"Yes. I'm a tidy man," said Carbury. He waved a vague hand. "Don't like a mess. When I come across a mess I want to clear it up. See?"

Hercule Poirot nodded gravely. He saw. "There was no doctor down there?" he asked.

"Yes, two. One of 'em was down with malaria, though. The other's a girl—just out of the medical student stage. Still, she knows her job, I suppose. There wasn't anything odd about the death. Old woman had got a dicky heart. She'd been taking heart medicine for some time. Nothing really surprising about her conking out suddenly like she did."

"Then what, my friend, is worrying you?" asked Poirot gently.

Colonel Carbury turned a harassed blue eye on him. "Heard of a Frenchman called Gerard? Theodore Gerard?"

"Certainly. A very distinguished man in his own line."

"Loony bins," confirmed Colonel Carbury. "Passion for a charwoman at the age of four makes you insist you're the Archbishop of Canterbury when you're thirty-eight. Can't see why and never have, but these chaps explain it very convincingly."

"Dr. Gerard is certainly an authority on certain forms of deep-seated neurosis," agreed Poirot with a smile. "Is—er—are—er—his views on the happening at Petra based on that line of argument?"

Colonel Carbury shook his head vigorously. "No, no. Shouldn't have worried about them if they had been! Not, mind you, that I don't believe it's all true. It's just one of those things I don't understand—like one of my Bedouin fellows who can get out of a car in the middle of a flat desert, feel the ground with his hand and tell you to within a mile or two where you are. It isn't magic, but it looks like it. No, Dr. Gerard's story is quite straightforward. Just plain facts. I think, if you're interested—you are interested?"

"Yes, yes."

"Good man. Then I think I'll just phone over and get Gerard along here and you can hear his story for yourself."

When the Colonel had dispatched an orderly on this quest, Poirot said: "Of what does this family consist?"

"Name's Boynton. There are two sons, one of 'em married. His wife's a nice-looking girl—the quiet sensible kind. And there are two daughters. Both of 'em quite good-looking in totally different styles. Younger one a bit nervy—but that may be just shock."

"Boynton," said Poirot. His eyebrows rose. "That is curious—very curious."

Carbury cocked an inquiring eye at him. But as Poirot said nothing more, he himself went on: "Seems pretty obvious mother was a pest! Had to be waited on hand and foot and kept the whole lot of them dancing attendance. And she held the purse strings. None of them had a penny of their own."

"Aha! All very interesting. Is it known how she left her money?"

"I did just slip that question in—casual like, you know. It gets divided equally among the lot of them."

Poirot nodded his head. Then he asked: "You are of opinion that they are all in it?"