Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning’s eye swept over him with a faint contempt.

“You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?”

“Yes, sir, me and Willum.”

“And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?”

“Yes, sir, she did.”

“Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that.”

“Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or suchlike⁠—I don’t know what exactly⁠—she wrote it down for him.”