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‘There’s no pulse . . .’ He stared at Poirot. ‘Her arm’s still. Good God, she really is dead!’

Poirot nodded. ‘Yes, she is dead,’ he said. ‘Someone has turned the comedy into a tragedy.’

‘Someone – who?’

‘There is a set of footprints going and returning. A set of footprints that bears a strong resemblance to the footprints you have just made, Mr Lee-Wortley, coming from the path to this spot.’

Desmond Lee-Wortley wheeled round. ‘What on earth – Are you accusing me? ME? You’re crazy! Why on earth should I want to kill the girl?’

‘Ah – why? I wonder . . . Let us see . . .’

He bent down and very gently prised open the stiff fingers of the girl’s clenched hand.

Desmond drew a sharp breath. He gazed down unbelievingly. In the palm of the dead girl’s hand was what appeared to be a large ruby.

‘It’s that damn’ thing out of the pudding!’ he cried.

‘Is it?’ said Poirot. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course it is.’

With a swift movement Desmond bent down and plucked the red stone out of Bridget’s hand.

‘You should not do that,’ said Poirot reproachfully. ‘Nothing should have been disturbed.’

‘I haven’t disturbed the body, have I? But this thing might – might get lost and it’s evidence. The great thing is to get the police here as soon as possible. I’ll go at once and telephone.’

He wheeled round and ran sharply towards the house. Sarah came swiftly to Poirot’s side.

‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. Her face was dead white. ‘I don’t understand.’ She caught at Poirot’s arm. ‘What did you mean about – about the footprints?’

‘Look for yourself, Mademoiselle.’

The footprints that led to the body and back again were the same as the ones just made accompanying Poirot to the girl’s body and back.

‘You mean – that it was Desmond? Nonsense!’

Suddenly the noise of a car came through the clear air. They wheeled round. They saw the car clearly enough driving at a furious pace down the drive and Sarah recognized what car it was.

‘It’s Desmond,’ she said. ‘It’s Desmond’s car. He – he must have gone to fetch the police instead of telephoning.’

Diana Middleton came running out of the house to join them.

‘What’s happened?’ she cried in a breathless voice. ‘Desmond just came rushing into the house. He said something about Bridget being killed and then he rattled the telephone but it was dead. He couldn’t get an answer. He said the wires must have been cut. He said the only thing was to take a car and go for the police. Why the police? . . .’

Poirot made a gesture.

‘Bridget?’ Diana stared at him. ‘But surely – isn’t it a joke of some kind? I heard something – something last night. I thought that they were going to play a joke on you, M. Poirot?’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘that was the idea – to play a joke on me. But now come into the house, all of you. We shall catch our deaths of cold here and there is nothing to be done until Mr Lee-Wortley returns with the police.’

‘But look here,’ said Colin, ‘we can’t – we can’t leave Bridget here alone.’

‘You can do her no good by remaining,’ said Poirot gently. ‘Come, it is a sad, a very sad tragedy, but there is nothing we can do any more to help Mademoiselle Bridget. So let us come in and get warm and have perhaps a cup of tea or of coffee.’

They followed him obediently into the house. Peverell was just about to strike the gong. If he thought it extraordinary for most of the household to be outside and for Poirot to make an appearance in pyjamas and an overcoat, he displayed no sign of it. Peverell in his old age was still the perfect butler. He noticed nothing that he was not asked to notice. They went into the dining-room and sat down. When they all had a cup of coffee in front of them and were sipping it, Poirot spoke.

‘I have to recount to you,’ he said, ‘a little history. I cannot tell you all the details, no. But I can give you the main outline. It concerns a young princeling who came to this country. He brought with him a famous jewel which he was to have reset for the lady he was going to marry, but unfortunately before that he made friends with a very pretty young lady. This