softly.

He stopped me with an impatient wave of his hand. "I know what you are thinking. But I assure you that I merely want to collect the facts before it is too late."

I simply shrugged, knowing full well how stubborn my friend could be.

"Now, Hastings, can we go back inside?" Poirot continued, and his voice held that familiar hint of irony that he seemed to reserve especially for those times when I was being extraordinarily dense. "My feet are getting wet! I shall catch the cold!"

I decided that, when Poirot had set his mind on something, there was not much I could do about it, so I followed him wordlessly back inside. Like a faithful dog to its master, I would keep quiet and be ready to support him when he needed me.

Two days passed in which we could do nothing more than to wait for the post-mortem. We spent the meals together with the family, the atmosphere equally awkward as it had been on the first breakfast without Mrs Stanwood, but in between, most of the guests kept to themselves. Finally, Doctor Lewiston visited, accompanied by two policemen. We were all summoned to the sitting-room, and when we had settled down Lewiston spoke.

"Mrs Stanwood did not die of natural causes. In her blood we found a remarkable level of opium..."

Several people gasped, and Mrs Rowley next to me clasped a trembling hand to her chest.

"... which, however, was not lethal. Mr Stanwood's death was undoubtedly caused by another poison: cyanide."

There was an uncomfortable silence until one of the policemen, who introduced himself as Inspector Dickinson, took over.

"We have here a likely case of suicide. Before we know for sure, however, we will be investigating in all directions. I request you all to stay until the case is settled; we will be talking to all of you and taking fingerprints. If there is anyone who needs to leave urgently, tell me."

He looked about and waited for questions. When there were none, he said, "Mr Poirot, may I have a word with you?"

Poirot and I got up and followed the policemen outside.

"I understand you have already taken a look at the situation?" Inspector Dickinson asked.

Poirot nodded.

"What do you think?"

"I do not believe it was suicide," Poirot said. "I did not find a container for the poison. In any case, can you check the shattered decanter and the water glass for cyanide?"

"Certainly. I hope you were careful enough not to destroy any clues or fingerprints at the scene of the crime." It was obvious that Dickinson was not too pleased about Poirot's interference.

Poirot straightened, managing to look down his nose at Dickinson despite being considerably smaller than the Inspector. "Believe me, Inspector, Hercule Poirot knows his profession," he said stiffly.

"Good, good," Dickinson grumbled, before stalking off to examine Mrs Stanwood's room.

The first person to be interviewed was Doctor Lewiston; he had asked to be allowed to leave as soon as possible to be able to return to his patients.

"You were at the birthday party on Saturday?" Inspector Dickinson asked.

"Yes," Lewiston answered.

"You were a close friend of Mrs Stanwood?"

"Yes, I suppose you can say that."

There was an undertone in Lewiston's voice I could not quite place.

"What do you think happened?" Dickinson continued.

"I believe it was suicide."

Poirot interrupted. "Was Mrs Stanwood likely to commit suicide under normal circumstances?"

Lewiston hesitated. Then he admitted, "No."

"So, were there any problems? Was she in trouble?" Poirot continued.

"Not that I know of."

"Was she in good health?"

Lewiston held Poirot's gaze for a few seconds before he answered, "Yes, her health left nothing to be desired."

"I see," said Poirot, satisfied.

"Is there anything else you remember that might be of importance?" Dickinson asked. "Did anything peculiar happen at the party?"

Lewiston shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"If it wasn't suicide, could you imagine who might have wanted to kill her?"

"I don't know her family very well. She didn't see them very often. Except James, who lives here, but he would never murder her."

"Thank you, Doctor Lewiston. We might contact you again, but for now you may leave."

When Lewiston said his farewells and left the room, Dickinson turned towards his sergeant.

"Is Mrs Stanwood's solicitor here yet?"

"Mr Brown, yes, sir, he’s here."

"Good, let him in."

Mr Brown had also been a guest at the birthday party. However, I had not spoken much with him, so I had not known that he was Mrs Stanwood's solicitor. He was an inconspicuous man of average height, in his late forties, wearing spectacles.

"Do you think Mrs Stanwood could have committed suicide? Do you know if she has had any trouble lately?" Dickinson asked.

Mr Brown contemplated the question for a moment. "She was a strong woman. Suicide doesn't seem to be her style," he said finally. "But although we were friends, we were never very close. I suppose there was a lot that she didn't tell me, so in the end maybe there was something that troubled her so much that she did indeed commit suicide."

"Can you imagine who might have wanted to kill her, if it wasn't suicide? Did you observe anything out of the ordinary lately, say, at the party?"

"I hardly know the family, and no, nothing sprang to my attention."

"What about James Dillingham?"

"Oh, yes, James! He is a good boy. He’s training to be a solicitor, so we often meet to discuss cases or details of law. He wouldn't harm anyone."

Inspector Dickinson grumbled, dissatisfied, then he continued: "I understand you are also Mrs Stanwood's solicitor."

"Quite so."

"So you have her will?"

Mr Brown dropped his gaze. "No," he said in a low voice.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've had her will in the past, but she withdrew it about six weeks ago."

"And she didn't dictate you a new will?"

"No."

Poirot, who had listened silently so far, leaned forward. "And that did not strike you as odd, Monsieur Brown?"

Brown turned his head towards my friend. "It did. I reminded her of the will, but she didn't want to talk about it."

"Might she have written a will without your presence, one which she kept elsewhere?" Poirot asked.

Brown looked away. "She might. As I said, there were many things she didn't tell me."

"Who benefited from the old will?" Dickinson interjected.

"As far as I remember, she wanted to donate a great deal of her money to the Medical Research Council. The house and another considerable part of the money would fall to James. Some smaller amounts were to go to other members of the family, but I don't remember the details."

"Thank you, Mr Brown, that will be all for now," Inspector Dickinson said. He nodded towards his sergeant who ushered Mr Brown out of the room. "Curious thing about the will," Dickinson mumbled, then he looked at us. "Maybe she has a will here in the house? There was nothing in the bedroom, but maybe in the boudoir or the library?"

We got up and went to the boudoir where a large writing desk stood between a chest of drawers and a rocking chair.

"Parbleu!" cried Poirot all of a sudden. I went over to him and he pointed to the lock of one of the writing desk's drawers which had been forced open. Inside the drawer, only a few sheets of blotting paper and several stacks of empty envelopes were to be found. The servants, when asked, were sure the lock had been in perfect working order on the day of the birthday party. One of the maids, Lucy, even remembered having seen Mrs Stanwood locking that particular drawer in the evening.

The keys for the writing desk were found in Mrs Stanwood’s bedroom, but the remaining drawers held nothing of interest, especially no will. The library proved to be of equal disappointment.

"Well," Inspector Dickinson said, "if she made a will, someone must have signed it. We will ask around and hope someone knows something." He glanced at his watch. "It’s already late. I fancy I will call it a day. Within a few days, we shall have the results for the decanter and the water glass, and also the fingerprints. Hopefully, that will cast some light upon the case. As far as I can see, it still could be suicide, but, I admit, there’s something peculiar about the whole affair."

"Yes," Poirot nodded, "some things, as you English say, do not add up."

After Inspector Dickinson and his sergeant had left, Poirot summoned Mary, asking her to keep an open eye on everyone and everything. He made her promise to inform him about everything out of the ordinary, however minor or unrelated it might seem, or however private it was. Poirot had a way with women that made them trust him implicitly, and it worked perfectly on Mary, for she nodded eagerly.

Sometimes, I envied Poirot for his droll charms.

Chapter Text

Late in the evening it started to rain again, complementing the dreary mood in the house.

Poirot was perched on an armchair in the sitting-room, facing the French windows leading into the garden. At first, I thought he was using his 'little grey cells' and reflecting on the case, as he so often did. He would sit absolutely still like a statue of himself, sometimes for as long as half an hour, his attention turned inwards as if looking into in his own head. When I approached him, however, I saw that he was staring into the grey rain without focus, and it struck me how at odds this behaviour—however ordinary for other people—was with Poirot's usual demeanour. At long last, his private feelings about Mrs Stanwood's death revealed themselves.

It hurt me to see him so vulnerable and I moved to stand next to his chair, having not much more to offer than my presence to comfort him. Without thinking, I laid my hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, and Poirot's bleak reflection in the window curled up the corners of its mouth in an effort to smile.

"Did you love her?" I asked into the silence.

Poirot remained silent for a while, and I was beginning to wonder if he was going to answer at all.

"If you mean," he said finally, "had I been in love with her, then the answer is no. But I admired her and, yes, I loved her."

The rain continued to tap against the windowpanes, and I watched the drops running down the glass in small rivulets. Poirot chuckled. Surprised, I turned my attention towards him.

"If I had met her when I was still young, perhaps I could have got used to the idea of marrying her," Poirot explained.

"What changed?" I enquired, curious. "I’d say you are still quite a catch."

"I got to know myself better," Poirot said, then he sighed. "That is the tragedy of life, is it not? When you are young and have all the choices ahead of you, you do not know anything about life and yourself. When you are finally old and perhaps a little wiser, there are few choices left."

He straightened and patted my hand lightly. "Merci, mon ami," he muttered.

Feeling that the little man was a bit more his old self, I gave his shoulder a last squeeze and let my arm drop to my side.

Poirot chuckled again. "So, Hastings, you think Poirot is good catch, hein?"

I blushed despite myself. "Well, a woman who was to marry you needn't worry that you'd get her household in disorder," I said, trying to fend off my embarrassment with a joke. "And with your cooking, you could seduce anyone," I added, not realising how I was again treading on precarious grounds.

"C'est vrai," Poirot said wistfully. He turned his attention back towards the window and for a brief moment, I felt his gaze rest upon me through the reflection in the glass pane.

It was early in the morning when Inspector Dickinson returned.

"Alas, we didn't find any traces of cyanide, or opium, in the glass or on the fragments of the decanter. However, since there was barely any fluid left in any of them—what little there was could easily have been rainwater—that doesn't mean that the poison was not in the drinking water! As for the fingerprints, we found many prints of Mrs Stanwood and the maids everywhere, naturally. We also found some of Mrs Ashford's prints on the Apollo figurine on the mantelpiece. And, most interestingly: one fingerprint of Doctor Lewiston on the decanter!"

"Indeed, Inspector?" Poirot said in high spirits, which I recognised to mean that he knew more than he let on.

"Yes. I have sent my men for him. I'm curious what he has to say about the matter."

"I think that is not necessary," Poirot remarked drily and nodded towards the window, through which Doctor Lewiston could be seen as he approached the house.

"All the better," Dickinson said.

Lewiston was hardly through the door when Dickinson confronted him with the evidence.

"As I said, I was a friend of Mrs Stanwood and visited regularly. My fingerprints are probably all over the house."

"But we did find this particular print not anywhere in the house, but in Mrs Stanwood's bedroom," Dickinson stated.

"Well, I was in her bedroom when the body was discovered. In fact, the decanter lay next to the body. I might have touched one of the fragments during the investigation."

"You might?" Dickinson glared at him, then he turned towards Poirot. "You were there, Mr Poirot. Did you see what he did or didn’t touch?"

Poirot spread his hands nonchalantly. "Non," he said.

I gaped at the little man. I was very sure that Doctor Lewiston had not touched anything except the body, and was surprised Poirot had not noticed. He who prided himself on his extraordinarily keen senses!

Dickinson turned towards me. "What about you?"

From behind the inspector's back, Poirot shook his head slightly at me. Had he lied to Mr Dickinson and was he signalling me to do the same?

"I don't know," I answered, confused and against my better judgement.

Dickinson grunted.

"The toothpaste." Poirot spoke into the silence.

"I beg your pardon?" Dickinson said, staring at him.

"On Mrs Stanwood's washstand, you will find two tubes of toothpaste. Do check them for cyanide."

"Well, I was going to have a second look at the place anyway," Dickinson murmured, turned on his heels and left. We could hear him mounting the stairs.

