“This is one of our junior clerks, Mr. Thomas Brignell,” said Lazzari, presenting the man with a flourish of his hand.

“They were more than on friendly terms, sir,” Brignell breathed after a protracted silence. No one sitting behind him could have heard what he said, his voice was so quiet. “They were good friends. They knew each other well.”

“Of course they were good friends!” Lazzari announced to the room. “They ate a meal together!”

“Many people eat meals every day with those they dislike profoundly,” said Poirot. “Please continue, Mr. Brignell.”

“When I met Mr. Negus last night, he was concerned for the two ladies as only a good friend would be,” Thomas Brignell whispered at us.

“You met him?” I said. “When? Where?”

“Half past seven, sir.” He pointed toward the dining room’s double doors. I noticed that his arm was shaking. “Right outside here. I walked out and saw him going toward the lift. He saw me and stopped, called me over. I assumed he was making his way back to his room.”

“What did he say to you?” Poirot asked.

“He . . . he asked me to make sure that the meal was charged to him and not to either of the ladies. He could afford it, he said, but Mrs. Sippel and Miss Gransbury could not.”

“Was that all he said, monsieur?”

“Yes.” Brignell looked as if he might faint if he was required to produce one more word.

“Thank you, Mr. Brignell,” I said as warmly as I could. “You’ve been very helpful.” Immediately I felt guilty for not having thanked Rafal Bobak in a similar manner, so I added, “As have you, Mr. Bobak. As have you all.”

“Catchpool,” Poirot murmured. “Most people in this room have said nothing.”

“They have listened attentively and applied their minds to the problems presented to them. I think they deserve credit for that.”