Mrs Hubbard went on down the stairs. She turned into the students’ common-room on the ground floor. There were four people in the room. Valerie Hobhouse, prone on a sofa with her narrow, elegant feet stuck up over the arm of it; Nigel Chapman sitting at a table with a heavy book open in front of him; Patricia Lane leaning against the mantelpiece, and a girl in a mackintosh who had just come in and who was pulling off a woolly cap as Mrs Hubbard entered. She was a stocky, fair girl with brown eyes set wide apart and a mouth that was usually just a little open so that she seemed perpetually startled.
Valerie, removing a cigarette from her mouth, said in a lazy, drawling voice:
‘Hallo, Ma, have you administered soothing syrup to the old devil, our revered proprietress?’
Patricia Lane said:
‘Has she been on the warpath?’
‘And how!’ said Valerie and chuckled.
‘Something very unpleasant has happened,’ said Mrs Hubbard. ‘Nigel, I want you to help me.’
‘Me, ma’am?’ Nigel looked at her and shut his book. His thin, malicious face was suddenly illuminated by a mischievous but surprisingly sweet smile. ‘What have I done?’
‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Mrs Hubbard. ‘But ink has been deliberately and maliciously spilt all over Elizabeth Johnston’s notes, and it’s green ink. You write with green ink, Nigel.’
He stared at her, his smile disappearing.
‘Yes, I use green ink.’
‘Horrid stuff,’ said Patricia. ‘I wish you wouldn’t, Nigel. I’ve always told you I think it’s horribly affected of you.’
‘I like being affected,’ said Nigel. ‘Lilac ink would be even better, I think. I must try and get some. But are you serious, Mum? About the sabotage, I mean?’
‘Yes, I am serious. Was it your doing, Nigel?’
‘No, of course not. I like annoying people, as you know, but I’d never do a filthy trick like that—and certainly not to Black Bess who minds her own business in a way that’s an example to some people I could mention. Where is that ink of mine? I filled my pen yesterday evening, I remember. I usually keep it on the shelf over there.’ He sprang up and went across the room. ‘Here it is.’ He picked the bottle up, then whistled. ‘You’re right. The bottle’s nearly empty. It should be practically full.’
The girl in the mackintosh gave a little gasp.
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Oh dear, I don’t like it—’
Nigel wheeled at her accusingly.
‘Have you got an alibi, Celia?’ he said menacingly.
The girl gave a gasp.
‘I didn’t do it. I really didn’t do it. Anyway, I’ve been at the hospital all day. I couldn’t—’
‘Now, Nigel,’ said Mrs Hubbard. ‘Don’t tease Celia.’
Patricia Lane said angrily:
‘I don’t see why Nigel should be suspected. Just because his ink was taken—’
Valerie said cattishly:
‘That’s right, darling, defend your young.’
‘But it’s so unfair—’
‘But really I didn’t have anything to do with it,’ Celia protested earnestly.
‘Nobody thinks you did, infant,’ said Valerie impatiently. ‘All the same, you know,’ her eyes met Mrs Hubbard’s and exchanged a glance, ‘all this is getting beyond a joke. Something will have to be done about it.’
‘Something is going to be done,’ said Mrs Hubbard grimly.
‘Here you are, M. Poirot.’
Miss Lemon laid a small brown paper parcel before Poirot. He removed the paper and looked appraisingly at a well-cut silver evening shoe.
‘It was at Baker Street just as you said.’
‘That has saved us trouble,’ said Poirot. ‘Also it confirms my ideas.’
‘Quite,’ said Miss Lemon, who was sublimely incurious by nature.
She was, however, susceptible to the claims of family affection. She said:
‘If it is not troubling you too much, M. Poirot, I received a letter from my sister. There have been some new developments.’
‘You permit that I read it?’
She handed it to him and, after reading it, he directed Miss Lemon to get her sister on the telephone. Presently Miss Lemon indicated that the connection had been obtained. Poirot took the receiver.
‘Mrs Hubbard?’
‘Oh yes, M. Poirot. So kind of you to ring me up so promptly. I was really very—’
Poirot interrupted her.
‘Where are you speaking from?’
‘Why—from 26 Hickory Road, of course. Oh I see what you mean. I am in my own sitting-room.’
‘There is an extension?’
‘This is the extension. The main phone is downstairs in the hall.’
‘Who is in the house who might listen in?’
‘All the students are out at this time of day. The cook is out marketing. Geronimo, her husband, understands very little English. There is a cleaning woman, but she is deaf and I’m quite sure wouldn’t bother to listen in.’
‘Very good, then. I can speak freely. Do you occasionally have lectures in the evening, or films? Entertainments of some kind?’
‘We do have lectures occasionally. Miss Baltrout, the explorer, came not long ago, with her coloured transparencies. And we had an appeal for Far Eastern Missions, though I am afraid that quite a lot of the students went out that night.’
‘Ah. Then this evening you will have prevailed on M. Hercule Poirot, the employer of your sister, to come and discourse to your students on the more interesting of his cases.’
‘That will be very nice, I’m sure, but do you think—’
‘It is not a question of thinking. I am sure!’
That evening, students entering the common-room found a notice tacked up on the board which stood just inside the door.
M.
