Samuel Kidd, in a smart gray flannel suit, had arrived with a pale-faced Jennie Hobbs on his arm at five minutes past four, followed two minutes later by Henry Negus, Richard’s brother, and ten minutes after that by a group of four: a man and three women, one of whom was Nancy Ducane. The skin around her tear-filled eyes was red raw. As she entered the room, she tried unsuccessfully to conceal her face behind a scarf made of diaphanous material.

I muttered to Poirot, “She doesn’t want people to see that she has been crying.”

“No,” he said. “She wears the scarf because she hopes not to be recognized, not because she is ashamed of her tears. There is nothing reprehensible in allowing a feeling to show outwardly, contrary to what you Englishmen seem to believe.”

I had no wish to be diverted to the topic of myself when I had been talking about Nancy Ducane, in whom I was far more interested. “I suppose the last thing she wants is to be set upon by eager fans, all falling in an adoring heap at her faraway feet.”

Poirot, as a somewhat famous person himself who should have liked nothing better than a pile of admirers draped all over his spats, looked as if he was about to take issue with this point as well.

I distracted him with a question: “Who are the three people who came in with Nancy Ducane?”

“Lord St. John Wallace, Lady Louisa Wallace and their servant Dorcas.” He looked at his watch and tutted. “We are fifteen minutes late in starting! Why cannot people arrive on time?”

I noticed that both Thomas Brignell and Rafal Bobak had risen to their feet, both apparently wanting to speak, although the proceedings were not yet officially underway.

“Please, gentlemen, sit down!” Poirot said.

“But Mr. Poirot, sir, I must—”

“But I—”

“Do not agitate yourselves, messieurs. These things that you are so determined to tell Poirot? You may be assured that he knows them already, and that he is about to tell you, and everybody gathered here, those very same things. Be patient, I beg of you.”

Mollified, Bobak and Brignell sat down. I was surprised to see the black-haired woman sitting next to Brignell reach for his hand. He squeezed hers, and they allowed their hands to remain entwined. I saw the look that passed between them, and it told me all I needed to know: they were sweethearts. This, however, was definitely not the woman I had seen Brignell canoodling with in the hotel gardens.

Poirot whispered in my ear, “The woman Brignell was kissing in the garden, beside the wheelbarrow—she had fair hair, non? The woman with the brown coat?” He gave me an enigmatic smile.

To the crowd, he said, “Now that everyone has arrived, please may I ask for silence and your full attention? Thank you. I am obliged to you all.”