"What’s the matter with Lewiston's fingerprints?" I asked Poirot when the inspector was out of earshot. "You know that he didn't touch the fragments yesterday morning, don't you?"

"Mais bien sûr!"

"But why did you deny it? He could be the murderer!"

"So you do believe in murder now?" Poirot asked with great irony.

"It would explain Lewiston's fingerprints on the decanter," I said drily.

"Ah, Hastings, you do, as always, jump to the conclusions. Tell me, does the docteur have a motive?"

"I don't know," I admitted, then added defiantly, "but that doesn't mean there isn’t any."

"Do you remember the note that lay beneath Mrs Stanwood's nightstand?"

"Yes. 'My dearest, receive an early birthday present. Yours, Ch.'" I cited.

"Have you ever wondered who wrote it?"

"Someone whose given name starts with Ch. Most likely a man, since it sounds like an admirer, or even a lover," I mused.

Poirot nodded. "From what I have observed, most probably a lover."

"Wait, Doctor Lewiston's name is Charles! You mean she and he..."

"Exactement!"

"But then there is a motive! Jealousy or a row..." I cried excitedly.

"Ta, ta, ta! You are forgetting the most obvious, mon cher Hastings!"

"What is it?"

"That there is a very natural explanation for his fingerprints in Mrs Stanwood's room."

"Oh!" I said, feeling quite stupid. "But why didn't he say so?"

"Because he is a gentleman."

Feeling even more stupid, I remembered how I had acted towards Poirot the other day. "And I thought you and Mrs Stanwood ... that you might be interested in each other."

"As I said, I was not in love with her."

"I have been an ass. I really should have..."

"Bah!" Poirot silenced me with a flourish. "I shall forgive you. Now, I would like to see what our good Inspector is doing."

Inspector Dickinson had settled in the boudoir to interview the members of Mrs Stanwood's family. James Dillingham was first, and Dickinson started to question him without digression.

"Mr Dillingham, you lived with your aunt. Could it have been suicide?"

James shook his head. "I don't believe I have ever seen a woman more stubborn or more courageous. I can't imagine she would commit suicide. I mean, why would she do such a thing?"

"So you did not observe any kind of trouble lately, any signs of stress?"

"All was well. So far as I can tell, at least. I have been staying at London for lectures, and I only returned three weeks ago. Edna used to work a lot; she was possessed with her research. There were often days when she slept very little, or when she didn't even return from the laboratory for the night. She looked like a ghost on those occasions. But it's been that way since I moved here, so no, I don't recall anything out of the ordinary."

"Do you know what Mrs Stanwood has been working on lately?" Poirot interjected.

"No, I'm sorry," James said ruefully. "I have to admit all those medical terms are like Chinese to me, so what little she used to tell me about her work I do not remember."

"Did she have any enemies?" Dickinson asked.

"If you are thinking of her colleagues, I don't know about that. Regarding the family... well, Edna was the black sheep of the family, if you believe the family gossip. You must know our family prides itself for its long tradition, its reputation, its conservative values et cetera. A woman like Edna who breaks about every rule regarded as fitting for women isn't considered worthy of being part of the family. Her biggest flaw in their eyes maybe wasn't even that she chose to break those rules, but that she was successful in her work, and that she didn't keep quiet about her views about society but rather spoke up for women on various occasions."

I sensed a hint of bitterness in James' speech. Poirot seemed to feel it as well, since he prodded gently, "And what were your feelings towards Mrs Stanwood?"

"Oh, she was a great person, and I admired her single-mindedness and her success. We got along very well, more to the chagrin of those who didn't like my moving in with her because of her 'bad influence'. What do they know!" James sighed. "Well, Edna often seemed to seek confrontation, and as a soon-to-be solicitor I try to avoid scandals and would have liked it if she had been a bit more restrained at times—but, in retrospect, that seems very selfish and petty."

Poirot nodded, and Dickinson continued, "So, to summarise your statement, anyone in the family could have killed her?"

James shook his head. "It is true that they hated her, but murder? I really can't imagine that."

"What do you know about Mrs Stanwood's will?"

"She always said she would donate a big part to medical research. Other than that, you will have to ask Mr Brown."

Dickinson smiled sardonically. "Mrs Stanwood revoked the will she had made with Mr Brown six weeks ago."

"Really? And she hasn't made a new one?" James seemed baffled. "That's odd. She was always a very methodical person."

"So you didn't sign anything for her without realising it was a new will she was setting up?"

"I am training to be a solicitor, Inspector. I wouldn't sign anything unseen."

The inspector watched him intently. "What did Mrs Stanwood keep in her writing desk?"

"I don't know. Correspondence, the usual things, I suppose. And probably lots of notes related to her work, for she could never stop thinking about it. She often sat in the boudoir until late in the night." James threw a puzzled look at Dickinson. "But didn't you examine the desk already?"

"Yes, we did. One of the drawers appears to have been forced open, presumably the night Mrs Stanwood died. I am wondering why. Perhaps to steal Mrs Stanwood's will? Where were you that night?"

James looked at Dickinson with wide eyes. A few seconds passed before he answered, "Why, in my bed, of course, asleep."

Dissatisfied, Dickinson said, "Well. That would be all, then."

"One more thing, if you permit," Poirot interjected. "Monsieur James, your bedroom is right next to Mrs Stanwood's, is it not so?"

James nodded.

"And you did hear nothing the other night? I believe there must have been quite a noise with the window swinging open in the storm, and the decanter falling down and shattering to pieces."

"No ... no, I didn't hear anything," James said, irritated. "I mean, the storm itself was already very loud."

"Thank you, Monsieur."

James left, his head hanging slightly, and his face still unusually white.

"Poor lad," I murmured. I felt nothing but sympathy for the boy.

"Mrs Ashford, how long have you been staying here?" Inspector Dickinson began the next interview.

"For two weeks."

"With your husband and your daughter?"

Mrs Ashford nodded.

"Do you consider the possibility of suicide likely?" Dickinson asked, audibly tired of repeating the same questions over and over.

Mrs Ashford snorted. "Honestly, I don't know. My sister always had a tendency for scandals, for publicity, for the unusual. Maybe a suicide would be right up her alley. But don't ask me if she had any particular reason—we haven't been very close."

"Did your sister have any enemies?"

"The way she has been living, it wouldn't surprise me."

Dickinson pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Any of the family?"

"Are you implying you think that one of us has murdered her? I can't believe you’re suggesting such a thing. We are an honourable family!"

"What about you? You will probably inherit a considerable amount of money."

"I doubt she left anything to me," Mrs Ashford said with a sneer. "She didn't like me much."

"You are the next of kin, so if there's no will Mrs Stanwood's estate will fall to you."

Mrs Ashford raised her eyebrows. "What do you mean, 'if there's no will?'"

"As far as we know, the will may have been stolen on the night of the crime. Where were you on that night?"

"You presume I would do such a thing?" Mrs Ashford cried, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. "How dare you!"

"Where were you on Saturday night?" Dickinson repeated, unimpressed.

Mrs Ashford stared at him for a few moments. Finally, she said coldly, "In my bed. Alone. And, just for your information, I am not desperate for money."

Ignoring her disdain, Dickinson continued, "Have you been in Mrs Stanwood's bedroom during your stay here?"

"No."

"We have found your fingerprints in her room."

Mrs Ashford looked at him in irritation. "That's impossible!"

Dickinson sighed. "The Apollo figurine on the mantelpiece? What did you have to do with it?"

"Oh, that," Mrs Ashford said. "Edna showed me the statue a few days ago, don't ask me why. I didn't even know she kept it in her bedroom. But perhaps I shouldn't be surprised."

"How so?"

"Well, there are certain rumours about her private life..."

Dickinson grunted, then he dismissed Mrs Ashford. After she had left the room, he sighed once more.

"I need a break. I have the impression that we simply talk and talk and yet learn nothing of interest."

"I do not agree," Poirot said. "I find it all very interesting."

Dickinson shot him an annoyed look. "Would you be kind enough to enlighten me, then? What happened to Mrs Stanwood?"

"That, I do not know yet."

We had just retired to Poirot's room to discuss the case when there was a polite knock on the door.

"Mister Poirot?" a female voice called.

Poirot rose to open the door, and following him with my eyes I could see Mary standing outside.

"Do come in," Poirot said with a slight bow and a welcoming gesture.

She obeyed and entered, then stood uneasily in the middle of the room. Poirot shut the door and nodded encouragingly towards her.

"You asked me to keep my eyes open," the girl began. "Well, I did keep my eyes open when I was cleaning this morning. I found this on Mr Rowley's nightstand."

She retrieved a folded piece of paper from a pocket of her skirt and held it out for Poirot to take. Curious, I rose from my chair and stood next to Poirot, looking over his shoulder as he unfolded the sheet and read what seemed to be a list of hastily scribbled items:

• Potassium chloride: overdose can cause heart failure
• Sodium cyanide, potassium cyanide: extremely poisonous salts
• Morphine: overdose can cause hypoventilation and asphyxia
• Coniine: found e.g. in poison hemlock; death by respiratory paralysis
• Strychnine: Very toxic, but extremely bitter
• Aconitine: extracted from wolfsbane etc.
• Arsenic: extremely poisonous, slow death from organ failure

"Good Lord!" I cried.

"Hm, hm," Poirot murmured.

"Poirot, these are all poisons! And cyanide and morphine are on the list, too!"

For me the case seemed clear, and I felt excitement rushing through my veins. Poirot, however, stayed calm.

"Surely he made the list when he planned the murder?" I urged.

"My dear Hastings, you are, as ever, very quick to jump to the conclusions! Think about it, I pray of you. Madame and Monsieur Rowley arrived on the day of the birthday party, did they not?"

"Yes," I admitted, not seeing where Poirot was heading.

"And you believe that Monsieur Rowley researched different poisons, acquired the poison he had decided on, prepared it—the cyanide will be found in the toothpaste, I am sure!—all during the course of that day?"

I shook my head.

"And do you suppose, if he planned all of this beforehand, that he would take this piece of paper with him?"

"That would be jolly stupid," I confessed.

"It would not only be stupid, but this paper would not be of any use to him here. No, there must be something else behind this list."

"But what?"

"Ah, that we need to find out."

Poirot turned towards the maid who had watched our exchange with wide eyes.

"Thank you very much, Mademoiselle, you have been very quick-witted."

Mary smiled proudly, then she dropped her head and fidgeted. "Well, there's something else, sir... I found this under Master Dillingham's mattress... I feel awful about all this, but it seems important..."

She handed Poirot a small bundle.

Poirot unwrapped several layers of fabric, while Mary turned her face away, obviously embarrassed. Finally, Poirot held a book in his hands.

"Oh là là!" he exclaimed when he looked at the cover. Quickly, he leafed through the pages.

"I am not in a position to judge," the girl blurted out, "but it is against the law! And I fear that he is a criminal, and that if he is a criminal he might have ... you know?"

Poirot handed me the book.

When I saw the cover, I gasped and felt the heat rising to my cheeks. Beneath the title—I cannot even remember the wording, which only proves how shocked I was—an image was displayed, portraying two young men. They were both naked, the artist obviously not shy to show every detail of their anatomy, and they were facing each other. The man on the left had his hands wrapped around the other's hips, playful yet possessive, and they both looked as if they were about to devour each other.

I shot a look towards Poirot, who was calming the maid.

"It is but a book," the little man said. "And I am completely sure it has nothing to do with Mrs Stanwood's death."

"You think so?" cried Mary with relief.

Poirot smiled reassuringly. "There is no need to tell anyone else about it."

"Oh, thank you, Mister Poirot!"

"Only a book?" I asked when the maid had left.

"Mais oui," Poirot said nonchalantly and sat down in his chair, lighting a tiny cigarette.

I found it hard to turn my eyes away from the cover. I was at the same time disgusted and fascinated by the picture, and I could not help but notice how skilfully the artist had managed to portray passion, however misguided it was. With sardonic curiosity, I opened the book. Besides text, it contained further drawings, some of them of a more explicit sort, depicting unspeakable acts. I blushed even deeper, and quickly closed the book and deposited it on the mantelpiece.

Poirot observed me with amusement.

"Do you suppose James is ... so?" I waved in the general direction of the book.

Poirot merely shrugged, and I sat down next to him.

"He seems such a fine chap. So normal ... old-fashioned, even. I mean, he is going to be a solicitor, for God's sake!"

"And he cannot be all of that because he is that way inclined?" Poirot asked.

I stared at my friend. Was he implying that he found it acceptable that... It was illicit, after all! Seconds passed in which I was not able to produce an answer, or even think about the matter any further. Poirot gave up waiting for a reply, and made a show of extinguishing the stub of his cigarette, tugging out his enormous watch and reading it.

"It is time for lunch," he remarked, and, without sparing me a further glance, he left the room.

During lunch, I secretly observed James. If he was—I found it hard even to think of the word—a homosexual, then certainly there must be signs of it! I was not sure what signs exactly, but I was convinced I would recognise them when I saw them. By the end of our meal, however, I had not witnessed anything out of the ordinary about James, and I was sure that the whole affair about the book had been a mistake and that there must be some other explanation to it.

I had just warmed to that idea when the usually silent Mr Ashford surprised us all by making a statement to the whole group. A nervous sob had escaped Mrs Rowley and Mr Ashford snarled, "For God's sake, can't we just stop pretending we cared for her?"

Immediately, the room fell silent, and all eyes turned towards Mr Ashford.

"I take it you believe that Madame Stanwood was not very much liked?" Poirot asked, oblivious to the awkward atmosphere.

"Indeed."

"Would anyone go so far as murdering her?"

The situation was extremely surreal. We all looked back and forth between Poirot and Mr Ashford, half-expecting to find ourselves in a discomforting dream from which we would wake at any minute.

"No," Mr Ashford replied. "Everyone wished her to just disappear, but if there is anything this family hates more than Edna, then it is a public scandal, which a murder would likely cause."

At this, Emily rose so quickly that her chair nearly tipped over, and fled the room. Without hesitating, I followed her, and found her on the settee in the sitting-room, crying softly. I sat down beside her and offered her my handkerchief.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that... Father is right, you know. Of course James didn't hate Edna, and I didn't ... although they tried very hard."

"Tried what?" I asked, unable to keep up with her agitated thoughts.

"Well, when I was small, they told me the most horrific stories about Edna. You wouldn't believe what rumours there are! That she aids women in miscarrying, that she married her husband only for his money, that she is inclined towards women, that she is only successful in her work because she sleeps with influential men..." She sobbed. "As a child, I was quite terrified of her. When I grew older, of course, I realised how stupid most of those stories were. Edna was a good person, and successful; I fancy most people are just envious of her."

Emily looked at me with wide, damp eyes, and I felt incredibly sorry for her. Consolingly, I patted her arm.

"Mother always tried to keep me away from her as much as possible, so we hardly ever met. These last two weeks have been ... very nice, actually. I wish I had known her better."

Suddenly, she got up and returned my handkerchief. "I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have bothered you."

"Not at all," I said warmly.

When Emily left the room, she ran into Poirot.

"Ah, my apologies, Mademoiselle Emily!" Poirot said, taking her by the hands to steady her.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"These bruises..." the little man said and raised her hands to examine them. "You did not have them when you went to bed after the birthday party, but I noticed them the next morning when they were still fresh. May I know what happened?"

Emily quickly removed her hands from Poirot's and dropped her gaze. "I'm not sure," she said. "I was up in the night and I ran into the washstand. I probably hurt myself with my hair pins."

Poirot nodded and stepped aside to let her out of the room.

"What are you suspecting her of?" I asked, feeling the need to defend the poor girl.

"Calm yourself, mon ami, I do not suspect anything yet. I am just observing." With a slight hint of mockery, he added, "Now, do you want to play the chivalrous hero, or do you want to come and hear what news Inspector Dickinson has for us?"

Chapter Text

Inspector Dickinson stood in the hall, talking to Mr Rowley.

"Yes, yes," he was saying, "we’ll interview you next, sir. Now, if you'll excuse me?"

We retreated into the boudoir.

"Strange fellow," Dickinson remarked, nodding back towards the hall. "Too interested in the whole case for my taste. Keeps asking all sorts of questions."

"I know," I said. "He has been like that since he arrived."

"But there wasn't a case, then!"

"No, but he had heard of Poirot, and about some of his former cases."

From the corner of my eye, I could see Poirot smile smugly.

"Anyway," Dickinson said, "Mr Poirot, your idea to check the toothpaste was gold. We found sodium cyanide in one of the tubes. Which pretty much rules out suicide."

Poirot beamed, if it was possible, even more. "The full tube or the empty one?" he asked.

"The empty one."

"Hm. And no opium?"

"No opium."

I realised that this news would complicate the investigations even further. "But then the murderer could have dropped the poisoned tube in Mrs Stanwood's room at any time!" I cried. "The toothpaste may have lain there for days, and it might just have been coincidence that Mrs Stanwood happened to use the poisoned tube that night."

Dickinson sighed. "Exactly. The more we find out, the more this case eludes us. No motive, no will, not even a time when the crime was committed."

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully, but remained silent.

"On a slightly different matter," Dickinson continued, "I have sent my men out to ask around in the neighbourhood. Apparently there is a young boy named Edward Turner, age twenty-five, who pays this house visits at night. Of course, the chap denied everything, and no-one knows any details. It's probably just a fling with one of the maids, but as long as we don't know for sure, we need to consider him, too." Dickinson paused and looked at us for a few seconds, then he said resignedly, "Well then, on to interviewing the Rowleys..."

There was not much new information to be learnt from Oscar and Violet Rowley. Mr Rowley managed to turn the tables and ask even more of his curious questions, which annoyed Inspector Dickinson to no end. Mrs Rowley, on the other hand, was a nervous, trembling mess and barely able to answer Dickinson's questions. Finally, Dickinson asked if he should send for a doctor, but she refused. She could, however, be persuaded to retire to her room and lie down.

"Odd couple," I remarked to Poirot afterwards.

"You do not like them?" Poirot asked.

"Not much," I admitted. "I have the feeling they are hiding something."

Poirot chuckled. "I believe there are very few people in this house who have been completely honest with us."

I wanted to ask him for details, but he silenced me with a wave of his hands, busy searching for one of the maids. We found Lucy, a middle-aged woman, in the kitchen.

"My apologies," Poirot said, "but would you be so kind as to show us where the medicine chest is?"

"Certainly," Lucy replied and led us upstairs.

Poirot opened the indicated chest and went through the bottles and boxes, muttering to himself.

"Voilà!" he finally exclaimed, satisfied, and pointed at a little brown phial.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Opium!" Poirot turned towards Lucy. "Is it Mrs Stanwood's?"

"Yes. I don't know whether she has been using it, though. But wait..." she eyed the phial closely. "That is not Mrs Stanwood's opium. This one is." She pointed to another small bottle.

"And you don't know whose opium this is?" asked Poirot, indicating the first phial.

"No. I have never seen it before."

"Hm," Poirot murmured, lost in thought. Then he asked, "Has Mrs Stanwood been ill? Have you noticed anything?"

"She has been feeling well the last couple o'weeks."

"And before?"

"She didn't look very well for some time. Wouldn't eat much, either. But she didn't say anything about it, so I don't know. She often overworked herself, so maybe it was just that."

Poirot nodded, and although I could see that he wasn't satisfied by Lucy's statement, he let the topic go. "Thank you," he simply said. "There is another question I would like to ask. Do you know who put the new tube of toothpaste in Mrs Stanwood's room, and when?"

"No. Mistress always tended to her toiletries herself."

"Curious," I said to Poirot. "If her condition was just caused by working too much, then why would she take opium? I imagine that she'd rather take a stimulant in order to work more than her body would let her. Or did she suffer from sleeplessness?"

"Peut-être. But according to the post-mortem, she must have taken a very high dose, more than what is needed to treat an ordinary sleeplessness or headache."

"Hm. Perhaps she was seriously ill? Did Doctor Lewiston lie about Mrs Stanwood's health? As her doctor, and her lover, I should fancy he would have noticed if there had been something wrong with her."

"Yes, my friend, one might think so," Poirot agreed.

Late in the evening, I realised I had not seen Poirot for a while. I wondered what he was doing and I missed his company. I searched the rooms on the ground floor to no avail and finally found Poirot in his own room.

"There you are, mon ami!" he exclaimed when he opened the door for me. "Do come in! I have been thinking."

"About what?" I asked while I settled into a chair next to him. "I have to admit, I don't even know where to start. I have no idea what this whole case is about."

"Oh, I find the toothpaste to be of most interest."

I looked at him in bewilderment.

"I do not agree with your theory that someone just dropped an extra tube in Madame Stanwood's room. She would have noticed if there had suddenly been two tubes of toothpaste. Why would the murderer take any chances? And why would he use a nearly empty tube, which could have easily been thrown away by Mrs Stanwood or the maids? No, I think it is more likely that he replaced the toothpaste, or injected the poison in Mrs Stanwood's room. But still, why use the empty tube?"

"Maybe the new tube was put there after the murderer had poisoned the old one?" I suggested.

"Ah, that is a good idea, Hastings! Unfortunately, it is not likely, for the full tube of toothpaste had already been used, and it is unlikely that Madame Stanwood would use the old toothpaste afterwards. Did you not see the dimples on the full tube where the toothpaste had been pressed out of the tube?"

I shook my head.

"It is because you had already formed a theory about the two tubes before examining them closely," he said, in his best lecturer’s voice.

I chose to ignore his patronising tone. "So," I asked, "what is your theory?"

The little man exhaled, and his shoulders slumped uncharacteristically. "I do not have a theory," he admitted sheepishly. "I, Hercule Poirot, am in the dark!"

I suppressed a grin. It did not happen often that Poirot, who prided himself on his extraordinary senses and intelligence, was at a loss for ideas, and it happened even less frequently that he frankly admitted to it. But a moment later I already regretted my flash of gratification and felt genuinely sorry for the old man. I reached over and patted his knee.

"Never mind," I said. "There are plenty of other things to contemplate. What about this Edward Turner, for example?"

"Our good Inspector Dickinson is probably right when he thinks of a little tête-à-tête. But with whom, Hastings? What do you suppose?"

"Well, the only girls his age are Mary and Emily. Hm."

I finally remembered that I had seen a boy running across the lawn on our first night, and I told Poirot of it. "I thought the boy I had seen to be younger, sixteen perhaps, but it was dark so I could be mistaken. Maybe it was Edward? Emily's room faces the lawn, like ours, so he could have been with Emily..." I warmed to my idea. "Yes, and there's also ivy there!"

Poirot considered my musings. "And the next night, Mademoiselle Emily might have been visiting Monsieur Edward," he said reflectively.

"What makes you think so?"

"The bruises on Mademoiselle Emily's hands."

"You presume she climbed out of the window?" I asked, incredulously.

Poirot chuckled. "My dear Hastings, your conservative views of women are rather endearing, but they do not help your reasoning much."

I crossed my arms in front of my chest, annoyed at him for constantly teasing me about women, and annoyed at myself for being so impulsive when women were concerned.

Oblivious, Poirot continued, "But there is another interesting question: Why would Monsieur Edward leave so early? You were just going to bed."

Still pouting, I merely nodded.

"There is someone else you have forgotten to consider."

"Who?"

"Monsieur James."

"James and Emily? I don't think so."

I told Poirot what Emily had said about James. I knew that she could have been lying about her feelings towards him, but she had no reason to, and I had the impression she had been in earnest.

Poirot chuckled once more. "There are easier ways to get from Monsieur James' room to Mademoiselle Emily's room than climbing up and down the ivy, n'est-ce pas?" he said. "No, I was thinking of Monsieur James and Monsieur Edward."

"You mean... You can't be serious!" I cried.

"I assure you, mon ami, I am most serious."

My eyes darted unbidden to the mantelpiece where I had dropped James' book earlier in the day. It still lay there, only now it was neatly wrapped in the fabrics in which Mary had hidden it, and it was exactly aligned to the edges of the mantelpiece.

Suddenly, all kinds of thoughts sprang to my mind, none of which, I have to admit, had anything to do with the case. I had not really reflected on homosexuality before. I knew that such a thing existed, but it simply had not concerned me. I had never met anyone who was so, of that I was sure, and, of course, I myself had always been interested in women. And yet, and yet ... I could not get the image of that cover out of my head. It was beautiful in a wanton way, oddly intriguing. But then I had always been able to appreciate beauty in men; such a thing did not make a person a homosexual, did it?

"Well, anyway," I said weakly, feeling Poirot's cat-like eyes resting upon me. "That doesn't have anything to do with the case, does it?"

"Perhaps not," Poirot agreed, "but one never knows."

"What about the opium?" I enquired, eager to change the topic.

"Ah, now you are asking the interesting questions! Tell me, Hastings, what do you think?"

"If Mrs Stanwood was indeed ill, she could have taken the opium herself. But where did the extra phial come from?"

Poirot beamed at me proudly, and thus encouraged, I continued, "Maybe ... maybe she had just purchased a new one that Lucy hadn't seen yet!"

"No, both phials were about half full."

"Or maybe the murderer tried to poison her with opium first, without success, and then deposited the phial in the medicine chest? Mmh, that would rule out Mr and Mrs Rowley; they only arrived on the day of the birthday party."

Poirot just shook his head, dissatisfied, but did not speak for a long while.

"There is another thing that puzzles me," he finally said.

"What is it?" I prodded.

"Madame Stanwood has lots of notes about her work around the house, letters and books. But they are all older than half a year. I did not see anything of a newer date. And she has never told me what she was working on lately."

"Yes, I asked her about her recent work, too," I recalled. "She was quite evasive about it, although I didn't notice it then. Maybe we have been barking up the wrong tree? What if the murder was not related to the family, but to her work?"

We sat together in silence for a while. My mind presented me with plenty of potential motives, from envious co-researchers to earth-shattering medical discoveries. Wisely, I kept those ideas to myself. I knew all too well how Poirot would mock my wild imagination.

Finally, Poirot said, "Alors, I think I shall go to bed now. Tomorrow, I will find out about Mrs Stanwood's recent work, and then I will reflect. I will put all of the little details in order, one by one. There must be a method to all of this, and Hercule Poirot will find out! One just needs to employ the little grey cells!"

Feeling his agitation, I said, "Don't be too hard on yourself. You have been close to Mrs Stanwood; it is only natural if you are distracted."

"Poirot is never distracted!" the little man said.

I did not argue.

We rose to our feet and Poirot showed me to the door. I was reluctant to leave him alone. I touched his arm lightly, not only to comfort him, but because I wanted the contact, and we stood there for a few moments, just a foot away from the door. Poirot looked at me; his green eyes shone like emeralds. At some point, I had the impression he wanted to say something, but he kept quiet.

I do not know how long we stood there, until finally the oddity of the situation struck me, and I wished Poirot a good night and left.

Chapter Text

As Mrs Rowley was not feeling better, Doctor Lewiston was called up to the house. Poirot used the opportunity to talk to him.

"Will Madame Rowley be all right?" he asked.

"I think she's in shock," Lewiston answered. "I understand that she is already a very nervous person under normal circumstances, and the events of the last few days have been very stressful."

"I am sorry to hear that. Please send la pauvre Madame my regards."

Lewiston's expression softened and suddenly I realised how terse he had been the last couple of days.

"What I have been meaning to ask you", Poirot continued, "I have noticed many needle marks on Madame Stanwood's body. Do you know how she got them?"

"I can only guess. She has often used her own blood samples for her research projects, so the marks might be from that."

"One of the maids told us that Madame Stanwood was not well for some time. Might she not have taken the opium herself?"

Lewiston shrugged. "If she was indeed not well, she didn't tell me about it. I didn't prescribe the opium, if that's what you are asking."

"And you haven't noticed anything amiss?"

"No. But after all, the maid probably knew her better than I did."

"Is that so?" Poirot asked and narrowed his eyes.

Lewiston stared back, any traces of softness in his features now gone again. "Is there something else?"

"No, thank you, Doctor Lewiston, you have been most helpful."

Lewiston nodded, first towards Poirot and then towards me, collected his bag and started down the hall.

"Oh, just one more question, Monsieur le docteur. What was Madame Stanwood's latest research project? I can imagine you have talked about your work?"

Doctor Lewiston stopped, turned around and regarded Poirot for a fraction, before he answered, "I'm afraid I'm not allowed to talk about it."

"He’s lying," I remarked when he was out of earshot.

"Oui. But why and what about, that is the question."

"Maybe he wants to claim some of her work as his own?"

Poirot was lost in his own thoughts and I was not sure if he was listening to me. After a while, he said, "We will see in time. I have asked Inspector Dickinson to investigate Madame Stanwood's work, and also to check for fingerprints on the second opium phial. With luck, we will have the results at lunch time. In the meantime, I will retire to my room and think."

Knowing that Poirot did not want company when he was 'employing his little grey cells', I strolled around the house, searching for something with which to occupy myself. In the hall, I bumped into Emily.

"I'm sorry!" we cried out simultaneously.

My eyes caught something falling down from the folds of her dress, and as she quickly bent down to retrieve it I saw that it was a man's waistcoat. Emily folded it hastily and pressed it against her bosom, then she excused herself once more and ran outside.

Curious, I followed her, keeping a careful distance. She ran over to the stable, opened the door and, after having cast a cautious look behind, disappeared inside. Did she want to get rid of the waistcoat? I was almost sure it belonged to the mysterious Edward Turner. He had probably forgotten it when he visited her, and now maybe she was going to hide the waistcoat in the stable for him to get.

I waited for about ten minutes, and when Emily did not return I began to wonder if instead she and Edward had an appointment for a secret meeting, and if Edward had already been inside the stable. Emily had not been dressed in riding clothes, so I did not think she was going for a ride, and what else could she be doing there that took so long?

Just when I was pondering whether to walk over and peek in through the windows, she came out. I hid myself behind a bush and waited until she had entered the house, then I ran over to the stable. It was empty except for the horses who were peacefully chewing on their hay. I hastened to reach the back door and looked outside, but there was no-one to be seen.

Finally I let my eyes wander across the place, searching for a spot where Emily could have hidden the waistcoat, but there were too many chests and corners for me to search. And even if I did find the waistcoat, what was it going to prove?

I stood a while in the aisle, idly watching the horses while contemplating the situation, when I heard the clip-clop of hooves outside. Through the open door, I could see James dismounting his dark bay stallion which Emily admired so much. Next to James, another rider came to a halt and leapt swiftly to the ground. It was Ashley, the servant.

The boys stood outside for some time, chatting happily, and, while I watched them, I suddenly realised that Poirot was partly right about James. From the way James looked at Ashley, the way he talked to him, and the way he touched him casually when they were handling the horses, it was obvious that they felt more for each other than was decent. I even wondered how I had not seen it earlier—after all, I had witnessed them together a few times before—but then I remembered what Poirot would say. I could clearly hear his voice in my head: 'You are not observing, mon ami. You have made up your mind and you are only seeing what that mind of yours believes.'

I felt like an intruder as I watched the men who clearly believed themselves alone, and I retreated to the back of the stable, seriously considering leaving through the back door.

At that moment, James entered.

"Oh, hullo Captain Hastings!" he said.

"Uh, hullo," I answered, trying my best to look nonchalant. I turned towards one of the box-stalls and was greeted by a white, soft nose that blew warmly into my face.

"I didn't know you were interested in horses," James remarked. "Do you want to go for a ride, say, this afternoon?"

"It's been a while and I didn't bring my riding clothes," I said. I had meant to decline, but the last words had not even left my mouth before I thought that I would very much like to get some fresh air. Because of the rain and the events surrounding Mrs Stanwood's death I had barely left the house for nearly a week. Contrary to Poirot, who did not seem to mind staying inside all day, I liked being outside and having some exercise once in a while. The weather had, finally, cleared up and the sun was shining invitingly, so this would be an excellent opportunity. Hastily, I added, "But if it's not too much trouble?"

"No, the horses need exercising, and I'm sure we will find something for you to wear!" James laughed.

When I met Poirot later, he was in rather good humour.

"Did you bring order into the whole affair?" I asked him.

"Oui, mon ami, I did."

"Tell me! Do you know what happened?"

"Ne soyez pas impatient, Hastings! Everything at its own time! I have not solved the case yet. There are still some things that puzzle me, and I hope that our good Inspector Dickinson has some answers for me. But, the most important, I have brought order to my thoughts!"

Poirot tapped his temple. I was, of course, curious, but I knew it was no use trying to extract information from Poirot against his will, so I told him what I had learnt in his absence instead. At the mention of Emily disposing of the waistcoat, he seemed very pleased, as he was about James and Ashley.

"So you were right about James being ... you know," I finished my small report.

"You can always trust Papa Poirot to know about the affaires de cœur!"

Despite still feeling uncomfortable about the whole topic, I laughed heartily.

After I had recovered a little, I asked, "And you do not object to the idea of two men ... loving each other?"

For, even if I still found it hard to think of it as such, what I had witnessed between James and Ashley was nothing other than love. That men did unspeakable acts for pure gratification I could in a way comprehend, although I had tried my best to close my eyes to it so far. Love, however, was a completely different thing.

"My dear Hastings, it is hard enough to find love as it is, is it not? Why should I not be happy for those who have found it? L'amour, he does not care for your little social rules."

I goggled at the little man—but maybe I should not have been too surprised. After all, Poirot's methods for solving problems were not only of impressive logic, but also quite often unconventional; I had already experienced how far, at times, his opinion of justice differed from that of the police, and how resolutely he followed his own conscience in those cases. Although old-fashioned, Poirot had on many occasions proved that he was able to see behind social façades like no-one else, and, what was more, the old man was also a romantic at heart, despite so often mocking me for being just that.

Poirot returned my gaze with a twinkle, but beneath the light-heartedness of his demeanour I sensed some deeper emotion I could not quite fathom and which oddly unsettled me. At the same time, something about the whole situation felt quite familiar.

It was shortly before lunch when Inspector Dickinson came storming into the house.

"We found fingerprints on the phial of opium you gave me, Poirot," he said without prelude. "They belong to Mrs Rowley."

"Parbleu!" Poirot said, looking crestfallen.

I, too, was surprised. Had we not just ruled out the Rowleys having anything to do with the opium?

"And there were no other prints?" Poirot asked.

"No. Why, what did you expect?"

Poirot only shook his head.

"I'm going to ask Mrs Rowley a few questions," Dickinson said. "Do you know where she is?"

"I believe she is still in her room," I said, and all three of us went upstairs to see her.

Lucy spotted us and told us Mrs Rowley was supposed to rest, as she was not feeling much better, but Inspector Dickinson would have none of it. Boldly, he stormed into her room.

"Is this your opium?" he demanded, holding up a glass container which contained the phial in question.

Mrs Rowley's eyes grew wide. "Why do you ask?"

"Please answer the question," Dickinson said coolly.

"I don't know. I keep mine on the washstand..."

Dickinson went over to the indicated place and examined the bottles and containers there.

"There is no opium here," he said.

"Well, then it might be mine," Mrs Rowley said.

"And how do you explain that it was found in the house's medicine chest?"

Mrs Rowley shrugged weakly. "One of the maids must have taken it."

Needless to say, none of the maids could remember having taken a phial of opium from Mrs Rowley's room, and why would they do such a thing? Inspector Dickinson was enraged.

"Mrs Rowley was lying, of course. Straight to my face!" he grumbled.

