“Yes. Everyone always hustled when they heard that gong. Sir Gervase was a terrible stickler for punctuality in the evening.”
“What time did he himself usually come down?”
“He was nearly always in the room before the first gong went.”
“Did it surprise you that he was not down on this occasion?”
“Very much.”
“Ah, I have it!” cried Poirot.
As the other two looked inquiringly at him he went on:
“I have remembered what I wanted to ask. This evening, mademoiselle, as we all went along to the study on Snell’s reporting it to be locked, you stooped and picked something up.”
“I did?” Miss Lingard seemed very surprised.
“Yes, just as we turned into the straight passage to the study. Something small and bright.”
“How extraordinary—I don’t remember. Wait a minute—yes, I do. Only I wasn’t thinking. Let me see—it must be in here.”
Opening her black satin bag, she poured the contents on a table.
Poirot and Major Riddle surveyed the collection with interest. There were two handkerchiefs, a powder compact, a small bunch of keys, a spectacle case and one other object on which Poirot pounced eagerly.
“A bullet, by jove!” said Major Riddle.
The thing was indeed shaped like a bullet, but it proved to be a small pencil.
“That’s what I picked up,” said Miss Lingard. “I’d forgotten all about it.”
“Do you know who this belongs to, Miss Lingard?”
“Oh, yes, it’s Colonel Bury’s. He had it made out of a bullet that hit him—or rather, didn’t hit him, if you know what I mean—in the South African War.”
“Do you know when he had it last?”
“Well, he had it this afternoon when they were playing bridge, because I noticed him writing with it on the score when I came in to tea.”
“Who was playing bridge?”
“Colonel Bury, Lady Chevenix-Gore, Mr. Trent and Miss Cardwell.”
“I think,” said Poirot gently, “we will keep this and return it to the colonel ourselves.”
“Oh, please do. I am so forgetful, I might not remember
to so.”
“Perhaps, mademoiselle, you would be so good as to ask Colonel Bury to come here now?”
“Certainly. I will go and find him at once.”
She hurried away. Poirot got up and began walking aimlessly round the room.
“We begin,” he said, “to reconstruct the afternoon. It is interesting. At half past two Sir Gervase goes over accounts with Captain Lake. He is slightly preoccupied. At three, he discusses the book he is writing with Miss Lingard. He is in great distress of mind. Miss Lingard associates that distress of mind with Hugo Trent on the strength of a chance remark. At teatime his behaviour is normal. After tea, Godfrey Burrows tells us he was in good spirits over something. At five minutes to eight he comes downstairs, goes to his study, scrawls ‘Sorry’ on a sheet of paper, and shoots himself!”
Riddle said slowly: