He was distracted from his train of thought by the sudden appearance of Dorcas the maid, who bounded into the room with an air of urgency and anxiety. “Excuse me, sir!”

“What is the matter?” Poirot half expected her to say that she had accidentally set fire to his hat and coat.

“Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, sir?”

“This is what you have come to ask me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There is nothing else? Nothing has happened?”

“No, sir.” Dorcas sounded confused.

“Bon. In that case, yes, please, I will take a coffee. Thank you.”

“Right you are, sir.”

“Did you see that?” Louisa Wallace grumbled as the girl lolloped out of the room. “Can you credit it? I thought she was about to announce that she had to leave at once for her mother’s deathbed! She really is the limit. I should dismiss her without further ado, but even help that’s no help at all is better than none. It’s impossible to find decent girls these days.”

Poirot made appropriate noises of concern. He did not wish to discuss domestic servants. He was far more interested in his own ideas, especially the one that had struck him while Louisa Wallace had been complaining about Dorcas and he had been staring at a blue painted jug and bowl set.

“Madame, if I might take a little more of your time . . . these other pictures here on the walls, they are by your husband?”

“Yes.”

“As you say, he too is an excellent artist. I would be honored, madame, if you would show me around your beautiful house. I would very much like to look at your husband’s paintings. You said they are on every wall?”

“Yes. I’ll happily give you the St. John Wallace art tour, and you will see that I wasn’t exaggerating.” Louisa beamed and clapped her hands together. “What fun! Though I do wish St. John were here—he would be able to tell you so much more about the pictures than I can. Still, I shall do my best. You would be amazed, Monsieur Poirot, by the number of people who come to the house and don’t look at the paintings or ask about them or anything. Dorcas is a case in point. There could be five hundred framed dishcloths hanging on the walls and she wouldn’t notice the difference. Let’s start in the hall, shall we?”