The four of them sat in Poirot's cozy living room, the atmosphere finally lightened by a sense of closure. Poirot, ever composed, sat comfortably in his signature armchair, sipping a glass of blackcurrant cordial. Norma and Mrs. Oliver shared the sofa, the latter radiant in a green satin coat that perfectly matched her cheerful demeanor. Dr. Stillingfleet lounged lazily in his chair, his long legs stretched out, almost spanning the room.

“I still have so many questions,” Mrs. Oliver declared, her tone carrying both curiosity and frustration.

Poirot smiled, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Dear Madame, you must admit, I owe you a great debt. It was your brilliant phrase—‘the third girl’—that inspired this entire unraveling.”

“But I never connected it to Mary Restarick!” Mrs. Oliver exclaimed, frowning. “I met her at Klaus Heitges’s place. We even had a conversation! And when I first saw Frances Cary, her dark hair completely covered her face—I didn’t recognize her at all.”

Poirot nodded with satisfaction. “Precisely, chère amie. You taught me to consider how easily a woman’s appearance can be transformed with a simple change of hairstyle. Frances, with her theatrical training, was a master of disguise. As Frances, she wore long, dark hair that obscured her face, paired with heavy makeup and a low, husky voice. But as Mary Restarick, she donned a neatly coiffed wig, dressed plainly, and spoke in a bright, clear tone. Two entirely distinct personas.”

Mrs. Oliver frowned, still puzzled. “But why go to such lengths? Surely it wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh, but it was essential,” Poirot replied. “By maintaining two separate identities, she always had an alibi. Mary could ‘shop’ or ‘view properties’ in London while Frances traveled to Manchester or Birmingham, mingling with the art world and conducting illicit activities—such as using art frames to smuggle drugs.”

“And orchestrating art forgery?” Stillingfleet interjected.

Poirot nodded. “Indeed. David Baker, her hired painter, was exceptionally talented in creating forgeries. However, when he attempted to blackmail her and her accomplices, it sealed his fate.”

Norma spoke softly, her voice tinged with regret. “Poor David... I thought he was a good man at first.”

Poirot sighed. “He was but another victim in this tragedy. And Louise Carpenter—she became collateral damage because she was the one person who could expose Orwell as an imposter.”

“But why frame Norma?” Mrs. Oliver asked, bewildered.

“They needed a scapegoat,” Poirot explained, standing and moving toward Norma. “Ma chère, you were caught in a cruel web. They manipulated you with drugs, made you doubt your sanity, and even led you to believe you were capable of murder.”

Tears welled up in Norma’s eyes. “I almost believed them... but why did you and Dr. Stillingfleet trust that I wasn’t guilty?”

“The blood,” Stillingfleet answered matter-of-factly. “The blood on David’s body had already dried by the time you arrived. It was a physical impossibility for you to have killed him.”

Poirot added, “Frances orchestrated an intricate plan. She used a wig to pose as Mary, killed David, changed her appearance, and then re-entered society to craft an airtight alibi.”

Mrs. Oliver shook her head in disbelief. “What a cold-hearted woman!”

Stillingfleet leaned back, smirking as he turned to Norma. “Norma, now that this is all over, I have a question for you. I’m heading to Australia on Tuesday, and if everything works out, would you consider marrying me? Don’t worry—it’s not for your money. I just think you might be the only person capable of putting up with my temperament.”

Norma’s face lit up with a radiant smile. “Well,” she said teasingly, “I’ll think about it.”

She then walked over to Poirot and gently kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Monsieur Poirot. You saved my life.”

As Norma and Mrs. Oliver prepared to leave, the latter paused at the door, turning back with a sly grin. “Poirot, tell me—did you plan all of this from the start? Even arranging for Norma to meet Stillingfleet?”

Poirot’s smile grew wider. “Madame, if you insist on believing so, I shall not dissuade you.”

Mrs. Oliver narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re always one step ahead, aren’t you?”

With that, she shook her head and, taking Norma’s hand, led her out of the room. Poirot remained behind, his smile lingering as he gazed out the window. The storm of deceit and tragedy had passed, leaving clarity and justice in its wake.