Death in the Diplomatic Service

Chapter 9 – Diplomatic Relations

Although I did not realise it at the time, our discovery of one of the late Lady Bentley's diaries seemed to mark a turning point in various ways. I saw this reflected in Poirot's sharp eyes every time he held the sorry-looking object in his hands. He appeared to be deeply curious of its contents though I myself thought it highly improper of us to look through not only a person's but also a lady's private diaries.

'I hardly feel comfortable with all this, Poirot,' I said as I watched him peruse the diary for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. We were sitting in his comfortable rooms in Brussels as he had thought it unwise to let anyone at the villa know that we were now in possession of it. I myself was quite pleased at receiving his invitation though I admit that I thought such a precaution was unnecessary. However, I accepted it uncomplainingly.

Poirot did not answer immediately but later said without glancing up, 'What is it that you say, Hastings?'

'I said that I hardly feel comfortable about all this,' I said with emphasis and I had the lurking suspicion that he was deliberately trying to be difficult with me.

'Hardly feel comfortable with what, mon ami?'

'You know what I'm referring to,' I said severely. 'Reading Lady Bentley's diaries, of course.'

'What is there to be uncomfortable about? I see no reason for being so. Besides, I have no doubt that Lady Bentley herself would not mind seeing that, if you will pardon my saying so, she is no longer with us.'

'Poirot!' I cried, scandalised.

'Calmez-vous, mon ami.' It was at this moment that he looked up at me. 'And also you can comfort yourself that it is I and not you who are currently reading it.'

'That isn't the point,' I persisted but seeing my complaints were falling on deaf ears and that his attention was wholly fixed on the book in front of him, I finished my cup of coffee in silence.

'I can't understand what's so important about it. You've been reading it for the past three days now.'

'And if I can recall correctly, you have only read it once in the past three days. And even during that one time, you barely seemed to even glance at it.'

'Well, I could hardly sit about and read it with the relish you obviously have, Poirot. It's not a novel, you know.'

Casting my mind back to when I had glanced over the burnt pages out of duty rather than interest when the ever unabashed Belgian detective had thrust it into my hands, I got the impression that Lady Bentley was an avid chronicler of each passing day of her tragically short life. A description of a short fête took up at least five pages, for instance, while other entries took up twice as much room, especially regarding Harry. It was in short an ordinary diary of a lady of the gentry who moved around in high society in the usual manner and who was clearly very fond of her only son.

'You should remember, Hastings, that I do not read it merely for the entertainment.'

'Yes, I know that. But good Lord, shouldn't we be doing something?' I said impatiently. I had realised as of late that I was becoming increasingly aware of the tedium of sitting around and interviewing the various people at the house. Perhaps it was the vague sensation that my leave from my work at Lloyd's was gradually running out with each passing day which was affecting my feelings towards the investigation and adding a sense of urgency to my situation. Regardless, it was now already the middle of August and I would have return to London by the beginning of September.

'But we are doing something, mon ami,' replied Poirot with the manner of a parent speaking to a troublesome young child. 'We are examining the evidence.'

'It seems like we've been doing that for weeks, Poirot. And not very much else,' I added gloomily. 'Evidence is all very well but don't you feel that we ought to be tracking down the murderer by now? After all, we know he's out there and he might just be right under our noses and having a laugh at our expense!'

'In time, Hastings, in time. Important as this case is, it would certainly not do to do something too hasty which we might regret.'

I didn't reply, feeling as if further conversation would only wear me out. I was now very much aware that Poirot had his methods, incomprehensible though they might appear at times, and that any attempt on my part in forcing his hand would be futile. Like so many times later on in our partnership, it was at this moment that I put my entire trust in Poirot, knowing instinctively that he would find the truth in the end and that I would have to manage as best as I could in the role of his associate and friend.

My mind wandered aimlessly and I think I must have fallen asleep at some point afterwards that afternoon. Susan's declaration of a few days previously still weighed considerably on my mind and my refusal of her, gentle as I had wanted it to be, had not made my life much easier. The armchair I was occupying too was exceedingly comfortable and this only eased my descent into a peaceful slumber.

