Yours very sincerely,

Julia Upjohn

III

At 228 Whitehouse Mansions, George, Hercule Poirot’s immaculate valet and manservant, opened the door and contemplated with some surprise a schoolgirl with a rather dirty face.

‘Can I see M. Hercule Poirot, please?’

George took just a shade longer than usual to reply. He found the caller unexpected.

‘Mr Poirot does not see anyone without an appointment,’ he said.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t time to wait for that. I really must see him now. It is very urgent. It’s about some murders and a robbery and things like that.’

‘I will ascertain,’ said George, ‘if Mr Poirot will see you.’

He left her in the hall and withdrew to consult his master.

‘A young lady, sir, who wishes to see you urgently.’

‘I daresay,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘But things do not arrange themselves as easily as that.’

‘That is what I told her, sir.’

‘What kind of a young lady?’

‘Well, sir, she’s more of a little girl.’

‘A little girl? A young lady? Which do you mean, Georges? They are really not the same.’

‘I’m afraid you did not quite get my meaning sir. She is, I should say, a little girl—of school age, that is to say. But though her frock is dirty and indeed torn, she is essentially a young lady.’

‘A social term. I see.’

‘And she wishes to see you about some murders and a robbery.’

Poirot’s eyebrows went up.

‘Some murders, and a robbery. Original. Show the little girl—the young lady—in.’

Julia came into the room with only the slightest trace of diffidence. She spoke politely and quite naturally.

‘How do you do, M. Poirot. I am Julia Upjohn. I think you know a great friend of Mummy’s. Mrs Summerhayes. We stayed with her last summer and she talked about you a lot.’

‘Mrs Summerhayes…’ Poirot’s mind went back to a village that climbed a hill and to a house on top of that hill. He recalled a charming freckled face, a sofa with broken springs, a large quantity of dogs, and other things both agreeable and disagreeable.

‘Maureen Summerhayes,’ he said. ‘Ah yes.’

‘I call her Aunt Maureen, but she isn’t really an aunt at all. She told us how wonderful you’d been and saved a man who was in prison for murder, and when I couldn’t think of what to do and who to go to, I thought of you.’

‘I am honoured,’ said Poirot gravely.

He brought forward a chair for her.

‘Now tell me,’ he said. ‘Georges, my servant, told me you wanted to consult me about a robbery and some murders—more than one murder, then?’

‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘Miss Springer and Miss Vansittart. And of course there’s the kidnapping, too—but I don’t think that’s really my business.’

‘You bewilder me,’ said Poirot. ‘Where have all these exciting happenings taken place?’

‘At my school—Meadowbank.’

‘Meadowbank,’ exclaimed Poirot. ‘Ah.’ He stretched out his hand to where the newspapers lay neatly folded beside him. He unfolded one and glanced over the front page, nodding his head.