‘Well, he could take a prominent part in local affairs. Or stand for Parliament. He’s a much more able man than poor Mr Masterton. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard Mr Masterton on a platform – a most halting and uninspired speaker. He owes his position entirely to his wife. It’s Mrs Masterton who’s the power behind the throne. She’s got all the drive and the initiative and the political acumen.’

Poirot shuddered inwardly at the thought of being married to Mrs Masterton, but he agreed quite truthfully with Miss Brewis’ words.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she is all that you say. A femme formidable,’ he murmured to himself.

‘Sir George doesn’t seem ambitious,’ went on Miss Brewis; ‘he seems quite content to live here and potter about and play the country squire, and just go to London occasionally to attend to all his city directorships and all that, but he could make far more of himself than that with his abilities. He’s really a very remarkable man, M. Poirot. That woman never understood him. She just regards him as a kind of machine for tipping out fur coats and jewels and expensive clothes. If he were married to someone who really appreciated his abilities…’ She broke off, her voice wavering uncertainly.

Poirot looked at her with a real compassion. Miss Brewis was in love with her employer. She gave him a faithful, loyal and passionate devotion of which he was probably quite unaware and in which he would certainly not be interested. To Sir George, Amanda Brewis was an efficient machine who took the drudgery of daily life off his shoulders, who answered telephone calls, wrote letters, engaged servants, ordered meals and generally made life smooth for him. Poirot doubted if he had ever once thought of her as a woman. And that, he reflected, had its dangers. Women could work themselves up, they could reach an alarming pitch of hysteria unnoticed by the oblivious male who was the object of their devotion.

‘A sly, scheming, clever cat, that’s what she is,’ said Miss Brewis tearfully.

‘You say is, not was, I observe,’ said Poirot.

‘Of course she isn’t dead!’ said Miss Brewis, scornfully. ‘Gone off with a man, that’s what she’s done! That’s her type.’

‘It is possible. It is always possible,’ said Poirot. He took another piece of toast, inspected the marmalade pot gloomily and looked down the table to see if there were any kind of jam. There was none, so he resigned himself to butter.

‘It’s the only explanation,’ said Miss Brewis. ‘Of course he wouldn’t think of it.’

‘Has there – been any – trouble with men?’ asked Poirot, delicately.

‘Oh, she’s been very clever,’ said Miss Brewis.

‘You mean you have not observed anything of the kind?’

‘She’d be careful that I shouldn’t,’ said Miss Brewis.