"Half past two," said Lady Angkatell.

She was in the drawing-room with Midge and Edward. From behind the closed door of Sir Henry's study came the murmur of voices. Hercule Poirot, Sir Henry and Inspector Grange were in there.

Lady Angkatell sighed.

"You know, Midge, I still feel one ought to do something about lunch… It seems, of course, quite heartless to sit down round the table as though nothing had happened.

But after all, M. Poirot was asked to lunch -and he is probably hungry. And it can't be upsetting to him that poor John Christow has been killed, like it is to us… And I must say that though I really do not feel like eating myself. Henry and Edward must be extremely hungry after being out shooting all the morning-"

Edward Angkatell said, "Don't worry on my account, Lucy dear."

"You are always considerate, Edward.

And then there is David-I noticed that he ate a great deal at dinner last night. Intellectual people always seem to need a good deal of food. Where is David, by the way?"

"He went up to his room," said Midge, "after he had heard what had happened."

"Yes-well, that was rather tactful of him. I daresay it made him feel awkward … Of course, say what you like, a murder is an awkward thing-it upsets the servants and puts the general routine out-we were having ducks for lunch-fortunately they are quite nice eaten cold… What does one do about Gerda, do you think? Something on a tray? A little strong soup, perhaps?"

Really, thought Midge, Lucy is inhuman!

And then with a qualm she reflected that it was perhaps because Lucy was too human that it shocked one so! Wasn't it the plain unvarnished truth that all catastrophes were hedged round with these little trivial wonderings and surmises? Lucy merely gave utterance to the thoughts which most people did not acknowledge. One did remember the servants, and worry about meals, and one did even feel hungry. She felt hungry herself at this very moment! Hungry, she thought, and at the same time, rather sick… A curious mixture.

And there was, undoubtedly, just plain awkward embarrassment in not knowing how to react to a quiet commonplace woman whom one had referred to, only yesterday, as "poor Gerda" and who was now, presumably, shortly to be standing in the dock accused of murder.

"These things happen to other people," thought Midge. "They can't happen to us."

She looked across the room at Edward.

They oughtn't, she thought, to happen to people like Edward. People who are so very ^violent… She took comfort in looking at Edward. Edward, so quiet, so reasonable, so kind and calm…

Gudgeon entered, inclined himself confidentially and spoke in a suitably muted voice.

"I have placed sandwiches and some coffee in the dining room, m'lady."

"Oh, thank you. Gudgeon!"

"Really," said Lady Angkatell as Gudgeon left the room. "Gudgeon is wonderful!

I don't know what I should do without Gudgeon.

He always knows the right thing to do. Some really substantial sandwiches are as good as lunch-and nothing heartless about them if you know what I meani"

"Oh, Lucy, don't…"

Midge suddenly felt warm tears running down her cheeks. Lady Angkatell looked surprised, murmured:

"Poor darling. It's all been too much for you."

Edward crossed to the sofa and sat down by Midge. He put his arm round her.

"Don't worry, little Midge," he said.

Midge buried her face on his shoulder and sobbed there comfortably. She remembered how nice Edward had been to her when her rabbit had died at Ainswick one Easter holidays.

Edward said gently, "It's been a shock.

Can I get her some brandy, Lucy?"

"On the sideboard in the dining room. I don't think-"

She broke off as Henrietta came into the room. Midge sat up. She felt Edward stiffen and sit very still.

What, thought Midge, does Henrietta feel? She felt almost reluctant to look at her cousin-but there was nothing to see. Henrietta looked, if anything, belligerent. She had come in with her chin up, her colour high, and with a certain swiftness.

"Oh, there you are, Henrietta," cried

Lady Angkatell. "I have been wondering.

The police are with Henry and M. Poirot.

What have you given Gerda? Brandy? Or tea and an aspirin?"

"I gave her some brandy-and a hot water bottle."

"Quite right," said Lady Angkatell approvingly.

"That's what they tell you in First Aid classes-the hot water bottle, I mean, for shock-not the brandy; there is a reaction nowadays against stimulants. But I think that is only a fashion. We always gave brandy l for shock when I was a girl at Ainswick.

Though, really, I suppose, it can't be exactly shock with Gerda. I don't know really what one would feel if one had killed one's husband-it's the sort of thing one just can't begin to imagine-but it wouldn't exactly give one a shock. I mean there wouldn't be any element of surprise."

Henrietta's voice, icy cold, cut into the placid atmosphere.

She said, "Why are you all so sure that

Gerda killed John?"

