of blood in the courtyard.’
‘Maybe the girl did have a row with her young man, threatened to shoot him, perhaps. And Micky overheard it and mixed the whole thing up—especially if there was a car backfiring just then.’
‘Yes,’ said Hercule Poirot, and sighed, ‘that would account for things quite well.’
Mr Goby turned over another leaf of his notebook and selected his confidant. He chose an electric radiator.
‘Joshua Restarick Ltd. Family firm. Been going over a hundred years. Well thought of in the City. Always very sound. Nothing spectacular. Founded by Joshua Restarick in 1850. Launched out after the first war, with greatly increased investments abroad, mostly South Africa, West Africa and Australia. Simon and Andrew Restarick—the last of the Restaricks. Simon, the elder brother, died about a year ago, no children. His wife had died some years previously. Andrew Restarick seems to have been a restless chap. His heart was never really in the business though everyone says he had plenty of ability. Finally ran off with some woman, leaving his wife and a daughter of five years old. Went to South Africa, Kenya, and various other places. No divorce. His wife died two years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. He travelled about a lot, and wherever he went he seems to have made money. Concessions for minerals mostly. Everything he touched prospered.
‘After his brother’s death, he seems to have decided it was time to settle down. He’d married again and he thought the right thing to do was to come back and make a home for his daughter. They’re living at the moment with his uncle Sir Roderick Horsefield—uncle by marriage that is. That’s only temporary. His wife’s looking at houses all over London. Expense no object. They’re rolling in money.’
Poirot sighed. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘What you outline to me is a success story! Everyone makes money! Everybody is of good family and highly respected. Their relations are distinguished. They are well thought of in business circles.
‘There is only one cloud in the sky. A girl who is said to be “a bit wanting”, a girl who is mixed up with a dubious boy friend who has been on probation more than once. A girl who may quite possibly have tried to poison her stepmother, and who either suffers from hallucinations, or else has committed a crime! I tell you, none of that accords well with the success story you have brought me.’
Mr Goby shook his head sadly and said rather obscurely:
‘There’s one in every family.’
‘This Mrs Restarick is quite a young woman. I presume she is not the woman he originally ran away with?’
‘Oh no, that bust up quite soon. She was a pretty bad lot by all accounts, and a tartar as well. He was a fool ever to be taken in by her.’ Mr Goby shut his notebook and looked inquiringly at Poirot. ‘Anything more you want me to do?’
‘Yes. I want to know a little more about the late Mrs Andrew Restarick. She was an invalid, she was frequently in nursing homes. What kind of nursing homes? Mental homes?’
‘I take your point, Mr Poirot.’
‘And any history of insanity in the family—on either side?’
‘I’ll see to it, Mr Poirot.’
Mr Goby rose to his feet. ‘Then I’ll take leave of you, sir. Good night.’
Poirot remained thoughtful after Mr Goby had left. He raised and lowered his eyebrows. He wondered, he wondered very much.
Then he rang Mrs Oliver:
‘I told you before,’ he said, ‘to be careful. I repeat that—Be very careful.’
‘Careful of what?’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Of yourself. I think there might be danger. Danger to anyone who goes poking about where they are not wanted. There is murder in the air—I do not want it to be yours.’
‘Have you had the information you said you might have?’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘I have had a little information. Mostly rumour and gossip, but it seems something happened at Borodene Mansions.’
‘What sort of thing?’
‘Blood in the courtyard,’ said Poirot.
‘Really!’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘That’s just like the title of an old-fashioned detective story. The Stain on the Staircase. I mean nowadays you say something more like She Asked for Death.’
‘Perhaps there may not have been blood in the courtyard. Perhaps it is only what an imaginative, Irish porter imagined.’
‘Probably an upset milk bottle,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘He couldn’t see it at night. What happened?’
Poirot did not answer directly.
‘The girl thought she “might have committed a murder”. Was that the murder she meant?’
‘You mean she did shoot someone?’
‘One might presume that she did shoot at someone, but for all intents and purposes missed them. A few drops of blood… That was all. No body.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘it’s all very confused. Surely if anyone could still run out of a courtyard, you wouldn’t think you’d killed him, would you?’
‘C’est difficile,’ said Poirot, and rang off.
‘I’m worried,’ said Claudia Reece-Holland.
She refilled her cup from the coffee percolator. Frances Cary gave an enormous yawn. Both girls were breakfasting in the small kitchen of the flat. Claudia was dressed and ready to start for her day’s work. Frances was still in dressing-gown and pyjamas. Her black hair fell over one eye.
‘I’m worried about Norma,’ continued Claudia.
Frances yawned.
‘I shouldn’t worry if I were you. She’ll ring up or turn up sooner or later, I suppose.’
‘Will she? You know, Fran, I can’t help wondering—’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Frances, pouring herself out more coffee. She sipped it doubtfully. ‘I mean—Norma’s not really our business, is she? I mean, we’re not looking after her or spoon-feeding her or anything. She just shares the flat. Why all this motherly solicitude? I certainly wouldn’t worry.’
‘I daresay you wouldn’t. You never worry over anything. But it’s not the same for you as it is for me.’
‘Why isn’t it the same? You mean because you’re the tenant of the flat or something?’
‘Well, I’m in rather a special position, as you might say.’
Frances gave another enormous yawn.
‘I was up too late last night,’ she said. ‘At Basil’s party. I feel dreadful. Oh well, I suppose black coffee will be helpful. Have some more before I’ve drunk it all? Basil would make us try some new pills—Emerald
