“Oui. Why do you sound surprised? Even the famous Hercule Poirot cannot create a flower in mud while keeping his hand clean. It will come off, the dirt—do not fear. There is always the manicure, later.”

“Of course there is.” I smiled. “I’m glad to hear you so sanguine on the subject.”

Poirot had produced a handkerchief. I watched in fascination as he used it to wipe the footprints from the gravestone, huffing and puffing as he rocked back and forth, nearly losing his balance once or twice.

“There!” he declared. “C’est mieux!”

“Yes. Better.”

Poirot frowned down at his feet. “There are sights so dispiriting that one wishes one did not have to see them,” he said quietly. “We must trust that Patrick and Frances Ive rest in peace together.”

It was the word “together” that did it. It brought to mind another word: apart. My face must have been a picture.

“Catchpool? Something is the matter with you—what is it?”

Together. Apart.

Patrick Ive was in love with Nancy Ducane, but in death, in their shared grave, he was with the woman to whom he had rightfully belonged in life: his wife, Frances. Had his soul found peace, or was it pining for Nancy? Did Nancy ask herself this? Did she wish, loving Patrick as she did, that the dead could speak to the living? Anybody who had loved and lost someone precious to them might wish that . . .

“Catchpool! What is in your mind at this moment? I must know.”

“Poirot, I’ve had the most preposterous idea. Let me tell you, quickly, so that you can tell me I am crazy.” I babbled excitedly until he had heard the whole of it. “I’m wrong, of course,” I concluded.

“Oh, no, no, no. No, mon ami, you are not wrong.” He gasped. “Of course! How, how did I fail to see it? Mon Dieu! Do you see what this means? What we must now conclude?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Ah. Dommage.”

“For pity’s sake, Poirot! It’s hardly fair to make me lay out my idea and then withhold yours.”

“There is not time for discussion now. We must hurry back to London, where you will pack up the clothes and personal effects of Harriet Sippel and Ida Gransbury.”

“What?” I frowned in confusion, wondering if my ears were deceiving me.

“Oui. Mr. Negus has already had his belongings removed by his brother, if you recall.”

“I do, but . . .”

“Do not argue, Catchpool. It will take you hardly any time to pack two ladies” cases with the clothes in their hotel rooms. Ah, now I see it, I see all of it, at last. All the solutions to the many little puzzles, they are in place! You know, it is rather like the crossword puzzle.”