My impromptu nap however was prevented from becoming wholly tranquil as a strange dream took hold of my mind. I was standing in the middle of the glasshouse at the villa where I had met Susan. It was late afternoon and the brilliant gold beams of the setting sun permeated the grounds, giving the whole place a rather dramatic appearance. My current solitude was soon put an end to by the approach of someone exiting the house. Initially it was difficult to make the person out as they appeared to be a considerable distance off. I presumed it was Susan but as the figure got closer, I could see that it was not Susan but Poirot.

The detective in my dazed imaginings appeared to be oblivious to my presence and it seemed that in this world at least, I was invisible to everyone I encountered. Appearing to be waiting for someone, I then examined his face closely and saw that he was unusually nervous. His agitation made me uneasy and I looked about our surroundings with an increased sense of trepidation. The sound of the front door being pushed open alerted us of another joining our company, and I was startled to see Susan make her entrance. I was even more astonished as she greeted him unhesitatingly in the shy, warm manner she customarily had shown to me while Poirot for his part appeared to be more than happy to receive her in a way which was more associated with an admirer rather than a mere acquaintance.

Susan and Poirot? Can it be possible?

Confusion reigned chiefly among my feelings at this but I did not have time to dwell on the matter as there was suddenly a hand at my shoulder, gently shaking me awake.

'Hastings.'

I opened my eyes to see Poirot standing over me. I thought there was a peculiar softness in his countenance which I had never seen before as he observed me extricating myself from my still half-conscious state. However when I finally became fully awake, I noted that his expression was his usual one of utter poise and confidence and I supposed that I had only imagined it.

'You have had the good rest, my friend?' he said in slightly ironic tones.

'What time is it?' I murmured. At that moment, I became quite aware of his close proximity to me and that one of his legs was just brushing against my knee. I discreetly withdrew the latter a little, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

'The clock has just struck six.'

My eyes took in the darkened view outside from the window across from my chair and I could see that it was indeed early evening. The lamps were now lit, immersing the room in a warm, golden glow.

'I'm sorry, Poirot,' I apologised. 'I must have nodded off at some point. You see –' I was about continue forth on the subject of Susan and my refusal of her but remembering the bizarre dream I had just had of her as well as the man before me, I stopped.

'See what, Hastings?' asked Poirot.

'Oh…it's nothing,' I murmured, distractedly. He appeared unconvinced but to my relief, he did not pursue the topic.

'Any luck with the diary?' I asked, absentmindedly rubbing the back of my neck which was now slightly painful. I decided that I must have been asleep for much longer than I had thought. I wondered why Poirot hadn't made any attempt to rouse me earlier; after all, he of all people should have noted at once that I had dozed off in the middle of his sitting room at probably the most inappropriate of times.

'That is one of the reasons why I woke you,' he replied and I could see that he was indeed holding the diary which was now open in his hands. 'I would not say that I have had any luck with it but there is perhaps something here which might be of interest. My grasp of the English language – it is perhaps not complete but there is something in this passage here which does not seem right.'

'How so?'

Appearing as if he was unable to put his thoughts into words, he handed the diary to me.

'Examine that, mon ami,' he said. 'What would you make of it?'

I looked at the entry before me which was dated from eight years previously:

18th June 1905

My dearest boy is turning eighteen tomorrow – has it really been eighteen years? – what happiness indeed. Jamieson has, of course, seen to all of the arrangements; I wonder where we all would be without him. I must make the most of tomorrow; though Dr Arbuthnot assures me that the illness will not return within the next year or so, I feel my days are growing short. I feel it in my very bones. Received a letter yesterday morning; his father writes that his duties will keep him abroad until October at the very least. Only four months! But alas, four months seem almost an eternity now…

The rest of the page had unfortunately been lost to the flames and the next legible entry was dated a week later.

'Looks rather straightforward to me. She's obviously writing about Harry,' I said. 'That's one thing which is quite clear.'

'Bon. And?'

'And it's obvious too that she was very aware that she didn't have much time left and that she was upset that her husband wasn't able to return to the country as quickly as she would have liked. I believe there's some truth in that. She died just a few months after Harry turned eighteen. Of some terminal illness or other, I think. Tragic really, especially seeing that she was only in her forties.'

'Magnifique. Your talent at summarising is remarkable. But read it again, Hastings. Isn't there something which strikes you as odd or out of place?'

I did as I was told. A second reading revealed nothing new but now that Poirot had mentioned it, there was something rather strange about the whole passage though I couldn't understand why.

'Actually now that you mention it, there is something rather odd about – ,' I started, turning my gaze upwards from the diary.

It was at that exact moment that my eyes met his and words abruptly failed me as I took note of those glowing brown orbs gazing back at me. How odd that I hadn't noticed until now how wonderfully gentle Poirot's eyes were. A peculiar tingling sensation seemed to travel up my spine as I sat gazing up at him, my mind blissfully void of thought and when he spoke, his voice sounded muffled and distant as if it was coming through an old gramophone.

'There is something that one cannot put one's hand on, n'est-ce pas?' he suggested.

'Something like that,' I managed, disregarding the urge to correct him. My throat was suddenly parched and I regretted that I had finished my coffee earlier in the afternoon.

He nodded.

'That too is what I am feeling, mon ami.' He turned to consult something on the table nearby. I believe he continued speaking but his words floated over me and I listened in perfect incomprehension. My lack of attention was soon noted by Poirot who chided me resoundingly and I apologised once again.

'Your mind is elsewhere it seems, Hastings,' he said in obvious annoyance. 'Perhaps the case, it does not interest you any longer?'

'Of course not,' I said quickly. 'It's just that…well, would you mind awfully if I make an early night of it, Poirot? As you've said, my mind's quite boggled this evening and I think a bit of sleep should set me right. I should be quite all right tomorrow morning.'

He appeared to be a little put out at this but said, turning away from me reproachfully: 'If you think it necessary, mon ami, then I appear to have no say in the matter. I shall meet you at the villa tomorrow.'

Retrieving my hat and murmuring a hasty 'goodnight', I made my exit.

I was met at the villa door by Jamieson.

'Ah, Mr Hastings,' he said as he took my hat. 'We were beginning to wonder whether you'd join the rest of the family for dinner.'

'Awfully sorry, Jamieson. I'm afraid that some of Monsieur Poirot's inquiries took longer than expected. Have I missed it?'

'No, sir. Dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour.'

I looked around and saw that the entire ground floor of the house appeared to be deserted. This state of affairs was ended however with the appearance of Harry who descended the stairs and upon seeing me, greeted me warmly:

'There you are, Hastings.'

'Evening, Harry. Sorry for being late.'

'No need to apologise…you're not late at all.' His eyes scanned the space behind me. 'Monsieur Poirot not with you?'

'No. Should he be?'

'Oh, no reason in particular. It's just that Susan's been asking to see him, that's all.'

I started a little in surprise at this but soon recovered my composure.

'Really?' I remarked as casually as I could manage. 'Do you know whatever for?'

'I have really no idea. She's been oddly secretive these past few days. Not like her at all. Margaret's tried talking to her, of course, but to no avail. Have you talked to her, Hastings?'

'Not recently, no,' I lied, instantly feeling like an utter cad.

'Even Ralph's concerned about her, and you know he rarely concerns himself with anybody.' He examined the newspaper in his hand absentmindedly. 'Regardless, could you please speak to Monsieur Poirot about Susan?'

'I'll see what I can do, Harry.'

'Thanks, old chap. I could so do with a drink before dinner. Besides, we've at least ten minutes left till then. Care to join me?'

Also being in need of one, I accepted the invitation and we moved into the drawing room.

'That Belgian fellow's quite a clever chap, I must admit,' said Harry suddenly as he handed me a glass of whisky. 'Though how he can make head or tails of this beastly business, I'm not quite sure.'

I nodded but then a thought suddenly entered my mind.

'He has made some interesting progress these past few days, you know.'

'I'm glad to hear of it.' He took a long draught from his glass. 'I fear I might have been a little short with him that afternoon after the inquest. No one likes to be interrogated and be at the beck and call of the police, you know.'

'Of course.'

'But after Jeanette got herself killed – I'm beginning to think that he was right to continue with his enquiries. I'm sure that both you and I are of the same mind when it comes to the task of finding that damn devil who killed her.'

