Mr. Goby sat hunched in his chair, his small, withered frame giving him an unremarkable presence, as if designed to go unnoticed. His gaze was fixed on the claw-foot of an antique table in the room, and his voice was calm and measured as he began.

“Mr. Poirot, it’s fortunate you provided the name. Without it, things could have become significantly more complicated. It seems I’ve gathered most of the key facts, along with some peripheral rumors—you know, the kind that sometimes prove surprisingly useful. Shall I start with Borodene Mansions?”

Poirot nodded slightly, signaling him to proceed.

“There’s a lot of staff milling about that place,” Goby continued, his eyes darting briefly to the clock on the mantel. “I sent two of my men to gather information. It cost a fair bit, but I made sure no one suspected an investigation was underway. Do you prefer I use initials or full names?”

“Full names, please,” Poirot replied gently.

“Claudia Reece-Holland,” Goby began, “has a solid reputation. Her father is an ambitious member of Parliament, constantly in the papers. She’s his only child, disciplined in her work, avoids alcohol, doesn’t attend wild parties, and keeps clear of eccentric types. She shares her flat with two other young women. The second is Frances Cary, who works at the Wedderburn Gallery on Bond Street and enjoys the bohemian art scene. The third is the one you mentioned—Miss Norma Restarick. She moved in recently, and the general consensus about her is... ‘something’s missing,’ though no one can quite articulate what.”

Goby paused, his focus still on the table leg. “Then there’s Mickey, a janitor who enjoys his drink and a bit of gossip. He mentioned hearing a gunshot one evening. When he rushed out, he saw the girl—Norma Restarick—holding a revolver, looking dazed. The other two girls came out shortly after. Miss Cary demanded, ‘Norma, what on earth are you doing?’ But Reece-Holland snapped, ‘Shut up, Frances! Don’t talk nonsense!’ Then she calmly took the gun from Norma, put it into her bag, and smiled at Mickey, saying, ‘You’re startled, aren’t you? Don’t worry—it was just a game. The gun isn’t even loaded.’ She then helped Norma into the lift and took her back upstairs.”

Poirot stroked his chin thoughtfully, giving Goby an encouraging nod to continue.

“Mickey felt uneasy and went to check the courtyard,” Goby said. “He found a few faint bloodstains—not much, but unmistakably blood. He even touched it to be sure. He said, ‘Someone might have been shot and tried to get away.’ Later, he went upstairs to confront Reece-Holland. ‘There’s blood in the courtyard, miss. Something happened, didn’t it?’ She hesitated for a moment, then laughed lightly and said, ‘Oh, that must be from an injured pigeon. Don’t worry about it.’ Then she handed Mickey five pounds and told him to forget the matter.”

Poirot raised an eyebrow. “And what else did Mickey say after that?”

“After a few drinks, he speculated that Norma might have shot her ‘unsavory boyfriend’ during an argument. He said, ‘The girl looked like she wanted to pull the trigger, but I don’t know what really happened.’” Goby closed his notebook. “And that’s where the trail ends for now.”

“Interesting,” Poirot remarked. “Though it could all be a misunderstanding.”

Goby flipped to another page in his notebook and resumed. “Joshua Restarick & Co. is a family business with a history spanning over a century. The company is well-regarded and fairly large. Andrew Restarick is the sole surviving heir of the family. In his youth, he lived rather recklessly—left his wife and daughter to run off with another woman for years. After his wife’s death, he seems to have tried to make amends, remarrying and attempting to rebuild a family. He currently resides at his uncle Sir Roderick’s estate, as he doesn’t yet have a home of his own. The family is wealthy, and his wife is actively house-hunting in London.”

“The Restarick family sounds like a model of respectability,” Poirot observed with a sigh. “Yet Norma’s story casts quite a shadow over their shining image. Her behavior—and her choice of boyfriend—seem to bring complications.”

Goby shrugged. “Every family has its black sheep, don’t they?”

“Restarick’s current wife wasn’t the woman he eloped with, was she?” Poirot asked.

“Of course not,” Goby replied. “That woman left him long ago—apparently, she was a difficult character.”

“One more thing,” Poirot said. “Andrew Restarick’s late wife suffered from a prolonged illness. Can you find out which sanatorium she stayed at and whether the family has a history of mental illness?”

“I understand, Mr. Poirot. I’ll look into it.” Goby nodded.

After Goby left, Poirot sat in silence, his brow furrowed in thought. Eventually, he picked up the phone and dialed Mrs. Oliver’s number.

“It’s me,” he said. “I must remind you to exercise caution.”

“Caution? About what?” Mrs. Oliver asked, puzzled.

“Yourself,” Poirot replied gravely. “There is a sense of danger in the air—perhaps even the scent of murder. I do not want you caught up in it.”

“So, what have you learned?” she asked.

“I’ve gathered information,” Poirot said, “mostly rumors and trivialities. But something unusual has certainly happened at Borodene Mansions.”

“Such as?” she pressed.

“There were bloodstains in the courtyard.”

“Bloodstains?” Mrs. Oliver exclaimed. “How wonderfully dramatic! Sounds like the plot of an old-fashioned mystery novel—The Blood on the Staircase. Though modern readers might prefer something like She Wrote Her Own Death.”

Poirot allowed himself a small chuckle but did not elaborate. “Perhaps Norma does believe she committed murder—or perhaps there’s no corpse at all, just a scattering of misunderstandings and blood.”

“This is all terribly complicated,” Mrs. Oliver muttered.

“Yes,” Poirot said quietly, “but the truth will reveal itself in time.” He hung up the phone, his eyes glinting with deep contemplation.