The sudden ringing of the telephone pierced the quiet room, the shrill sound echoing relentlessly. Hercule Poirot, however, seemed entirely unfazed, remaining seated in his chair as he pondered the peculiar meeting he had just experienced.

The ringing persisted, growing increasingly insistent and irritating. George stepped into the room, casting a questioning glance at Poirot as he approached the telephone.

Poirot waved a hand dismissively. “Ignore it, George.”

George nodded and exited, leaving the telephone to ring undeterred. Moments later, it fell silent. But just as Poirot began to relax, the relentless sound started up again, stubborn as ever.

Poirot frowned, muttering under his breath, “Mon dieu! Undoubtedly, it must be that woman.” He sighed, resigned, and rose from his chair. Reluctantly, he picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” His tone carried a hint of irritation.

“Is this Monsieur Poirot?” came a light, slightly hesitant voice on the other end.

“It is I,” Poirot replied curtly.

“This is Mrs. Oliver,” the voice brightened immediately, sounding cheerful now. “Your voice sounded different at first—I didn’t recognize you.”

Poirot’s brow relaxed slightly. “Good morning, madame. How are you these days?”

“Oh, I’m quite well,” Ariadne Oliver’s familiar enthusiastic tone brought a faint smile to Poirot’s face. The famous mystery novelist was a dear friend, often sharing her whimsical ideas and private musings with him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you so early, but I have a favor to ask.”

“Please, go on.”

“Well, the Detective Authors’ Club is hosting its annual banquet next month, and we would absolutely love for you to be this year’s guest speaker. It would be wonderful if you could say yes.”

“When exactly?”

“On the 23rd of next month.”

Poirot let out a long sigh. “Ah, madame, I am far too old.”

“Too old? What nonsense are you talking about?” Mrs. Oliver’s tone turned playfully exaggerated. “You’re not old at all.”

“You truly don’t think so?” Poirot asked softly, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Not in the slightest! You’re Hercule Poirot! You’ve lived a life more extraordinary than anything we’ve ever written about.”

“Who will be attending?” Poirot asked, his tone betraying a spark of interest.

“Everyone! All the greats from the detective fiction world, and plenty of your admirers, of course. But…Poirot, you sound a bit off. Is something the matter?”

“Nothing at all,” Poirot replied lightly, though his voice carried an unmistakable trace of melancholy.

“Don’t try to fool me,” Mrs. Oliver’s voice softened. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“It’s really nothing of consequence.”

“Then come see me and tell me all about it. How about this afternoon? We can have tea.”

“Afternoon tea? I never drink tea,” Poirot retorted dismissively.

“Then coffee.”

“It’s not my coffee-drinking hour.”

“Hot chocolate, then? With whipped cream on top? Or herbal tea? I remember you like herbal tea. Lemon juice? Or perhaps orange juice—”

“Madame, you have quite the imagination!” Poirot exclaimed, half-amused, half-bewildered. “You are too kind.”

“Oh, and I have some blackcurrant cordial left in the cupboard. I believe you enjoy Ribena, don’t you?”

“What is Ribena?”

“Blackcurrant syrup.”

Poirot couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “Madame, you are a marvel. I would be delighted to join you this afternoon for a hot chocolate.”

“Splendid! It’s settled then. And when you’re here, you can tell me who’s caused you such dismay.” Mrs. Oliver ended the call with evident satisfaction.

Poirot set the receiver down and shook his head gently, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He knew that an afternoon with Mrs. Oliver might just be the antidote to his lingering gloom.