'Oh yes. Absolutely.' We were both silent for a while before I asked tentatively:

'Would you mind me asking something rather personal, old fellow?'

'Not at all, Hastings.'

'I know it might a little painful for you to recall these things but I wonder whether you had any memories of your mother before she died.'

Harry's eyes fixed upon me with uncomfortable intensity and when he spoke, I knew at once that I had not gone about the subject as well as I should have.

'I fail to see how my mother has anything to do with Monsieur Poirot's investigation, Hastings,' he replied at length, his tone cool.

'Well, naturally, I –'

'Did Poirot put you up to this?' he continued irritably, setting down his glass. I was beginning to see why someone had decided to send a note informing someone else of Harry's temper which was not violent but always in danger of flaring up without a moment's notice. At Eton, Harry's temper had sometimes gotten him into some pretty tight corners but he had always managed to scrape through and compose himself but it was really during this visit of mine that I realised that my friend was more prone to giving in even to the slightest of provocations.

'Of course not, Harry –' I started, trying to make amends.

'Well, if he did, I think I'd much prefer it if Monsieur Poirot came forward and spoke to me himself,' he said, rising to his feet and disregarding my words completely. 'I won't have all this cloak and dagger business going about, you know. I won't stand for it.'

With that, he abruptly left the room and I fell back into the settee in defeat. I vaguely envisioned the look of immense disapproval on Poirot's face if he caught wind of how badly I handled this whole affair. The mere thought however, I soon realised, of the Belgian detective caused me to sink even further into a state of peculiar misery and I wondered what had gotten hold of me that evening. First there was the painful subject of Susan, that fantastical dream in the afternoon related to the latter and Poirot and now Harry. It was now quite impossible for me to join the others at dinner this evening seeing how things had turned out.

'Fine little mess you've gotten yourself into, Hastings,' I murmured to myself angrily, tossing back my drink.

Ignoring the sound of the gong announcing the start of dinner, I made my apologies to Jamieson as I passed him in the hallway and retired hastily to my room.

It is still a marvel even after so many years to realise what a good night's rest can do to a person. After being fully rested, I felt completely my old self again and eager to resume work on our enquiries. However, instead of meeting Poirot at the villa as planned, I received a note during breakfast which read as follows:

Mon ami,

I apologise for the short notice but I will not be able to join you at the villa this morning as planned. A new development has shown itself to me and has meant that I will be using the morning in making the enquiries instead. However, I would recommend not to let down your guard. If all goes as planned, I will have need of you later this afternoon.

Yours ever,

Hercule Poirot

I must admit feeling quite relieved to learn that my abrupt departure from his rooms hadn't lowered his confidence in me. Perhaps trying not to dwell too much on the events of the previous evening, I spent most of the morning trying to piece together the clues we had so far collected but came up with nothing.

It was a quarter past two that Jamieson came up to me as I sat in the library after lunch and informed me that someone wished to speak to me on the telephone.

'I believe it is Monsieur Poirot, Mr Hastings.'

Thanking him, I made my way into the hallway.

'Poirot?' I said as I picked up the receiver.

'Good afternoon, Hastings,' came the unmistakable voice. 'You have received my note, yes? Bon. I have little time to speak to you as I still have several enquiries to make but tell me, mon ami, are you prepared to go down to the capital?'

'What now, you mean?'

'At this very moment, Hastings. You have I trust what you English call the morning coat?'

'A morning coat?' I repeated, wondering if I had misheard. 'I don't think I brought one with me but I might ask Jamieson to –'

'Non, I would much prefer it if you did not ask anyone – we have not the time to lose. The morning coat would have been most suitable but I trust that you will wear something similar to compensate this, Hastings?'

'Good Lord, Poirot, we aren't going to a wedding, are we?'

Despite my entreaties for more information, they were met with little success. Poirot was being his old mysterious self again and I could do nothing but follow his instructions which were now hurriedly given down the telephone.

'But quickly, mon ami. Our appointment is to take place at half past three. I will meet you in front of the Hôtel de Ville in an hour. And remember to take of the appearance, Hastings!'

