Pandy. And, since he is absolutely certain that Pandy was not murdered, he feels no obligation to divulge what he knows. Still, I have an idea—one that Rowland Rope might be able to assist with, if he is willing. I must speak with him at the earliest opportunity. But first, show me John McCrodden’s letter.’
I handed it over. Poirot’s eyes blazed with anger as he read it.
‘It is inconceivable that Hercule Poirot should write and send such a thing as this, Catchpool. It is so poorly formulated and inelegantly written! I am insulted to think that anyone could believe it came from me.’
I tried to cheer him: ‘None of the recipients knows you. If they did, they would have known, as I did the moment I saw it, that it was not your handiwork.’
‘There is much to consider. I will make a list. We must get to work, Catchpool.’
‘I’m afraid I must get to work, Poirot. By all means, speak to Rowland Rope—he is eager to speak to you—but I’m afraid you will have to count me out if you’re planning to take any further action with regard to Barnabas Pandy.’
‘How can I not act, mon ami? Why do you think the four letters were sent? Someone wishes to put in my head the idea that Barnabas Pandy was murdered. Is it not understandable that I am curious? Now, there is something I need you to do for me.’
‘Poirot—’
‘Yes, yes, you need to do your work. Je comprends. This I will allow you to do, once you have helped me. It is only a small task, and one that can be accomplished far more easily by you than by me. Find out where all four were on the day that Barnabas Pandy died: Sylvia Rule, Hugo Dockerill, Annabel Treadway and John McCrodden. The solicitor, Vout, told me that Mademoiselle Treadway was at home when her grandfather died, at Combingham Hall. Find out if she says the same thing. Now, it is of vital importance that you ask each of them in precisely the same way: the same questions, in the same order. Is that clear? I have realized that this is the way to distinguish most effectively one person’s character from another’s. Also, I am interested in this Eustace with whom Madame Rule is so obsessed. If you could—’
I waved at him to stop, like a railway signalman in the face of an out-of-control train hurtling towards him.
‘Poirot, please! Who is Eustace? No—don’t answer that. I have work to do. Barnabas Pandy’s death has been officially recorded as an accident. I’m afraid that means I can’t very well go around demanding that people furnish me with alibis.’
‘Not straightforwardly, of course,’ Poirot agreed. He stood up and started to smooth imaginary creases from his clothing. ‘I am sure you will find an ingenious way around the problem. Good day, mon ami. Come and see me when you are able to give me the information I require. And—yes, yes!—then you will do your work assigned to you by Scotland Yard.’
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