I was dreaming.

I don't know if one can really call it that.

I was having a nightmare.

There, that's better.

I was having a nightmare.

As a child I always slept soundly; I could sleep through anything. My mother always said it was a sign of my sweet and honest nature. Perhaps she was right; I certainly don't remember any nightmares.

I had my first nightmare on the 24th of December 1914. They said the war would be over by Christmas and there was I on Christmas Eve having a nightmare in the middle of a trench. I was living the nightmare then.

I was injured and the nightmares kept on; I went to Styles and the nightmares kept on; I returned to duty and the nightmares kept on; the war ended and I was discharged and the nightmares kept on.

The nightmares haven't stopped. Every night since that first night I have dreamt such dreams as only a soldier can.

I threw the covers back and sat up then tossed on a dressing-gown and padded through to the kitchen for a glass of water. As I reached the kitchen I found Poirot waiting. He offered me a cool glass.

"Thank you," I said with a faint smile.

"You are most welcome, Hastings. I only wish that you did not have to go through such things."

I shrugged my shoulders. "A war wound I suppose. I only wish that you didn't have to go through this. I am sorry at waking you."

He put his hand on my arm. "Do not worry, mon ami. If I can help, I will do so gladly." He smiled up at me. "And now, Hastings, you shall return to bed. Sleep is good for the little grey cells."

'The little grey cells' were one of his favourite topics. "I'm sure you're right."

"Of course I am," he said matter-of-factly.

We walked back into the hall. "Sleep well, Poirot," I said, heading for my room.

"And you, my friend."

We both went to our rooms.

I sat on the edge of the bed and drank my water.

I hate to wake Poirot, but he tells me he is a very light sleeper. When I wake he is always there. I don't think either of us has slept the night through since we moved in together.

Perhaps some time away might be good for us.

Yes, that will do nicely.

I laid back down and slept through until dawn.


My plans for a holiday were going to have to be put on hold. We had a case.

"A most interesting case, this one, Hastings."

"Oh, really?" I said, sitting down across from Poirot at his writing table.

"Indeed. We have a letter from a young woman whose uncle has died."

I looked across expectantly.

He didn't disappoint. "The police think it was suicide, but the young woman believes otherwise and so she has sent for us."

"What are the details?"

"The uncle, James Burnet, was found alone in his study. The door was locked and the key was on the inside. M. Burnet was killed by a single gunshot to the head. The gun was found lying near his hand."

"It certainly sounds like suicide."

Poirot nodded. "At first glance, yes, but Mlle Burnet does not agree. She has asked that we join her in Northumbria as soon as is convenient."

"And shall we?"

"It is an interesting case."

"One worthy of the great Hercule Poirot?" I asked, laughing.

He smiled. "Perhaps, mon ami, perhaps."


We arrived in Northumbria that afternoon and proceeded directly to the village of Ailsworth. After checking-in to a local hotel, we asked directions to the house of Miss Burnet.

The door was opened by a young woman of twenty or so. She was a sweet looking girl with an air of distraction about her.

"Yes?"

"Mlle Burnet?"

"I'm Jane Burnet, yes."

Poirot smiled disarmingly. "My name is Hercule Poirot," he said, "And this is my associate Captain Hastings."

"Of course, I'd almost forgotten. Do come in."

Miss Burnet ushered us through into the front sitting room. "Please, take a seat."

We both sat and, as she sat, Poirot began his questioning.

"Mademoiselle, I have read your account of your uncle's death and I have read the newspaper accounts." He shrugged apologetically. "Eh bien, if I am to be honest, I do not see that this death is anything more than suicide."

"But it can't be. It simply can't be."

"Why not?" I asked, taking on my assigned role.

She turned towards me, eyes imploring. "Because Uncle would never do such a thing. He went up to his room in high spirits and then less than ten minutes later I heard the gunshot."

"Pardon, he received no mail or a telephone call during that time?"

"No, nothing. In fact it was a telephone call that had put him in such high spirits."

"Do you know who this telephone call was from?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Uncle never discussed business with me."