He rang off and running quickly upstairs, I was left to rummage round my belongings for a suitable change in dress. Twenty minutes later and dressed in my best suit, I was driven down to Brussels by Emerson who showed some curiosity at my unusually formal attire but to his credit said nothing.

Predictably, Poirot was already waiting for me in front of the Hôtel de Ville at the appointed time. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit, a burgundy-coloured tie and in addition, I noticed a delicate silver boutonnière holder pinned to his lapel.

Following my gaze, he said, 'You examine it with interest, Hastings.'

'Quite. I've never seen it before, Poirot. Unusual little thing – is it a family heirloom?'

'Non,' he said a little wistfully. 'It was a gift from a young lady who a few years ago I – '

He suddenly stopped and appeared uncharacteristically unsure of himself.

'Yes?' I asked.

'Non, non,' he said, shaking his head. 'It would not do for me to lead us off the track…we must return to the matter at hand.' He looked me up and down and his eyes fixed upon my tie with an expression of immense disapproval.

'My apologies, mon ami, but your tie…it is not symmetrical. Allow me to rearrange him.'

Reaching out, he straightened the offending object in question and smiled with obvious satisfaction at my 'improved' appearance.

'Do I look presentable now, Poirot?' I said, feeling slightly exasperated.

'You look – ' There was an odd little pause before he glanced down at his watch and said, 'You look very presentable, Hastings.'

'Now that I'm actually here, care to tell me what all this is about?' I asked as I followed him down the busy streets.

'We have an important appointment.'

'I think I worked that out quite a while ago,' I replied, unable to keep a little sarcasm from entering my voice. 'Can you at least tell me who we're meeting, Poirot?'

'Monsieur Albert von Stauffenberg.'

'Albert von – you don't mean we're having an appointment with the German ambassador?' I cried.

Despite not receiving a reply, it seemed that we were indeed scheduled to meet the German ambassador. We soon found ourselves entering an impressive building and which was heavily neoclassical in style. Our appointment was confirmed by a clerk as Poirot gave him his name. The man took our hats and directed us upstairs and we climbed the stairs in silence, our footsteps echoing slightly in the cavernous halls.

After being shown through an innumerable series of doors and corridors, we finally entered the spacious quarters of Albert von Stauffenberg who rose from his seat at his massive oak desk and greeted us pleasantly. What impressed me most was how different the German ambassador was from his English counterpart both in terms of character and physicality. Whereas Sir William was the strict, unyielding disciplinarian who instilled more fear than respect or affection, Stauffenberg simply radiated charisma and sophistication. An educated man too no doubt, as Harry had mentioned, by the immense number of books stacked on a nearby side table and which academic-sounding titles were beyond my interest and understanding. He was taller than I had thought, having just seen him once after the inquest and his gloominess that day was certainly not an issue this afternoon.

'I have read much of you, Monsieur Poirot,' he said as we took our seats.

'You take an interest in crime, monsieur?'

'When you are a diplomat, you will often have to find yourself reading of matters which usually one wouldn't care to read,' he said a little dryly. 'That being said, I must admit that it does hold a slight fascination for me.'

'Perhaps that would explain why you were at the inquest of Sir William Bentley, Monsieur von Stauffenberg.'

If I had expected the German ambassador to be badly startled by the mention of his former and now deceased rival, I was disappointed in that respect as he showed nothing but perfect sangfroid. In fact, he appeared as if Poirot had just asked him a question about the weather or some trivial matter or other.

'Ah, I was certain from the first moment I received your letter, Monsieur Poirot, that you were to ask me about that,' he said lightly.

'Did you expect a man of my occupation to do anything else?' asked Poirot, matching his lightness of tone perfectly.

Stauffenberg's grey eyes narrowed a little before he said with a smile:

'No, perhaps not. That was to be expected even by the simplest of men.'

'Then you will permit me to ask you questions, monsieur, regarding the death of Sir William Bentley?'

Stauffenberg permitted my friend to do so without a word of protest. To tell the truth, I was beginning to feel a little uneasy about the German's unusual cooperativeness. The more he spoke, the more I wondered about Harry's description of him as that 'wily fellow Stauffenberg'. He appeared to be the last person in the world to deal in diplomatic sabotage or to take part in the wilful theft of secret state documents. In fact, when Poirot touched upon the subject of the theft at the British Embassy, Stauffenberg laughed heartily in amusement.

