“I wouldn’t look at it that way,” I said.

“Non?”

“You did all you could. Just because the killer succeeded, it does not mean you failed.”

Poirot’s face was a mask of contempt. “If that is your opinion, then you must be every murderer’s favorite policeman. Of course I have failed!” He raised his hand to stop me from speaking. “Please, say no more absurd things. Tell me about your stay in Great Holling. What did you discover, apart from the surname of Jennie?”

I told him all about my trip, feeling gradually more like my normal self as I went on, making sure to leave out no detail that a thorough chap like Poirot might consider relevant. As I spoke, I noticed the strangest thing: his eyes were growing greener. It was as if someone were shining small torches on them from inside his head, to make them glow brighter.

When I had finished, he said, “So, Jennie was a bed-maker for Patrick Ive at the University of Cambridge’s Saviour College. That is most interesting.”

“Why?”

No answer was forthcoming, only another question.

“You did not lie in wait for Margaret Ernst and follow her, after your first visit to her cottage?”

“Follow her? No. I had no reason to think that she would go anywhere. She seems to spend all her time staring out of her window at the Ives’ gravestone.”

“You had every reason to think she would go somewhere, or that someone would come to her,” said Poirot severely. “Think, Catchpool. She would not tell you about Patrick and Frances Ive on the first day that you spoke to her, n’est-ce pas? ‘Come back tomorrow,’ she said. When you did, she told you the whole story. Did it not strike you that the reason for this postponement might have been her desire to consult with another person?”

“No. As a matter of fact, it didn’t. She struck me as a woman who would want to think carefully and not rush an important decision. Also as a woman determined to make up her own mind, not one who would rush to a friend for advice. Hence, I suspected nothing.”

“I, on the other hand, suspect,” said Poirot. “I suspect that Margaret Ernst wished to discuss with Dr. Ambrose Flowerday what she ought to say.”

“Well, it would likely be him if it were anyone,” I conceded. “She certainly brought his name into the conversation plenty of times. She clearly admires him.”

“Yet you did not go in search of Dr. Flowerday.” Poirot made a small snorting sound. “You were too honorable to do so, having made your vow of silence. And is it your English sense of decorum that causes you to substitute the word ‘admire’ for the word ‘love?’ Margaret Ernst loves Ambrose Flowerday—this is clear from what you have told me! She is filled with passionate emotion when discussing this vicar and his wife that she never once met? No, her passion is for Dr. Flowerday—she feels his feelings about the tragically deceased Reverend Ive and his wife—they were his dear friends. Do you see, Catchpool?”