‘They don’t put it as formally as that nowadays,’ said Mr Barnard.

‘Donald Fraser his name is, and I liked him. I liked him very much,’ said Mrs Barnard. ‘Poor fellow, it’ll be trouble for him—this news. Does he know yet, I wonder?’

‘He works in Court & Brunskill’s, I understand?’

‘Yes, they’re the estate agents.’

‘Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after her work?’

‘Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer.’

‘Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday?’

‘She didn’t say. Betty never said much about what she was doing or where she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I can’t believe—’

Mrs Barnard started sobbing again.

‘Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, mother,’ urged her husband. ‘We’ve got to get to the bottom of this.’

‘I’m sure Donald would never—would never—’ sobbed Mrs Barnard.

‘Now just you pull yourself together,’ repeated Mr Barnard.

‘I wish to God I could give you some help—but the plain fact is I know nothing—nothing at all that can help you to find the dastardly scoundrel who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girl—with adecent young fellow that she was—well, we’d have called it walking out with in my young days. Why anyone should want to murder her simply beats me—it doesn’t make sense.’

‘You’re very near the truth there, Mr Barnard,’ said Crome. ‘I tell you what I’d like to do—have a look over Miss Barnard’s room. There may be something—letters—or a diary.’

‘Look over it and welcome,’ said Mr Barnard, rising.

He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I brought up the rear.

I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelaces, and as I did so a taxi drew up outside and a girl jumped out of it. She paid the driver and hurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As she entered the door she saw me and stopped dead.

There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me.

‘Who are you?’ she said.

I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply. Should I give my name? Or mention that I had come here with the police? The girl, however, gave me no time to make a decision.

‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘I can guess.’

She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing and threw it on the ground. I could see her better now as she turned a little so that the light fell on her.

My first impression was of the Dutch dolls that my sisters used to play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheek-bones were high and her whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow, unattractive. She was not good-looking—plain rather—but there was an intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quite impossible to overlook.