'Sir William Bentley was never the most organised of men, I must say. Theft indeed! I wonder if he hadn't imagined the whole thing. Security at diplomatic missions is somewhat standardised these days, Poirot, especially with all these tensions between us. I wouldn't be able to comment on whether the safes at the British Embassy are of the same make or standard as ours but neither of us could ever simply go into the other's offices and take whatever papers we liked. That would be impossible with the number of men standing guard at night. That as well as the fact that people are walking all over the place – no one can break into a safe that way, they're bound to be seen.'

'Sir William told his son, M. Harry Bentley, that he suspected you to be responsible for the theft.'

'To tell you the truth, I'm not surprised. He was never original in his ideas – it was a common tactic of his to blame everything on us since he couldn't find anyone else to be the scapegoat.'

'You do not seem to have a high regard for Sir William, monsieur.'

'I doubt whether anyone who has met him would be capable of holding him in high regard,' replied Stauffenberg darkly. 'Bentley was never the type of man whom one could respect for long.'

'He appeared to have had a particular dislike for you. Surely such dislike is not often unwarranted, n'est-ce pas?'

'I would say that the dislike is wholly unwarranted in this case. I suspect it had something more to do that I was the only German diplomat of high enough importance in this country whom he could set his attacks on, Monsieur Poirot, rather than a matter of personal difference. Being a former naval man, I would assume that my Kaiser's policy of naval expansion over the years would have been a source of great annoyance to him.' He paused then added musingly: 'I cannot say that I approve of the policy myself but that is beside the point.'

'Quite so,' agreed Poirot. 'Quite so. However, this does bring me to the question of seeing that since you never held Sir William in high regard, why did you decide to go to his inquest?'

I thought I detected a slight change in Stauffenberg's otherwise jovial countenance.

'Surely it isn't a crime to go to an inquest, is it?' he said with a small smile.

'No, monsieur, it is not. You are perfectly free to decide whether or not to go and do as you please. But to go to an inquest of a man who you plainly dislike is rather curious.'

'Perhaps to most people, Monsieur Poirot. However, unlike most people, I do have a keen sense of duty and moreover, dignity,' stated the German quietly. 'Let bygones be bygones, as they say. Once a man has died and especially in the most violent of ways, he has paid the price for all the sins he has committed in life.'

'A strong choice of words, monsieur. I was not aware that he committed sins towards yourself.'

'I was speaking figuratively.' Stauffenberg had spoken calmly but there was something about his manner which did not quite convince me on this point and it appeared that it hadn't convinced Poirot either.

'I do not think so,' said Poirot. 'Forgive me, monsieur, for my impudence, but Hercule Poirot does not believe you.'

For the first time in our meeting, anger seemed to flare beneath that composed face.

'Then M. Hercule Poirot,' replied the other man coldly, 'is clearly mistaken.'

There was a long uncomfortable pause where neither of the two men spoke as they glared at each other, the brown meeting the grey and which would have appeared faintly ridiculous had it not been for the unbearable tension which had erupted between them. The silence was broken however when Poirot suddenly slammed his hands on the desk before him, startling the rest of us in the room.

'Non! Poirot is never mistaken. You of all people must know that. It is useless to hide the truth from me.'

I was astounded at Poirot's abrupt descent as it were into recklessness. He was going against everything he had told me. Had he not always advised that one was to always hide one's suspicions from the enemy? Furthermore the enemy in question was a high-ranking diplomat and I was certain that if his wild accusation hadn't meant our instant dismissal from the man's office, we were to be expelled from the place very soon. My fears were confirmed when Stauffenberg rose from his chair and gazed frigidly at us from his very considerable height.

'I fear, Monsieur Poirot, that the strain of all this business has unfortunately got to your head. I hear that the Prime Minister himself designated you to this case; I presume that it hasn't been an easy past few weeks for you and you have my fullest sympathy. However, I am afraid that this does not give you the right to accuse me of anything you so wish and therefore, our interview is at an end, gentlemen.'

