The room felt heavy with anticipation, as though time itself had slowed to a crawl. Five people sat in tense silence, their gazes occasionally flicking to the walls, where a clown mask seemed to mock their discomfort. Neil, the prosecutor, shuffled a few papers on the desk in front of him. Finally, breaking the silence, he looked up and scanned the room.

“Miss Jacobs,” he said, gesturing to the doorway where a uniformed officer waited. “I understand Chief Inspector Connolly has already taken your statement, but I’d like to hear it directly from you. There are some details I need clarified.”

Miss Jacobs entered with a composed demeanor, her footsteps steady as she made her way to the center of the room. She shook Neil’s hand with a polite smile, then sat down with a posture that was upright and deliberate.

“I’m Neil, the prosecutor,” he introduced himself. “I apologize for asking you to relive this incident, but I need you to recount what you saw and heard, as comprehensively as possible. I understand this might be distressing—”

“Not at all,” Miss Jacobs interrupted, her tone cool and unwavering. “I was certainly shocked, but I have no emotional investment in the matter. In situations like these, rationality is paramount.”

Her gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on each person. Poirot’s brow furrowed slightly, as though her words had struck a chord. Mrs. Oliver watched her with open curiosity, while Dr. Stillingfleet, hands shoved into his pockets, stared pensively out the window. When her eyes landed on Andrew Restarick, there was a flicker of pity in her otherwise detached expression.

“You must be Norma’s father,” she said matter-of-factly. “I offer my condolences, though I doubt they hold much weight. Condolences are often meaningless formalities in such unsettling circumstances.” Her tone was courteous but laced with an edge of sardonic observation.

Turning back to Neil, she resumed her composed demeanor. “What would you like to ask?”

“Miss Jacobs,” Neil began, “please describe, in your own words, what you witnessed. Leave no detail out.”

She nodded. “Very well. I’ll be as precise as I can. It began with a scream—high-pitched and frantic. Moments later, there was a frantic knock on my door. I opened it to find the young woman who lives in Flat 67—later I learned her name was Frances Cary. She was in a state of panic, saying that a man named David was dead on her floor and that there was blood everywhere. I brought her inside, gave her a small brandy to calm her nerves, then went to her flat to see for myself.”

Miss Jacobs paused, as if momentarily recalling the grisly scene. “Inside, I found a young man lying on the floor, dressed rather extravagantly—a deep red velvet jacket, his long hair cascading over his shoulders. His white shirt was soaked in blood. He was unmistakably dead.”

“And then?” Neil prompted.

“That’s when I noticed another young woman in the room. She was standing against the wall, holding a bloodied kitchen knife. What struck me most was her demeanor—she was unnervingly calm, almost unnaturally so.”

“Did she say anything?” Dr. Stillingfleet interjected.

“She did,” Miss Jacobs replied with a faint shrug. “Her first words were, ‘Yes, I killed him.’ Then she explained, quite matter-of-factly, that she had tried to wash the blood off her hands but couldn’t get it all out. She even asked if I thought it could be washed away. After that, she placed the knife on the table, sat down, and told me, ‘You’d better call the police.’”

“Did she mention the name Louise?” Poirot asked suddenly, his interest evident.

“Yes, she did,” Miss Jacobs confirmed. “She said, ‘It’s dangerous to hate someone—just like Louise.’ Beyond that, she didn’t elaborate.”

At the mention of Louise, Andrew Restarick’s face darkened. His expression betrayed a complex mix of guilt, anger, and confusion. He muttered, almost to himself, “I can’t believe she’s involved in all of this…”

“Mr. Restarick,” Poirot interjected softly, “do you know a woman named Louise Birell?”

“I do.” Restarick hesitated, then exhaled deeply. “It was years ago. I was in love with her. Because of her, I left my wife and daughter. But it didn’t last—we were together for only a year before we parted ways.”

“And have you had any contact with her recently? Or received any messages from her?” Poirot pressed.

“I haven’t seen her in years,” Restarick admitted, though his voice faltered. “But she did write to me once. She mentioned living in this very building, coincidentally near my daughter’s flat. She even invited me to visit her, but I didn’t respond.”

Poirot nodded and reached into his jacket, producing an envelope. “This is another letter from her. It was found inadvertently by one of my associates during a recent investigation.”

All eyes turned to the envelope as Restarick hesitantly took it. Poirot, meanwhile, was connecting dots in his mind: Norma’s mention of Louise, David’s death, Louise’s reappearance, and Norma’s eerie composure. The threads of the case began to weave into a discernible pattern.

“Mr. Restarick,” Poirot said after a moment’s pause, “do you know if Norma ever met Louise?”

“Yes, they met,” Restarick admitted reluctantly. “When Norma was a child, Louise would occasionally play with her. It was brief, but it happened.”

“Then it’s possible,” Poirot mused aloud, “that her memories of Louise run far deeper than anyone realizes.”

The room fell silent once more as Poirot’s words hung in the air, their implications unsettling yet undeniable. He had the sense that the final piece of the puzzle was within reach—and with it, the truth that had eluded them all.