VAfter he had got rid of the girl, Poirot rang up Scotland Yard. Japp had not yet returned butDetective Sergeant¹ Beddoes was obliging and informative².

The police had not as yet found any evidence to prove Frank Carter’s possession of the pistolbefore the assault at Exsham.

Poirot hung up the receiver thoughtfully. It was a point in Carter’s favour. But so far it was theonly one.

He had also learned from Beddoes a few more details as to the statement Frank Carter had madeabout his employment as gardener at Exsham. He stuck to his story of a Secret Service job. He hadbeen given money in advance and some testimonials as to his gardening abilities and been told toapply to Mr. MacAlister, the head gardener, for the post.

His instructions were to listen to the other gardeners’ conversations and sound them as to their“red” tendencies, and to pretend to be a bit of a “red” himself. He had been interviewed andinstructed in his task by a woman who had told him that she was known as Q.H.56, and that hehad been recommended to her as a strong anti-communist. She had interviewed him in a dim lightand he did not think he would know her again. She was a red-haired lady with a lot of makeup³ on.

Poirot groaned⁴. The Phillips Oppenheim touch seemed to be reappearing.

He was tempted⁵ to consult Mr. Barnes on the subject.

According to Mr. Barnes these things happened.

The last post brought him something which disturbed him more still.

A cheap envelope in an unformed handwriting, postmarked Hertfordshire.

Poirot opened it and read:

Dear Sir,—

Hoping as you will forgive me for troubling you, but I am very worried and donot know what to do. I do not want to be mixed up with the police in any way. Iknow that perhaps I ought to have told something I know before, but as they saidthe master had shot himself it was all right I thought and I wouldn’t have liked toget Miss Nevill’s young man into trouble and never thought really for onemoment as he had done it but now I see he has been took up for shooting at agentleman in the country and so perhaps he isn’t quite all there and I ought to saybut I thought I would write to you, you being a friend of the mistress and askingme so particular the other day if there was anything and of course I wish now Ihad told you then. But I do hope it won’t mean getting mixed up with the policebecause I shouldn’t like that and my mother wouldn’t like it either. She hasalways been most particular.

Yours respectfully

Agnes Fletcher.

Poirot murmured:

“I always knew it was something to do with some man. I guessed the wrong man, that is all.”

 

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