‘Exceedingly true,’ murmured Poirot. ‘You, I understand, went to the police of your own accord?’

‘Certainly I did. As soon as I heard of the shocking occurrence I perceived that my statement might be helpful and came forward accordingly.’

‘A very proper spirit,’ said Poirot solemnly. ‘Perhaps you will be so kind as to repeat your story to me.’

‘By all means. I was returning to this house and at 5.30 precisely—’

‘Pardon, how was it that you knew the time so accurately?’

Mr Partridge looked a little annoyed at being interrupted.

‘The church clock chimed. I looked at my watch and found I was a minute slow. That was just before I entered Mrs Ascher’s shop.’

‘Were you in the habit of making purchases there?’

‘Fairly frequently. It was on my way home. About once or twice a week I was in the habit of purchasing two ounces of John Cotton mild.’

‘Did you know Mrs Ascher at all? Anything of her circumstances or her history?’

‘Nothing whatever. Beyond my purchase and an occasional remark as to the state of the weather, I had never spoken to her.’

‘Did you know she had a drunken husband who was in the habit of threatening her life?’

‘No, I knew nothing whatever about her.’

‘You knew her by sight, however. Did anything about her appearance strike you as unusual yesterday evening? Did she appear flurried or put out in any way?’

Mr Partridge considered.

‘As far as I noticed, she seemed exactly as usual,’ he said.

Poirot rose.

‘Thank you, Mr Partridge, for answering these questions. Have you, by any chance, an A B C in the house? I want to look up my return train to London.’

‘On the shelf just behind you,’ said Mr Partridge.

On the shelf in question were an A B C, a Bradshaw, the Stock Exchange Year Book, Kelly’s Directory, a Who’s Who and a local directory.

Poirot took down the A B C, pretended to look up a train, then thanked Mr Partridge and took his leave.

Our next interview was with Mr Albert Riddell and was of a highly different character. Mr Albert Riddell was a platelayer and our conversation took place to the accompaniment of the clattering of plates and dishes by Mr Riddell’s obviously nervous wife, the growling of Mr Riddell’s dog and the undisguised hostility of Mr Riddell himself.

He was a big clumsy giant of a man with a broad face and small suspicious eyes. He was in the act of eating meat-pie, washed down by exceedingly black tea. He peered at us angrily over the rim of his cup.

‘Told all I’ve got to tell once, haven’t I?’ he growled. ‘What’s it to do with me, anyway? Told it to the blarsted police, I ’ave, and now I’ve got to spit it all out again to a couple of blarsted foreigners.’

Poirot gave a quick, amused glance in my direction and then said:

‘In truth I sympathize with you, but what will you? It is a question of murder, is it not? One has to be very, very careful.’