"I would not concern myself too much with Madame Rowley," Poirot said calmly.

Dickinson shot him an angry look. "And why is that, Mister Poirot?"

Poirot's only reply was an elegant shrug.

"Well, Mrs Stanwood didn't die of opium, so I'll let it rest for now. Got more important things to do. Oh, one more thing," he said over his shoulder, "Mrs Stanwood had been working on a cure for leukaemia for the better part of the year. As far as I know, she wasn't very successful. I don't see how this is related to the case, but I might send one of my men over tomorrow. Unless there is something you want to tell me, Poirot?"

It was clear from his tone that Inspector Dickinson was annoyed with Poirot, and I could not blame him. I knew from first-hand experience how it felt when Poirot kept things to himself.

Poirot, however, was oblivious to the Inspector's dark mood and answered cheerfully, "No, I am afraid there is not much I can say right now, my dear Inspector."

Inspector Dickinson turned on his heels and stomped off, muttering to himself.

"Mon ami," Poirot said to me, "I fancy I will pay Mrs Stanwood's colleagues a visit this afternoon."

"You? Alone?" I asked.

"That is right. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on people, Hastings!"

I tried not to be disappointed. I really would have preferred getting information about Mrs Stanwood's work first hand instead of relying on Poirot to be in the mood to tell me what he found out, and I also liked being out and about with him in general—but I reminded myself that I had an appointment of my own to look forward to this afternoon.

Focusing on another topic, a question which I had thought of earlier came to my mind. "Did Inspector Dickinson ever try to verify Mrs Ashford's statement about the Apollo figurine?" I asked Poirot.

Poirot looked at me in surprise. "Ah, the figurine!" he ejaculated. "Hastings, that is an excellent idea!"

Poirot left in an excited rush and I hastened to follow him, not sure what he had in mind. We came to a halt in the boudoir, and Poirot studied the mantelpiece with interest.

Then he asked, "What do you think, Hastings?"

"There are three figurines depicting Greek gods," I said.

Poirot nodded, but looked at me as if waiting for more. I studied the statues more closely.

"Well, they all seem to be of the same style as the Apollo figurine. Other than that, I can't see anything special. It's all very clean and tidy."

"Yes. There are no figurines like them elsewhere in the house," Poirot said.

"No. Only the Apollo in Mrs Stanwood's bedroom," I said. "Oh, are you implying that belongs here, too? But the statues on the mantelpiece are arranged as if they are complete the way they are now."

"Let us ask the maids about it. Venez, Hastings!"

He seized my elbow and steered me out of the room. We found Mary in the dining-room, where she was busy with the tablecloth and napkins.

"Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Mary!" Poirot said with a slight bow. "Pray tell, did Mrs Stanwood always have the Apollo figurine in her bedroom?"

Mary blinked at him. "Apollo?"

"The handsome young Greek gentleman with the bow? On the mantelpiece?" Poirot added helpfully.

"Oh! No, she used to keep it in the boudoir, along with the other statues."

"When did she move it?"

Mary shrugged. "I don't know. Last week, perhaps?"

I turned towards Poirot, a little disappointed. "So Mrs Ashford might have told the truth. She might not have been in Mrs Stanwood's bedroom at all," I said.

"Quite so," the little man murmured thoughtfully.

After lunch, I spent some time on the terrace. It was too cold and wet to sit down, so I stood there for a while, looking at the garden. After about a quarter of an hour, I was joined by Mr Rowley. I had tried to avoid him as best I could since he never stopped asking questions about the case. Now was no exception.

"Ah, Captain Hastings!" he exclaimed. "I saw that Inspector Dickinson was here. Is there any news?"

"Except the interview with your wife?" I said coolly.

"Ah, that," he said, and had the grace to look embarrassed for a moment. "I'm sure it is all a misunderstanding. She has nothing to do with Edna's death." Then he looked expectantly at me. "Was that all?"

"There's nothing I am allowed to talk about," I said, not quite truthfully.

I hoped dearly that my little white lie would quiet him, and that he would not ask me about one of Poirot's old cases instead. It did not work.

"Do you know who forced the drawer open yet?"

"No," I said curtly.

"Well, I would ask Julius about it."

"Mr Ashford? What makes you say so?"

"I saw him burn something in the dining-room fire yesterday. It must have been something he wanted to get rid of very desperately, don't you think?"

I was not sure if I could trust the information he was giving me, or if he was just aggrandising himself—or even trying to mislead the investigation—but I decided to talk to Mr Ashford anyway. What could it hurt?

I went to the fireplace in the dining-room and poked around in the ashes, but I did not find anything useful in there. Given how the fireplace was used at every meal and how tidy the servants kept it, that was not much of a surprise. I went on to search for Mr Ashford.

I found him in his usual spot in the sitting-room, reading a newspaper. Without further ado, I confronted him with what I had heard, and he lowered the newspaper a fraction. Over the edge of the front page, he said unimpressed, "I was not aware that burning something in the fire was a crime."

"It is not. But why would you suddenly burn something when you are on holiday—unless it's something to do with Mrs Stanwood's death or the forced-open drawer of her writing desk? You must admit it does make you look rather suspicious."

Mr Ashford watched me intently before he answered, "Well, in that case, I deny everything."

He resumed reading, making it clear that for him the topic was settled. I was left gaping at a headline on the front page, which read 'No Progress in the Stanwood Murder', uncertain what to make of Mr Ashford. I was not sure at all whether he had burnt something in the fire and was extraordinarily audacious about it, or whether he had done no such thing and was just mocking me.

Later in the afternoon, clad in a borrowed pair of riding breeches and boots, I met James in the stable. The mere prospect of our ride had already lifted my spirits considerably, and forgotten were the annoying Mr Rowley, the grumpy Mr Ashford, and even Poirot's ongoing secrecy.

"If it weren't for me, Edna would have long since given up the stable," James said as we led our horses outside. "It is a great deal of work, and Edna pretty much stopped riding herself."

"Yes, I can imagine that," I replied.

"I'm not quite sure what will happen now. With the horses, I mean. I'll try to keep the stallion, but other than him?" James shook his head. Then he smiled ruefully. "Does that sound silly? That I'm worrying about the horses when..." He made a vague gesture towards the house.

"No, not at all," I assured him.

"Anyhow, let's try not to think about it for a while, shall we?" James said and mounted his mare. I followed his example, and off we rode.

When we let our horses trot across the wide pastures of the estate, the sun reflecting peacefully on the still wet grass and the silence broken only by an occasional snort of the horses or the call of a pheasant, it suddenly occurred to me that Poirot was right. James was a fine chap, and it did not matter that he was so. Maybe it was possible for two men to love each other. Perhaps it did not matter much what people did in their bedrooms, even if there was a law against such things. Maybe, for once, the law was wrong. Being a rather old-fashioned and law-abiding man, this was quite an idea for me, and I felt adventurous from simply reflecting on it.

Once I got accustomed to my new theory, however, I became curious. All sorts of questions started forming in my mind, any of them as ridiculous and impossible to ask as the next, and not all of them about James. Without much success, I tried to focus on less scandalous topics. I was glad when James proposed to canter for a while, which effectively kept my mind occupied. After that, we fell into an easy chit-chat which lasted until we returend home.

As I had told James, it had been a while since I had sat on a horse's back, and while one never forgets how to ride—I felt comfortable during our whole outing—there are certain muscles one needs for horse riding which are rarely used on other occasions. When I dismounted, I could already feel a slight pain on the inner side of my thighs, and I knew instantly that it would only get worse the next day.

Late in the afternoon Poirot returned from his trip. He was beaming with pleasure; obviously his enquiries had been to his satisfaction. He pulled me into an exuberant embrace, planting a kiss on each of my cheeks as if we had not seen each other for weeks instead of hours. As always, I was at the same time embarrassed and touched by the little man's display of affection.

"What did you find out?" I asked, reluctantly letting my hands drop from his shoulders.

"I do not have time to tell it now, Hastings! Do you fancy a walk, mon cher?"

"What, now?" I asked, flabbergasted.

"Oui, oui!"

Poirot took my elbow and hastened outside, practically dragging me with him.

"Where are we going?" I asked when we were about to leave Stanwood Manor.

"We are going to visit Monsieur Brown. I am told he lives in the neighbourhood."

"The solicitor? Why?"

"Why, to ask him a question, of course!" Poirot exclaimed.

"Who would have thought," I said drily.

"Ah! The sarcasm! The irony!"

"Poirot," I grumbled.

I wanted to let Poirot know that I was annoyed at him for leaving me in the dark and resolved not to talk to him for a while, but I was itching to tell him about Mr Ashford, so the silence did not last for long. To tell the truth, I never was able to be angry at Poirot for long anyway.

"So I'm not sure whether Mr Ashford is lying or not," I concluded my little report.

"From what you have told me, he did not exactly make a statement about his actions."

"True. He was just dashed evasive. But do you think he burnt something in the fire?"

"Yes, it seems highly likely."

"Really?" I cried. "But what was it? Mrs Stanwood's will?"

"I can only guess what it was that he burnt, but I am very certain that it was not Madame Stanwood's will."

"But where is the will then? Or was there no will in the first place?"

"That is for Monsieur Brown to know," Poirot said cryptically.

Mr Brown's house was about half an hour away from Stanwood Manor. The door was answered by an elderly maid who let us into the parlour, and after ten minutes Brown walked into the room.

"Ah, Monsieur Brown!" Poirot said with a polite bow. "My sincerest apologies to interrupt you at this hour unannounced. I only have one very short question." Poirot straightened and fixed his green eyes on Brown. "Why did you lie about the will?"

"I ... I beg your pardon?" Brown said, surprised.

"You lied about Mrs Stanwood's will. Why?" Poirot repeated, and his eyes gleamed like a cat's.

"I'm sorry," Brown said, and he was fidgeting now. "Look, I am very busy at the moment. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I could visit you at Stanwood Manor right after breakfast, if it suits you."

Poirot narrowed his eyes and scrutinised Brown, then he nodded.

"Eh bien. I will await you tomorrow morning."

Obviously relieved, Brown led us to the door.

"What was that about?" I asked Poirot. "Does he have anything to do with the murder? If so, he might not show up tomorrow at all! He might even make a run for it!"

While I talked, I had seized Poirot's arm in excitement.

Poirot patted my hand lightly. "I am confident he will keep his word," he said.

I released his arm. "And I presume you will not tell me why you think so?" A hint of bitterness had crept into my voice.

"Ah! Poirot does not know everything yet! But it will be explained in due course! Soyez patient, mon ami!"

On our way back, we took a more leisurely pace. The ground was still wet and sometimes the branches quivering in the wind dripped water upon us, but none of this could impair Poirot's good humour.

"The Body in the Sewer, do you know what it is about?" Poirot asked all of a sudden.

"The novel? I've read some articles about it, though I have never read the book itself," I answered.

"How was the murder committed?"

"I believe the victim was stabbed to death."

"But there were no poisons in the book?" Poirot prodded.

"I suppose not," I said. I did not know why Poirot was suddenly so interested in the novel, but whatever it was that he was contemplating, my answer seemed to satisfy him, as he nodded contently. Before I could ask him about it, however, he was already onto a new topic.

"How was your ride with Monsieur James?" he asked.

"Err, nice," I said, feeling strangely uneasy. "How did you know about it?"

"I did not know," Poirot explained cheerfully, "but there are some hairs of a horse on your sleeve, and you walk a bit stiffly. It has been a while, hein?"

I brushed at my clothes absentmindedly. "Poirot..." I began, but then fell silent. There was something I wanted to say to Poirot, something to talk about, but somehow I did not know what, much less how to formulate it.

Poirot beamed at me with a mixture of pride and affection. I wondered what it was that he saw in me, or how it could be that he often seemed to know me better than I did myself.

Chapter Text

At breakfast the next morning, Poirot announced that he would like everyone to meet in the sitting-room after the meal. I knew this meant that Poirot would finally confront us with the solution to the case, and I was curious as to what Poirot had figured out.

