“But when it came down to brass tacks the husband was washed right out of the picture. The body was discovered by one of these women hikers—hefty young women in shorts. She was an absolutely competent and reliable witness—games mistress at a school in Lancashire. She noted the time when she found the body—it was exactly four-fifteen—and gave it as her opinion that the woman had been dead quite a short time—not more than ten minutes. That fitted in well enough with the police surgeon’s view when he examined the body at 5:45. She left everything as it was and tramped across country to Bagshot police station where she reported the death. Now from three o’clock to four-ten, Edward Corrigan was in the train coming down from London where he’d gone up for the day on business. Four other people were in the carriage with him. From the station he took the local bus, two of his fellow passengers travelling by it also. He got off at the Pine Ridge Café where he’d arranged to meet his wife for tea. Time then was four twenty-five. He ordered tea for them both, but said not to bring it till she came. Then he walked about outside waiting for her. When, by five o’clock she hadn’t turned up, he was getting alarmed—thought she might have sprained her ankle. The arrangement was that she was to walk across the moors from the village where they were staying to the Pine Ridge Café and go home by bus. Caesar’s Grove is not far from the café, and it’s thought that as she was ahead of time she sat down there to admire the view for a bit before going on, and that some tramp or madman came upon her there and caught her unawares. Once the husband was proved to be out of it, naturally they connected up her death with that of Nellie Parsons—that rather flighty servant girl who was found strangled in Marley Copse. They decided that the same man was responsible for both crimes, but they never caught him—and what’s more they never came near to catching him! Drew a blank everywhere.”

He paused and then he said slowly:

“And now—here’s a third woman strangled—and a certain gentleman we won’t name right on the spot.”

He stopped.

His small shrewd eyes came round to Poirot. He waited hopefully.

Poirot’s lips moved. Inspector Colgate leaned forward.

Poirot was murmuring:

“—so difficult to know which pieces are part of the fur rug and which are the cat’s tail.”

“I beg pardon, sir?” said Inspector Colgate, startled.

Poirot said quickly:

“I apologize. I was following a train of thought of my own.”

“What’s this about a fur rug and a cat?”