Hallowe'en Party

Poirot did not answer. A picture was forming in his mind of a young man of singular beauty lying by the megalithic stone marked with a double axe, and still clasping in his dead fingers the golden goblet he had seized and drained when retribution had come suddenly to save his victim and to deliver him to justice.

It was so that Michael Garfield had died a fitting death, Poirot thought but, alas, there would be no garden blossoming on an island in the Grecian Seas…

Instead there would be Miranda alive and young and beautiful.

He raised Judith's hand and kissed it.

"Good-bye, Madame, and remember me to your daughter."

"She ought always to remember you and what she owes you."

"Better not some memories are better buried."

He went on to Mrs. Oliver.

"Good night, chere Madame. Lady Macbeth and Narcissus. It has been remarkably interesting. I have to thank you for bringing it to my notice " "That's right," said Mrs. Oliver in an exasperated voice,

"Blame it all on me as usual!"