“And what time was that?”
“It must have been about nine o’clock.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was opening her letters.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Nothing of any particular interest. Just good morning—and that it was a nice day—that sort of thing.”
“What was her manner? Unusual at all?”
“No, perfectly normal.”
“She did not seem excited, or depressed, or upset in any way?”
“I certainly didn’t notice it.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Did she mention at all what were the contents of her letters?”
Again a faint smile appeared on Marshall’s lips. He said:
“As far as I can remember, she said they were all bills.”
“Your wife breakfasted in bed?”
“Yes.”
“Did she always do that?”
“Invariably.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“What time did she usually come downstairs?”
“Oh! between ten and eleven—usually nearer eleven.”
Poirot went on:
“If she was to descend at ten o’clock exactly, that would be rather surprising?”
“Yes. She wasn’t often down as early as that.”
“But she was this morning. Why do you think that was, Captain Marshall?”
Marshall said unemotionally:
“Haven’t the least idea. Might have been the weather—extra fine day and all that.”
“You missed her?”
Kenneth Marshall shifted a little in his chair. He said:
“Looked in on her again after breakfast. Room was empty. I was a bit surprised.”