Georges. Only one.’
Poirot returned to his chair in a state of agitation. What hope was there for justice or peace to prevail in the world when three people who might have made common cause—three wrongly accused people: Sylvia Rule, John McCrodden and Hercule Poirot—could not sit together and have a calm, rational discussion that might have helped them all to understand what had happened? Instead there had been anger, an almost fanatical refusal to entertain a point of view other than one’s own, and the ceaseless hurling of insults. Not from Hercule Poirot, however; he had behaved impeccably in the face of intolerable provocation.
When George brought him his sirop, he said, ‘Tell me—is there anybody else waiting to see me?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Nobody has telephoned to request an appointment?’
‘No, sir. Are you expecting someone?’
‘Oui. I am expecting an angry stranger, or perhaps several.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, sir.’
Just then the telephone started to ring. Poirot nodded and permitted himself a small smile. When there was no other pleasure to be taken from a situation, one might as well enjoy being correct, he thought. ‘There he is, Georges—or there she is. The third person. Third of who knows how many? Three, four, five? It could be any number.’
‘Number of what, sir?’
‘People who have received a letter accusing them of the murder of Barnabas Pandy—signed, fraudulently, in the name of Hercule Poirot!’
At three o’clock the next day, Poirot was visited at Whitehaven Mansions by a Miss Annabel Treadway. As he waited for George to show her in, he found himself looking forward to the encounter. For those of a different temperament, it might have been tedious to field the same accusation time after time from a succession of strangers united in their determination not to listen to a word that was said to them; not so for Hercule Poirot. This third time, he resolved, he would succeed in making his point. He would convince Miss Annabel Treadway that he was telling the truth. Perhaps then progress might be made and some more interesting questions asked.
The puzzle of why most people, even intelligent people, were so illogical and pig-headed was one to which Poirot had devoted quite enough consideration while lying awake the previous night; he was eager to turn his attention to Barnabas Pandy himself. Of course, that was assuming that Barnabas Pandy had a self. It was possible that he did not exist, had never existed, and was no more than a figment of the letter-writer’s imagination.
The door opened and George ushered in a thin woman of average height, with fair hair and dark eyes and clothes. Poirot was alarmed by his reaction to the sight of her. He felt as if he ought to bow his head and say, ‘My condolences, mademoiselle.’ Having no reason to believe that she had suffered a loss, he restrained himself. A letter accusing her of murder might provoke anger or fear, but it could hardly be considered a tragedy; it would not, Poirot thought, make a person sad.
As surely as John McCrodden had filled Poirot’s room with cold contempt, Annabel Treadway had brought sorrow in with her. ‘The aching heart,’ Poirot thought. He felt it as keenly as if it were his own.
‘Thank you, Georges,’ he said. ‘Please, sit down, mademoiselle.’
She hurried to the nearest chair and sat in a manner that cannot have been comfortable for her. Poirot observed that her most striking facial feature was a deep vertical groove that started between her eyebrows: a pronounced crease that seemed to divide her forehead into two neat halves. Poirot resolved not to look at it again, lest she should notice.
‘Thank you for allowing me to come here today,’ she said quietly. ‘I expected you to refuse.’ She looked at Poirot five or six times as she spoke, turning away quickly on each occasion as if she didn’t want him to catch her in the act of observing him.
‘From where have you come, mademoiselle?’
‘Oh, you won’t have heard of it. Nobody has. It’s in the country.’
‘Why did you expect me to refuse to see you?’
‘Most people would go to any lengths to prevent someone they believed to be a murderer from entering their home,’ she said. ‘M. Poirot, what I came here to tell you is … Well, you might not believe me, but I am innocent. I could not murder another living soul. Never! You cannot know …’ She broke off with a ragged gasp.
‘Please continue,’ said Poirot gently. ‘What is it that I cannot know?’
‘I have never caused pain or injury to anybody, and nor could I. I have saved lives!’
‘Mademoiselle—’
Annabel Treadway had produced a handkerchief from her pocket and was dabbing at her eyes. ‘Please forgive me if I sounded boastful. I did not mean to exaggerate my own goodness or my achievements, but it is true that I have saved a life. Many years ago.’
‘A life? You said “lives”.’
‘I only meant that if I had the opportunity to do so again, I should save every life that I could save, even if I had to place myself in danger to do so.’ Her voice trembled.
‘Is that because you are especially heroic or because you think other people matter more than you do?’ Poirot asked her.
‘I … I’m not sure what you mean. We must all put others before ourselves. I don’t pretend to be more selfless than most, and I’m far from brave. I’m a terrible coward, in fact. Coming here to talk to you took all my courage. My sister Lenore—she’s the brave one. I’m sure you are brave, M. Poirot. Wouldn’t you save every life that you could, every single one?’
Poirot frowned. It was a peculiar question. The conversation so far had been unusual—even for what Poirot was calling in his mind ‘the new age of Barnabas Pandy’.
‘I have heard of your work and I admire you greatly,’ said Annabel Treadway. ‘That is why your letter pained me so. M. Poirot, you are quite wrong in your suspicions. You say you have proof against me, but I don’t see how that is possible. I have committed no crime.’
‘And I have sent you no letter,’ Poirot told her. ‘I did not accuse you—I do not accuse you—of the murder of Barnabas Pandy.’
Annabel Treadway blinked at Poirot in astonishment. ‘But … I don’t understand.’
‘The letter you received was not written by the true Hercule Poirot. I too am innocent! An impersonator has sent these accusations, each one with my name signed at the bottom.’
‘Each … each one? Do you mean—?’
‘Oui. You are the third person in two days to say this very thing to me: that I have written to you and accused you of murdering a Barnabas
