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‘Ah,’ said Poirot, under his breath. ‘You have a disappointment. Yes, yes, a serious disappointment. Bah! To imagine, even, that Hercule Poirot would hide something where you could find it!’ Then, turning over on his other side, he went peacefully to sleep.

He was aroused next morning by an urgent soft tapping on his door.

‘Qui est là? Come in, come in.’

The door opened. Breathless, red-faced, Colin stood upon the threshold. Behind him stood Michael.

‘Monsieur Poirot, Monsieur Poirot.’

‘But yes?’ Poirot sat up in bed. ‘It is the early tea? But no. It is you, Colin. What has occurred?’

Colin was, for a moment, speechless. He seemed to be under the grip of some strong emotion. In actual fact it was the sight of the nightcap that Hercule Poirot wore that affected for the moment his organs of speech. Presently he controlled himself and spoke.

‘I think – M. Poirot, could you help us? Something rather awful has happened.’

‘Something has happened? But what?’

‘It’s – it’s Bridget. She’s out there in the snow. I think – she doesn’t move or speak and – oh, you’d better come and look for yourself. I’m terribly afraid – she may be dead.’

‘What?’ Poirot cast aside his bed covers. ‘Mademoiselle Bridget – dead!’

‘I think – I think somebody’s killed her. There’s – there’s blood and – oh do come!’

‘But certainly. But certainly. I come on the instant.’

With great practicality Poirot inserted his feet into his outdoor shoes and pulled a fur-lined overcoat over his pyjamas.

‘I come,’ he said. ‘I come on the moment. You have aroused the house?’

‘No. No, so far I haven’t told anyone but you. I thought it would be better. Grandfather and Gran aren’t up yet. They’re laying breakfast downstairs, but I didn’t say anything to Peverell. She – Bridget – she’s round the other side of the house, near the terrace and the library window.’

‘I see. Lead the way. I will follow.’

Turning away to hide his delighted grin, Colin led the way downstairs. They went out through the side door. It was a clear morning with the sun not yet high over the horizon. It was not snowing now, but it had snowed heavily during the night and everywhere around was an unbroken carpet of thick snow. The world looked very pure and white and beautiful.

‘There!’ said Colin breathlessly. ‘I – it’s – there!’ He pointed dramatically.

The scene was indeed dramatic enough. A few yards away Bridget lay in the snow. She was wearing scarlet pyjamas and a white wool wrap thrown round her shoulders. The white wool wrap was stained with crimson. Her head was turned aside and hidden by the mass of her outspread black hair. One arm was under her body, the other lay flung out, the fingers clenched, and standing up in the centre of the crimson stain was the hilt of a large curved Kurdish knife which Colonel Lacey had shown to his guests only the evening before.

‘Mon Dieu! ’ ejaculated M. Poirot. ‘It is like something on the stage!’

There was a faint choking noise from Michael. Colin thrust himself quickly into the breach.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It – it doesn’t seem real somehow, does it. Do you see those footprints – I suppose we mustn’t disturb them?’

‘Ah yes, the footprints. No, we must be careful not to disturb those footprints.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Colin. ‘That’s why I wouldn’t let anyone go near her until we got you. I thought you’d know what to do.’

‘All the same,’ said Hercule Poirot briskly, ‘first, we must see if she is still alive? Is not that so?’

‘Well – yes – of course,’ said Michael, a little doubtfully. ‘but you see, we thought – I mean, we didn’t like –’

‘Ah, you have the prudence! You have read the detective stories. It is most important that nothing should be touched and that the body should be left as it is. But we cannot be sure as yet if it is a body, can we? After all, though prudence is admirable, common humanity comes first. We must think of the doctor, must we not, before we think of the police?’

‘Oh yes. Of course,’ said Colin,