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‘That is true,’ Poirot admitted. ‘Your murderer, he may have made the bungle. But why, oh why, did he not at least leave the weapon? For naturally, if there is no weapon, it cannot be suicide! That was an error most grave.’

Superintendent Sugden said stolidly:

‘Criminals usually make mistakes. That’s our experience.’

Poirot gave a light sigh. He murmured:

‘But all the same, in spite of his mistakes, he has escaped this criminal.’

‘I don’t think he has exactly escaped.’

‘You mean he is in the house still?’

‘I don’t see where else he can be. It was an inside job.’

‘But, tout de même,’ Poirot pointed out gently, ‘he has escaped to this extent: You do not know who he is.’

Superintendent Sugden said gently bur firmly:

‘I rather fancy that we soon shall. We haven’t done any questioning of the household yet.’

Colonel Johnson cut in:

‘Look here, Sugden, one thing strikes me. Whoever turned that key from the outside must have had some knowledge of the job. That’s to say, he probably has had criminal experience. These sort of tools aren’t easy to manage.’

‘You mean it was a professional job, sir?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘It does seem like it,’ the other admitted. ‘Following that up, it looks as though there were a professional thief among the servants. That would explain the diamonds being taken and the murder would follow on logically from that.’

‘Well, anything wrong with that theory?’

‘It’s what I thought myself to begin with. But it’s difficult. There are eight servants in the house; six of them are women, and of those six, five have been here for four years and more. Then there’s the butler and the footman. The butler has been here for close on forty years—bit of a record that, I should say. The footman’s local, son of the gardener, and brought up here. Don’t see very well how he can be a professional. The only other person is Mr Lee’s valet attendant. He’s comparatively new, but he was out of the house—still is—went out just before eight o’clock.’

Colonel Johnson said:

‘Have you got a list of just who exactly was in the house?’

‘Yes, sir. I got it from the butler.’ He took out his note-book. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

‘Please, Sugden.’

‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee. Mr George Lee, M.P., and his wife, Mr Henry Lee, Mr and Mrs David Lee. Miss’—the superintendent paused a little, taking the words carefully—‘Pilar’—he pronounced it like a piece of architecture—‘Estravados. Mr Stephen Farr. Then for the servants: Edward Tressilian, butler. Walter Champion, footman. Emily Reeves, cook. Queenie Jones, kitchenmaid. Gladys Spent, head housemaid. Grace Best, second housemaid. Beatrice Moscombe, third housemaid. Joan Kench, betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.’

‘That’s the lot, eh?’

‘That’s the lot, sir.’

‘Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder?’

‘Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, the gentlemen were in the dining-room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing-room. Tressilian had served coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noise upstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of the others.’

Colonel Johnson said:

‘How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here?’

‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.’

Johnson nodded.

‘Where are they all?’

‘I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.’

‘I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.’

The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.

As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath.

‘Pretty horrible,’ he commented.

He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood-bespattered débris.

A thin elderly man stood up from where he had been kneeling