“He is not being absurd,” said Jennie. “He is using his brain where you refuse to, Monsieur Poirot. Please think about it, I beg of you. Before I hang, I hope to hear you say that I did not murder Richard Negus.”

I stood up. “Let us leave now, Poirot.” I wanted to end the interview while the word “hope” still hung in the air.

Epilogue

Epilogue

FOUR DAYS LATER I was sitting in front of one of Blanche Unsworth’s roaring fires, sipping a glass of brandy and working on my crossword puzzle, when Poirot walked into the drawing room. He stood silently by my side for several minutes. I did not look up.

Eventually he cleared his throat. “Still, Catchpool,” he said. “Still you avoid the discussion of whether or not Richard Negus was murdered, was assisted in taking his own life, or was killed in self-defense.”

“I hardly see that it would be a profitable debate,” I said, as my stomach clenched. I did not want to talk about the Bloxham Murders ever again. What I wanted—needed—was to write about them, to set down on paper every detail of what had happened. It mystified me that I was so eager to do the latter and so reluctant to undertake the former. Why should writing about a thing be so different from speaking about it?

“Do not alarm yourself, mon ami,” said Poirot. “I will not raise the matter again. We will talk of other things. For example, I visited Pleasant’s Coffee House this morning. Fee Spring asked me to pass the message to you that she would like to speak to you at your earliest convenience. She is displeased.”

“With me?”

“Yes. One moment, she says, she is sitting in the Bloxham Hotel’s dining room hearing the explanation of everything, and the next it is all over. A murder takes place in front of all our eyes, and the story, for our audience, is left incomplete. Mademoiselle Fee wishes you to relate the tale to her in its fullest form.”

“It’s hardly my fault that there was another murder,” I muttered under my breath. “Can she not read the story in the newspapers like everybody else?”

“Non. She wishes to discuss it with you in particular. For a waitress, her intelligence is impressive. She is an estimable young woman. Do you not think so, mon ami?”

“I know your game, Poirot,” I said wearily. “Really, you must desist. You are wasting your time, as is Fee Spring, assuming . . . Look, buzz off, can’t you?”

“You are angry with me.”

“A little, yes,” I admitted. “Henry Negus and the suitcase, Rafal Bobak and the laundry cart, Thomas Brignell and his lady friend in the hotel garden, who happened to be wearing a light brown coat like half the women in England. The wheelbarrow . . .”

“Ah!”