II
There were six people now in the room with the Harlequin on the wall. A long time had passed.
The police had come and gone.
Andrew Restarick sat like a man stunned¹. Once or twice he said the same words. “I can’tbelieve it…” Telephoned for, he had come from his office, and Claudia Reece-Holland had comewith him. In her quiet way, she had been ceaselessly efficient. She had put through telephone callsto lawyers, had rung Crosshedges and two firms of estate agents to try and get in touch with MaryRestarick. She had given Frances Cary a sedative² and sent her to lie down.
Hercule Poirot and Mrs. Oliver sat side by side on a sofa. They had arrived together at the sametime as the police.
Last of all to arrive, when nearly everyone else had gone, had been a quiet man with grey hairand a gentle manner, Chief Inspector³ Neele of Scotland Yard, who had greeted Poirot with a slightnod, and been introduced to Andrew Restarick. A tall red-haired young man was standing⁴ by thewindow staring down into the courtyard.
What were they all waiting for? Mrs. Oliver wondered. The body had been removed, thephotographers and other police officers had done their work, they themselves, after being herdedinto Claudia’s bedroom, had been readmitted into the sitting room, where they had been waiting,she supposed, for the Scotland Yard man to arrive.
“If you want me to go,” Mrs. Oliver said to him uncertainly—“Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, aren’t you? No, if you have no objection, I’d rather you remained. I knowit hasn’t been pleasant—”
“It didn’t seem real.”
Mrs. Oliver shut her eyes—seeing the whole thing again. The Peacock Boy, so picturesquelydead that he had seemed like a stage figure. And the girl—the girl had been different—not theuncertain Norma from Crosshedges—the unattractive Ophelia, as Poirot had called her—but somequiet figure of tragic⁵ dignity—accepting her doom⁶.
Poirot had asked if he might make two telephone calls. One had been to Scotland Yard, and thathad been agreed to, after the

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