There was a moment's pause-and Midge felt a curious shifting in the atmosphere-there was confusion, strain and, finally, a kind of slow watchfulness.

"Mrs. Christow?"

Gerda said eagerly:

"Yes, I am Mrs. Christow."

"I don't want to distress you, Mrs. Christow, but I would like to ask you a few questions.

You can, of course, have your solicitor present if you prefer it-"

Sir Henry put in:

"It is sometimes wiser, Gerda-"

She interrupted:

"A solicitor? Why a solicitor? Why should a solicitor know anything about John's death?"

Inspector Grange coughed. Sir Henry seemed about to speak. Henrietta put in:

"The Inspector only wants to know just what happened this morning."

Gerda turned to him. She spoke in a wondering voice,

"It seems all like a bad dream-not real. I-I haven't been able to cry or anything.

One just doesn't feel anything at all."

Grange said soothingly:

"That's the shock, Mrs. Christow."

"Yes, yes-I suppose it is… But you see it was all so sudden. I went out from the house and along the path to the swimming pool-"

"At what time, Mrs. Christow?"

"It was just before one o'clock-about two minutes to one. I know, because I looked at that clock. And when I got there-there was John, lying there-and blood on the edge of the concrete…"

"Did you hear a shot, Mrs. Christow?"

"Yes-no-I don't know. I knew Sir Henry and Mr. Angkatell were out shooting … I-I just saw John-"

"Yes, Mrs. Christow?"

"John-and blood-and a revolver. I picked up the revolver-"

"Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why did you pick up the revolver, Mrs.

Christow?"

"I-I don't know."

"You shouldn't have touched it, you know."

"Shouldn't I?" Gerda was vague, her face vacant. "But I did. I held it in my hand…"

She looked down now at her hands as though she was, in fancy, seeing the revolver lying in them.

She turned sharply to the Inspector. Her voice was suddenly sharp-anguished.

"Who could have killed John? Nobody could have wanted to kill him. He was-he was the best of men. So kind, so unselfish ^he did everything for other people. Everybody loved him. Inspector. He was a wonderful doctor. The best and kindest of husbands. It must have been an accident-it must-it must!" She flung out a hand to the room.

"Ask anyone. Inspector. Nobody could have wanted to kill John, could they?"

She appealed to them all.

Inspector Grange closed up his notebook.

"Thank you, Mrs. Christow," he said in an unemotional voice. "That will be all for the present."

Hercule Poirot and Inspector Grange went together through the chestnut woods to the swimming pool. The thing that had been John Christow but which was now "the body" had been photographed and measured and written about and examined by the police surgeon and had now been taken away to the mortuary. The swimming pool, Poirot thought, looked curiously innocent-Everything about today, he thought, had been strangely fluid. Except John Christow-he had not been fluid. Even in death he had been purposeful and objective. The swimming pool was not now preeminently a swimming pool, it was the place where John Christow's body had lain and where his life blood had welled away over concrete into artificially blue water…

Artificial-for a moment Poirot grasped at the word… Yes, there had been something artificial about it all. As though-A man in a bathing suit came up to the Inspector.

"Here's the revolver, sir," he said.

Grange took the dripping object gingerly.

"No hope of finger-prints now," he remarked, "but luckily it doesn't matter in this case. Mrs. Christow was actually holding the revolver when you arrived, wasn't she, M.

Poirot?"

"Yes."

"Identification of the revolver is the next thing," said Grange. "I should imagine Sir Henry will be able to do that for us. She got it from his study, I should say."

He cast a glance around the pool.

"Now, let's have that again to be quite clear. The path below the pool comes up from the farm and that's the way Lady Angkatell came- The other two, Mr. Edward Angkatell and Miss Savernake, came down from the woods-but not together. He came by the left-hand path, and she by the righthand one which leads out of the long flower walk above the house. But they were both standing on the far side of the pool when you arrived?"

"Yes."

"And this path here beside the pavilion leads on to Fodder's Lane. Right-we'll go along it."

As they walked. Grange spoke, without excitement, just with knowledge and quiet pessimism.

"Never like these cases much," he said.

"Had one last year-down near Ashridge.

Retired military man he was-distinguished career. Wife was the nice, quiet, old-fashioned kind, sixty-five, grey hair-rather pretty hair with a wave in it. Did a lot of gardening. One day she goes up to his room, gets out his service revolver, and walks out into the garden and shoots him. Just like that! A good deal behind it, of course, that one had to dig out. Sometimes they think up some fool story about a tramp! We pretend to accept it, of course, keep things quiet whilst we're making inquiries, but we know what's what."