He reached for a hand bell, presumably to summon his secretary to usher us out, when Poirot too rose to his feet and pulled a piece of notepaper from the inside of his coat.

'Very well. However, at least do me the courtesy of reading that if we are no longer on speaking terms.'

The German ambassador's face paled as his eyes took in the contents of the note and his manner underwent a change which surprised me. It was a while before he appeared able to speak and even as he spoke, his heretofore confident voice shook a little.

'How did you –' he started.

'Never mind how I know, monsieur. The only question to be asked now is will you now cooperate?'

He examined my friend closely as if attempting to gauge Poirot's thoughts. At length, he nodded and murmured:

'I will.'

'Thank you.'

'You will know all by tomorrow morning, Monsieur Poirot. I will send one of the Embassy clerks to bring a letter to you.'

Poirot offered his thanks once again and we turned to leave.

'Monsieur Poirot.'

Turning back, we saw that the ambassador was holding out the piece of notepaper Poirot had handed him and I admit I was now extremely curious to examine its contents. I half-proffered a hand to take it from him when Poirot stopped me.

'Not at all, monsieur. I leave it with you to do what you like with it. We have reached an understanding, yes?'

'Yes. And thank you, Monsieur Poirot,' he said with obvious gratefulness.

Stauffenberg's secretary returned to the former's office at this point and we were shown politely out of the room, our exit I noted being a complete contrast to our entrance only a while before.

'What on earth did you write in that note to Stauffenberg?' I asked as we stepped outside onto the front steps of the German Embassy. 'He almost seemed like a completely different man, Poirot.'

Poirot looked up at me. 'Something which he did not expect me to know. Nor any man perhaps.'

This was not entirely the sort of answer I would have liked. 'I do wish you'd stop talking in riddles,' I sighed.

'I do not speak in the riddles, Hastings. I am merely telling you the truth.'

'Well, the truth surely doesn't have to be so dashed complicated as you make it out,' I countered. 'The truth should be pure and simple, really.'

'Ah, but what is it that one of your famous playwrights say? That the truth is rarely pure and never simple? Well, he was right…at least with regard to discovering the truth in crime.'

I flushed a little, knowing all too well which playwright he was referring to and whose name still provoked outrage amongst the educated classes. I quickly changed the subject.

'So you expect a letter from him then?'

'Indeed I do.'

'You don't think he'll do a runner, do you?'

'Comment? "Do a runner"?'

'I mean, you don't think he'll flee the country or go back on his word, do you?'

'Non. Albert von Stauffenberg is not a fool, Hastings. Besides, I am sure that after that convenient note of mine, we have reached an understanding between us.'

We were making our way back to the Hôtel de Ville when a man suddenly approached me. Turning in surprise, I saw that it was Emerson who apparently had been sent back down to Brussels to drive not only myself but also Poirot back to the villa.

'Mr Bentley's request, Mr Hastings. He'd like to invite Monsieur Poirot to dinner this evening,' explained Emerson as we got into the car in bemusement.

'Interesting,' murmured Poirot. 'You knew of Monsieur Harry's intention to invite me, Hastings?'

'I assure you I didn't,' I replied, still completely at a loss on the cause of Harry's sudden invitation.

'It is of no matter,' said my friend with a shrug. 'Regardless, it shall give me the chance of asking him several questions which I had not the opportunity of asking before…especially regarding his late mother.'

'I wouldn't think that advisable, old fellow,' I interjected hastily. 'Harry's awfully touchy about these things, you know. Bound to shut up like an oyster if you ask him at the wrong time.'

Poirot's brown eyes examined me closely and I averted my gaze as best I could lest I fell once again into the trap of losing myself in them.

'It is as I have said, mon ami, you cannot hide the truth from me.'

'What?' I cried, suddenly fearing that he was reading my mind.

'It is like what I have said to the German ambassador,' he said simply. 'You have already attempted to ask Monsieur Harry about our new findings, yes?'

'Oh,' I said and I breathed a short sigh of relief, realising that he was actually referring to the diary.

'And you have obviously failed, yes?'

'Oh. Yes,' I replied, past caring what Poirot thought of my apparently lacklustre skills of interrogation.

He shook his head wearily. 'Let us hope then that I can try to salvage the situation, Hastings.'

We arrived at the villa shortly before half past five. Harry was already waiting for us at the front door and greeted Poirot with unusual warmness.

'Evening, Monsieur Poirot. Hope you don't mind me inviting you for dinner on such short notice.'

'Not at all, monsieur. Fortunately, I was not engaged this evening and was only too happy to accept your invitation.'

'Jolly good,' replied Harry. 'Now dinner isn't to be served until some time yet but I wonder if I could ask you to step into the library for a moment.'

Poirot acquiesced to the request and feeling distinctly unwanted, I went into the drawing room and found Allison sitting on the couch and reading a periodical which she put aside when she saw me. James Harvey was also in the room, sitting at one of the bay windows and looking out across the garden, a copy of The Times unopened on his lap.

'Arthur, we all wondered where you disappeared off to.'

'Evening, Allison,' I said as I took my place opposite her on one of the armchairs. 'I was with Monsieur Poirot down in the capital –'

'Had your fun playing detective, Mr Hastings?' came the snide comment from the window to which I paid no attention. Allison shot her fiancé a look of complete disapproval and smiled encouragingly at me.

'Never mind James,' she whispered. 'He's only annoyed because Harry wanted him to vacate the library.'

'Ah, I see.'

'You're looking awfully smart though for just a visit to the capital,' she observed, glancing down at my suit. 'You'll look such a sight at dinner.'

'I suppose I should change to something more appropriate before then. I only got into this because we had an appointment at the German Embassy.'

'The German Embassy? Not the British one?'

'No, it was the German one all right. We had to meet the German ambassador, Albert von Stauffenberg.'

'Oh, yes. I remember Harry telling me about him. The one who's apparently behind the theft of papers at the Embassy.'

'That's right. And from what's happened this afternoon, I think Poirot's got him now. Quite marvellous how he did it really. Stauffenberg hasn't been arrested yet but as far as I understand it, he's not going anywhere.'

'I'm glad to hear it. Well, at least that's one mystery solved,' sighed Allison. 'If only he were able to solve the one closer at hand then we'd all be quite relieved.'

'I'm most certain he will,' I replied with the utmost confidence.

At this point, Harry joined us in the drawing room with Margaret following soon afterwards. To my puzzlement, Poirot was nowhere to be seen. I was tempted to ask Harry as to where he was but I thought it best not to tempt fate, especially after last night's disastrous conversation. A minute or so later, Ralph also made his entrance, a book in his hand.

'Anyone know where Susan is?' he asked. 'She's left her book again in the conservatory.'

'She's taking a walk in the garden,' replied Harry when no one had spoken.

Ralph stared at his cousin in astonishment. 'A walk in the garden? At this hour?'

'Don't worry, Ralph. I've asked Monsieur Poirot to…accompany her.'

I do not recall exactly what my thoughts were upon hearing this unexpected news apart from the fact that I had the sudden urge to throw James Harvey off his window seat and see the two together for myself. This urge was fortunately countered in time by reason and remembering that I had to change for dinner, I excused myself from the room and rushed upstairs, remembering my bedroom window was directly above a bench frequently used by the family in the garden and there was a chance that Susan and Poirot had decided to stop by there.

I opened the window as quietly as I could. I was in luck; familiar voices soon rose up to my ears and Susan's was the first to reach me, her voice full of emotion:

'You dear thing. You must know I love no one else in the whole world. My feelings – '

The next voice was Poirot's and what I heard spoken in such soft, gentle tones rocked me to the core:

'Oui, je comprends. Je comprends absolutement…and I accept them.'

There was a sudden outpouring of joy in Susan's voice at the Belgian's words but I was oblivious to it. All I was aware of now was the horrible sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as I shut the window, my mind in a complete and utter daze.

A/N: Apologies for the delay in updating (I've been awfully busy of late with work and what not as well as preparing a research trip to London next month in case any of you were wondering) but hopefully this chapter which I believe is the longest one yet was well worth the wait! I shall be away in London from mid-July to mid-August and I'm not sure whether I'll be able to post up another chapter before I leave or whether I'll have time to update during my time in London but we'll see. After all, I can't leave poor Hastings hanging over here in this dreadful state...