Chapter One

I have previously related many accounts of the exciting cases I have had the good fortune to work on as the associate of the great Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot. However, I have never yet related the case at Bois-sur-le-Lac even though for me, it is one of the most memorable yet. I have decided that now is the time to preserve the details of this affair and the surrounding events which, to me, are the reasons why this case is so well engraved in my memory.

It was a crisp, spring morning in early March when I received the letter that started it all. Rather unusually, it was an acquaintance of mine that led to our involvement in the matter and not, as is usually the way with such things, one of many of Poirot's. We were breakfasting in Poirot's rooms in our usual manner; with him immaculately dressed and polished for the day ahead, and me attempting to revive myself over copious amounts of coffee. My friend had just finished his second egg and was perusing the post, passing the one letter not addressed to him down to my end of the table. I opened it, noticing vaguely the grimace that passed over my friend's face when I neglected to use the letter opener he insisted on keeping for that very purpose. The contents, however, were too interesting for me to feel too chastised.

"I say, Poirot, it's from my old friend Major Carter!" I exclaimed in surprise. Poirot, who was neatly dabbing at his moustaches with his napkin, looked up and responded simply,

"Eh bien?"

I took a moment to peruse the letter before replying. When I had satisfied myself of the contents, I paused to think. The letter contained an invitation that was, to me, very enticing, but I had my doubts that my Belgian friend would agree with me.

"He invites us to stay with him, the week after next. He is having a small group of guests to stay and would be honoured if we could join him." I deliberately left it at that, hoping Poirot would get excited and agree before I told him exactly what he was agreeing to.

"But that sounds delightful, my dear Hastings!" he expostulated. "A week away with friends, what could be more delightful! Where does he live, this Major Carter?" I tried to make my reply sound casual.

"He lives in Derbyshire, I think, but his invitation is not to stay with him there, but at his residence in France."

"Ah yes?" Poirot questioned. "In which part of France?" Still attempting to make my voice sound light and nonchalant, I braced myself for the explosion which I was sure would follow my response.

"In the Alps, actually. He has a chalet there and he.." I got no further. Poirot had thrown down his napkin in disgust and was now glowering down the table at me.

"The Alps?" he cried. "You want Hercule Poirot to go to the Alps in March, where there will be wind and ice and snow? Non non non non mon ami! You will never catch Hercule Poirot in such a place!" He rose, signalling the end of the conversation, and retreated to the kitchen. I sighed, folding the letter up and putting it down on the table. I could always go without him, I supposed, but somehow the idea didn't hold much appeal.

Later in the morning, when I had all but given up hope of talking Poirot round and resolved to go on my own, he lowered his newspaper with a sigh and regarded me across the room.

"So, you still want to go on this.. expedition?" he asked. I shifted uneasily.

"Well, yes, I do rather," I replied uncomfortably. "I mean, I haven't seen old Carter in a while and it sounds like it'll all be jolly good fun – he promises skiing and all sorts in his letter!" I saw Poirot stiffen slightly at the mention of skiing and regretted it the moment it came out of my mouth. Poirot detested any form of exercise save a gentle stroll round the park.

"And what is it like, this chalet of his?" he asked. My heart gave a leap. Surely he wasn't thinking of coming with me? That would be too much to hope for! I considered my answer carefully.

"Well, I'm not exactly sure," I replied. "But his wife is going to be there as well and she's a jolly good sort so I'd imagine there'll be all sorts of home comforts – fine wines, good foods and all that. Plus she doesn't like the cold much so there'll probably be roaring fires all round the clock!" He scrutinised me for a moment longer.

"Eh bien, I will come with you," he said finally. I leapt up.

"Will you really, Poirot?" I cried. "That would be wonderful! I couldn't quite bear the thought of going without you!" My friend smiled at me from where he still sat at his desk, and there was a hint of something I couldn't quite put my finger on behind the smile.

"For you, mon ami, I will endure it."