Now was not the appropriate time to enquire if Fee had a name of the same order as Mr. Not Quite for Hercule Poirot that she used in his absence—perhaps one that made reference to his exquisite mustache.

“So Mademoiselle Jennie does not wish to know the business of other people,” Poirot said thoughtfully, “but unlike many who take no interest in the lives and ideas of those around them, and who talk only about themselves at great length, she does not do this either—is that not so?”

Fee raised her eyebrows. “Powerful memory you’ve got there. Dead right again. No, Jennie’s not one to talk about herself. She’ll answer a question, but she won’t linger on it. Doesn’t want to be kept too long from what’s in her head, whatever it is. Her hidden treasure—except it don’t make her happy, whatever she’s dwelling on. I’ve long since given up trying to fathom her.”

“She dwells on the heartbreak,” Poirot murmured. “And the danger.”

“Did she say she was in danger?”

“Oui, mademoiselle. I regret that I was not quick enough to stop her from leaving. If something should happen to her . . .” Poirot shook his head and wished he could recover the settled feeling with which he had arrived. He slapped the tabletop with the flat of his hand as he made his decision. “I will return here demain matin. You say she is here often, n’est-ce pas? I will find her before the danger does. This time, Hercule Poirot, he will be quicker!”

“Fast or slow, don’t matter,” said Fee. “No one can find Jennie, not even with her right in front of their noses, and no one can help her.” She stood and picked up Poirot’s plate. “There’s no point letting good food go cold over it,” she concluded.

2. Murder in Three Rooms

Murder in Three Rooms

THAT WAS HOW IT started, on the evening of Thursday, February 7, 1929, with Hercule Poirot, and Jennie, and Fee Spring; amid the crooked, teapot-huddled shelves of Pleasant’s Coffee House.

Or, I should say, that was how it appeared to start. I’m not convinced that stories from real life have beginnings and ends, as a matter of fact. Approach them from any vantage point and you’ll see that they stretch endlessly back into the past and spread inexorably forward into the future. One is never quite able to say “That’s that, then,” and draw a line.

Luckily, true stories do have heroes and heroines. Not being one myself, having no hope of ever being one, I am all too aware that they are real.