Poirot took it. Franklin came over beside him and with a pointing finger read some of the extracts out loud.

‘—things go on here much as usual. Charlotte is moderately free from pain. I wish one could say more. You may remember Thora Grey? She is a dear girl and a greater comfort to me than I can tell you. I should not have known what to do through this bad time but for her. Her sympathy and interest are unfailing. She has an exquisite taste and flair for beautiful things and shares my passion for Chinese art. I was indeed lucky to find her. No daughter could be a closer or more sympathetic companion. Her life had been a difficult and not always a happy one, but I am glad to feel that here she has a home and true affection.

‘You see,’ said Franklin, ‘that’s how my brother felt to her. He thought of her like a daughter. What I feel so unfair is the fact that the moment my brother is dead, his wife practically turns her out of the house! Women really are devils, M. Poirot.’

‘Your sister-in-law is ill and in pain, remember.’

‘I know. That’s what I keep saying to myself. One mustn’t judge her. All the same, I thought I’d show you this. I don’t want you to get a false impression of Thora from anything Lady Clarke may have said.’

Poirot returned the letter.

‘I can assure you,’ he said, smiling, ‘that I never permit myself to get false impressions from anything anyone tells me. I form my own judgments.’

‘Well,’ said Clarke, stowing away the letter. ‘I’m glad I showed it to you anyway. Here come the girls. We’d better be off.’

As we left the room, Poirot called me back.

‘You are determined to accompany the expedition, Hastings?’

‘Oh, yes. I shouldn’t be happy staying here inactive.’

‘There is activity of mind as well as body, Hastings.’

‘Well, you’re better at it than I am,’ I said.

‘You are incontestably right, Hastings. Am I correct in supposing that you intend to be a cavalier to one of the ladies?’

‘That was the idea.’

‘And which lady did you propose to honour with your company?’

‘Well—I—er—hadn’t considered yet.’

‘What about Miss Barnard?’

‘She’s rather the independent type,’ I demurred.

‘Miss Grey?’

‘Yes. She’s better.’

‘I find you, Hastings, singularly though transparently dishonest! All along you had made up your mind to spend the day with your blonde angel!’

‘Oh, really, Poirot!’

‘I am sorry to upset your plans, but I must request you to give your escort elsewhere.’

‘Oh, all right. I think you’ve got a weakness for that Dutch doll of a girl.’

‘The person you are to escort is Mary Drower—and I must request you not to leave her.’

‘But, Poirot, why?’

‘Because, my dear friend, her name begins with a D. We must take no chances.’

I saw the justice of his remark. At first it seemed far-fetched, but then I realized that if A B C had a fanatical hatred of Poirot, he might very well be keeping himself informed of Poirot’s movements. And in that case the elimination of Mary Drower might strike him as a very pat fourth stroke.