Jennie leapt up out of her chair. “I didn’t kill anybody! I swear I didn’t! Of course they died between quarter past seven and eight o’clock—it’s clear to everybody but you!”

“Sit down and remain silent, Miss Hobbs, unless I ask you a direct question,” said Poirot coldly.

Samuel Kidd’s face was contorted with rage. “You’re making all this up, Mr. Poirot! How do you know they didn’t order that food because they were ravenous hungry? Just because you wouldn’t be or I wouldn’t be, doesn’t mean they weren’t.”

“Then why did they not eat the food, Mr. Kidd?” I asked. “Where did all those sandwiches and cakes vanish to?”

“The finest afternoon tea in all of London!” murmured Luca Lazzari.

“I will tell you where it went, Catchpool,” said Poirot. “Our murderer made a mistake relating to the afternoon tea—one of many. If the food had been left on the plates in Room 317 for the police to find, there would have been no mystery. It would have been assumed that the killer arrived and interrupted the happy occasion before the feast could begin. But the killer thinks it will arouse suspicion, all that uneaten food. He does not want anyone to ask the question, “Why order food and then not eat it?”

“Then what became of the food?” I asked. “Where did it disappear to?”

“The conspirators removed it from the scene. Oh, yes, ladies and gentlemen, there was most assuredly a conspiracy to commit these three murders! In case I have not yet made it clear: Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus were all dead long before a quarter past seven o’clock on the Thursday in question.”

Luca Lazzari stepped forward. “Monsieur Poirot, please forgive my intrusion, but I must tell you that Rafal Bobak, my most loyal of waiters, would not lie. He saw the three murder victims alive and well when he delivered the food at a quarter past seven. Alive and well! You must be mistaken in what you are saying.”

“I am not mistaken. Though in one respect you are correct: your waiter Rafal Bobak is indeed an exemplary witness. He certainly saw three people in Room 317 when he delivered the afternoon tea—but those people were not Harriet Sippel, Ida Gransbury and Richard Negus.”

All over the room there were gasps of shock. I gave one myself, wracking my brains to think who else the three might have been. Not Jennie Hobbs, for she would have been on her way to Pleasant’s Coffee House at that time. Who, then?

“Poirot,” I said nervously. “Is it your contention that three people impersonated the murder victims in order to make it look as if they were still alive when the food was delivered?”