‘Which are?’
‘The first is the telephone call to a Victoria number. It seems to me quite a probability that Carlotta Adams would ring up on her return to announce her success. On the other hand, where was she between five minutes past ten and midnight? She may have had an appointment with the instigator of the hoax. In that case the telephone call may have been merely one to a friend.’
‘What is the second clue?’
‘Ah! that I do have hopes of. The letter, Hastings. The letter to her sister. It is possible—I only say possible—that in that she may have described the whole business. She would not regard it as a breach of faith, since the letter would not be read till a week later and in another country at that.’
‘Amazing, if that is so!’
‘We must not build too much upon it, Hastings. It is a chance, that is all. No, we must work now from the other end.’
‘What do you call the other end?’
‘A careful study of those who profit in any degree by Lord Edgware’s death.’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Apart from his nephew and his wife—’
‘And the man the wife wanted to marry,’ added Poirot.
‘The Duke? He is in Paris.’
‘Quite so. But you cannot deny that he is an interested party. Then there are the people in the house—the butler—the servants. Who knows what grudges they may have had? But I think myself our first point of attack should be a further interview with Mademoiselle Jane Wilkinson. She is shrewd. She may be able to suggest something.’
Once more we made our way to the Savoy. We found the lady surrounded by boxes and tissue paper, whilst exquisite black draperies were strewn over the back of every chair. Jane had a rapt and serious expression and was just trying on yet another small black hat before the glass.
‘Why, M. Poirot. Sit down. That is, if there’s anything to sit on. Ellis, clear something, will you?’
‘Madame. You look charming.’
Jane looked serious.
‘I don’t want exactly to play the hypocrite, M. Poirot. But one must observe appearances, don’t you think? I mean, I think I ought to be careful. Oh! by the way, I’ve had the sweetest telegram from the Duke.’
‘From Paris?’
‘Yes, from Paris. Guarded, of course, and supposed to be condolences, but put so that I can read between the lines.’
‘My felicitations, Madame.’
‘M. Poirot.’ She clasped her hands, her husky voice dropped. She looked like an angel about to give vent to thoughts of exquisite holiness. ‘I’ve been thinking. It all seems so miraculous, if you know what I mean. Here I am—all my troubles over. No tiresome business of divorce. No bothers. Just my path cleared and all plain sailing. It makes me feel almost religious—if you know what I mean.’
I held my breath. Poirot looked at her, his head a little on one side. She was quite serious.
‘That is how it strikes you, Madame, eh?’
‘Things happen right for me,’ said Jane in a sort of awed whisper. ‘I’ve thought and I’ve thought lately—if Edgware was to die. And there—he’s dead! It’s—it’s almost like an answer to prayer.’
Poirot cleared his throat.
‘I cannot say I look at it quite like that, Madame. Somebody killed your husband.’
She nodded.
‘Why, of course.’
‘Has it not occurred to you to wonder who that someone was?’
She stared at him. ‘Does it matter? I mean—what’s that to do with it? The Duke and I can be married in about four or five months…’
With difficulty Poirot controlled himself.
‘Yes, Madame, I know that. But apart from that has it not occurred to you to ask yourself who killed your husband?’
‘No.’ She seemed quite surprised by the idea. We could see her thinking about it.
‘Does it not interest you to know?’ asked Poirot.
‘Not very much, I’m afraid,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose the police will find out. They’re very clever, aren’t they?’
‘So it is said. I, too, am going to make it my business to find out.’
‘Are you? How funny.’
‘Why funny?’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ Her eyes strayed back to the clothes. She slipped on a satin coat and studied herself in the glass.