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‘No, his own teeth were in excellent preservation. Very creditable indeed at his age.’

‘He looked after them well – they were white and well brushed?’

‘Yes, I noticed them particularly. Teeth tend to grow a little yellow as one grows older, but they were in good condition.’

‘Not discoloured in any way?’

‘No. I don’t think he was a smoker if that is what you mean.’

‘I did not mean that precisely – it was just a long shot – which probably will not come off ! Goodbye, Dr MacAndrew, and thank you for your kindness.’

He shook the doctor’s hand and departed.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘for the long shot.’

III

At the Gallant Endeavour, he sat down at the same table which he had shared with Bonnington. The girl who served him was not Molly. Molly, the girl told him, was away on a holiday.

It was only just seven and Hercule Poirot found no difficulty in entering into conversation with the girl on the subject of old Mr Gascoigne.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’d been here for years and years. But none of us girls ever knew his name. We saw about the inquest in the paper, and there was a picture of him. “There,” I said to Molly. “If that isn’t our ‘Old Father Time’” as we used to call him.’

‘He dined here on the evening of his death, did he not?’

‘That’s right, Thursday, the third. He was always here on a Thursday. Tuesdays and Thursdays – punctual as a clock.’

‘You don’t remember, I suppose, what he had for dinner?’

‘Now let me see, it was mulligatawny soup, that’s right, and beefsteak pudding or was it the mutton? – no pudding, that’s right, and blackberry and apple pie and cheese. And then to think of him going home and falling down those stairs that very same evening. A frayed dressing-gown cord they said it was as caused it. Of course, his clothes were always something awful – old-fashioned and put on anyhow, and all tattered, and yet he had a kind of air, all the same, as though he was somebody! Oh, we get all sorts of interesting customers here.’

She moved off.

Hercule Poirot ate his filleted sole. His eyes showed a green light.

‘It is odd,’ he said to himself, ‘how the cleverest people slip over details. Bonnington will be interested.’

But the time had not yet come for leisurely discussion with Bonnington.

IV

Armed with introductions from a certain influential quarter, Hercule Poirot found no difficulty at all in dealing with the coroner for the district.

‘A curious figure, the deceased man Gascoigne,’ he observed. ‘A lonely, eccentric old fellow. But his decease seems to arouse an unusual amount of attention?’

He looked with some curiosity at his visitor as he spoke.

Hercule Poirot chose his words carefully. ‘There are circumstances connected with it, Monsieur, which make investigation desirable.’

‘Well, how can I help you?’

‘It is, I believe, within your province to order documents produced in your court to be destroyed, or to be impounded – as you think fit. A certain letter was found in the pocket of Henry Gascoigne’s dressing-gown, was it not?’

‘That is so.’

‘A letter from his nephew, Dr George Lorrimer?’

‘Quite correct. The letter was produced at the inquest as helping to fix the time of death.’

‘Which was corroborated by the medical evidence?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Is that letter still available?’

Hercule Poirot waited rather anxiously for the reply. When he heard that the letter was still available for examination he drew a sigh of relief.

When it was finally produced he studied it with some care. It was written in a slightly cramped handwriting with a stylographic pen.

It ran as follows:

Dear Uncle Henry,

I am sorry to tell you that I have had no success as regards Uncle Anthony. He showed no enthusiasm for a visit from you and would give me no reply to your request that he would let bygones be bygones. He is, of course, extremely ill, and his mind is inclined to wander. I should fancy that the end is very near. He seemed hardly to remember who you were.

I am sorry to have failed you, but I can assure you that