lifted the head of the rose. Poirot saw the minute grease spot. She remained close to him, her shoulder almost brushing his.
‘And what time was this?’
‘Oh, about ten minutes past eight, I suppose.’
‘You did not—try the window?’
‘I believe I did. Yes, I thought it would be quicker to go in that way. But it was fastened.’
‘I see.’ Poirot drew a deep breath. ‘And the shot,’ he said, ‘where were you when you heard that? Still in the flower border?’
‘Oh, no; it was two or three minutes later, just before I came in by the side door.’
‘Do you know what this is, mademoiselle?’
On the palm of his hand he held out the tiny silk rosebud. She examined it coolly.
‘It looks like a rosebud off my little evening bag. Where did you find it?’
‘It was in Mr Keene’s pocket,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘Did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’
‘Did he tell you I gave it to him?’
Poirot smiled.
‘When did you give it to him, mademoiselle?’
‘Last night.’
‘Did he warn you to say that, mademoiselle?’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked angrily.
But Poirot did not answer. He strode out of the room and into the drawing room. Barling, Keene, and Marshall were there. He went straight up to them.
‘Messieurs,’ he said brusquely, ‘will you follow me to the study?’
He passed out into the hall and addressed Joan and Harry.
‘You, too, I pray of you. And will somebody request madame to come? I thank you. Ah! And here is the excellent Digby. Digby, a little question, a very important little question. Did Miss Cleves arrange some Michaelmas daisies before dinner?’
The butler looked bewildered.
‘Yes, sir, she did.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure, sir.’
‘Très bien. Now—come, all of you.’
Inside the study he faced them.
‘I have asked you to come here for a reason. The case is over, the police have come and gone. They say Mr Lytcham Roche has shot himself. All is finished.’ He paused. ‘But I, Hercule Poirot, say that it is not finished.’
As startled eyes turned to him the door opened and Mrs Lytcham Roche floated into the room.
‘I was saying, madame, that this case is not finished. It is a matter of the psychology. Mr Lytcham Roche, he had the manie de grandeur, he was a king. Such a man does not kill himself. No, no, he may go mad, but he does not kill himself. Mr Lytcham Roche did not kill himself.’ He paused. ‘He was killed.’
‘Killed?’ Marshall gave a short laugh. ‘Alone in a room with the door and window locked?’
‘All the same,’ said Poirot stubbornly, ‘he was killed.’
‘And got up and locked the door or shut the window afterward, I suppose,’ said Diana cuttingly.
‘I will show you something,’ said Poirot, going to the window. He turned the handle of the French windows and then pulled gently.
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