At precisely 4:15 p.m., Hercule Poirot found himself seated in Mrs. Oliver’s parlor. He carefully lifted a large cup of hot chocolate from the small table beside him, the frothy whipped cream on top gleaming invitingly. Beside it sat a delicate plate of buttery shortbread, completing the picture of indulgent perfection.

“My dear madame, you are too kind,” Poirot said with a smile, his keen eyes subtly noting her new hairstyle and the recently changed wallpaper.

Mrs. Oliver’s hair was styled in an extravagant cascade of tight curls, almost theatrical in its flair, resembling a wig in its complexity. Poirot couldn’t help but wonder how many of those curls would tumble loose should she become animated, as was her habit. As for the wallpaper, it was a riot of cherry patterns, so dense it gave the illusion of sitting in a cherry orchard.

“These cherries,” he remarked, gesturing toward the wallpaper with his teaspoon, “are they new?”

“Yes, do you think they’re too much?” Mrs. Oliver asked with a grin. “Choosing wallpaper is such a bother. Did you prefer the tropical birds from before?”

Poirot vaguely recalled the vibrantly colored birds but refrained from stating a preference. “Each has its charm,” he replied diplomatically, deciding silence was the wisest course.

After placing his cup back on its saucer and straightening his mustache, Poirot was ready for the inevitable question. Mrs. Oliver leaned forward eagerly, wasting no time. “Now, tell me, what happened?”

Poirot nodded, his voice slow and deliberate. “This morning, a young woman appeared at my door unannounced. She insisted on seeing me because she believed she might have committed murder.”

“Might have?” Mrs. Oliver raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “She doesn’t know if she did it?”

“Precisely.” Poirot sighed. “She seemed dull-witted and hesitant, refusing to sit down, simply staring at me. Then, quite abruptly, she changed her mind and declared that I was ‘too old’ to help her.”

Mrs. Oliver immediately moved to console him. “Oh, these young women! They think anyone over thirty-five belongs in a museum. Pay it no mind.”

“But it wounded me,” Poirot admitted, a hint of indignation creeping into his tone.

“Well, yes, it was rude, but if I were you, I wouldn’t take it personally.”

“It is not merely about my pride,” Poirot explained. “I am genuinely concerned for this girl. She clearly needs help, yet she rejected it for a frivolous reason.”

“Poirot, surely you don’t believe she’s truly committed murder?” Mrs. Oliver asked hesitantly.

“She said so herself,” Poirot replied matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Oliver pondered this. “What exactly does her ‘might’ mean? Perhaps she ran someone over with her car and can’t face the consequences? Or maybe she pushed someone off a cliff? Or—oh!—accidentally gave the wrong medicine?”

Poirot held up a hand to interrupt her train of thought. “Madame, enough! Your speculations are quite abundant.”

“What does she look like?” Mrs. Oliver asked abruptly.

Poirot considered for a moment before replying. “Rather like an unattractive Ophelia.”

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Oliver exclaimed with mock revelation. “You’ve painted a vivid picture.”

Poirot continued his analysis. “She does not appear to be someone capable of handling adversity. On the contrary, she seems the type who might easily become a scapegoat.”

Mrs. Oliver said nothing, instead fiddling absentmindedly with her curls. Suddenly, she looked up. “Do you know who might have sent her to you?”

“No,” Poirot admitted, shaking his head. “But she must have heard of me somehow.”

“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Oliver said lightly. “Young people these days know nothing about detectives. They only care about pop singers and TV hosts.”

“But the name Hercule Poirot is universally known,” Poirot declared with conviction.

Mrs. Oliver pursed her lips, clearly choosing her words carefully. “Well, as it happens, I may have mentioned you.”

“You?” Poirot looked genuinely surprised.

“Yes. At a party last weekend, I might have dropped your name. She could have overheard.”

“What is her name?” Poirot asked, his curiosity reignited.

“Norma… or was it Zola?” Mrs. Oliver hesitated briefly before concluding, “I’m certain her name is Norma Restarick.”

Poirot’s eyebrows lifted. “And where does she live?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I can find out,” Mrs. Oliver said confidently.

True to her word, she made a phone call, weaving the conversation skillfully until she secured Norma’s address. Poirot listened intently, jotting down the details with precision.

When the call ended, Mrs. Oliver leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh. “There, all settled. The rest is up to you.”

Poirot nodded, his expression turning contemplative. “This is no ordinary case, madame. There may be far more danger and secrets lurking behind it than we realize.”