Poirot buttered a piece of toast thoughtfully. In cases where there was any suspicion of a wife being murdered, he always automatically suspected the husband. (Similarly, with a husband’s demise, he suspected the wife.) But in this case he did not suspect Sir George of having done away with Lady Stubbs. From his brief observation of them he was quite convinced that Sir George was devoted to his wife. Moreover, as far as his excellent memory served him (and it served him pretty well), Sir George had been present on the lawn the entire afternoon until he himself had left with Mrs Oliver to discover the body. He had been there on the lawn when they had returned with the news. No, it was not Sir George who was responsible for Hattie’s death. That is, if Hattie were dead. After all, Poirot told himself, there was no reason to believe so as yet. What he had just said to Sir George was true enough. But in his own mind the conviction was unalterable. The pattern, he thought, was the pattern of murder – a double murder.

Miss Brewis interrupted his thoughts by speaking with almost tearful venom.

‘Men are such fools,’ she said, ‘such absolute fools! They’re quite shrewd in most ways, and then they go marrying entirely the wrong sort of woman.’

Poirot was always willing to let people talk. The more people who talked to him, and the more they said, the better. There was nearly always a grain of wheat among the chaff.

‘You think it has been an unfortunate marriage?’ he demanded.

‘Disastrous – quite disastrous.’

‘You mean – that they were not happy together?’

‘She’d a thoroughly bad influence over him in every way.’

‘Now I find that very interesting. What kind of a bad influence?’

‘Making him run to and fro at her beck and call, getting expensive presents out of him – far more jewels than one woman could wear. And furs. She’s got two mink coats and a Russian ermine. What could any woman want with two mink coats, I’d like to know?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘That I would not know,’ he said.

‘Sly,’ continued Miss Brewis. ‘Deceitful! Always playing the simpleton – especially when people were here. I suppose because she thought he liked her that way!’

‘And did he like her that way?’

‘Oh, men!’ said Miss Brewis, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. ‘They don’t appreciate efficiency or unselfishness, or loyalty or any one of those qualities! Now with a clever, capable wife Sir George would have got somewhere.’

‘Got where?’ asked Poirot.