"What kind of business was he in?" I asked.

She smiled. "I really don't know, Captain Hastings. We never discussed such things."

I nodded at her. "How did you come to live here?"

"My mother died shortly after I was born. My father died when I was eight. I came to live with my uncle then. He was my mother's brother and the only member of my family still alive." She smiled sadly. "It's just me now."

Poirot leant forward and took Miss Burnet's hand. "Mademoiselle, I promise to you that we will do all that we can to discover the truth of what happened to your uncle."

"Thank you, M. Poirot."

"And now, if we might see the site of the tragedy . . ."

"Of course." Miss Burnet stood and walked out into the hall. We followed. "It's up the stairs," she said.

We walked up to the first floor.

Miss Burnet opened a door and revealed yet another flight of stairs. "You'll forgive me, I'm sure, but I'd much rather not go up there."

"Of course," I said with what I hoped was a reassuring smile. I stepped forward and looked up the stairs then back at Poirot.

"Courage, mon brave," he said, eyes twinkling.

I began to climb.


The room was small and cramped. Not the room I would have chosen as a study. There was a desk and chair, a filing cabinet and not much else.

"There is something about this room?" asked Poirot.

I shook my head. "I don't know. It just seems wrong. There seems to be plenty of room downstairs. Why come up here?"

"Why, indeed. That, I think, may be our first clue."

"If you say so, Poirot."

He smiled briefly before crossing to the desk. He sat down facing me. "According to the reports, he was shot in the left side of his head, towards the back and at close range."

"Then he let the murderer in?"

Poirot threw up his hands. "If it was murder, then yes it would seem so, but perhaps it was suicide."

"Why would he commit suicide? His niece said he was in high spirits."

"Many suicides seem to have improved before they commit that final act. They have decided on a way out."

"But if you thought it were suicide, you wouldn't be here."

"Eh bien, there is something here. I have always believed in this so called 'feminine intuition'. It may be the Mlle Burnet has seen or heard something that seemed of no importance at the time, but that something has lead her to believe that her uncle was murdered."

"Yes, but what was it?"

He shrugged expansively. "That, I do not know. Not yet anyway." He looked down at the desk. "There must be something here that will tell us what we want to know."

As he rifled through the contents of the desk, I looked around the room again. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. The room was too small, not just for use as an office, but also for the size of the building.

I went back downstairs and found Miss Burnet waiting on the landing.

"Have you found something?"

"Not yet," I said apologetically. "I wanted to ask if there's any other way up to your uncle's study."

"I . . . I don't know." She thought for a moment. "The ladder!"

"The ladder?"

"I don't remember exactly when, but uncle had a ladder put in – as a way out in case there was a fire. It goes from the back of the house to the sky light."

Sky light? I hadn't noticed any sky light. "Would you show me where this ladder is?"

"Of course."

We went down the stairs and Miss Burnet showed me around to the back of the house.

"Why did your uncle feel the need for a fire escape?"

She smiled. "He was always afraid of fire. I think he'd been in a fire when he was small. He said that having it their made him feel safer."

We had reached the bottom of the ladder.

I looked up at the house. It was a fair climb. It would need someone fit to get up there. I set my foot to the first rung.

"You're going up there?"

"Yes."

"Then . . . then you think that might be how someone got in?"

"There's only one way to find out," I said as I started to climb.

"Do be careful, Captain Hastings."

"Don't worry," I said with a smile. I fixed my eyes on the top of the ladder and set off in earnest. I flatter myself that I'm quite fit, but it was a difficult climb. I didn't think it would be much use as a fire escape.

I continued ever upwards. On finally reaching the top it occurred to me that I might not be able to gain access. I didn't understand why, but the skylight wasn't in the study so Poirot couldn't let me in. I looked through the window, but before I could take note of anything, the window itself caught my attention. There was a handle on the outside.

I turned it gingerly and to my surprise the window opened without protest.

I climbed in and closed the window behind me.

The room I now stood in was a bedroom of sorts. There was a large double bed and a single wardrobe and very little else.

