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some woman, leaving his wife and a daughter of five years old. Went to South Africa, Kenya, and various other places. No divorce. His wife died two years ago. Had been an invalid for some time. He travelled about a lot, and wherever he went he seems to have made money. Concessions for minerals mostly. Everything he touched prospered.
    “After his brother's death, he seems to have decided it was time to settle down. He'd married again and he thought the right thing to do was to come back and make a home for his daughter. They're living at the moment with his uncle Sir Roderick Horsefield - uncle by marriage that is. That's only temporary. His wife's looking at houses all over London. Expense no object. They're rolling in money.”
    Poirot sighed.
    “I know,” he said. "What you outline to me is a success story! Everyone makes money! Everybody is of good family and highly respected. Their relations are distinguished. They are well thought of in business circles.
    “There is only one cloud in the sky. A girl who is said to be 'a bit wanting', a girl who is mixed up with a dubious boyfriend who has been on probation more than once. A girl who may quite possibly have tried to poison her stepmother, and who either suffers from hallucinations, or else has committed a crime! I tell you, none of that accords well with the success story you have brought me.”
    Mr Goby shook his head sadly and said rather obscurely: “There's one in every family.”
    “This Mrs Restarick is quite a young woman. I presume she is not the woman he originally ran away with?”
    “Oh no, that bust up quite soon. She was a pretty bad lot by all accounts, and a tartar as well. He was a fool ever to be taken in by her.” Mr Goby shut his notebook and looked enquiringly at Poirot. “Anything more you want me to do?”
    “Yes. I want to know a little more about the late Mrs Andrew Restarick. She was an invalid, frequently in nursing homes. What kind of nursing homes? Mental homes?”
    “I take your point, Mr Poirot.”
    “And any history of insanity in the family - on either side?”
    “I'll see to it, Mr Poirot.”
    Mr Goby rose to his feet. “Then I'll take leave of you, sir. Goodnight.”
    Poirot remained thoughtful after Mr Goby had left. He raised and lowered his eyebrows. He wondered, he wondered very much.
    Then he rang Mrs Oliver:
    “I told you before,” he said, “to be careful. I repeat that - Be very careful.”
    “Careful of what?” said Mrs Oliver.
    “Of yourself. I think there might be danger. Danger to anyone who goes poking about where they are not wanted. There is murder in the air - I do not want it to be yours.”
    “Have you had the information you said you might have?”
    “Yes,” said Poirot, “I have had a little information. Mostly rumour and gossip, but it seems something happened at Borodene Mansions.”
    “What sort of thing?”
    “Blood in the courtyard,” said Poirot.
    “Really!” said Mrs Oliver. “That's just like the title of an old-fashioned detective story. The Stain on the Staircase. I mean nowadays you say something more like 'She asked for Death'.”
    “Perhaps there may not have been blood in the courtyard. Perhaps it is only what an imaginative Irish porter imagined.”
    “Probably an upset milk bottle,” said Mrs Oliver. “He couldn't see it at night. What happened?”
    Poirot did not answer directly.
    “The girl thought she 'might have committed a murder'. Was that the murder she meant?”
    “You mean she did shoot someone?”
    “One might presume that she did shoot at someone, but for all intents and purposes missed them. A few drops of blood... That was all. No body.”
    “Oh dear,” said Mrs Oliver, “it's all very confused. Surely if anyone could still run out of a courtyard, you wouldn't think you'd killed him, would you?”
    “C'est difficile,” said Poirot, and rang off.

Third Girl
    II
    “I'm worried,” said Claudia Reece-Holland.
    She refilled her cup from the coffee