I turned to Poirot and said, “Richard Negus did not leave Room 317 in order to clear up the matter of the bill. He ran into Thomas Brignell on his way back from somewhere, so he had already done whatever it was that he set out to do by that point. He then happened to spot Mr. Brignell and decided to clear up the matter of the bill.” I hoped, with this little speech, to demonstrate to all present that we had answers as well as questions. Perhaps not all the answers yet, but some, and some was better than none.

“Monsieur Brignell, did you have the impression that Mr. Negus happened to see you and take his opportunity, as Mr. Catchpool describes? He was not looking for you? It was you who attended to him when he arrived at the hotel on Wednesday, yes?

“That’s right, sir. No, he wasn’t looking for me.” Brignell seemed happier about speaking while seated. “He chanced upon me and thought, ‘Oh, there’s that chap again,’ if you know what I mean, sir.”

“Indeed. Ladies and gentlemen,” Poirot raised his voice. “After committing three murders in this hotel yesterday evening, the killer, or somebody who knows the identity of the killer and conspired with him, left a note on the front desk: ‘MAY THEY NEVER REST IN PEACE. 121. 238. 317.’ Did anybody happen to observe the leaving of this note that I show to you now?” Poirot produced the small white card from his pocket and held it up in the air. “It was found by the clerk, Mr. John Goode, at ten minutes past eight. Did any of you, perhaps, notice a person or persons near the desk who seemed to be conducting themselves in an unusual way? Think hard! Someone must have seen something!”

Stout Tessie had screwed her eyes shut and was leaning against her friend. The room had filled with whispers and gasps, but it was only the shock and excitement of seeing the handwriting of a killer—a souvenir that made the three deaths seem more vividly real.

Nobody had anything more to tell us. It turned out that if you asked a hundred people, you were likely to be disappointed.

6. The Sherry Conundrum

The Sherry Conundrum

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Poirot and I sat drinking coffee in front of a roaring fire in what Lazzari had called “our hidden lounge,” a room that was behind the dining room and not accessible from any public corridor. The walls were covered with portraits that I tried to ignore. Give me a sunny landscape any day of the week, or even a cloudy one. It’s the eyes that bother me when people are depicted; it doesn’t seem to matter who the artist is. I’ve yet to see a portrait and not be convinced that its subject is regarding me with searing scorn.