When Hercule Poirot returned home, his valet, George, was waiting for him at the door. As always, George's demeanor was calm, but his tone carried an unusual urgency.

“Sir, a woman named Edith called for you,” George announced.

“Edith?” Poirot frowned, searching his memory for the name. “Who is she?”

“She claims to be Mrs. Oliver’s housemaid. She asked me to inform you that Mrs. Oliver is currently at St. Giles Hospital.”

“St. Giles Hospital?” Poirot’s frown deepened. “What happened?”

George hesitated briefly before replying with his usual measured tone, “According to her, Mrs. Oliver was attacked with a short stick.”

Poirot’s face grew grave. He stared at George, his voice dropping lower. “Is there anything else?”

George shifted slightly, as if debating how best to deliver the next part. “She also said to tell you—well—‘You can let Mr. Poirot know this is all his fault.’”

The words struck Poirot like an invisible dagger. Though known for his calm demeanor and logical mind, he now felt a pang of guilt mixed with worry. He paced the room, thoughts racing back to the events of the past day.

“I warned her,” Poirot muttered, his tone tinged with regret. “Last night, I tried to call her, but there was no answer. I felt uneasy even then. Mon Dieu, these women and their curiosity…” He trailed off, lost in thought.

George, always attuned to Poirot’s mood, offered gently, “Sir, shall I arrange for a car to take you to the hospital?”

Poirot waved a hand dismissively, regaining a measure of composure. “No, George. Not yet. First, I must think this through.”

He sank into his chair, piecing together fragments of his recent interactions with Mrs. Oliver. Her insatiable curiosity and adventurous spirit were admirable, but they often led her into unnecessary peril. Poirot couldn’t shake the weight of responsibility—he had drawn her into this complex investigation, and now she had paid the price.

Taking a deep breath, his eyes glinting with resolve, Poirot said firmly, “George, find out the visiting hours for St. Giles Hospital. Also, prepare my schedule for tomorrow morning. I must see Mrs. Oliver at the earliest opportunity to learn the full truth.”

George nodded and swiftly left to make the necessary arrangements. Left alone, Poirot turned his gaze toward the window. The London streetlights glowed steadily, yet to Poirot, their light seemed dimmed by the shadows of the situation.

“A short stick attack… Who did this? Who is foolish enough to think they can prevent the truth from coming to light?” Poirot murmured, his voice edged with quiet determination. “Whoever they are, I will find them.”