“That’s the window of the pantry where Elinor Carlisle was cutting the sandwiches.”
Poirot murmured:
“And from here, anyone could see her cutting them. The window was open, if I remember rightly?”
Peter Lord said:
“It was wide open. It was a hot day, remember.”
Hercule Poirot said musingly:
“Then if anyone wished to watch unseen what was going on, somewhere about here would be a good spot.”
The two men cast about. Peter Lord said:
“There’s a place here—behind these bushes. Some stuff’s been trampled down here. It’s grown up again now, but you can see plainly enough.”
Poirot joined him. He said thoughtfully:
“Yes, this is a good place. It is concealed from the path, and that opening in the shrubs gives one a good view of the window. Now, what did he do, our friend who stood here? Did he perhaps smoke?”
They bent down, examining the ground and pushing aside the leaves and branches.
Suddenly Hercule Poirot uttered a grunt.
Peter Lord straightened up from his own search.
“What is it?”
“A matchbox, my friend. An empty matchbox, trodden heavily into the ground, sodden and decayed.”
With care and delicacy he salved the object. He displayed it at last on a sheet of notepaper taken from his pocket.
Peter Lord said:
“It’s foreign. My god! German matches!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“And Mary Gerrard had recently come from Germany!”
Peter Lord said exultantly:
“We’ve got something now! You can’t deny it.”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“Perhaps….”
“But, damn it all, man. Who on earth round here would have had foreign matches?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I know—I know.”
His eyes, perplexed eyes, went to the gap in the bushes and the view of the window.
He said: