‘He was lying on his back?’
‘Yes. There is the mark.’ He pointed to a small dark stain on the floor.
‘Could not the blow on the back of the head have been caused by his striking the floor?’
‘Impossible. Whatever the weapon was, it penetrated some distance into the skull.’
Poirot looked thoughtfully in front of him. In the embrasure of each window was a carved marble seat, the arms being fashioned in the form of a lion’s head. A light came into Poirot’s eyes.
‘Supposing he had fallen backward on this projecting lion’s head, and slipped from there to the ground. Would not that cause a wound such as you describe?’
‘Yes, it would. But the angle at which he was lying makes that theory impossible. And besides, there could not fail to be traces of blood on the marble of the seat.’
‘Unless they were washed away?’
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘That is hardly likely. It would be to no one’s advantage to give an accident the appearance of murder.’
‘Quite so,’ acquiesced Poirot. ‘Could either of the blows have been struck by a woman, do you think?’
‘Oh, quite out of the question, I should say. You are thinking of Mademoiselle Saintclair, I suppose?’
‘I think of no one in particular until I am sure,’ said Poirot gently.
He turned his attention to the open french window, and the doctor continued:
‘It is through here that Mademoiselle Saintclair fled. You can just catch a glimpse of Daisymead between the trees. Of course, there are many houses nearer to the front of the house on the road, but as it happens, Daisymead, though some distance away, is the only house visible this side.’ ‘Thank you for your amiability, Doctor,’ said Poirot. ‘Come, Hastings, we will follow the footsteps of Mademoiselle.’
Poirot led the way down through the garden, out through an iron gate, across a short stretch of green and in through the garden gate of Daisymead, which was an unpretentious little house in about half an acre of ground. There was a small flight of steps leading up to a french window. Poirot nodded in their direction.
‘That is the way Mademoiselle Saintclair went. For us, who have not her urgency to plead, it will be better to go round to the front door.’ A maid admitted us and took us into the drawing-room, then went in search of Mrs Oglander. The room had evidently not been touched since the night before. The ashes were still in the grate, and the bridge-table was still in the centre of the room, with a dummy exposed, and the hands thrown down. The place was somewhat overloaded with gimcrack ornaments, and a good many family portraits of surpassing ugliness adorned the walls.
Poirot gazed at them more leniently than I did, and straightened one or two that were hanging a shade askew. ‘La famille, it is a strong tie, is it not? Sentiment, it takes the place of beauty.’ I agreed, my eyes being fixed on a family group comprising a gentleman with whiskers, a lady with a high ‘front’ of hair, a stolid, thick-set boy, and two little girls tied up with a good many unnecessary bows of ribbon. I took this to be the Oglander family in earlier days, and studied it with interest.
The door opened, and a young woman came in. Her dark hair was neatly arranged, and she wore a drab-coloured sportscoat and a tweed skirt.
She looked at us inquiringly. Poirot stepped forward. ‘Miss Oglander? I regret to derange you – especially after all you have been through. The whole affair must have been most disturbing.’ ‘It has been rather upsetting,’ admitted the young lady cautiously. I began to think that the elements of drama were wasted on Miss Oglander, that her lack of imagination rose superior to any tragedy. I was confirmed in this belief as she continued: ‘I must apologize for the state this room is in. Servants get so foolishly excited.’
‘It was here that you were sitting last night, n’est-ce pas?’ ‘Yes, we were playing bridge after supper, when – ‘ ‘Excuse me – how long had you been playing?’