Hercule Poirot stood at the entrance of the Wadeburn Gallery, his sharp eyes scanning a peculiar painting displayed prominently in the window. The artwork depicted three imposing bulls against the backdrop of an intricately designed windmill, all drenched in an eerie palette of purples. The strange, almost unsettling composition made Poirot raise an intrigued eyebrow. As he contemplated its meaning, a smooth, cat-like voice interrupted his thoughts.

“An interesting piece, isn’t it?” said a middle-aged man, his polished smile revealing teeth that seemed unnaturally perfect, as if designed to charm or disarm.

Poirot turned to find the man regarding him with professional enthusiasm, his hands gesturing fluidly as he spoke, like a conductor orchestrating an invisible symphony.

“It was part of last week’s exhibition,” the man continued, “a collection that drew quite the crowd. The piece you’re admiring now is from Claude Raphael’s latest work—sure to be a hit.”

With a polite nod, Poirot moved past the man, slipping through a gray velvet curtain into the gallery’s main room. The man, clearly the gallery director, exuded the calculated warmth of a seasoned salesman. His demeanor suggested that he was accustomed to persuading visitors to linger, admire, and, most importantly, purchase.

Inside, Poirot feigned the casual curiosity of an art novice, offering simple remarks like, “This piece has a striking energy.” To his surprise, such comments elicited effusive praise.

“You have a remarkable eye, Monsieur!” the man gushed. “This is one of Raphael’s signature works. To notice its subtle brilliance at first glance—most impressive.”

While engaging in this charade, Poirot discreetly observed the gallery’s layout and atmosphere. When the conversation lulled, he casually brought up, “I hear that a Miss Frances Cary works here?”

“Ah, Frances!” the director’s face lit up with a blend of pride and approval. “A rare talent indeed. She has an impeccable eye for art and exceptional organizational skills. She just returned from Portugal, where she successfully curated an exhibition for us. While she dabbles in art herself, her true gift lies in managing and elevating others’ work.”

“She seems particularly passionate about supporting emerging artists,” Poirot remarked.

“Absolutely,” the man agreed. “Frances has a knack for discovering fresh talent. This spring, she convinced me to host an exhibition featuring avant-garde pieces from a group of young artists. I was skeptical at first, but the show was a success—garnering both critical and commercial attention.”

Poirot seized the opening. “One of those artists, I believe, was David Baker?”

The director hesitated briefly, his enthusiasm dimming slightly. “Baker? Yes, he was part of the group. Decent, I suppose, but not exceptional. His work tends to lack originality—too derivative, in my opinion. He’s not the kind of artist who sets trends.”

Taking note of the director’s lukewarm assessment, Poirot offered his thanks and left the gallery. Back at home, he meticulously reviewed his notes. The gallery’s reputation for selling contentious artwork, coupled with Frances Cary’s ties to Baker, hinted at deeper connections. Could Baker have been compromised by financial pressures? Could his involvement somehow intersect with the troubled life of Norma Restarick?

As Poirot pondered, the telephone rang. Reluctantly, he answered, unsurprised to hear Ariadne Oliver’s unmistakable voice.

“Poirot, what have you been up to? Have you found that poor girl yet?” she demanded, her tone brimming with impatience.

“Alas, Madame,” Poirot replied, “there has been no breakthrough.”

“That’s unacceptable! You can’t just sit there thinking—you need to act! Go to Chelsea, or wherever, and start digging!”

“And risk being assaulted as you were?” Poirot retorted with a wry tone.

The conversation escalated into a lively debate before Oliver abruptly hung up, leaving Poirot to sigh and hand the receiver back to George, his unflappable valet. Settling into his armchair, he resumed organizing the tangled threads of the case.

The Wadeburn Gallery, with its history of questionable dealings, appeared to be a pivotal piece of the puzzle. Frances Cary’s connection to David Baker and her championing of unproven talents raised questions. Was Baker merely a struggling artist, or was he involved in something more sinister?

Meanwhile, the Restarick household remained shrouded in mystery. Mary Restarick’s frequent trips to London hinted at undisclosed affairs, potentially financial or otherwise. Could Norma’s erratic behavior be linked to Louise Carpenter’s death? Why did every trail seem to lead back to her?

“I know too much, yet see too little,” Poirot murmured, frustrated by the lack of clarity. Rising to his feet, he instructed George to prepare the car. The time had come to meet Andrew Restarick—perhaps the man’s insights would illuminate the path forward.