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Oh no, I’m sure it was quite all right…”’ She stopped. Her face was flushed and her breath came rather fast.

      Hercule Poirot said:

      ‘You seem to know very well just what is being said.’

      Her mouth closed sharply. She said bitterly:

      ‘I know all right!’

      ‘And what is your own solution?’

      Jean Moncrieffe said:

      ‘The best thing for him to do is to sell his practice and start again somewhere else.’

      ‘Don’t you think the story might follow him?’

      She shrugged her shoulders.

      ‘He must risk that.’

      Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

      ‘Are you going to marry Doctor Oldfield, Miss Moncrieffe?’

      She displayed no surprise at the question. She said shortly:

      ‘He hasn’t asked me to marry him.’

      ‘Why not?’

      Her blue eyes met his and flickered for a second. Then she said:

      ‘Because I’ve choked him off.’

      ‘Ah, what a blessing to find someone who can be frank!’

      ‘I will be as frank as you please. When I realized that people were saying that Charles had got rid of his wife in order to marry me, it seemed to me that if we did marry it would just put the lid on things. I hoped that if there appeared to be no question of marriage between us, the silly scandal might die down.’

      ‘But it hasn’t?’

      ‘No it hasn’t.’

      ‘Surely,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘that is a little odd?’

      Jean said bitterly:

      ‘They haven’t got much to amuse them down here.’

      Poirot asked:

      ‘Do you want to marry Charles Oldfield?’

      The girl answered coolly enough.

      ‘Yes, I do. I wanted to almost as soon as I met him.’

      ‘Then his wife’s death was very convenient for you?’

      Jean Moncrieffe said:

      ‘Mrs Oldfield was a singularly unpleasant woman. Frankly, I was delighted when she died.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘You are certainly frank!’

      She gave the same scornful smile.

      Poirot said:

      ‘I have a suggestion to make.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Drastic means are required here. I suggest that somebody–possibly yourself–might write to the Home Office.’

      ‘What on earth do you mean?’

      ‘I mean that the best way of disposing of this story once and for all is to get the body exhumed and an autopsy performed.’

      She took a step back from him. Her lips opened, then shut again. Poirot watched her.

      ‘Well, Mademoiselle?’ he said at last.

      Jean Moncrieffe said quietly:

      ‘I don’t agree with you.’

      ‘But why not? Surely a verdict of death from natural causes would silence all tongues?’

      ‘If you got that verdict, yes.’

      ‘Do you know what you are suggesting, Mademoiselle?’

      Jean Moncrieffe said impatiently:

      ‘I know what I’m talking about. You’re thinking of arsenic poisoning–you could prove that she was not poisoned by arsenic. But there are other poisons–the vegetable alkaloids. After a year, I doubt if you’d find any traces of them even if they had been used. And I know what these official analyst people are like. They might return a non-committal verdict saying that there was nothing to show what caused death–and then the tongues would wag faster than ever!’

      Hercule Poirot was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

      ‘Who in your opinion is the most inveterate talker in the village?’

      The girl considered. She said at last:

      ‘I really think old Miss Leatheran is the worst cat of the lot.’

      ‘Ah! Would it be possible for you to introduce me to Miss Leatheran–in a casual manner if possible?’

      ‘Nothing could be easier. All the old tabbies are prowling about doing their shopping at this time of the morning. We’ve only got to walk down the main street.’

      As Jean had said, there was no difficulty about the procedure. Outside the post office, Jean stopped and spoke to a tall, thin middle-aged woman with a long nose and sharp inquisitive eyes.

      ‘Good morning, Miss Leatheran.’

      ‘Good morning, Jean. Such a lovely day, is it not?’

      The sharp eyes ranged inquisitively over Jean Moncrieffe’s companion. Jean said:

      ‘Let me introduce M. Poirot, who is staying down here for a few days.’

      III

      Nibbling delicately at a scone and balancing a cup of tea on his knee, Hercule Poirot allowed himself to become confidential with his hostess. Miss Leatheran had been kind enough to ask him to tea and had thereupon made it her business to find out exactly what this exotic little foreigner was doing in their midst.

      For some time he parried her thrusts with dexterity–thereby whetting her appetite. Then, when he judged the moment ripe, he leant forward:

      ‘Ah, Miss Leatheran,’ he said. ‘I can see that you are too clever for me! You have guessed my secret. I am down here at the request of the Home Office. But please,’ he lowered his voice, ‘keep this information to yourself.’

      ‘Of course–of course–’ Miss Leatheran was flustered–thrilled to the core. ‘The Home Office–you don’t mean–not poor Mrs Oldfield?’

      Poirot nodded his head slowly several times.

      ‘We-ell!’ Miss Leatheran breathed into that one word a whole gamut of pleasurable emotion.

      Poirot said:

      ‘It is a delicate matter, you understand. I have been ordered to report whether there is or is not a sufficient case for exhumation.’

      Miss Leatheran exclaimed:

      ‘You are going to dig the poor thing up. How terrible!’

      If she had said ‘how splendid’ instead of ‘how terrible’ the words would have suited her tone of voice better.

      ‘What is your own opinion, Miss Leatheran?’

      ‘Well, of course, M. Poirot, there has been a lot of talk. But I never listen to talk. There is always so much unreliable gossip going about. There is no doubt that Doctor Oldfield has been very odd in his manner ever since it happened, but as I have said repeatedly we surely need not put that down to a guilty conscience. It might be just grief. Not, of course, that he and his wife were on really affectionate terms. That I do know–on first hand authority. Nurse Harrison, who was with Mrs Oldfield for three or four years up to the time of her death, has admitted that much. And I have always felt, you know, that Nurse Harrison had her suspicions–not that she ever said anything, but one can tell, can’t one, from a person’s manner?’

      Poirot said sadly:

      ‘One

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