When we moved over to the sitting-room, Mr Brown was already there, as was Doctor Lewiston. I watched Brown closely, but the nervousness he had displayed at our visit the day before was gone now; he was as calm and businesslike as ever. The police were nowhere to be seen so far, still I was sure Poirot had made his arrangements for the denouement with his usual meticulousness. Currently, the little man helped us arrange our seats, and only after all was to his satisfaction, he installed himself in the free space before the fire place, waiting for our attention like a performer on a stage.

I knew how he loved this part so I was not surprised at any of this, but even I thought he looked more pompous than usual, if that was at all possible. I was about to roll my eyes at him and his impious delight when a shadow passed across his features, so quickly that I had almost missed it. No, I thought ruefully, maybe Poirot was not enjoying himself as much as I had inwardly accused him of.

"Mesdames et Messieurs", Poirot began. "The murderer left some misleading clues, but the great Hercule Poirot has finally seen through his game. Oh, and what a game it was!"

Poirot let his gaze wander across the assembled persons. The room was so quiet that it felt as if we were all collectively holding our breaths.

"But let us start at the beginning. As you all know, there is currently no effective will that we know of. There had been a will until six weeks ago, but that one was revoked by Madame Stanwood herself. The main beneficiary of the old will, besides the Medical Research Council, was Monsieur James, who would inherit the manor and part of the money."

Poirot rested his eyes on James, and the whole audience followed his lead. "Perhaps he knew that in the new will, if there was one, he would not inherit, and destroyed it? It was obvious to me that he was not in his room during the night of Madame Stanwood's death—otherwise he would not have needed to lie about his reason for not hearing the noises which certainly must have emanated from Madame Stanwood's bedroom: the window swinging loose in the storm, the decanter falling down to the floor and shattering to pieces, the body of Madame Stanwood sinking to the ground in agony. No-one, not even a healthy young man, could have slept through all of that bruit. So where was Monsieur James during that night?"

The little man stopped for a dramatic pause. James looked at him in horror. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say something, but Poirot stopped him with a flourish of his hand. "I soon found out that Monsieur James' absence from his room can be very easily explained. It seems that the young gentleman is having an affair with one of the servants and was not in his room in favour of a little tête-à-tête that night."

Emily and her mother stared in surprise at James, who still had his eyes locked on Poirot. The little man winked at him. "Ah, les jeunes! Nothing in their heads but l'amour!"

A snort from Mr Rowley made us turn our heads. "I wonder who foiled Margaret's plans for him and..."

"Ah, let us concentrate on what is the most essential", Poirot cut in. "Which is: Monsieur James has an alibi for the whole night and thus, he could not have murdered Madame Stanwood. On to the next suspect, then!"

James had the air of someone who could not believe he had got away this easily; he looked half relieved, half sceptical. I silently thanked Poirot for his efforts to protect the young man. The precarious details of his affair had nothing to do with the case, of that I was sure, and they would doubtlessly have caused a large commotion. Such information in the wrong hands could destroy his career or, worse, entail an arrest.

Poirot had already shifted his attention towards Emily, and the rest of us followed his example. "Mademoiselle," Poirot said gravely.

"What are you implying?" Mrs Ashford cried before Poirot could get any farther.

"Madame Ashford, hear me out if you please." Although Poirot was perfectly polite, his demeanour allowed no protest. "Mademoiselle Emily, too, was not in her room on the night of the tragedy. Moreover, she had bruised her hands between the birthday party and the next morning, and she lied to me about where she got these bruises. They looked suspiciously like scratches that one gets from branches of plants. Did anyone notice how large parts of the house are covered with thick ivy, especially Madame Stanwood's and Mademoiselle Emily's room? The ivy is very convenient for climbing in and out of the building."

Mrs Ashford gasped, but said nothing. Emily dropped her gaze.

"However, I could not think of a motive for Emily to tamper with Madame Stanwood's health, or her will. She, too, had other plans for the night. My dear friend Captain Hastings observed on our first night here how she had left her room through her window."

I stared at Poirot. I had seen no such thing, and I was very sure I had not told him anything that he could have misinterpreted this way! Had the stress of losing his friend interfered with his investigations after all? He had been doing so well the last couple of days, but still I started to worry about the accuracy of his other deductions.

"Mademoiselle Emily likes to dress up as a boy and go for a ride at nights, is it not so?" Poirot asked.

Emily hesitated, then she nodded.

"Emily!" Mrs Ashford cried.

"As to why, I can only guess. Roaming around as a boy is a little more exciting than roaming around as a girl, perhaps? Doing all those things not considered suitable for a lady? But," Poirot waved his hand, "it is of no importance to the case."

Suddenly the pieces fell into place: the boy I had seen running away from the house had been no-one other than Emily herself. The way she had looked at me when I said James' stallion was too boisterous for her or when James said that the route he was taking was not suitable for a lady—all those times when Emily was about to disagree, maybe she already had done all of those things. And when I had met her carrying the waistcoat, she was getting rid of her own waistcoat, not someone else's... I looked at her with new eyes. She seemed so sweet and innocent, not at all like a secret adventurer!

"Emily, I'm disappointed!" Mrs Ashford exclaimed.

Emily bore her mother's scolding silently, her chin stubbornly thrust out. Before any argument could ensue, however, Poirot interjected.

"Perhaps you should not be too rash with your chastisement, Madame Ashford," he said. "After all, there were not many people asleep in their beds as they were supposed to be that night."

A small blush crept into Mrs Ashford's face.

"You, as Madame Stanwood's sister, will inherit if there is not a will," Poirot continued, now fully turned towards her, "which gives you a motive to kill Madame Stanwood, and also to destroy her will."

"I've already told you, I don't need Edna's money," Mrs Ashford replied coolly.

"That is true," Poirot admitted, "but maybe the estate is of interest to you? And you do not like your sister very much, do you? Quoi qu'il en soit. What made you suspicious to me was mainly not your possible motives, but your lying to me about your whereabouts that particular night."

Mrs Ashford stared at the little man, her confidence finally waning. "I was in my room," she said weakly.

"Oh, yes, you were," Poirot said cheerfully, "but not alone. Monsieur Edward Turner was with you on that night, was he not?"

"How dare you!" Mrs Ashford cried.

Now it was my turn to stare at Poirot. I found it difficult to grasp the idea of Margaret Ashford having an affair with a boy who was twenty years younger than she—nearly as young as her own daughter. But from the looks of it, Poirot had hit the bull's-eye.

Poirot moved on to stand in front of Mr Rowley. He was the only one in the audience who seemed to be enjoying Poirot's presentation; he practically hung on Poirot's lips.

"Monsieur Rowley," Poirot announced, "I cannot think of a possible motive for you to kill Madame Stanwood, or destroy her will. However, your extreme curiosity in my work and the current investigation is rather a strange one, and, I have to admit, it puzzled me for a while. Poirot does not like the mystery unsolved! What is more, you were so careless as to leave a list of very effective poisons in your room, including opium and sodium cyanide." At this, he produced the piece of paper the maid had found in Mr Rowley's room.

Mr Rowley, who had first looked at the little man with curiosity, was all of a sudden white as a sheet. "I ... I can explain that," he stammered.

"Oh, I fancy I already know what you are going to say," Poirot proceeded. "You have a secret second identity as a writer of mystery novels, have you not? In particular, you have written The Body in the Sewer. If I am to make a guess, I would say that in the novel you are currently working on, someone is going to be poisoned, n'est-ce pas?"

Mr Rowley's eyes widened in a strange mixture of admiration and embarrassment. There was a low mumble running through the audience.

"Eh bien. I hope you have learnt a lot from the great Hercule Poirot!"

Poirot turned his attention towards Mrs Rowley, who was sitting next to her husband, still in a nervous heap.

"Madame Rowley. How are you feeling today? You were very nervous after Madame Stanwood's death. In fact, you were afraid when you heard that there were large amounts of opium detected in her blood. And then we found a phial in the house's medicine chest which did not belong to Madame Stanwood, but which had your fingerprints on it! Maybe you tried to poison Madame Stanwood with opium first, and when that did not work you resorted to cyanide instead? But then you only arrived on the morning of the birthday party, not leaving enough time for such elaborate plans. There is, of course, always the possibility that you tried to poison her with opium, and someone else independently poisoned her with cyanide. After all, you never liked your cousin very much, and perhaps you thought you would inherit something should she die? And perhaps afterwards your conscience caught up with you, causing the nervous breakdown, as Doctor Lewiston calls it?"

Poirot watched Mrs Rowley intently. She gasped and clung to her husband's side, pale and unable to speak.

"I am convinced this was not the case, though. Your surprise when you heard about the opium in Madame Stanwood's blood was genuine. Your breakdown, however, was not of a natural cause, am I right? The opium was yours, and you panicked. You were afraid someone would find out that you are addicted to drugs, or might think you were involved in Madame Stanwood's death. You have a tendency for nervousness, and your mind presented you with horrible consequences, so you wanted to get rid of the opium. Alas, you chose the medicine chest, the very place Poirot will look first for opium! Deprived of the drug, your body started to show withdrawal symptoms—et voilà, there we have the nervous breakdown!"

Mrs Rowley clasped her hand over her mouth and stared wide-eyed at Poirot. Soft murmurs arose, partly out of surprise or deprecation, partly because people were getting impatient to hear who the murderer was. I have to admit that, although I loved watching Poirot being in his element, I was guilty of the latter.

"Monsieur Ashford!" Poirot continued after the audience had calmed down again. "You were observed burning papers in the dining-room fire. Of course, you are denying it—and you are a very apt liar, one must say—but, nonetheless, the question remains: what did you have with you on holiday that was so important that you had to burn it in secrecy? And what a coincidence that you did so right after Madame Stanwood's death! Coincidences tend to arouse my suspicion, Monsieur Ashford! So I was thinking, were you the person who had forced the drawer of Madame Stanwood's writing desk open and had stolen something from it? A will, perhaps? After all, it would be your wife who would inherit if no will was found."

All eyes turned towards Mr Ashford, who sat in his chair unperturbed. If Poirot was right with his accusations, he did not show the least trace of guilt.

"Of course, we were all looking for the missing will. It was not in the writing desk—but it had never been there, is it not so? I do not know exactly what it was that you stole from the drawer. I only know that it relates to some affair in the past—I believe a woman was involved—that you must want to remain a secret."

Mr Ashford returned Poirot's gaze, his expression unreadable. "It's none of your business," he finally said.

Poirot nodded. "C'est correct. The only thing that is my business, as you put it, is that you have nothing to do with Madame Stanwood's death."

Then he addressed Doctor Lewiston.

"Monsieur le docteur, you were not honest with me. I can understand that you did not want to bring Madame Stanwood discredit by giving away how close your relationship had been. But why did you tell me you believed in suicide and then fail to provide an explanation? Why did you tell me you did not know that Madame Stanwood had been ill, or how she got the needle marks? Why would you not speak to me about her work? Was it to hide a lover's row, or maybe a rivalry between colleagues?"

Lewiston dropped his gaze and shook his head slightly, and the polite but cool expression he had worn suddenly dropped, leaving nothing but grief and sadness.

Poirot continued, "I believe Madame Stanwood asked you to lie, did she not? She suffered from leukaemia, but she did not want anyone to know. In her last days, she had to take large doses of opium against the pain, always anxious not to let her condition show. She also worked on leukaemia, and you feared if you told me I would make the connection, is it not so?"

"Yes," Doctor Lewiston answered, barely audible. "I'm sorry to have hindered your work."

"It is none of your fault," Poirot said mildly. "Alors, let us get to the most interesting question: the missing will! Of course Madame Stanwood would not revoke a will without making a new one. But Mr Brown said he did not have a will and we could not find one in the house, so where is the will?"

Poirot turned towards Mr Brown. "Contrary to what you told us earlier, you do have the effective will of Madame Stanwood, n'est-ce pas?"

