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A week ago, Poirot had guessed wrongly the identity of a visitor. This time his guess was right.
He recognized her voice at once.
“M. Hercule Poirot?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Jane Olivera—Mr. Alistair Blunt’s niece.”
“Yes, Miss Olivera.”
“Could you come to the Gothic House, please? There is something I feel you ought to know.”
“Certainly. What time would be convenient?”
“At six thirty, please.”
“I will be there.”
For a moment the autocratic note wavered:
“I—I hope I am not interrupting your work?”
“Not at all. I was expecting you to call me.”
He put down the receiver quickly. He moved away from it smiling. He wondered what excuse Jane Olivera had found for summoning him.
On arrival at the Gothic House he was shown straight into the big library overlooking the river. Alistair Blunt was sitting at the writing table playing absentmindedly with a paper knife. He had the slightly harassed look of a man whose womenfolk have been too much for him.
Jane Olivera was standing by the mantelpiece. A plump middle-aged woman was speaking fretfully as Poirot entered—“and I really think my feelings should be considered in the matter, Alistair.”
“Yes, Julia, of course, of course.”
Alistair Blunt spoke soothingly as he rose to greet Poirot.
“And if you’re going to talk horrors I shall leave the room,” added the good lady.
“I should, mother,” said Jane Olivera.
Mrs. Olivera swept from the room without condescending to take any notice of Poirot.
Alistair Blunt said:
“It’s very good of you to come, M. Poirot. You’ve met Miss Olivera, I think? It was she who sent for you—”
Jane said abruptly:
“It’s about this missing woman that the papers are full of. Miss Something Seale.”
“Sainsbury Seale? Yes?”
Jane turned once more to Poirot.
“It’s such a pompous name, that’s why I remember. Shall I tell him, or will you, Uncle Alistair?”
“My dear, it’s your story.”
Jane turned once more to Poirot.
