Andrew Restarick set the letter down, his face clouded with uncertainty. He picked up the envelope again, studying it as if it might suddenly provide the answers he sought. He leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily, and looked up at Hercule Poirot.

“Mr. Poirot, I must tell you—I never wrote this letter. The signature on it isn’t mine.”

Poirot raised an eyebrow, the faintest flicker of curiosity in his sharp eyes. “Indeed, Mr. Restarick? Yet the letter carries your name and is written on your office stationery.”

Andrew pulled open a drawer in his desk and retrieved his checkbook. Flipping through a few pages, he pointed to several of his signatures. “Here, compare these to the one on the letter. You’ll see for yourself.”

Poirot took a moment to examine the signatures, nodding slowly as his keen eyes took in every detail. “You are correct, Mr. Restarick. The signature on this letter does not match yours. Curious, very curious indeed. If not you, then who might have written it?”

Andrew shook his head, his frustration evident. “I can’t say. My secretary doesn’t write letters without my explicit instructions. And as for my wife, Mary—she would never sign my name without telling me. Besides, she’d have no reason to write to you.”

Poirot placed the letter carefully on the desk, his expression thoughtful. “And yet, Mr. Restarick, this letter specifically mentions your daughter, Miss Norma Restarick. It implies that her situation requires immediate attention.”

At the mention of Norma, Andrew’s demeanor shifted noticeably. His jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Norma is a... sensitive subject. Whoever wrote this letter knew what they were doing.”

Poirot pressed gently, “Mr. Restarick, is your daughter in some kind of trouble?”

Andrew hesitated before answering, his voice tinged with frustration. “I’m not sure, to be honest. She’s been behaving... strangely. Her moods swing unpredictably, and she says things that make no sense. Sometimes, it feels like I don’t know her at all.”

“Could her troubles be linked to a particular young man?” Poirot asked, his tone probing but not accusatory.

Andrew sighed. “Perhaps. She’s been spending time with someone named David Baker. I don’t know much about him, but Mary despises him. She thinks he’s a bad influence, and I can’t say I disagree. But Norma’s issues run deeper than just her choice of company.”

Poirot leaned in slightly. “What sort of issues, Mr. Restarick?”

Andrew paused, his hesitation betraying his inner turmoil. Finally, he said, “We suspect... we fear that Norma may have been poisoning her stepmother.”

Poirot’s eyes narrowed, his expression sharpening like a blade. “Poisoning? What makes you think so?”

Andrew’s voice dropped further. “Mary has been unwell for weeks now. The doctors can’t pinpoint the cause, but toxic substances have been found in her food. Only trace amounts, but enough to make her sick.”

“Do you have any proof that your daughter is responsible?” Poirot asked, his tone measured but insistent.

Andrew shook his head. “No concrete evidence, just a series of troubling coincidences. I don’t want to believe Norma could do something like this, but... who else could it be? She’s been hostile toward Mary ever since we married.”

Poirot sat back, his fingers steepled in thought. “Mr. Restarick, if you wish me to help, I must know everything. Even the darkest suspicions must come to light. Only with complete honesty can we uncover the truth.”

Andrew’s shoulders slumped as he exhaled heavily. “I just want to understand what’s going on with my daughter. If she needs help, I’ll do whatever it takes to provide it. But if she’s truly done something terrible...” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Poirot rose gracefully from his chair and gave a slight bow. “Rest assured, Mr. Restarick. I will uncover the truth. Whatever it may be, you will have answers.”

As he turned to leave, Poirot’s sharp eyes flicked once more to the watercolor of Table Mountain hanging on the wall. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, but he said nothing. With a polite nod, he exited the office, the wheels of his brilliant mind already turning.