"I do," said Mr Brown.

"And you kept that significant information for yourself because Madame Stanwood asked you to do so?"

"That is right. She ordered that her will, and the existence thereof, was to be kept secret until a week after her death."

Poirot beamed at the audience and spread his arms. "I think that settles it all, does it not?"

"But who is the murderer?" Mr Rowley asked what we all had been wondering.

"Why, Madame Stanwood is," Poirot said. Realising that his audience was staring at him in confusion—myself included—he proceeded, "She was careful not to make it look like suicide, and to arrange for some misleading clues."

Mrs Ashford snorted.

"The toothpaste, for example," Poirot continued. "Madame Stanwood could just have taken an overdose of opium if she wanted to, instead of using sodium cyanide which is much harder to get. And she had no reason to hide the poison from herself. But the two tubes of toothpaste confused me from the beginning. Why would a murderer hide the cyanide in a nearly empty tube of toothpaste, and risk that Madame Stanwood would just throw it away instead of using it?" Poirot looked about, his eyes gleaming. "Madame Stanwood poisoned the toothpaste herself. Probably she took the tube to her workplace where she had much easier access to chemicals of all sorts. Then she kept the poisoned tube until the day of her death. This explains the second tube of toothpaste, which was full, but which she had already used. She also ensured that there were many confusing activities going on. She invited you, knowing well your various unusual interests, and in some cases, I suppose, even encouraged you to act on them. For example, I believe that Monsieur Ashford breaking into the writing desk on exactly the night of Madame Stanwood's death was not a coincidence. Did she drop a hint to you the day before as to where she kept the offending papers?"

Mr Ashford did not answer, but I could see his eyes widen in recognition.

James shook his head, still in disbelief. "But why?" he asked. "Edna wouldn't commit suicide! She was a strong woman!"

"She suffered from leukaemia, which is not curable. She worked on a cure, but the project was without success. She tested the therapy she had developed on herself, but it did not help—on the contrary, it even harmed her body. The illness was getting worse rapidly over the last few weeks, and she was only able to keep up her display of normality with heavy use of opium, make-up and a great deal of willpower. She was a strong woman, yes, and as such she could not bear the thought of being weak. She was also a scientist, and as such she knew the value her body would have to her colleagues."

"And why ... this?" James gestured at Poirot and the assembled guests.

"To remind her family that no-one lives up to the rules and standards of honour everyone had been measuring her against," Poirot said gravely.

"I should have seen something..." James mumbled.

"Do not be too hard on yourself, Monsieur James," Poirot said mildly. "She had got it into her head that no-one should know, and she was stubborn enough to go through with it." Then he addressed the audience. "I believe my work here is done." With that, he turned to leave the room, prompting me to follow with a brief nod.

I obliged and we left it to the family to arrange further proceedings.

I followed Poirot into the library.

"I see most of the clues, now that you have explained them," I said, "but how did you figure out that Mr Rowley wrote The Body in the Sewer?"

"Eh bien, once I was sure that Mrs Stanwood committed suicide, it became all very clear. She left several clues to conceal the suicide, but also hints about her family's secret pastimes. I concluded that she placed the book on the nightstand for us to find. Have you not noticed the pseudonym under which the book was published?"

"Yes, it's Carso," I said, contemplating the name. "Oh! That's an anagram of Oscar!"

Poirot nodded. "Oui, mon ami. I was an imbécile not to see it earlier. But what made me wonder was the list of poisons Mary had found in Monsieur Rowley's room. Who would make such a list if he was not planning a murder? And who would be so careless about it?"

"Someone who wanted to write about a murder?"

"Exactement! He had not written about poisoning before, so he researched the topic."

I was impressed. "So Mrs Stanwood planned all of this? The party, the suicide, the investigations ... and you staging a big reveal?"

Poirot nodded solemnly. "She was not an..."

"She was not an ordinary woman, yes, I understand that by now," I said, smiling despite myself. Then another idea struck me. "Mrs Ashford's fingerprints on the Apollo figurine, was that one of her plans, too? To lead you to the affair with Edward?"

"One is tempted to think so, no?"

We were silent for a while, until finally Poirot retrieved a letter from his pocket and handed it to me. The envelope was inscribed simply with 'To M Poirot' in elegant handwriting.

"What is this?"

"A letter Madame Stanwood left for me with her will. I would like you to read it."

I opened the envelope and unfolded the sheets it contained.

Dear M Poirot,

By now, I am sure, you will have seen through the little scheme of mine—if you have been fooled by it at all. I can only hope you do not turn away in disgust. I know you cannot resist a mystery, and I used you in the most despicable way possible. Please let me explain.

I am suffering from leukaemia; only a few colleagues and Doctor Lewiston know. Leukaemia cannot be cured, but I am working on developing a cure. I have been trying our experimental therapy myself for a while now, but with no success. On the contrary, it might even have worsened my illness, but that was a risk I knew beforehand and which I had to take.

You know me: I have always been a fighter, otherwise I would not be what I am today—but struggling my whole life against everyone for no other reason than my sex has worn on me, and I feel I have not much fighting left in me to put up with my disease. Seeing now that my latest research was futile and that the therapy in which I had placed so much hope is not working at all was the straw that broke the camel's back.

My condition is finally starting to show, and I know that I will only manage to keep going by using heavy painkillers until that, too, will fail. So I have decided to go before the disease has me totally in its grip. I will leave my body to my colleagues, knowing that by doing so they will be able to properly investigate the effects of the disease and of our new therapy on it. I will thereby do one last deed for science.

Perhaps by staging this little detective game, I am finally becoming that bitter old harpy everyone accuses me of being, but I hope it will make my family think about their own faults in the future before looking down on others.

You, my dear M Poirot, know the shortcomings of mankind like no-one else, and so I hope you will be able to understand me and—perhaps—forgive me.

Thank you for everything. I wish you all the best.

Yours sincerely,

Edna Stanwood

After I had finished reading, I stared at the pages for a while, deeply touched. The letter was depressing, but it also filled me with respect for Mrs Stanwood, and with hope that her research would make a difference, that it would someday help us to understand leukaemia better, even if Mrs Stanwood herself would not be there to witness it. Finally, I folded the sheets back into the envelope and returned it to Poirot.

"She was a great woman," I said. "I wish I had more time to get to know her."

Poirot straightened the envelope meticulously and slipped it back into his pocket. Now that everything was over, he looked deflated, at least to me who knew how grandiose he usually was.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, although I was not sure what answer to expect or how to react.

"I am fine," Poirot said. He dropped his gaze and in an uncharacteristical gesture studied the tips of his shoes. Finally, he added, "I am glad you are here, mon ami."

I stared at Poirot. His remark was so casual and yet it warmed my soul. I cared for him, I craved his company, and knowing that these feelings were mutual, actually hearing the words out of his mouth, were suddenly all that mattered. Poirot was all that mattered. I wanted him to be happy, I wanted him to smile, and if that wasn't in my power, then at least I wanted to wipe away that too-awkward expression on his face and reassure him that everything was indeed fine right now.

I stretched out my hands and squeezed his shoulders, and he looked up at me, meeting my eyes again with his usual confidence. It was in that moment of intimacy when my mind made a most interesting connection, for it suddenly provided me with a piece of conversation I had had with Mrs Stanwood.

"That's what Mrs Stanwood said," I blurted out.

Poirot quirked an eyebrow. "What did she say?"

"She said she was glad you had me."

"Did she indeed?" Poirot mused.

I nodded. "Of course, I didn't know at the time that she..." I did not finish the sentence, partly because I did not want to bring up the topic of Mrs Stanwood's death again, partly because I found the way Poirot was watching me oddly distracting.

I had unconsciously pulled him closer, and he just stood there, his cat-like eyes gleaming brightly, his small body feeling perfectly right in my arms. I noticed his breath, unusually fast and shallow, caressing the skin of my neck. My own heart pounded loud in my chest, and without thinking I dipped my head to kiss him.

"Hastings," Poirot whispered when our faces were mere inches apart, "this is not the place..."

The flash of romance I had felt was suddenly and utterly shattered when I realised what I was about to do. I blushed fervently and hastened to let go of Poirot, taking a safe step backwards at the same time. I had tried to kiss a man! I, Captain Arthur Hastings, admirer of all things beautiful and female, who prided himself in being, as Emily would put it, old-fashioned and boring, had tried to kiss my equally old-fashioned friend! Poirot of all people! I had not even realised before that I had such thoughts about him; surely my actions were influenced by recent events?

Disgusted with myself, I turned and fled.

I do not recall how long I stood in my room, staring out of the window without seeing anything, rolling thoughts around in my head without actually thinking. At some point, a polite knock penetrated my solitude, and I knew who it was before I heard Poirot's muffled voice trough the door.

"Hastings?" he said, his tone a mixture of concern and pleading, yet holding an eternal patience which I knew meant he would not give up easily.

"The door isn’t locked," I said finally. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

I heard the door open and close, and heard Poirot's soft steps as he approached me. I felt the urge to apologise, to beg for forgiveness, but words failed me. What I had been about to do to him was unspeakable. I knew that he accepted James’ love for Ashley, so I was sure he would not report me to the police. But James was James and Poirot was Poirot, and not objecting to James' choice did not mean he himself would... Even in my mind I refused to finish that sentence.

Poirot sighed softly. "Hastings?" he asked, with so much concern that I dearly hoped he was not going to pity me. I would rather put up with anger.

Poirot started again. "Mon cher Hastings, you have been working with me long enough to know that if you are going to break the law, you need to be careful of not being caught, oui?"

"I'm sor—" I began, but something in his voice made me stop. There was an unexpected playfulness to it.

I turned around and looked at the little man. Where I had expected to see anger, contempt, pity, there was nothing but affection. His eyes twinkled with amusement and his cheeks were flushed, yet at the same time he looked slightly lost and shy. And then it registered. 'This is not the place' had been Poirot's words. He had not said he disapproved of the prospect of being kissed by me as such. Of course Poirot, with his love for details, would choose his words carefully...

I can be incredibly dense at times, and it seemed that I had just given a perfect example of the fact. How Poirot could put up with me on those occasions was beyond me.

I smiled. No, I didn’t smile–I grinned. "You mean you... I'm sorry, I thought..." I stammered, relieved and confused and joyful.

Poirot closed the distance between us. "Sometimes, dear Hastings, it is better that you do not think," he teased.

I laughed.

He took my hands in his and we stood motionless for a while. But then doubts started to nag at me. Where at first I had been concerned about Poirot, about how my behaviour might have shocked him, I was now thinking of myself, of my own confusion. I let go of Poirot's hands.

"I'm afraid I can't," I said. "I mean, how can it be..."

How could it be that after all those years of falling in love with girls, I was suddenly attracted—and this was pretty much the word, I had to admit—to Poirot? How could I love him, even? A woman's body did not feel any less desirable now than it had always felt, so how could I be sure that my feelings for Poirot were more than just a temporary flight of fancy? And if they were, how could I live with the knowledge of indulging in an illegal act?

I looked at Poirot, half-expecting him to answer my questions for me. But he who was always so chatty and eloquent, who seemed to know the depths of human emotions so well, stayed silent and merely watched me with sympathy.

Finally, Poirot said, "What do you think if we leave directly after the funeral and go home? I could cook us dinner—real dinner, not what passes for food with you English—and you could read to me that book you bought, and we could relax, the two of us, and hope that the dear Inspector Japp will let us do so. What do you think, mon ami?"

"That sounds perfect, old man," I said, and really it did.

Moreover, it sounded right.

Chapter Text

The atmosphere at lunch was a strange one. It was as if all illusion of unity the family had tried to uphold had been shattered by the events of the morning. Mr Brown and Doctor Lewiston had also been invited to stay for lunch, and maybe their presence at the table amplified the effect. The only people who seemed to be unperturbed were Mr Ashford, who displayed his usual sour mood, and Poirot, who looked genuinely accomplished.

