But I just caught a glimpse of her expression and knew that, for one short moment, Anne Johnson was a perfectly happy woman.

And another idea flashed across my mind. Perhaps soon, in the natural course of things, turning to his old friend for sympathy, a new and happy state of things might come about.

Not that I’m really a matchmaker, and of course it was indecent to think of such a thing before the funeral even. But after all, it would be a happy solution. He was very fond of her, and there was no doubt she was absolutely devoted to him and would be perfectly happy devoting the rest of her life to him. That is, if she could bear to hear Louise’s perfections sung all the time. But women can put up with a lot when they’ve got what they want.

Dr Leidner then greeted Poirot, asking him if he had made any progress.

Miss Johnson was standing behind Dr Leidner and she looked hard at the box in Poirot’s hand and shook her head, and I realized that she was pleading with Poirot not to tell him about the mask. She felt, I was sure, that he had enough to bear for one day.

Poirot fell in with her wish.

‘These things march slowly, monsieur,’ he said.

Then, after a few desultory words, he took his leave.

I accompanied him out to his car.

There were half a dozen things I wanted to ask him, but somehow, when he turned and looked at me, I didn’t ask anything after all. I’d as soon have asked a surgeon if he thought he’d made a good job of an operation. I just stood meekly waiting for instructions.

Rather to my surprise he said: ‘Take care of yourself, my child.’

And then he added: ‘I wonder if it is well for you to remain here?’

‘I must speak to Dr Leidner about leaving,’ I said. ‘But I thought I’d wait until after the funeral.’

He nodded in approval.

‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘do not try to find out too much. You understand, I do not want you to be clever!’ And he added with a smile, ‘It is for you to hold the swabs and for me to do the operation.’

Wasn’t it funny, his actually saying that?

Then he said quite irrelevantly: ‘An interesting man, that Father Lavigny.’

‘A monk being an archaeologist seems odd to me,’ I said.

‘Ah, yes, you are a Protestant. Me, I am a good Catholic. I know something of priests and monks.’

He frowned, seemed to hesitate, then said: ‘Remember, he is quite clever enough to turn you inside out if he likes.’

If he was warning me against gossiping I felt that I didn’t need any warning!

It annoyed me, and though I didn’t like to ask him any of the things I really wanted to know, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t at any rate say one thing.

‘You’ll excuse me, M. Poirot,’ I said. ‘But it’s “stubbed your toe”, not stepped or stebbed.’

‘Ah! Thank you, ma soeur.’

‘Don’t mention it. But it’s just as well to get a phrase right.’

‘I will remember,’ he said – quite meekly for him.

And he got in the car and was driven away, and I went slowly back across the courtyard wondering about a lot of things.

About the hypodermic marks on Mr Mercado’s arm, and what drug it was he took. And about that horrid yellow smeared mask. And how odd it was that Poirot and Miss Johnson hadn’t heard my cry in the living-room that morning, whereas we had all heard Poirot perfectly well in the dining-room at lunch-time – and yet Father Lavigny’s room and Mrs Leidner’s were just the same distance from the living-room and the dining-room respectively.

And then I felt rather pleased that I’d taught Doctor Poirot one English phrase correctly!

Even if he was a great detective he’d realize he didn’t know everything!

Chapter 23. I Go Psychic

The funeral was, I thought, a very affecting affair. As well as ourselves, all the English people in Hassanieh attended it. Even Sheila Reilly was there, looking quiet and subdued in a dark coat and skirt. I hoped that she was feeling a little remorseful for all the unkind things she had said.

When we got back to the house I followed Dr Leidner into the office and broached the subject of my departure. He was very nice about it, thanked me for what I had done (Done! I had been worse than useless) and insisted on my accepting an extra week’s salary.

I protested because really I felt I’d done nothing to earn it.

‘Indeed, Dr Leidner, I’d rather not have any salary at all. If you’ll just refund me my travelling expenses, that’s all I want.’

But he wouldn’t hear of that.

‘You see,’ I said, ‘I don’t feel I deserve it, Dr Leidner. I mean, I’ve – well, I’ve failed. She – my coming didn’t save her.’

‘Now don’t get that idea into your head, nurse,’ he said earnestly. ‘After all, I didn’t engage you as a female detective. I never dreamt my wife’s life was in danger. I was convinced it was all nerves and that she’d worked herself up into a rather curious mental state. You did all anyone could do. She liked and trusted you. And I think in her last days she felt happier and safer because of your being here. There’s nothing for you to reproach yourself with.’

His voice quivered a little and I knew what he was thinking. He was the one to blame for not having taken Mrs Leidner’s fears seriously.

‘Dr Leidner,’ I said curiously. ‘Have you ever come to any conclusion about those anonymous letters?’

He said with a sigh: ‘I don’t know what to believe. Has M. Poirot come to any definite conclusion?’

‘He hadn’t yesterday,’ I said, steering rather neatly, I thought, between truth and fiction. After all, he hadn’t until I told him about Miss Johnson.

It was on my mind that I’d like to give Dr Leidner a hint and see if he reacted. In the pleasure of seeing him and Miss Johnson together the day before, and his affection and reliance on her, I’d forgotten all about the letters. Even now I felt it was perhaps rather mean of me to bring it up. Even if she had written them, she had had a bad time after Mrs Leidner’s death. Yet I did want to see whether that particular possibility had ever entered Dr Leidner’s head.

‘Anonymous letters are usually the work of a woman,’ I said. I wanted to see how he’d take it.

‘I suppose they are,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But you seem to forget, nurse, that these may be genuine. They may actually be written by Frederick Bosner.’

‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ I said. ‘But I can’t believe somehow that that’s the real explanation.’

‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s all nonsense, his being one of the expedition staff. That is just an ingenious theory of M. Poirot’s. I believe that the truth is much simpler. The man is a madman, of course. He’s been hanging round the place – perhaps in disguise of some kind. And somehow or other he got in on that fatal afternoon. The servants may be lying – they may have been bribed.’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ I said doubtfully.

Dr Leidner went on with a trace of irritability.

‘It is all very well for M. Poirot to suspect the members of my expedition. I am perfectly certain none of them have anything to do with it! I have worked with them. I know them!’

He stopped suddenly, then he said: ‘Is that your experience, nurse? That anonymous letters are usually written by women?’

‘It isn’t always the case,’ I said. ‘But there’s a certain type of feminine spitefulness that finds relief that way.’

‘I suppose you are thinking of Mrs Mercado?’ he said.

Then he shook his head.

‘Even if she were malicious enough to wish to hurt Louise she would hardly have the necessary knowledge,’ he said.

I remembered the earlier letters in the attache-case.

If Mrs Leidner had left that unlocked and Mrs Mercado had been alone in the house one day pottering about, she might easily have found them and read them. Men never seem to think of the simplest possibilities!