“Of course. Certainly.” Lazzari cleared his throat in preparation. “A room was taken by a woman named Jennie Hobbs. Monsieur Poirot, she ran into the hotel as if a calamity had befallen her and threw money down on the desk. She requested a room as if escaping from a pursuing demon! I showed her to the room myself, then went away to commence the consideration: what ought I to do? Should I inform the police that a woman with the name Jennie has arrived at the hotel? You had asked me about that name in particular, Monsieur Poirot, but there must be many women in London with the name Jennie, and more than one of those Jennies must have cause for great unhappiness that is nothing to do with a murder case. How am I to know if—”

“Please, signor, arrive at the point,” said Poirot, interrupting his flow. “What did you do?”

“I waited about thirty minutes, then came up here to the fourth floor and knocked at the door. No answer! So I went back downstairs to get a key.”

As Lazzari spoke, I walked over to the window and looked out. Anything was preferable to the sight of the blood and the hat and the wretched monogrammed cufflink. Room 402, like Richard Negus’s room, 238, was on the garden side of the hotel. I stared at the pleached limes, but soon had to look away, as even they looked sinister to me: a row of inanimate objects fused together, as if they had held hands for too long.

I was about to turn back to Poirot and Lazzari when I spotted two people in the garden beneath the window. They stood beside a brown wheelbarrow. I could see only the tops of their heads. One was a man and the other a woman, and they were locked together in an embrace. The woman seemed to stumble or slump, her head tilting to one side. Her companion grasped her more tightly. I took a step back, but I was not fast enough: the man had looked up and seen me. It was Thomas Brignell, the assistant clerk. His face instantly turned beet red. I took another step back so that I could no longer see the gardens at all. Poor Brignell, I thought; given his reluctance to stand up and speak in public, I could well imagine how painfully embarrassed he must be to be caught canoodling.

Lazzari continued with his account: “When I returned with a master key, I knocked again, to make sure I was not about to intrude upon the young lady’s privacy, and still she did not open the door! So I unlocked it myself . . . and this is what I found!”

“Did Jennie Hobbs specifically request a room on the fourth floor?” I asked.