‘It is undeniably a very good school,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘Many people say the best school in England.’

‘It was, I daresay,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe.

‘And will be again,’ said Hercule Poirot.

‘You think so?’ Mrs Sutcliffe looked at him doubtfully. His sympathetic manner was gradually piercing her defences. There is nothing that eases the burden of a mother’s life more than to be permitted to unburden herself of the difficulties, rebuffs and frustrations which she has in dealing with her offspring. Loyalty so often compels silent endurance. But to a foreigner like Hercule Poirot Mrs Sutcliffe felt that this loyalty was not applicable. It was not like talking to the mother of another daughter.

‘Meadowbank,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘is just passing through an unfortunate phase.’

It was the best thing he could think of to say at the moment. He felt its inadequacy and Mrs Sutcliffe pounced upon the inadequacy immediately.

‘Rather more than unfortunate!’ she said. ‘Two murders! And a girl kidnapped. You can’t send your daughter to a school where the mistresses are being murdered all the time.’

It seemed a highly reasonable point of view.

‘If the murders,’ said Poirot, ‘turn out to be the work of one person and that person is apprehended, that makes a difference, does it not?’

‘Well—I suppose so. Yes,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe doubtfully. ‘I mean—you mean—oh, I see, you mean like Jack the Ripper or that other man—who was it? Something to do with Devonshire. Cream? Neil Cream. Who went about killing an unfortunate type of woman. I suppose this murderer just goes about killing schoolmistresses! If once you’ve got him safely in prison, and hanged too, I hope, because you’re only allowed one murder, aren’t you?—like a dog with a bite—what was I saying? Oh yes, if he’s safely caught, well, then I suppose it would be different. Of course there can’t be many people like that, can there?’

‘One certainly hopes not,’ said Hercule Poirot.

‘But then there’s this kidnapping too,’ pointed out Mrs Sutcliffe. ‘You don’t want to send your daughter to a school where she may be kidnapped, either, do you?’

‘Assuredly not, madame. I see how clearly you have thought out the whole thing. You are so right in all you say.’

Mrs Sutcliffe looked faintly pleased. Nobody had said anything like that to her for some time. Henry had merely said things like ‘What did you want to send her to Meadowbank for anyway?’ and Jennifer had sulked and refused to answer.

‘I have thought about it,’ she said. ‘A great deal.’

‘Then I should not let kidnapping worry you, madame. Entre nous, if I may speak in confidence, about Princess Shaista—It is not exactly a kidnapping—one suspects a romance—’

‘You mean the naughty girl just ran away to marry somebody?’

‘My lips are sealed,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘You comprehend it is not desired that there should be any scandal. This is in confidence entre nous. I know you will say nothing.’

‘Of course not,’ said Mrs Sutcliffe virtuously. She looked down at the letter that Poirot had brought with him from the Chief Constable. ‘I don’t quite understand who you are, M.—er—Poirot. Are you what they call in books—a private eye?’