“And if she had not died he would have been ruined?”
“Yes.”
“But there must have been more than that,” persisted Lenox. “He travelled by the same train, I know, but—that would not be enough to go on by itself.”
“A cigarette case with the letter K on it which did not belong to Mrs. Kettering was found in her carriage, and he was seen by two people entering and leaving the compartment just before the train got into Lyons.”
“What two people?”
“Your friend Miss Grey was one of them. The other was Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer.”
“And he, Derek, what has he got to say about it?” demanded Lenox sharply.
“He denies having entered his wife’s compartment at all,” said Poirot.
“Fool!” said Lenox crisply, frowning. “Just before Lyons, you say? Does nobody know when—when she died?”
“The doctors’ evidence necessarily cannot be very definite,” said Poirot; “they are inclined to think that death was unlikely to have occurred after leaving Lyons. And we know this much, that a few moments after leaving Lyons Mrs. Kettering was dead.”
“How do you know that?”
Poirot was smiling rather oddly to himself.
“Someone else went into her compartment and found her dead.”