“In what way can I help you?”

“First of all, Mr. Lane, will you tell me your own movements today?”

“Willingly. I started off early on one of my usual tramps. I am fond of walking. I have roamed over a good deal of the countryside round here. Today I went to St. Petrock-in-the-Combe. That is about seven miles from here—a very pleasant walk along winding lanes, up and down the Devon hills and valleys. I took some lunch with me and ate it in a spinney. I visited the church—it has some fragments—only fragments alas, of early glass—also a very interesting painted screen.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lane. Did you meet anyone on your walk?”

“Not to speak to. A cart passed me once and a couple of boys on bicycles and some cows. However,” he smiled, “if you want proof of my statement, I wrote my name in the book at the church. You will find it there.”

“You did not see anyone at the church itself—the Vicar, or the verger?”

Stephen Lane shook his head. He said:

“No, there was no one about and I was the only visitor. St. Petrock is a very remote spot. The village itself lies on the far side of it about half a mile farther on.”

Colonel Weston said pleasantly:

“You mustn’t think we’re—er—doubting what you say. Just a matter of checking up on everybody. Just routine, you know, routine. Have to stick to routine in cases of this kind.”

Stephen Lane said gently:

“Oh yes, I quite understand.”

Weston went on:

“Now the next point. Is there anything you know that would assist us at all? Anything about the dead woman? Anything that could give us a pointer as to who murdered her? Anything you heard or saw?”

Stephen Lane said:

“I heard nothing. All I can tell you is this: that I knew instinctively as soon as I saw her that Arlena Marshall was a focus of evil. She was Evil! Evil personified! Woman can be man’s help and inspiration in life—she can also be man’s downfall. She can drag a man down to the level of the beast. The dead woman was just such a woman. She appealed to everything base in a man’s nature. She was a woman such as Jezebel and Aholibah. Now—she has been struck down in the middle of her wickedness!”

Hercule Poirot stirred. He said:

“Not struck down—strangled! Strangled, Mr. Lane, by a pair of human hands.”

The clergyman’s own hands trembled. The fingers writhed and twitched. He said, and his voice came low and choked:

“That’s horrible—horrible—Must you put it like that?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“It is the simple truth. Have you any idea, Mr. Lane, whose hands those were?”

The other shook his head. He said: “I know nothing—nothing….”