Though it hadn't been apparent on the other side, there was indeed a connecting door between this room and the study.

I crossed the door and opened it, finding myself behind and to the left of the desk. Poirot was nowhere to be seen.

I walked across to the stairs, spotting Poirot only a few steps from the top.

"I think I know how the murderer got in," I called down.

"Hastings?" Poirot turned around, his surprise evident.

I smiled. "I came in through the roof."

"The roof?" He rushed back up the stairs. His eyes fell immediately on the open door. "Hastings, go back inside."

I did as I was told.

Poirot shut the door behind me. Not long after it opened again.

"It is clever this. The handle it is hidden. If I did not know that there was another room, I would hardly believe it. Now, let us see what M. Burnet was keeping secret."

He walked past me into the room. As he crossed the threshold, he paused slightly and I almost imagined that I heard him whisper 'dieu'. He seemed back to his usual self almost immediately, though, and I thought nothing more of it.

"You got in through this window?"

"Yes. It was simple really – there's a handle on the outside."

Poirot turned towards me. "But how did you get onto the roof?"

"There's a ladder."

"A ladder?"

"Mmm. Miss Burnet said her uncle had it put in as a fire escape, though I don't think it would be much use as such. I imagine anyone trying to get out in a fire would choose the stairs, but Miss Burnet said her uncle was always worried about fires."

"A strange concern," said Poirot, crossing to the wardrobe.

"She said Burnet was in a fire as a child."

Poirot opened the wardrobe and took a look inside. I moved to look over his shoulder.

"Strange set of clothes," I said, rifling through the various shirts and trousers. "They're all different sizes, too. Must be for dressing up, something of that sort."

Poirot had gone back to the study. "Yes, it must be," he said, though I don't think he had really heard what I had said. "Come, Hastings, there are some questions I wish to ask Mlle Burnet."

"All right. We can ask her why this door is hidden."

He touched his hand to my arm. "No, Hastings. I think it would be best if we did not mention anything about this room to Mlle Burnet."

I frowned. "But, Poirot, why on Earth not?"

"I cannot explain everything," he snapped. "You must use your own little grey cells sometimes, Hastings."

I felt that that was uncalled for, but followed silently as Poirot went down to talk to Miss Burnet.

The first question, however, was one directed at me. "You made it into my uncle's study then?"

Before I could answer, Poirot spoke for me. "He did. Now, Mlle Burnet, you will permit that I ask you a question?"

She smiled. "Of course, M. Poirot."

Poirot beamed back at her. "Did your uncle know anyone with the initials DM?"

"DM? I'm not sure." She paused, considering the question. "There's David McLennan. He did some work for my uncle."

"Bon. And with the initials GK?"

"George Keith, another of my uncle's business connections."

"Do you know where I might find these men?"

"I don't, no. It would be in uncle's address book."

Poirot turned to me. "Would you go and get it for me, Hastings?"

"Of course," I said, my annoyance forgotten with the thrill of the hunt.


"Where to now?" I asked after we had left Miss Burnet's house.

Poirot looked at that great turnip watch of his and almost reflexively I looked at my own. Half past five.

"I think, mon ami, that we will go back to our lodgings and I will build a house of cards to help me think." He smiled beatifically. It really was impossible to stay mad at him.

"You don't want to question David McLennan or George Keith."

"Not tonight, Hastings. Tomorrow."

"If you say so," I said.

He smiled again. "Ah, mon cher Hastings, you are always so, how do you say, gung-ho?"

I laughed. "I suppose I am."

"But sometimes one must hold back, Hastings, and wait for things to fall into place. One cannot go off 'half-cock'."

We started back to the hotel. About half way there, I got up the courage to ask the question that was nagging at me.

"Look here, Poirot, why wouldn't you let me ask Miss Burnet about the other room?"

He looked at me for a long moment, and I thought that he was going to snap again. Instead, he said quietly, "If she does not already know, that we should not tell her."

I frowned and was about to ask him to explain when I realised he had walked on ahead. I would get nothing from him in this mood.