up that evening after the funeral to know if I was all right and if Mrs Jones had come in to give me my evening meal and then she told me it had all gone off very well, and I said 'What about the will?' and she tried to hedge a bit, but of course I had the truth out of her. I couldn't believe it, and I said she must have made a mistake, but she stuck to it. It hurt me, Entwhistle - it really wounded me, if you know what I mean. If you ask me, it was just spite on Richard's part. I know one shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but, upon my word -"

Timothy continued on this theme for some time.

Then Maude came back into the room and said firmly:

"I think, dear, Mr Entwhistle has been with you quite long enough. You really must rest. If you have settled everything -"

"Oh, we've settled things. I leave it all to you, Entwhistle. Let me know when they catch the fellow - if they ever do. I've no faith in the police nowadays - the Chief Constables aren't the right type. You'll see to the

-er - interment - won't you? We shan't be able to come, I'm afraid. But order an expensive wreath - and there must be a proper stone put up in due course - she'll be buried locally, I suppose? No point in bringing her North and I've no idea where Lansquenet is buried, somewhere in France I believe. I don't know what one puts on a stone when it's murder... Can't very well say 'entered into rest' or anything like that. One will have to choose a text - something appropriate. R.I.P.? No, that's only for Catholics."

"O Lord, thou hast seen my wrong. Judge thou my case," murmured Mr Entwhistle.

The startled glance Timothy bent on him made Mr Entwhistle smile faintly.

"From Lamentations," he said. "It seems appropriate if somewhat melodramatic. However, it will be some time before the question of the Memorial stone comes up. The - er - ground has to settle, you know. Now don't worry about anything. We will deal with things and keep you fully informed."

Mr Entwhistle left for London by the breakfast train on the following morning.

When he got home, after a little hesitation, he rang up a friend of his.

Chapter 7

"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your invitation."

Mr Entwhistle pressed his host's hand warmly.

Hercule Poirot gestured hospitably to a chair by the fire.

Mr Entwhistle sighed as he sat down.

On one side of the room a table was laid for two.

"I returned from the country this morning," he said.

"And you have a matter on which you wish to consult me?"

"Yes. It's a long rambling story, I'm afraid."

"Then we will not have it until after we have dined. Georges?"

The efficient George materialised with some Pâté de Foie Gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.