When Mrs. Oliver suddenly said, "Let’s buy a peacock," her eyes were still closed. Though her voice was weak, it carried a note of indignation.

The three pairs of eyes in the hospital room immediately turned toward her. She spoke again.

“Hit it on the head.”

Slowly, she opened her still-unfocused eyes and tried to make sense of where she was. Her gaze first landed on an entirely unfamiliar face—a young man diligently scribbling in a notebook with a pencil that moved swiftly and smoothly.

“Police,” Mrs. Oliver declared.

The young man looked up, his expression mildly surprised. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“I said you’re a policeman,” she replied firmly. “Am I wrong?”

“You’re correct, ma’am.”

Satisfied, Mrs. Oliver closed her eyes briefly before reopening them to scan the room. It was a clean, well-kept hospital ward equipped with an adjustable hospital bed. She looked around carefully, soon piecing together where she was.

“A hospital,” she murmured, “or maybe a convalescent home.”

Near the door stood a nun with an air of authority, a young nurse at her side. On the far side of the room, she finally recognized the fourth face. Despite the thick mustache nearly obscuring all identifying features, there was no mistaking it.

“No one could mistake the owner of that mustache,” she said. “Mr. Poirot, what are you doing here?”

Hercule Poirot stepped closer to the bed, his expression tinged with exasperation. “I warned you to be careful, madame.”

“People always lose their way,” Mrs. Oliver muttered, her tone somewhat muddled. Then she added, “My head hurts.”

“Understandably so,” Poirot nodded. “You mentioned someone struck your head.”

“Yes, it was the peacock.”

The policeman’s face showed a flicker of confusion. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Did you say you were attacked by a peacock?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Oliver sighed, as if the question were absurd. “I had a feeling—an atmosphere. You know, one of those intangible feelings.” She tried to wave her hand to illustrate but winced in pain and let it drop. “Oh dear, perhaps I’d better not move.”

“My patient must not get too excited,” the nun interjected firmly from the doorway.

The policeman pressed on, “Can you tell me where the attack occurred?”

“I have no idea.” Mrs. Oliver shook her head. “I got lost. I remember leaving an artist’s studio. The place was filthy, chaotic. There was a scruffy young man with an unkempt beard wearing an oil-stained jacket.”

“Was he the one who attacked you?”

“No, not him.”

“Then who?”

“It was the peacock,” she replied, her tone matter-of-fact, as though discussing the weather. “He unsettled me.”

The policeman furrowed his brow. “Could you describe him in more detail?”

Mrs. Oliver hesitated, then turned her gaze to Poirot, as if seeking validation. “You know, I was following him at first, but then I realized he was following me.”

“David?” Poirot asked quietly.

“Yes, him,” she confirmed. “He led me to that studio, where another young man was painting and a girl was modeling. She was clean and very pretty. They were friendly enough and even gave me directions back.”

“And then?” the policeman prompted.

“Then?” She shrugged slightly but winced again from the movement. “Then I still got lost. I ended up in some derelict area near the river.”

Her voice lowered. “That’s when the peacock struck. I must have let my guard down.”

“Can you describe him?” the policeman asked again.

“He wore velvet and silk, with long, flowing curls,” Mrs. Oliver muttered. “A real peacock. All vanity and pretense.”

“You’re saying David attacked you?” Poirot pressed for confirmation.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Oliver admitted, her voice faint and weary. “I didn’t see him. I just remember feeling something behind me, and when I turned around, I was struck.”

Her voice slowed. “After that, everything went blurry. I think… I need to sleep now.”

She shifted her head slightly, a pained expression crossing her face. Then she closed her eyes and drifted into what appeared to be a peaceful slumber.

The room fell silent for a moment. The nun quietly instructed the nurse, “Make sure she gets plenty of rest. No more disturbances.”

Poirot stood nearby, gazing down at the sleeping Mrs. Oliver with a conflicted expression. “The peacock… Who is he really, and why did he attack you?”