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‘Not that I really meant it, M. Poirot. He said he had taken me out of the gutter to marry me, and I said – ah, but what does it all matter now? I shall never forgive myself. You know how it is, M. Poirot, I always did say a good row clears the air, and how was I to know someone was going to murder him that very night? Poor old Reuben.’

Poirot had listened sympathetically to all this outburst.

‘I have caused you suffering,’ he said. ‘I apologize. Let us now be very business-like – very practical, very exact. You still cling to your idea that Mr Trefusis murdered your husband?’

Lady Astwell drew herself up.

‘A woman’s instinct, M. Poirot,’ she said solemnly, ‘never lies.’

‘Exactly, exactly,’ said Poirot. ‘But when did he do it?’

‘When? After I left him, of course.’

‘You left Sir Reuben at a quarter to twelve. At five minutes to twelve Mr Leverson came in. In that ten minutes you say the secretary came along from his bedroom and murdered him?’

‘It is perfectly possible.’

‘So many things are possible,’ said Poirot. ‘It could be done in ten minutes. Oh, yes! But was it?’

‘Of course he says he was in bed and fast asleep,’ said Lady Astwell, ‘but who is to know if he was or not?’

‘Nobody saw him about,’ Poirot reminded her.

‘Everybody was in bed and fast asleep,’ said Lady Astwell triumphantly. ‘Of course nobody saw him.’

‘I wonder,’ said Poirot to himself.

A short pause.

‘Eh bien, Lady Astwell, I wish you good night.’

V

George deposited a tray of early-morning coffee by his master’s bedside.

‘Miss Margrave, sir, wore a dress of light green chiffon on the night in question.’

‘Thank you, George, you are most reliable.’

‘The third housemaid looks after Miss Margrave, sir. Her name is Gladys.’

‘Thank you, George. You are invaluable.’

‘Not at all, sir.’

‘It is a fine morning,’ said Poirot, looking out of the window, ‘and no one is likely to be astir very early. I think, my good George, that we shall have the Tower room to ourselves if we proceed there to make a little experiment.’

‘You need me, sir?’

‘The experiment,’ said Poirot, ‘will not be painful.’

The curtains were still drawn in the Tower room when they arrived there. George was about to pull them, when Poirot restrained him.

‘We will leave the room as it is. Just turn on the desk lamp.’

The valet obeyed.

‘Now, my good George, sit down in that chair. Dispose yourself as though you were writing. Très bien. Me, I seize a club, I steal up behind you, so, and I hit you on the back of the head.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said George.

‘Ah!’ said Poirot, ‘but when I hit you, do not continue to write. You comprehend I cannot be exact. I cannot hit you with the same force with which the assassin hit Sir Reuben. When it comes to that point, we must do the make-believe. I hit you on the head, and you collapse, so. The arms well relaxed, the body limp. Permit me to arrange you. But no, do not flex your muscles.’

He heaved a sigh of exasperation.

‘You press admirably the trousers, George,’ he said, ‘but the imagination you possess it not. Get up and let me take your place.’

Poirot in his turn sat down at the writing-table.

‘I write,’ he declared, ‘I write busily. You steal up behind me, you hit me on the head with the club. Crash! The pen slips from my fingers, I drop forward, but not very far forward, for the chair is low, and the desk is high, and, moreover, my arms support me. Have the goodness, George, to go back to the door, stand there, and tell me what you see.’

‘Ahem!’

‘Yes, George?’ encouragingly.

‘I see you, sir, sitting at the desk.

‘Sitting at the desk?’

‘It is a little difficult to see plainly, sir,’ explained George, ‘being such a long way away, sir, and the lamp being so heavily shaded. If I might turn on this light, sir?’

His hand reached out to the switch.

‘Not at all,’ said Poirot sharply. ‘We shall do very well as we are. Here am I bending over the desk, there are you standing by the door. Advance now, George, advance, and put your hand on my shoulder.’

George obeyed.

‘Lean on me a little, George, to steady yourself on