party in what she calls “formal dress”—evening dress to us—and the shoes were really vital—they were her only evening ones.’
‘It caused her inconvenience—and annoyance—yes…yes, I wonder. Perhaps there is something there…’
He was silent for a moment or two and then went on.
‘And there are two more items—a rucksack cut to pieces and a silk scarf in the same state. Here we have something that is neither vanity, nor profit—instead we have something that is deliberately vindictive. Who did the rucksack belong to?’
‘Nearly all the students have rucksacks—they all hitch-hike a lot, you know. And a great many of the rucksacks are alike—bought at the same place, so it’s hard to identify one from the other. But it seems fairly certain that this one belonged to Leonard Bateson or Colin McNabb.’
‘And the silk scarf that was also cut about. To whom did that belong?’
‘To Valerie Hobhouse. She had it as a Christmas present—it was emerald green and really good quality.’
‘Miss Hobhouse… I see.’
Poirot closed his eyes. What he perceived mentally was a kaleidoscope, no more, no less. Pieces of cut-up scarves and rucksacks, cookery books, lipsticks, bath salts; names and thumbnail sketches of odd students. Nowhere was there cohesion or form. Unrelated incidents and people whirled round in space. But Poirot knew quite well that somehow and somewhere there must be a pattern. Possibly several patterns. Possibly each time one shook the kaleidoscope one got a different pattern… But one of the patterns would be the right pattern… The question was where to start…
He opened his eyes.
‘This is a matter that needs some reflection. A good deal of reflection.’
‘Oh, I’m sure it does, M. Poirot,’ assented Mrs Hubbard eagerly. ‘And I’m sure I didn’t want to trouble you—’
‘You are not troubling me. I am intrigued. But whilst I am reflecting, we might make a start on the practical side. A start… The shoe, the evening shoe…yes, we might make a start there. Miss Lemon.’
‘Yes, M. Poirot?’ Miss Lemon banished filing from her thoughts, sat even more upright, and reached automatically for pad and pencil.
‘Mrs Hubbard will obtain for you, perhaps, the remaining shoe. Then go to Baker Street Station, to the lost property department. The loss occurred—when?’
Mrs Hubbard considered.
‘Well, I can’t remember exactly now, M. Poirot. Perhaps two months ago. I can’t get nearer than that. But I could find out from Sally Finch the date of the party.’
‘Yes. Well—’ He turned once more to Miss Lemon. ‘You can be a little vague. You will say you left a shoe in an Inner Circle train—that is the most likely—or you may have left it in some other train. Or possibly a bus. How many buses serve the neighbourhood of Hickory Road?’
‘Two only, M. Poirot.’
‘Good. If you get no results from Baker Street, try Scotland Yard and say it was left in a taxi.’
‘Lambeth,’ corrected Miss Lemon efficiently.
Poirot waved a hand.
‘You always know these things.’
‘But why do you think—’ began Mrs Hubbard.
Poirot interrupted her.
‘Let us see first what results we get. Then, if they are negative or positive, you and I, Mrs Hubbard, must consult again. You will tell me then those things which it is necessary that I should know.’
‘I really think I’ve told you everything I can.’
‘No, no. I disagree. Here we have young people herded together, of varying temperaments, of different sexes. A loves B, but B loves C, and D and E are at daggers drawn because of A perhaps. It is all that I need to know. The interplay of human emotions. The quarrels, the jealousies, the friendships, the malice and all uncharitableness.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs Hubbard, uncomfortably, ‘I don’t know anything about that sort of thing. I don’t mix at all. I just run the place and see to the catering and all that.’
‘But you are interested in people. You have told me so. You like young people. You took this post, not because it was of much interest financially, but because it would bring you in contact with human problems. There will be those of the students that you like and some that you do not like so well, or indeed at all, perhaps. You will tell me—yes, you will tell me! Because you are worried—not about what has been happening—you could go to the police about that—’
‘Mrs Nicoletis wouldn’t like to have the police in, I assure you.’
Poirot swept on, disregarding the interruption.
‘No, you are worried about someone—someone who you think may have been responsible or at least mixed up in this. Someone, therefore, that you like.’
‘Really, M. Poirot.’
‘Yes, really. And I think you are right to be worried. For that silk scarf cut to pieces, it is not nice. And the slashed rucksack, that also is not nice. For the rest it seems childishness—and yet—I am not sure. No, I am not sure at all!’
Hurrying a little as she went up the steps, Mrs Hubbard inserted her latch key into the door of 26 Hickory Road. Just as the door opened, a big young man with fiery red hair ran up the steps behind her.
‘Hallo, Ma,’ he said, for in such fashion did Len Bateson usually address her. He was a friendly soul, with a Cockney accent and mercifully free from any kind of inferiority complex. ‘Been out gallivanting?’
‘I’ve been out to tea, Mr Bateson. Don’t delay me now, I’m late.’
‘I cut up a lovely corpse today,’ said Len. ‘Smashing!’
‘Don’t be so horrid, you nasty boy. A lovely corpse, indeed! The idea. You make me feel quite squeamish.’
Len Bateson laughed, and the hall echoed the sound in a great ha ha.
‘Nothing to Celia,’ he said. ‘I went along to the Dispensary. “Come to tell you about a corpse,” I said. She went as white as a sheet and I thought she was going to pass out. What do you think of that, Mother Hubbard?’
‘I don’t wonder at it,’ said Mrs Hubbard. ‘The idea! Celia probably thought you meant a real one.’
‘What do you mean—a real one? What do you think our corpses are? Synthetic?’
A thin young man with long untidy hair strolled out of a room on the right, and said in a waspish way:
‘Oh,
