“She went off with her book.”
“And the young M. Reggie. He went to bed also?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Carlile he comes here and sometime between five and ten minutes later he heard a scream. Continue, M. Carlile. You heard a scream and you went out into the hall. Ah, perhaps it would be simplest if you reproduced exactly your actions.”
Mr. Carlile got up a little awkwardly.
“Here I scream,” said Poirot helpfully. He opened his mouth and emitted a shrill bleat. Lord Mayfield turned his head away to hide a smile and Mr. Carlile looked extremely uncomfortable.
“Allez! Forward! March!” cried Poirot. “It is your cue that I give you there.”
Mr. Carlile walked stiffly to the door, opened it and went out. Poirot followed him. The other two came behind.
“The door, did you close it after you or leave it open?”
“I can’t really remember. I think I must have left it open.”
“No matter. Proceed.”
Still with extreme stiffness, Mr. Carlile walked to the bottom of the staircase and stood there looking up.
Poirot said:
“The maid, you say, was on the stairs. Whereabouts?”
“About halfway up.”
“And she was looking upset.”
“Definitely so.”
“Eh bien, me, I am the maid.” Poirot ran nimbly up the stairs. “About here?”
“A step or two higher.”
“Like this?”
Poirot struck an attitude.
“Well—er—not quite like that.”
“How then?”
“Well, she had her hands to her head.”
“Ah, her hands to her head. That is very interesting. Like this?” Poirot raised his arms, his hands rested on his head just above each ear.
“Yes that’s it.”
“Aha! And tell me, M. Carlile, she was a pretty girl—yes?”
“Really, I didn’t notice.”
Carlile’s voice was repressive.
“Aha, you did not notice? But you are a young man. Does not a young man notice when a girl is pretty?”