‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘I can quite see that. But that does not explain, if I may say so, your own anxiety which I take to be a reflex of your sister’s anxiety.’
‘I don’t like the situation, M. Poirot. I don’t like it at all. I cannot help feeling that something is going on which I do not understand. No ordinary explanation seems quite to cover the facts—and I really cannot imagine what other explanation there can be.’
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
Miss Lemon’s Heel of Achilles had always been her imagination. She had none. On questions of fact she was invincible. On questions of surmise, she was lost. Not for her the state of mind of Cortez’s men upon the peak of Darien.
‘Not ordinary petty thieving? A kleptomaniac, perhaps?’
‘I do not think so. I read up the subject,’ said the conscientious Miss Lemon, ‘in the Encyclopaedia Britannica and in a medical work. But I was not convinced.’
Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute and a half.
Did he wish to embroil himself in the troubles of Miss Lemon’s sister and the passions and grievances of a polyglot hostel? But it was very annoying and inconvenient to have Miss Lemon making mistakes in typing his letters. He told himself that if he were to embroil himself in the matter, that would be the reason. He did not admit to himself that he had been rather bored of late and that the very triviality of the business attracted him.
‘“The parsley sinking into the butter on a hot day,”’ he murmured to himself.
‘Parsley? Butter?’ Miss Lemon looked startled.
‘A quotation from one of your classics,’ he said. ‘You are acquainted, no doubt, with the Adventures, to say nothing of the Exploits, of Sherlock Holmes.’
‘You mean these Baker Street societies and all that,’ said Miss Lemon. ‘Grown men being so silly! But there, that’s men all over. Like the model railways they go on playing with. I can’t say I’ve ever had time to read any of the stories. When I do get time for reading, which isn’t very often, I prefer an improving book.’
Hercule Poirot bowed his head gracefully.
‘How would it be, Miss Lemon, if you were to invite your sister here for some suitable refreshment—afternoon tea, perhaps? I might be able to be of some slight assistance to her.’
‘That’s very kind of you, M. Poirot. Really very kind indeed. My sister is always free in the afternoons.’
‘Then shall we say tomorrow, if you can arrange it?’
And in due course, the faithful George was instructed to provide a meal of square crumpets richly buttered, symmetrical sandwiches, and other suitable components of a lavish English afternoon tea.
Miss Lemon’s sister, whose name was Mrs Hubbard, had a definite resemblance to her sister. She was a good deal yellower of skin, she was plumper, her hair was more frivolously done, and she was less brisk in manner, but the eyes that looked out of a round and amiable countenance were the same shrewd eyes that gleamed through Miss Lemon’s pince-nez.
‘This is very kind of you, I’m sure, M. Poirot,’ she said. ‘Very kind. And such a delicious tea, too. I’m sure I’ve eaten far more than I should—well, perhaps just one more sandwich—tea? Well, just half a cup.’
‘First,’ said Poirot, ‘we make the repast—afterwards we get down to business.’
He smiled at her amiably and twirled his moustache, and Mrs Hubbard said:
‘You know, you’re exactly like I pictured you from Felicity’s description.’
After a moment’s startled realisation that Felicity was the severe Miss Lemon’s Christian name, Poirot replied that he should have expected no less given Miss Lemon’s efficiency.
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Hubbard absently, taking a second sandwich, ‘Felicity has never cared for people. I do. That’s why I’m so worried.’
‘Can you explain to me exactly what does worry you?’
‘Yes, I can. It would be natural enough for money to be taken—small sums here and there. And if it were jewellery that’s quite straightforward too—at least, I don’t mean straightforward, quite the opposite—but it would fit in—with kleptomania or dishonesty. But I’ll just read you a list of the things that have been taken, that I’ve put down on paper.’
Mrs Hubbard opened her bag and took out a small notebook.
Evening shoe (one of a new pair)
Bracelet (costume jewellery)
Diamond ring (found in plate of soup)
Powder compact
Lipstick
Stethoscope
Ear-rings
Cigarette lighter
Old flannel trousers
Electric light bulbs
Box of chocolates
Silk scarf (found cut to pieces)
Rucksack (ditto)
Boracic powder
Bath salts
Cookery book
Hercule Poirot drew in a long deep breath.
‘Remarkable,’ he said, ‘and quite—quite fascinating.’
He was entranced. He looked from the severe disapproving face of Miss Lemon to the kindly, distressed face of Mrs Hubbard.
‘I congratulate you,’ he said warmly to the latter.
She looked startled.
‘But why, M. Poirot?’
‘I congratulate you on having such a unique and beautiful problem.’
‘Well, perhaps it makes sense to you, M. Poirot, but—’
‘It does not make sense at all. It reminds me of nothing so much as a round game I was recently persuaded to play by some young friends during the Christmas season. It was called, I understand, the Three Horned Lady. Each person in turn uttered the following phrase, “I went to Paris and bought—” adding some article. The next person repeated that and added
