The tension in the living room was palpable, as if the air itself had frozen in place. The room, now filled with six people, remained oppressively silent, save for the dispassionate gaze of a clown mask hanging on the wall. Though the police had come and gone, and the body had long been removed, no one’s taut expression suggested that the ordeal was anywhere near over.

Andrew Restarick sat slumped on the sofa, a man undone, his voice a low murmur of disbelief. "I can’t believe it… I just can’t believe it…" He had rushed over after receiving the news, accompanied by Claudia Rees-Holland, who maintained her characteristic poise. Throughout the day, she had worked efficiently: notifying lawyers, contacting Kraus Hedges’ residence, and even dialing a series of real estate offices in a bid to locate Mary Restarick. She had also handed Frances Cary a sedative, instructing her to lie down in the adjoining room and rest.

Hercule Poirot and Mrs. Oliver sat side by side on another sofa, quietly observing the scene. They had arrived with the police and witnessed the initial chaos firsthand. The door opened, and Neil, a seasoned prosecutor from Scotland Yard, entered briskly. His polished demeanor contrasted sharply with the room’s frayed energy. He greeted Poirot with a courteous nod before turning his attention to the assembled group.

In a corner of the room, a tall young man with striking red hair stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the courtyard below. The atmosphere was taut, as though the entire house were holding its breath, waiting for something decisive to happen.

Mrs. Oliver, unable to contain her impatience, leaned toward Poirot and whispered, “What are we waiting for, exactly? The body is gone, the police have done their initial investigation. Is it Neil’s arrival that’s keeping us all here?”

She hesitated before adding, “If you think my presence is inappropriate…”

Neil intervened gently, his tone reassuring. “Your presence is necessary, Mrs. Oliver. If you don’t mind, I would appreciate you staying for a while longer, unpleasant as the circumstances may be.”

“It all feels so unreal,” Mrs. Oliver murmured, her mind involuntarily conjuring the gruesome image of the deceased. The flamboyant young man, dressed like a peacock, lay sprawled in a pool of blood, his pristine white shirt drenched in red. And Norma—her transformation was even more unsettling. She no longer seemed like the timid, hesitant girl Mrs. Oliver had met before, but a figure akin to Ophelia, resigned to a tragic fate.

Earlier, Poirot had excused himself to make two phone calls. The first was to Neil, securing special permissions from Scotland Yard. The officer who granted the call had expressed quiet curiosity.

“Who is this peculiar little foreigner?” he had whispered to his assistant.

“Perhaps some emissary from a security agency?” the assistant speculated.

“No, he asked specifically for Prosecutor Neil,” the officer had replied, arching an eyebrow.

After making the calls, Poirot returned to the living room and resumed his place beside Mrs. Oliver.

“I wish we could do something,” she muttered, clearly uncomfortable with the prolonged waiting.

“Patience, my dear lady,” Poirot replied with measured calm. “This is a time for observation, not action. I’ve made the necessary calls; now we must await the next development.”

“And who exactly did you call?” Mrs. Oliver pressed.

“The first was to Prosecutor Neil, who has been assisting me in piecing together certain aspects of this case. His involvement is pivotal to understanding the larger picture.”

“And the second?”

Poirot’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “To Dr. John Stillingfleet.”

“Stillingfleet? Who is he?” Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Is this about proving Norma’s mental state? That she was unhinged when she… well…”

“If a psychological evaluation becomes necessary in court, he would be the ideal person to conduct it,” Poirot explained. “He has been closely monitoring Norma since the day you found her at the Cloverleaf Café.”

Mrs. Oliver stared at him, her mouth slightly agape. “Wait, so you’ve been orchestrating this from the beginning? All this time, I’ve been nagging you to take action, and you’ve already had it planned! Really, Poirot, you might have told me!”

Poirot’s smile widened, tinged with mischief. “Sometimes, secrecy is the best form of protection.”

Their conversation was interrupted by commotion outside. All heads turned toward the window as Poirot rose and peered down into the courtyard. A paramedic van rolled into view, its flashing red lights casting ominous reflections against the shadowed walls.

“Are they here to collect the body?” Mrs. Oliver asked in a hushed voice, her unease palpable. “Poor peacock…”

“He was not a likable individual,” Poirot said flatly. “Vain and preening, but such traits often hold a certain allure for impressionable women.”

At that moment, the red-haired young man by the window turned abruptly, his expression a mix of frustration and demand.

“What did she do?” he asked bluntly. “Was it murder? Did she kill her boyfriend?”

“It appears so,” Poirot replied evenly.

“Did she admit to it?”

“For now, she seems to have confessed,” Poirot said. “But the specifics remain to be verified.”

The young man scowled but refrained from pressing further. Moments later, a police officer entered the room and approached him directly.

“Dr. Stillingfleet, the medical examiner would like a word,” the officer said.

Stillingfleet nodded and followed him out of the room.

As Mrs. Oliver watched him leave, she remarked, “A fine young man, isn’t he?”

Poirot said nothing, lost in thought as the pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in his mind. He knew the answer was close, tantalizingly so. Only one final piece remained to reveal the truth.