‘What is your own opinion of these anonymous letters she received?’

I had to do it. I leaned forward in my chair till I could just catch sight of Miss Johnson’s profile turned to Poirot in answer to his question.

She was looking perfectly cool and collected.

‘I think someone in America had a spite against her and was trying to frighten or annoy her.’

‘Pas plus serieux que ca?’

‘That’s my opinion. She was a very handsome woman, you know, and might easily have had enemies. I think, those letters were written by some spiteful woman. Mrs Leidner being of a nervous temperament took them seriously.’

‘She certainly did that,’ said Poirot. ‘But remember – the last of them arrived by hand.’

‘Well, I suppose that could have been managed if anyone had given their minds to it. Women will take a lot of trouble to gratify their spite, M. Poirot.’

They will indeed, I thought to myself!

‘Perhaps you are right, mademoiselle. As you say, Mrs Leidner was handsome. By the way, you know Miss Reilly, the doctor’s daughter?’

‘Sheila Reilly? Yes, of course.’

Poirot adopted a very confidential, gossipy tone.

‘I have heard a rumour (naturally I do not like to ask the doctor) that there was a tendresse between her and one of the members of Dr Leidner’s staff. Is that so, do you know?’

Miss Johnson appeared rather amused.

‘Oh, young Coleman and David Emmott were both inclined to dance attendance. I believe there was some rivalry as to who was to be her partner in some event at the club. Both the boys went in on Saturday evenings to the club as a general rule. But I don’t know that there was anything in it on her side. She’s the only young creature in the place, you know, and so she’s by way of being the belle of it. She’s got the Air Force dancing attendance on her as well.’

‘So you think there is nothing in it?’

‘Well – I don’t know.’ Miss Johnson became thoughtful. ‘It is true that she comes out this way fairly often. Up to the dig and all that. In fact, Mrs Leidner was chaffing David Emmott about it the other day – saying the girl was running after him. Which was rather a catty thing to say, I thought, and I don’t think he liked it… Yes, she was here a good deal. I saw her riding towards the dig on that awful afternoon.’ She nodded her head towards the open window. ‘But neither David Emmott nor Coleman were on duty that afternoon. Richard Carey was in charge. Yes, perhaps she is attracted to one of the boys – but she’s such a modern unsentimental young woman that one doesn’t know quite how seriously to take her. I’m sure I don’t know which of them it is. Bill’s a nice boy, and not nearly such a fool as he pretends to be. David Emmott is a dear – and there’s a lot to him. He is the deep, quiet kind.’

Then she looked quizzically at Poirot and said: ‘But has this any bearing on the crime, M. Poirot?’

M. Poirot threw up his hands in a very French fashion.

‘You make me blush, mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘You expose me as a mere gossip. But what will you, I am interested always in the love affairs of young people.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Johnson with a little sigh. ‘It’s nice when the course of true love runs smooth.’

Poirot gave an answering sigh. I wondered if Miss Johnson was thinking of some love affair of her own when she was a girl. And I wondered if M. Poirot had a wife, and if he went on in the way you always hear foreigners do, with mistresses and things like that. He looked so comic I couldn’t imagine it.

‘Sheila Reilly has a lot of character,’ said Miss Johnson. ‘She’s young and she’s crude, but she’s the right sort.’

‘I take your word for it, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot.

He got up and said, ‘Are there any other members of the staff in the house?’

‘Marie Mercado is somewhere about. All the men are up on the dig today. I think they wanted to get out of the house. I don’t blame them. If you’d like to go up to the dig–’

She came out on the verandah and said, smiling to me: ‘Nurse Leatheran won’t mind taking you, I dare say.’

‘Oh, certainly, Miss Johnson,’ I said.

‘And you’ll come back to lunch, won’t you, M. Poirot?’

‘Enchanted, mademoiselle.’

Miss Johnson went back into the living-room where she was engaged in cataloguing.

‘Mrs Mercado’s on the roof,’ I said. ‘Do you want to see her first?’

‘It would be as well, I think. Let us go up.’

As we went up the stairs I said: ‘I did what you told me. Did you hear anything?’

‘Not a sound.’

‘That will be a weight off Miss Johnson’s mind at any rate,’ I said. ‘She’s been worrying that she might have done something about it.’

Mrs Mercado was sitting on the parapet, her head bent down, and she was so deep in thought that she never heard us till Poirot halted opposite her and bade her good morning.

Then she looked up with a start.

She looked ill this morning, I thought, her small face pinched and wizened and great dark circles under her eyes.

‘Encore moi,’ said Poirot. ‘I come today with a special object.’

And he went on much in the same way as he had done to Miss Johnson, explaining how necessary it was that he should get a true picture of Mrs Leidner.

Mrs Mercado, however, wasn’t as honest as Miss Johnson had been. She burst into fulsome praise which, I was pretty sure, was quite far removed from her real feelings.

‘Dear, dear Louise! It’s so hard to explain her to someone who didn’t know her. She was such an exotic creature. Quite different from anyone else. You felt that, I’m sure, nurse? A martyr to nerves, of course, and full of fancies, but one put up with things in her one wouldn’t from anyone else. And she was so sweet to us all, wasn’t she, nurse? And so humble about herself – I mean she didn’t know anything about archaeology, and she was so eager to learn. Always asking my husband about the chemical processes for treating the metal objects and helping Miss Johnson to mend pottery. Oh, we were all devoted to her.’

‘Then it is not true, madame, what I have heard, that there was a certain tenseness – an uncomfortable atmosphere – here?’

Mrs Mercado opened her opaque black eyes very wide.

‘Oh! who can have been telling you that? Nurse? Dr Leidner? I’m sure he would never notice anything, poor man.’

And she shot a thoroughly unfriendly glance at me.

Poirot smiled easily.

‘I have my spies, madame,’ he declared gaily. And just for a minute I saw her eyelids quiver and blink.

‘Don’t you think,’ asked Mrs Mercado with an air of great sweetness, ‘that after an event of this kind, everyone always pretends a lot of things that never were? You know – tension, atmosphere, a “feeling that something was going to happen”? I think people just make up these things afterwards.’

‘There is a lot in what you say, madame,’ said Poirot.

‘And it really wasn’t true! We were a thoroughly happy family here.’

‘That woman is one of the most utter liars I’ve ever known,’ I said indignantly, when M. Poirot and I were clear of the house and walking along the path to the dig. ‘I’m sure she simply hated Mrs Leidner really!’

‘She is hardly the type to whom one would go for the truth,’ Poirot agreed.

‘Waste of time talking to her,’ I snapped.

‘Hardly that – hardly that. If a person tells you lies with her lips she is sometimes telling you truth with her eyes. What is she afraid of, little Madame Mercado? I saw fear in her eyes. Yes – decidedly she is afraid of something. It is very interesting.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you, M. Poirot,’ I said.

Then I told him all about my return the night before and my strong belief that Miss Johnson was the writer of the anonymous letters.

‘So she’s a liar too!’ I said. ‘The cool way she answered you this morning about these same letters!’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘It was interesting, that. For she let out the fact she knew all about those letters. So far they have not been spoken of in the presence of the staff. Of course, it is quite possible that Dr Leidner told her about them yesterday. They are old friends, he and she. But if he did not – well – then it is curious and interesting, is it not?’