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  "Monsieur Poirot," she urged him breathlessly, "you must stay! You must not let them send you away."

  Poirot regarded her steadily. His face remained quite impassive as he asked her, "Is it that you wish me to stay, madame?"

  "Yes, yes," replied Lucia, glancing anxiously towards the body of Sir Claud, still seated in its upright position in the arm-chair. "There's something wrong about all this. My father-in-law's heart was perfectly all right. Perfectly, I tell you. Please, Monsieur Poirot, you must find out what has happened."

  Dr Carelli and Richard Amory continued to hover near the body of Sir Claud. Richard, in an agony of indecision, appeared to be almost petrified into immobility. "I would suggest, Mr Amory," Dr Carelli urged him, "that you send for your father's own physician. I assume he had one?"

  Richard roused himself with an effort. "What? Oh, yes," he responded. "Dr Graham. Young Kenneth Graham. He has a practice in the village. In fact, he's rather keen on my cousin Barbara. I mean – sorry, that's irrelevant, isn't it?" Glancing across the room at Barbara, he called to her.

  "What's Kenneth Graham's phone number?"

  "Market Cleve five," Barbara told him. Richard moved to the phone, lifted the receiver and asked for the number.

  While he was waiting to be connected, Edward Raynor, recalling his secretarial duties, asked Richard, "Do you think I should order the car for Monsieur Poirot?"

  Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. He was about to speak when Lucia forestalled him. "Monsieur Poirot is remaining – at my request," she announced to the company in general.

  Still holding the telephone receiver to his ear, Richard turned, startled. "What do you mean?" he asked his wife tersely.

  "Yes, yes, Richard, he must stay," Lucia insisted. Her voice sounded almost hysterical.

  Miss Amory looked up in consternation, Barbara and Edward Raynor exchanged worried glances, Dr Carelli stood looking down thoughtfully at the lifeless body of the great scientist, while Hastings, who had been absentmindedly examining the books on the library shelves, turned to survey the gathering.

  Richard was about to respond to Lucia's outburst when his attention was claimed by the telephone he was holding.

  "Oh, what… Is that Dr Graham?" he asked. "Kenneth, it's Richard Amory speaking. My father has had a heart attack. Can you come up at once?… Well, actually, I'm afraid there's nothing to be done… Yes, he's dead… No… I'm afraid so… Thank you." Replacing the receiver, he crossed the room to his wife and, in a low, agitated voice, muttered, "Lucia, are you mad? What have you done? Don't you realize we must get rid of this detective?"

  Astonished, Lucia rose from her chair. "What do you mean?" she asked Richard.

  Their exchange continued quietly but urgently. "Didn't you hear what Father said?" His tone fraught with meaning, he murmured, "The coffee is very bitter."

  At first, Lucia seemed not to understand. "'The coffee is very bitter?'" she repeated. She looked at Richard uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then suddenly uttered a cry of horror which she quickly stifled.

  "You see? Do you understand now?" Richard asked.

  Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, "He's been poisoned. And obviously by a member of the family. You don't want a ghastly scandal, do you?"

  "Oh, my God," murmured Lucia, staring straight in front of her. "Oh, merciful God."

  Turning away from her, Richard approached Poirot.

  "Monsieur Poirot -" he began, and then hesitated.

  "M'sieu?" Poirot queried politely.

  Summoning up his determination, Richard continued, "Monsieur Poirot, I'm afraid I do not quite understand what it is that my wife has asked you to investigate."

  Poirot considered for a moment before replying. Then, smiling pleasantly, he answered, "Shall we say, the theft of a document? That, mademoiselle tells me," he continued, gesturing towards Barbara, "is what I was called down for."

  Casting a glance of reproach at Barbara, Richard told Poirot, "The document in question has been returned."

  "Has it?" asked Poirot, his smile becoming rather enigmatic.

  The little detective suddenly had the attention of everyone present, as he moved to the table in the center of the room and looked at the envelope still lying on it, which had been generally forgotten in the excitement and commotion caused by the discovery of Sir Claud's death.

  "What do you mean?" Richard Amory asked Hercule Poirot.

