"We start," I said, "with Mr. Paynter. A man of fifty-five, rich,
cultured, and somewhat of a globetrotter. For the last twelve years
he has been little in England, but suddenly tiring of incessant
travelling, he bought a small place in Worcestershire, near Market
Handford, and prepared to settle down. His first action was to write
to his only relative, a nephew, Gerald Paynter, the son of his younger
brother, and to suggest to him that he should come and make his home
at Croftlands (as the place is called) with his uncle. Gerald Paynter,
who is an impecunious young artist, was glad enough to fall in with the
arrangement, and had been living with his uncle for about seven months
when the tragedy occurred."
"Your narrative style is masterly," murmured Poirot. "I say to myself,
it is a book that talks, not my friend Hastings."
Paying no attention to Poirot, I went on, warming to the story.
"Mr. Paynter kept up a fair staff at Croftlands--six servants as well
as his own Chinese body servant--Ah Ling."
"His Chinese servant, Ah Ling," murmured Poirot.
"On Tuesday last, Mr. Paynter complained of feeling unwell after
dinner, and one of the servants was despatched to fetch the doctor. Mr.
Paynter received the doctor in his study, having refused to go to bed.
What passed between them was not then known, but before Doctor Quentin
left, he asked to see the housekeeper, and mentioned that he had given
Mr. Paynter a hypodermic injection as his heart was in a very weak
state, recommended that he should not be disturbed, and then proceeded
to ask some rather curious questions about the servants--how long they
had been there, from whom they had come, etc.
"The housekeeper answered these questions as best she could, but was
rather puzzled as to their purport. A terrible discovery was made on
the following morning. One of the housemaids, on descending, was met
by a sickening odour of burned flesh which seemed to come from her
master's study. She tried the door, but it was locked on the inside.
With the assistance of Gerald Paynter and the Chinaman that was soon
broken in, but a terrible sight greeted them. Mr. Paynter had fallen
forward into the gas fire, and his face and head were charred beyond
recognition.
"Of course, at the moment, no suspicion was aroused as to its being
anything but a ghastly accident. If blame attached to any one, it was
to Doctor Quentin for giving his patient a narcotic and leaving him in
such a dangerous position. And then a rather curious discovery was made.
"There was a newspaper on the floor, lying where it had slipped from
the old man's knees. On turning it over, words were found to be
scrawled across it, feebly traced in ink. A writing-table stood close
to the chair in which Mr. Paynter had been sitting, and the forefinger
of the victim's right hand was ink-stained up to the second joint. It
was clear that, too weak to hold a pen, Mr. Paynter had dipped his
finger in the ink-pot and managed to scrawl these two words across
the surface of the newspaper he held--but the words themselves seemed
utterly fantastic: _Yellow Jasmine_--just that and nothing more.
"Croftlands has a large quantity of yellow jasmine growing up its
walls, and it was thought that this dying message had some reference to
them, showing that the poor old man's mind was wandering. Of course,
the newspapers, agog for anything out of the common, took up the story
hotly, calling it the Mystery of the Yellow Jasmine--though in all
probability the words are completely unimportant."
"They are unimportant, you say?" said Poirot. "Well, doubtless, since
you say so, it must be so."