After the meal Poirot disappeared into the library, and from the hall I could see how he plucked Robert Frost's Mountain Interval from one of the bookshelves and settled into a chair to read. I turned away to give him privacy, knowing that he was going to look up the poem whose last verse Mrs Stanwood had written down and kept in her bedroom.

I went outside for a little walk and ran into Doctor Lewiston, who was just about to leave.

"I've heard you and Mr Poirot are leaving soon?" he said, and when I nodded he added, "Well, then this is goodbye."

He stretched out his hand and I shook it.

"Please send my regards to your friend. He really is a remarkable man. I see now why Edna held him in such high regard."

"Yes, remarkable indeed," I said, ignoring a sudden heat rising to my face and scrambling for a way to change the topic. Then an idea struck me. "Did you know Mrs Stanwood planned to poison herself?"

"God forbid, no! Although I was afraid she might do such a thing, I never was aware that she had actual plans. If I had known, I would have done all I could to persuade her to fight."

He shook his head sadly, and suddenly I regretted that I had asked.

"Actually, Edna seemed to be stronger lately, more determined than the weeks before, and that was not only because of the painkillers. I see now that it must have been the decision of committing suicide which must have had that effect on her."

"I'm sorry," I said sincerely.

Lewiston smiled wryly. "It is as Mr Poirot said: She was very stubborn, and there was probably nothing that could have stopped her."

The funeral service took place a few days later. The family—and especially James—had decided on a relatively simple public service which was nicely executed and well-attended. I did not recognise anyone besides the invitees of the birthday party; from what I gathered, many guests were former colleagues of Mrs Stanwood and fellow scientists. Poirot, on the other hand, nodded politely towards the one or other attendee and exchanged a few words with them, confirming my impression that he seemed to know people just about everywhere. Otherwise, the little man kept unusually quiet. During the burial he clung to my elbow and I watched him anxiously, yet secretly, for a while, but he recovered quickly. By the time we were driving back to Stanwood Manor, he was already rallying at the English weather as if some unseen weather god had set out to endanger his health, despite the fact that it had been dry and not too cold the whole day.

The next morning, after I had finished packing and preparing for our return trip, I went over to Poirot's room. He was still busy folding his clothes neatly into his suitcase, and I dropped into a chair and let my eyes wander across the room. My gaze fell upon the now-empty mantelpiece.

"What did you do with James' book?" I asked curiously.

"I returned it to him, of course," Poirot said without looking up.

"Oh," I said. I was not sure what answer I had expected.

After a few minutes, Poirot had tucked the last piece of clothing away and closed his suitcase. Then he planted himself in front of the mirror, twirled his already perfect moustache and brushed an invisible speck of dust off his sleeve. As he stood there, neat and straight, I suddenly wondered why I had never realised that Poirot was a handsome man. Not classically handsome, maybe, but attractive in his own quaint way.

I watched Poirot's meticulous routine absent-mindedly, recalling all the occasions I had seen him dress, all the little touches when he had let me help him into a coat or jacket. A familiar tingle made itself known in my stomach until, finally, Poirot turned and beamed at me. Bashfully, I dropped my gaze, feigning interest in a barely visible wrinkle in my right trouser leg.

"Are you ready?" Poirot asked gaily.

"I'm ready," I confirmed.

"Then let us go home."

We went downstairs, leaving it to Ashley to take care of our luggage. James, who was now the owner of the manor, met us in the hall to see us off.

"I thank you for your help, Mr Poirot. And I'm sorry for the inconvenience my aunt has caused you..."

"Ta, ta, ta!" Poirot chided gently. "It is not your fault."

"Perhaps not," James admitted. Then he smiled. "I spoke to Inspector Dickinson yesterday morning. He is none too happy that you staged the big reveal without his knowledge."

Poirot waved his hand dismissively. "Ah! The whole affair was, after all, a family matter. The less he knows about the details, the better."

James’ expression suddenly became serious again. "Thank you for your discretion, Mr Poirot, not only in the name of the family, but also especially from me. I mean, you were rather forthright about everyone's secrets, so I'm not sure what I've done to deserve that you didn't mention..."

James shot me a quick, wary look, and I believed that I saw a hint of apprehension in his eyes. Although at no time had he to fear any actual harm from me, I felt guilty nonetheless for ever having thought badly of him.

"Well, that you didn't mention certain details about mine," James finished quietly.

Poirot smiled warmly. "Mrs Stanwood's intention was to—comment dit-on?—rattle everyone's cage. She would not have wanted dire consequences for anyone, especially not for you."

"Again, thank you."

James accompanied us outside, where the car that would bring us to the train station in Winchester was already waiting.

"I wish you a ... bon voyage, I believe the words are?" he said and stretched out his hand.

Poirot smiled. "Oui, c'est correct! Thank you very much, my dear Monsieur James!"

We shook hands; it was a warm goodbye, and finally Poirot and I got into the car and left. The train ride home was rather uneventful, and neither Poirot nor I spoke much. I was too caught up in reflecting on him and me, about how things had developed between us and what we should—or should not—do now. Or rather, that is what I felt I ought to be reflecting on, but somehow my mind refused to worry about anything at all. With Poirot, even if we only sat together in silence, it was just too easy to feel comfortable.

And then I thought, maybe this was a sign that my heart had already decided. I tended to trust my heart implicitly, a fact for which Poirot often mocked me.

"Poirot," I said pensively, "you believe that my instincts are quite useless, don't you?"

"Quite so. As a detective, you are not worth much. Always you take a liking to the wrong persons, and once you have formed your little opinion—Ça y est! You will not see the truth anymore!"

I grinned wryly, trying not to be annoyed at his frankness.

Poirot touched my knee lightly and added, "But console yourself, my friend. You have the heart most admirable—the most beautiful. Whomever you will give your heart to one day will be a very lucky person."

There was so much warmth in his words that I looked at him in surprise, finding him smiling lovingly at me. After the briefest of moments, Poirot turned his eyes away and regained his usual debonair demeanour. I, however, spent the rest of our journey silently treasuring the sensation; never before had someone paid me such a lovely and heartfelt compliment.

Back at home, after we had unpacked and Poirot had obsessed over a newly acquired stain on his patent leather shoes, we had lunch at a little café. We had barely finished our meal when Poirot was already up again and retrieving his coat and hat. Surprised at his unusual haste, I asked him where he was about to go.

"My dear Hastings, I have promised you a dinner, n'est-ce pas?"

"Indeed."

"Et naturalement, I have to do some errands first. What do you think of coq au vin, and for dessert mousse au chocolat?"

"My mouth is already watering," I laughed.

"I will have to see where I can buy chicken and mushrooms, and I need eggs and cream, too. A bottle of burgundy we still have, and chocolate as well. And then, of course, the mousse au chocolat must be prepared in time so that it has time to cool before one can eat it. Never serve a mousse au chocolat too early!"

"Poirot," I interjected, "by all means, steady on! This can wait until tomorrow, or any other day!"

"No, no," Poirot said decidedly. "I want to cook you dinner tonight."

Knowing better than to join Poirot doing his shopping, I strolled off on my own. When it came to preparing food, I was not of much use, even for an Englishman. Poirot sometimes complained about it, but as he preferred to have the kitchen to himself anyway, it was more teasing than anything else. Once, driven by a bad conscience that I was leaving all the work to him, I had tried to help him with dinner. The less said about the matter the better—between my ignorance and Poirot's extreme sense for order and perfection, the evening had nearly ended in disaster.

As it was, when Poirot disappeared into the kitchen to prepare the mousse au chocolat, I settled down in the sitting-room and worked through the mail and old newspapers, listening with one ear to the busy sounds emanating from the kitchen and Poirot's cheerful humming. Between the finance section of the morning newspaper and the sports pages, I suddenly thought that I could not be any happier.

Until now, I have always had the vague idea that I would marry sometime. Of course I would; most people did sooner or later. It had never really occurred to me that it would also mean I had to move out of the flat I was sharing with Poirot. But how would it feel to live with a wife instead of him? To have someone else rummaging around in the kitchen, chiding me for my disorder, discussing the latest news, going on holiday with me? I could hardly imagine it. No, beautiful young girls or not, I was happy with Poirot. I loved him. And judging by the latest developments, and by the way my heart was fluttering whenever I thought of having dinner with Poirot, just the two of us together, maybe I was even in love with him—and why should that worry me?

Feeling the urge to be near the little man, I got up. Poirot, however, was so engrossed in his preparations that, after beaming at me for a second, he shooed me away from the kitchen. Even my attempts at laying the table were cut off resolutely.

"No, no, Hastings, you are of no use in the kitchen! Go read your sports news or do your crosswords. I will tell you when the dinner is ready," was all Poirot said.

When I was finally allowed to take my place at the dining table I was amazed. I was used to the fact that Poirot always took great care in preparing meals, but this was more than his usual thoroughness. The table was laid with a new, fine-woven table cloth, and the silver cutlery, reserved for special occasions, gleamed in the light of a few candles. This was, I realised with a halting breath, not just a dinner; it was a rendezvous. Or, more precisely, it could be a rendezvous if I wanted it to be, since Poirot, other than throwing me an affectionate glance across the table every now and then, was acting perfectly nonchalant.

The food was excellent. Thanks to Poirot, I have come to know and appreciate the Franco-Belgian cuisine, and coq au vin was one of my favourites. While we dined, we talked casually about various topics—the latest political news, the opening of an art exhibition and a case of burglary which Inspector Japp had investigated in our absence.

"It seems that the Inspector has had some excitement of his own," I concluded when I had finished recounting to Poirot what I had read about the case in the newspaper.

"Oui, c'est vrai," Poirot nodded. Then he neatly folded his napkin and placed in on the table. "Would you like dessert now, Hastings?"

"Oh, very much!"

I helped Poirot to carry the used dishes into the kitchen and he served the mousse au chocolat.

"Poirot..." I said when we had settled down at the table again. Not sure what it was that I was going to say, I reached across the table, laying my hand on his. "Thank you for this wonderful evening." I curled my fingers around his, and Poirot moved his hand beneath mine, returning the gesture.

"The evening is not yet over, my dear Hastings," he said, his eyes holding a mischievous glint. I was positively dumbfounded. Courteous and gallant as Poirot always was towards the fair sex, I had never seen him flirting before, and now he was not only flirting, but his undivided attention was directed towards me. For a long moment the only working part of my body seemed to be my heart, which pounded loud and fast in my chest.

"No, it is not," I finally breathed.

Reluctantly, I removed my hand and concentrated on my mousse au chocolat. I have to admit that I do not recall much of the conversation that followed. My mind was too occupied with thinking of the evening that lay ahead of us to focus on small talk any more than was necessary to keep the conversation going.

When we finished our dessert, I persuaded Poirot to let the dirty dishes rest until the next day, and given how important housekeeping usually was for the little man, that was a small miracle on its own. I believe my grasping his hands had something to do with it, and maybe my wide smile, too. So I finally held Poirot in my arms again, still a little shy and anxious, but with the knowledge that the direction in which we were heading was the right one. Poirot had placed his hands on my chest and was looking up at me.

"Eh bien, did it work, then?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, confused.

"A while ago you said that I could seduce anyone with my cooking. Did it work?"

Initially, I was flabbergasted, but then I remembered the situation to which Poirot was referring, and I laughed loudly. I do not know what I found funnier—how much more there was to that declaration than I had realised at the time, that Poirot had actually tried to put it into practice, or the way he was observing me now, half seriously, half impishly. When I could finally breathe again, I took one of his hands in mine and placed a gentle kiss on his knuckles. "What do you think?"

Instead of waiting for an answer, I bent down to kiss him, and this time he did not interrupt me.

Decency demands that I stop my narrative at this point. Of the following events I will only say this much: I have often compared Poirot's green eyes to that of a cat's, and many a time have I described Poirot's agility as cat-like. That night I learnt that Poirot was also fully capable of looking as content as a cat about to purr.