He accosted me eagerly.
“My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard.”
“Where have you been?” I asked.
“Denby kept me late last night. It was one o’clock before we’d finished. Then I found that I’d forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn’t want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed.”
“How did you hear the news?” I asked.
“Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificing–such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength.”
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man was!
“I must hurry on,” I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.
Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.
He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
“Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me the affair whilst I dress.”
In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp’s dying words, of her husband’s absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latter’s innuendoes.
I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me.
“The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited–it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine–and reject. Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!”–he screwed up his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough–“blow them away!”
“That’s all very well,” I objected, “but how are you going to decide what is important, and what isn’t? That always seems the difficulty to me.”
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care.
“Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another–so we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact–no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing–a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!” He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. “It is significant! It is tremendous!”
“Y–es–”
“Ah!” Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. “Beware! Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small–it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.’ That way lies confusion! Everything matters.”
“I know. You always told me that. That’s why I have gone into all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not.”
“And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing–truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances–you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night.”
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man’s brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.
“I don’t remember,” I said. “And, anyway, I don’t see—-”
“You do not see? But it is of the first importance.”