The thing was indeed shaped like a bullet, but it proved to be a small pencil.

‘That’s what I picked up,’ said Miss Lingard. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘Do you know who this belongs to, Miss Lingard?’

‘Oh, yes, it’s Colonel Bury’s. He had it made out of a bullet that hit him—or rather, didn’t hit him, if you know what I mean—in the South African War.’

‘Do you know when he had it last?’

‘Well, he had it this afternoon when they were playing bridge, because I noticed him writing with it on the score when I came in to tea.’

‘Who was playing bridge?’

‘Colonel Bury, Lady Chevenix-Gore, Mr Trent and Miss Cardwell.’

‘I think,’ said Poirot gently, ‘we will keep this and return it to the colonel ourselves.’

‘Oh, please do. I am so forgetful, I might not remember to do so.’

‘Perhaps, mademoiselle, you would be so good as to ask Colonel Bury to come here now?’

‘Certainly. I will go and find him at once.’

She hurried away. Poirot got up and began walking aimlessly round the room.

‘We begin,’ he said, ‘to reconstruct the afternoon. It is interesting. At half-past two Sir Gervase goes over accounts with Captain Lake. He is slightly preoccupied. At three, he discusses the book he is writing with Miss Lingard. He is in great distress of mind. Miss Lingard associates that distress of mind with Hugo Trent on the strength of a chance remark. At teatime his behaviour is normal. After tea, Godfrey Burrows tells us he was in good spirits over something. At five minutes to eight he comes downstairs, goes to his study, scrawls “Sorry” on a sheet of paper, and shoots himself!’

Riddle said slowly:

‘I see what you mean. It isn’t consistent.’

‘Strange alteration of moods in Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore! He is preoccupied—he is seriously upset—he is normal—he is in high spirits! There is something very curious here! And then that phrase he used, “Too late.” That I should get here “Too late.” Well, it is true that. I did get here too late—to see him alive.’

‘I see. You really think—?’

‘I shall never know now why Sir Gervase sent for me! That is certain!’

Poirot was still wandering round the room. He straightened one or two objects on the mantelpiece; he examined a card-table that stood against a wall, he opened the drawer of it and took out the bridge-markers. Then he wandered over to the writing-table and peered into the wastepaper basket. There was nothing in it but a paper bag. Poirot took it out, smelt it, murmured ‘Oranges’ and flattened it out, reading the name on it. ‘Carpenter and Sons, Fruiterers, Hamborough St Mary.’ He was just folding it neatly into squares when Colonel Bury entered the room.

Chapter 8

The Colonel dropped into a chair, shook his head, sighed and said:

‘Terrible business, this, Riddle. Lady Chevenix-Gore is being wonderful—wonderful. Grand woman! Full of courage!’

Coming softly back to his chair, Poirot said: