Edmunds. I want you to proceed to the house of Mr Timothy Abernethie.'
'But Timothy and Maude are at Enderby.'
'Exactly. There is no one in the house but a woman by the name of Jones who has been persuaded by the offer of considerable largesse to guard the house whilst they are absent. What I want you to do is to take something out of that house!'
'My dear Poirot! I really can't stoop to burglary!'
'It will not seem like burglary. You will say to the excellent Mrs Jones who knows you, that you have been asked by Mr or Mrs, Abernethie to fetch this particular object and take it to London. She will not suspect anything amiss.'
'No, no, probably not. But I'don't like it.' Mr Entwhistle sounded most reluctant. 'Why can't you go and get whatever it is yourself.'
'Because, my friend, I should be a stranger of foreign appearance and as such a suspicious character, and Mrs Jones would at once raise the difficulties! With you, she will not.'
'No, no – I see that. But what on earth are Timothy and Maude going to think when they hear about it? I have known them for forty odd years.'
'And you knew Richard Abernethie for that time also! And you knew Cora Lansquenet when she was a little girl!'
In a martyred voice Mr Entwhistle asked:
'You're sure this is really necessary, Poirot?'
'The old question they asked in the wartime on the posters. Is your journey really necessary? I say to you, it is necessary. It is vital!'
'And what is this object I've got to get hold of?'
Poirot told him.
'But really, Poirot, I don't see -'
'It is not necessary for you to see. I am doing the seeing.'
'And what do you want me to do with the damned thing?'
'You will take it to London, to an address in Elm Park Gardens. If you have a pencil, note it down.'
Having done so, Mr Entwhistle said, still in his martyred voice:
'I hope you know what you are doing, Poirot?'
He sounded very doubtful – but Poirot's reply was not doubtful at all.
'Of course I know what I am doing. We are nearing the end.'
Mr Entwhistle sighed:
'If we could only guess what Helen was going to tell me.'
'No need to guess. I know.'
'You know? But my dear Poirot -'
'Explanations must wait. But let me assure you of this. I know what Helen Abernethie saw when she looked in her mirror.'
II
Breakfast had been an uneasy meal. Neither Rosamund nor Timothy had appeared, but the others were there and had talked in rather subdued tones and eaten a little less than they normally would have done.
George was the first one to recover his spirits. His temperament was mercurial and optimistic.
'I expect Aunt Helen will be all right,' he said. 'Doctors always like to pull a long face. After all, what's concussion? Often clears up completely in a couple of days.'
'A woman I knew had concussion during the war,' said Miss Gilchrist conversationally. 'A brick or something hit her as she was walking down Tottenham Court Road – it was during fly bomb time – and she never felt anything at all. Just went on with what she was doing – and collapsed in a tram to Liverpool twelve hours later. And would you believe it, she had no recollection at all of going to the station and catching the train or anything. She just couldn't understand it when she woke up in hospital. She was there for nearly three weeks.'
'What I can't make out,' said Susan, 'is what Helen was doing telephoning at that unearthly hour, and who she was telephoning to?'
'Felt ill,' said Maude with decision. 'Probably woke up feeling queer and came down to ring up the doctor. Then had a giddy fit and fell. That's the only thing that makes sense.'
'Bad luck hitting her head on that doorstop,' said Michael. 'If she'd just pitched over on to that thick pile carpet she'd have been all right.'
The door opened and Rosamund came in, frowning.
'I can't find those wax flowers, she said. 'I mean the ones that were standing on the malachite table the day of Uncle Richard's funeral.' She looked accusingly at Susan. 'You haven't taken them?'
'Of course I haven't! Really, Rosamund, you're not still thinking about malachite tables with poor old Helen carted off to hospital with concussion?'
'I don't see why I shouldn't think about them. If you've got concussion you don't know what's happening and it doesn't matter to you. We can't do anything for Aunt Helen, and Michael and I have got to get back to London by tomorrow lunch-time because we're seeing Jackie Lygo about opening dates for The Baronet's Progress. So I'd like to fix up definitely about the table. But I'd like to have a look at those wax flowers again. There's a kind of Chinese vase on the table now – nice – but not nearly so period. I do wonder where they are – perhaps Lanscombe knows.'
Lanscombe had just looked in to see if they had finished breakfast.
'We're all through, Lanscombe,' said George getting up. 'What's happened to our foreign friend?'
'He is having his coffee and toast served upstairs, sir.'
'Petit dejeuner for NARCO.'
'Lanscombe, do you know where those wax flowers are that used to be on that green table in the drawing- room?' asked Rosamund.
'I understand Mrs Leo had an accident with them, ma'am. She was going to have a new glass shade made, but I don't think she has seen about it yet.'
'Then where is the thing?'
'It would probably be in the cupboard behind the staircase, ma'am. That is where things are usually placed when awaiting repair. Shall I ascertain for you?'
'I'll go and look myself. Come with me, Michael sweetie. It's dark there, and I'm not going in any dark corners by myself after what happened to Aunt Helen.'
Everybody showed a sharp reaction. Maude demanded in her deep voice:
'What do you mean, Rosamund?'
'Well, she was coshed by someone, wasn't she?'
Gregory Banks said sharply:
'She was taken suddenly faint and fell.'
Rosamund laughed.
'Did she tell you so? Don't be silly, Greg, of course she was coshed.'
George said sharply:
'You shouldn't say things like that, Rosamund.'
'Nonsense,' said Rosamund. 'She must have been. I mean, it all adds up. A detective in the house looking for clues, and Uncle Richard poisoned, and Aunt Cora killed with a hatchet, and Miss Gilchrist given poisoned wedding cake, and now Aunt Helen struck down with a blunt instrument. You'll see, it will go on like that. One after another of us will be killed and the one that's left will be It – the murderer, I mean. But it's not going to be me – who's killed, I mean.'
'And why should anyone want to kill you, beautiful Rosamund?' asked George lightly.
Rosamund opened her eyes very wide.
'Oh,' she said. 'Because I know too much, of course.'
