“Quite so,” said Poirot. “The next thing is to find out all that we can about Harriet Sippel, Richard Negus and Ida Gransbury. Who were they when they were alive? What were their hopes, their grievances, their secrets? The village, Great Holling—this is where we will look for our answers. Perhaps we will also find Jennie there, and PIJ—le mystérieux!”

“There’s no guest here called Jennie, now or last night. I checked.”

“No, I did not think that there would be. Fee Spring, the waitress, told me that Jennie lives in a house across town from Pleasant’s Coffee House. That means in London—not Devon and not the Culver Valley. Jennie has no need of a room at the Bloxham Hotel when she lives only ‘across town.’ ”

“Speaking of which, Henry Negus, Richard’s brother, is on his way here from Devon. Richard Negus lived with Henry and his family. And I’ve got some of my best men lined up to interview all the hotel guests.”

“You have been very efficient, Catchpool.” Poirot patted my arm.

I felt obliged to advise Poirot of my one failure. “This business with the dinners in the rooms is proving difficult to pin down,” I said. “I can’t find anyone who was personally involved in taking the orders or making the deliveries. There seems to be some confusion.”

“Do not worry,” said Poirot. “I will do the necessary pinning when we gather in the dining room. In the meantime, let us take a walk around the hotel gardens. Sometimes a gentle perambulation causes a new idea to rise to the surface of one’s thoughts.”

AS SOON AS WE got outside, Poirot started to complain about the weather, which did seem to have taken a turn for the worse. “Shall we go back inside?” I suggested.

“No, no. Not yet. The change of environment is good for the little gray cells, and perhaps the trees will afford some shelter from the wind. I do not mind the cold, but there is the good kind and the bad kind, and this, today, is the bad kind.”

We stopped as we came to the entrance to the Bloxham’s gardens. Luca Lazzari had not exaggerated their beauty, I thought, as I stared at rows of pleached limes and, at the farthest end, the most artful topiary I had ever seen in London. This was nature not merely tamed but forced into stunning submission. Even in a biting wind, it was exceptionally pleasing to the eye.

“Well?” I asked Poirot. “Are we going in or not?” It would be satisfying, I thought, to stroll up and down the green pathways between the trees, which were Roman-road straight.

“I do not know.” Poirot frowned. “This weather . . .” He shivered.

“. . . will extend, unavoidably, to the gardens,” I completed his sentence somewhat impatiently. “There are only two places we can be, Poirot: inside the hotel or outside it. Which do you prefer?”