"Went out to the village to pay tradesmen's books."
That did not seem very promising. Poirot tried another tack. He held out the key of the desk.
"Is that your master's writing?"
I may have imagined it, but I fancied that a moment or two elapsed before Baker replied: "Yes, sir, it is."
"He's lying," I thought. "But why?"
"Has your master let the house?—have there been any strangers in it during the last three years?"
"No, sir."
"No visitors?"
"Only Miss Violet."
"No strangers of any kind been inside this room?"
"No, sir."
"You forget the workmen, Jim," his wife reminded him.
"Workmen?" Poirot wheeled round on her. "What workmen?"
The woman explained that about two years and a half ago workmen had been in the house to do certain repairs. She was quite vague as to