  Poirot gave a flamboyant twist to his moustache and carefully brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. Then, "It is just a – no doubt foolish – idea of mine," the little detective finally replied. "You see, someone told me the other day a most amusing story. The story of the empty bottle – there was nothing in it."

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand you," Richard Amory declared.

  Picking up the envelope from the table, Poirot murmured, "I just wondered…" He glanced at Richard, who took the envelope from him, and looked inside.

  "It's empty!" Richard exclaimed. Screwing up the envelope, he threw it on the table and looked searchingly at Lucia, who moved away from him.

  "Then," he continued uncertainly, "I suppose we must be searched – we…" Richard's voice trailed away, and he looked around the room as though seeking guidance. He was met with looks of confusion from Barbara and her aunt, indignation from Edward Raynor and blandness from Dr Carelli. Lucia continued to avoid his eye.

  "Why do you not take my advice, monsieur?" Poirot suggested. "Do nothing until the doctor comes. Tell me," he asked, pointing towards the study, "that doorway, where does he go?"

  "That's my father's study in there," Richard told him. Poirot crossed the room to the door, put his head around it to look into the study, and then turned back into the library, nodding as though satisfied.

  "I see," he murmured. Then, addressing Richard, he added, "Eh bien, monsieur. I see no need why any of you should remain in this room if you would prefer not to."

  There was a general stir of relief. Dr Carelli was the first to move.

  "It is understood, of course," Poirot announced, looking at the Italian doctor, "that no one should leave the house."

  "I will hold myself responsible for that," Richard declared as Barbara and Raynor left together, followed by Carelli. Caroline Amory lingered by her brother's chair.

  "Poor dear Claud," she murmured to herself. "Poor dear Claud."

  Poirot approached her. "You must have courage, mademoiselle," he told her. "The shock to you has been great, I know."

  Miss Amory looked at him with tears in her eyes. "I'm so glad that I ordered the cook to prepare fried sole tonight," she said. "It was one of my brother's favorite dishes."

  With a brave attempt to look serious and to match the solemnity of her delivery, Poirot answered, "Yes, yes, that must be a real comfort to you, I am sure." He shepherded Miss Amory out of the room. Richard followed his aunt out and, after a moment's hesitation, Lucia made a brisk exit. Poirot and Hastings were left alone in the room with the body of Sir Claud.

  Chapter 7

  As soon as the room was empty, Hastings addressed Poirot eagerly. "Well, what do you think?" he asked.

  "Shut the door, please, Hastings," was the only reply he received. As his friend complied, Poirot shook his head slowly and looked around the room. He moved about, casting an eye over the furniture and occasionally looking down at the floor. Suddenly, he stooped down to examine the overturned chair, the chair in which the secretary Edward Raynor had been sitting when the lights had gone out. From beneath the chair Poirot picked up a small object.

  "What have you found?" Hastings asked him.

  "A key," Poirot replied. "It looks to me as though it might be the key of a safe. I observed a safe in Sir Claud's study. Will you have the goodness, Hastings, to try this key and tell me if it fits?"

  Hastings took the key from Poirot and went into the study with it. Meanwhile, Poirot approached the body of the scientist and, feeling in the trouser pocket, removed from it a bunc
h of keys, each of which he examined closely.

  Hastings returned, informing Poirot that, indeed, the key fitted the safe in the study. "I think I can guess what happened," Hastings continued. "I imagine Sir Claud must have dropped it, and – er -"

  He broke off, and Poirot slowly shook his head doubtfully.

  "No, no, mon ami, give me the key, please," he requested, frowning to himself as though perplexed. He took the key from Hastings and compared it with one of the keys on the bunch. Then, putting them back in the dead scientist's pocket, he held up the single key. "This," he told Hastings, "is a duplicate. It is, indeed, clumsily made, but no doubt it served its purpose."

  In great excitement, Hastings exclaimed, "Then that means -"

  He was stopped by a warning gesture from Poirot. The sound of a key being turned in the lock of the other door which led to the front hall and the staircase to the upper floors of the house was heard. As the two men turned, it opened slowly, and Tredwell, the butler, stood in the doorway.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said Tredwell as he came into the room and shut the door behind him. "The master told me to lock this door, as well as the other one leading from this room, until you arrived. The master…" He stopped on seeing the motionless figure of Sir Claud in the chair.

