‘Come in, gentlemen,’ he said.

Inspector Kelsey took the initiative.

‘This is Inspector Crome of Scotland Yard, sir,’ he said. ‘He’s come down to help us over this business.’

‘Scotland Yard?’ said Mr Barnard hopefully. ‘That’s good. This murdering villain’s got to be laid by the heels. My poor little girl—’ His face was distorted by a spasm of grief.

‘And this is Mr Hercule Poirot, also from London, and er—’

‘Captain Hastings,’ said Poirot.

‘Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,’ said Mr Barnard mechanically. ‘Come into the snuggery. I don’t know that my poor wife’s up to seeing you. All broken up, she is.’

However, by the time that we were ensconced in the living room of the bungalow, Mrs Barnard had made her appearance. She had evidently been crying bitterly, her eyes were reddenedand she walked with the uncertain gait of a person who had had a great shock.

‘Why, mother, that’s fine,’ said Mr Barnard. ‘You’re sure you’re all right—eh?’

He patted her shoulder and drew her down into a chair.

‘The superintendent was very kind,’ said Mr Barnard. ‘After he’d broken the news to us, he said he’d leave any questions till later when we’d got over the first shock.’

‘It is too cruel. Oh, it is too cruel,’ cried Mrs Barnard tearfully. ‘The cruellest thing that ever was, it is.’

Her voice had a faintly sing-song intonation that I thought for a moment was foreign till I remembered the name on the gate and realized that the ‘effer wass’ of her speech was in reality proof of her Welsh origin.

‘It’s very painful, madam, I know,’ said Inspector Crome. ‘And we’ve every sympathy for you, but we want to know all the facts we can so as to get to work as quick as possible.’

‘That’s sense, that is,’ said Mr Barnard, nodding approval.

‘Your daughter was twenty-three, I understand. She lived here with you and worked at the Ginger Cat café, is that right?’

‘That’s it.’

‘This is a new place, isn’t it? Where did you live before?’

‘I was in the ironmongery business in Kennington. Retired two years ago. Always meant to live near the sea.’

‘You have two daughters?’

‘Yes. My elder daughter works in an office in London.’

‘Weren’t you alarmed when your daughter didn’t come home last night?’

‘We didn’t know she hadn’t,’ said Mrs Barnard tearfully. ‘Dad and I always go to bed early. Nine o’clock’s our time. We never knew Betty hadn’t come home till the police officer came and said—and said—’

She broke down.

‘Was your daughter in the habit of—er—returning home late?’

‘You know what girls are nowadays, inspector,’ said Barnard. ‘Independent, that’s what they are. These summer evenings they’re not going to rush home. All the same, Betty was usually in by eleven.’

‘How did she get in? Was the door open?’

‘Left the key under the mat—that’s what we always did.’

‘There is some rumour, I believe, that your daughter was engaged to be married?’