‘Have you got a list of just who exactly was in the house?’
‘Yes, sir. I got it from the butler.’ He took out his note-book. ‘Shall I read it to you?’
‘Please, Sugden.’
‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee. Mr George Lee, M.P., and his wife, Mr Henry Lee, Mr and Mrs David Lee. Miss’—the superintendent paused a little, taking the words carefully—‘Pilar’—he pronounced it like a piece of architecture—‘Estravados. Mr Stephen Farr. Then for the servants: Edward Tressilian, butler. Walter Champion, footman. Emily Reeves, cook. Queenie Jones, kitchenmaid. Gladys Spent, head housemaid. Grace Best, second housemaid. Beatrice Moscombe, third housemaid. Joan Kench, betweenmaid. Sydney Horbury, valet attendant.’
‘That’s the lot, eh?’
‘That’s the lot, sir.’
‘Any idea where everybody was at the time of the murder?’
‘Only roughly. As I told you, I haven’t questioned anybody yet. According to Tressilian, the gentlemen were in the dining-room still. The ladies had gone to the drawing-room. Tressilian had served coffee. According to his statement, he had just got back to his pantry when he heard a noise upstairs. It was followed by a scream. He ran out into the hall and upstairs in the wake of the others.’
Colonel Johnson said:
‘How many of the family live in the house, and who are just staying here?’
‘Mr and Mrs Alfred Lee live here. The others are just visiting.’
Johnson nodded.
‘Where are they all?’
‘I asked them to stay in the drawing-room until I was ready to take their statements.’
‘I see. Well, we’d better go upstairs and take a look at the doings.’
The superintendent led the way up the broad stairs and along the passage.
As he entered the room where the crime had taken place, Johnson drew a deep breath.
‘Pretty horrible,’ he commented.
He stood for a minute studying the overturned chairs, the smashed china, and the blood-bespattered débris.
A thin elderly man stood up from where he had been kneeling by the body and gave a nod.
‘Evening, Johnson,’ he said. ‘Bit of a shambles, eh?’
‘I should say it was. Got anything for us, doctor?’
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. He grinned.
‘I’ll let you have the scientific language at the inquest! Nothing complicated about it. Throat cut like a pig. He bled to death in less than a minute. No sign of the weapon.’
Poirot went across the room to the windows. As the superintendent had said, one was shut and bolted. The other was open about four inches at the bottom. A thick patent screw of the kind known many years ago as an anti-burglar screw secured it in that position.
Sugden said: ‘According to the butler, that window was never shut wet or fine. There’s a linoleum mat underneath it in case rain beat in, but it didn’t much, as the overhanging roof protects it.’
Poirot nodded.
He came back to the body and stared down at the old man.
The lips were drawn back from the bloodless gums in something that looked like a snarl. The fingers were curved like claws.
Poirot said: