would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of “The family leaving the Inquest”—the village photographer had not been idle! All the things that one had read a hundred times—things that happen to other people, not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. In front of us were “the detectives in charge of the case.” The well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the proceedings.
I think every one was a little surprised that it
gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window.
We all looked at each other.
“Good heavens!” murmured John. “What an extraordinary coincidence.”
“How—a coincidence?”
“That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!”