Fifteen
At Hercule Poirot’s elbow was a tisane prepared for him by George. He sipped¹ at it and thought.
He thought in a certain way peculiar² to himself. It was the technique of a man who selectedthoughts as one might select pieces of a jigsaw³ puzzle. In due course they would be reassembledtogether so as to make a clear and coherent picture. At the moment the important thing was theselection, the separation. He sipped his tisane, put down the cup, rested his hands on the arms ofhis chair and let various pieces of his puzzle come one by one into his mind. Once he recognisedthem all, he would select. Pieces of sky, pieces of green bank, perhaps striped pieces like those ofa tiger….
The painfulness of his own feet in patent leather shoes. He started there. Walking along a roadset on this path by his good friend, Mrs. Oliver. A stepmother. He saw himself with his hand on agate⁴. A woman who turned, a woman bending her head cutting out the weak growth of a rose,turning and looking at him? What was there for him there? Nothing. A golden head, a golden headbright as a cornfield, with twists and loops of hair slightly reminiscent of Mrs. Oliver’s own inshape. He smiled a little. But Mary Restarick’s hair was more tidily arranged than Mrs. Oliver’sever was. A golden frame for her face that seemed just a little too large for her. He rememberedthat old Sir Roderick had said that she had to wear a wig⁵, because of an illness. Sad for so young awoman. There was, when he came to think of it, something unusually heavy about her head. Fartoo static, too perfectly⁶ arranged. He considered Mary Restarick’s wig—if it was a wig—for hewas by no means sure that he could depend on Sir Roderick. He examined the possibilities of thewig in case they should be of significance. He reviewed the conversation they had had. Had theysaid anything important? He thought not. He remembered the room into which they had gone. Acharacterless room recently inhabited in someone else’s house. Two pictures on the wall, thepicture of a woman in a dove-grey dress. Thin mouth, lips set closely together. Hair that wasgreyish brown. The first Mrs. Restarick. She looked as though she might have been older than herhusband. His picture was on the opposite wall, facing her. Good portraits, both of them.

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