  "I am afraid your master is dead," Poirot told him. "May I ask your name?"

  "Tredwell, sir." The servant moved to the front of the desk, looking at the body of his master. "Oh dear. Poor Sir Claud!" he murmured. Turning to Poirot, he added, "Do please forgive me, sir, but it's such a shock. May I ask what happened? Is it – murder?"

  "Why should you ask that?" said Poirot.

  Lowering his voice, the butler replied, "There have been strange things happening this evening, sir."

  "Oh?" exclaimed Poirot, as he exchanged glances with Hastings. "Tell me about these strange things."

  "Well, I hardly know where to begin, sir," Tredwell replied. "I – I think I first felt that something was wrong when the Italian gentleman came to tea."

  "The Italian gentleman?"

  "Dr Carelli, sir."

  "He came to tea unexpectedly?" asked Poirot.

  "Yes, sir, and Miss Amory asked him to stay for the weekend, seeing as how he was a friend of Mrs Richard's. But if you ask me, sir -"

  He stopped, and Poirot gently prompted him. "Yes?"

  "I hope you will understand, sir," said Tredwell. "that it is not my custom to gossip about the family. But seeing that the master is dead…"

  He paused again, and Poirot murmured sympathetically, "Yes, yes, I understand. I am sure you were very attached to your master." Tredwell nodded, and Poirot continued, "Sir Claud sent for me in order to tell me something. You must tell me all you can."

  "Well, then," Tredwell responded, "in my opinion, sir, Mrs Richard Amory did not want the Italian gentleman asked to dinner. I observed her face when Miss Amory gave the invitation."

  "What is your own impression of Dr Carelli?" asked Poirot.

  "Dr Carelli, sir," replied the butler rather haughtily, "is not one of us."

  Not quite understanding Tredwell's remark, Poirot looked inquiringly at Hastings, who turned away to hide a smile. Throwing his colleague a glance of mild reproof, Poirot turned again to Tredwell. The butler's countenance remained perfectly serious.

  "Did you feel," Poirot queried, "that there was something odd about Dr Carelli's coming to the house in the way that he did?"

  "Precisely, sir. It wasn't natural, somehow. And it was after he arrived that the trouble began, with the master telling me earlier this evening to send for you, and giving orders about the doors being locked. Mrs Richard, too, hasn't been herself all the evening. She had to leave the dinner-table. Mr Richard, he was very upset about it."

  "Ah," said Poirot, "she had to leave the table? Did she come into this room?"

  "Yes, sir," Tredwell replied.

  Poirot looked around the room. His eye alighted on the handbag which Lucia had left on the table. "One of the ladies has left her bag, I see," he observed, as he picked it up.

  Moving closer to him to look at the handbag, Tredwell told Poirot, "That is Mrs Richard's, sir."

  "Yes," Hastings confirmed. "I noticed her laying it down there just before she left the room."

  "Just before she left the room, eh?" said Poirot. "How curious." He put the bag down on the settee, frowned perplexedly, and stood there, apparently lost in thought.

  "About locking the doors, sir," Tredwell continued after a brief pause. "The master told me -"

  Suddenly starting out of his reverie, Poirot interrupted the butler. "Yes, yes, I must hear all about that. Let us go through here," he suggested, indicating the door nearer to the front of the house.

  Tredwell went to the door, followed by Poirot. Hastings, however, declared rather importantly, "I think I'll stay here."

  Poirot turned, and regarded Hastings quizzically. "No, no, please come with us," he requested his colleague.

  "But don't you think it better -" Hastings began, when Poirot interrupted him, now speaking solemnly and meaningfully.

  "I need your co-operation, my friend," he said.

  "Oh, well, of course, in that case -"

  The three men left the room together, closing the door behind them. No more than a few seconds later, the other door leading to the hallway was opened cautiously and Lucia entered surreptitiously. After a hurried glance around the room, as though to assure herself that there was no one there, she approached the round table in the center of the room and picked up Sir Claud's coffee-cup. A shrewd, hard look came into her eyes which belied their customary innocent appearance, and she looked suddenly a good deal older.

  Lucia was still standing with the cup in her hand, as though undecided what to do, when the other door leading to the front of the house opened and Poirot entered the library alone.

  "Permit me, madame," said Poirot, causing Lucia to start violently. He moved across to her and took the cup from her hand with the air of one indulging in a gesture of simple politeness.

  "I – I – came back for my bag," Lucia gasped.

  "Ah, yes," said Poirot. "Now, let me see, where did I observe a lady's handbag? Ah yes, over here." He went to the settee, picked up the bag, and handed it to Lucia.

  "Thank you so much," she said, glancing around distractedly as she spoke.

  "Not at all, madame."

  After a brief nervous smile at Poirot, Lucia quickly left the room. When she had gone, Poirot stood quite still for a moment or two, and then picked up the coffee-cup. After smelling it cautiously, he took from his pocket a test-tube, poured some of the dregs from Sir Claud's cup into it, and sealed the tube. Replacing it in his pocket, he then proceeded to look around the room, counting the cups aloud. "One, two, three, four, five, six. Yes, six coffee-cups."

  A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot's brows, when suddenly his eyes shone with that green light that always betokened inward excitement. Moving swiftly to the door through which he had recently entered, he opened it and slammed it noisily shut again, and then darted to the French windows, concealing himself behind the curtains. After a few moments the other door to the hallway opened once more, and Lucia entered again, this time even more cautiously than before, appearing to be very much on her guard. Looking about her in an attempt to keep both doors in her sight, she snatched up the coffee-cup from which Sir Claud had drunk and surveyed the entire room.

  Her eye alighted on the small table near the door to the hall, on which there stood a large bowl containing a house plant. Moving to the table, Lucia thrust the coffee-cup upside down into the bowl. Then, still watching the door, she took one of the other coffee-cups and placed it near Sir Claud's body. She then moved quickly to the door, but as she reached it, the door opened and her husband Richard entered with a very tall, sandy-haired man in his early thirties, whose countenance, though amiable, had an air of authority about it. The newcomer was carrying a Gladstone bag.

  "Luci
a!" Richard exclaimed, startled. "What are you doing here?"

  "I – I – came to get my handbag," Lucia explained. "Hello, Dr Graham. Excuse me, please," she added, hurrying past them.

  As Richard watched her go, Poirot emerged from behind the curtains, approaching the two men as though he had just entered the room by the other door.

  "Ah, here is Monsieur Poirot. Let me introduce you. Poirot, this is Dr Graham. Kenneth Graham." Poirot and the doctor bowed to each other, and Dr Graham went immediately to the body of the dead scientist to examine it, watched by Richard. Hercule Poirot, to whom they paid no further attention, moved about the room, counting the coffee-cups again with a smile.

  "One, two, three, four, five," he murmured. "Five, indeed."

  A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot's face, and he smiled in his most inscrutable fashion. Taking the test-tube out of his pocket, he looked at it and slowly shook his head.

  Meanwhile, Dr Graham had concluded a cursory examination of Sir Claud Amory's body.

  "I'm afraid," he said to Richard, "that I shan't be able to sign a death certificate. Sir Claud was in perfectly healthy condition, and it seems extremely unlikely to me that he could have suffered a sudden heart attack. I fear we shall have to find out what he had eaten or drunk in his last hours."

  "Good heavens, man, is that really necessary?" asked Richard, with a note of alarm in his voice. "He hadn't eaten or drunk anything that the rest of us didn't. It's absurd to suggest -"

  "I'm not suggesting anything," Dr Graham interrupted, speaking firmly and with authority. "I'm telling you that there will have to be an inquest, by law, and that the coroner will certainly want to know the cause of death. At present I simply do not know what caused Sir Claud's death. I'll have his body removed, and I'll arrange for an autopsy to be done first thing tomorrow morning as a matter of urgency. I should be able to get back to you later tomorrow with some hard facts."

  He left the room swiftly, followed by a still expostulating Richard. Poirot looked after them, and then assumed a puzzled expression as he turned to look again at the body of the man who had called him away from London with such urgency in his voice.