It is the straight-forward narrative of what occurred, as presented to Hercule

Poirot. I was at Poirot’s elbow the whole time. I saw what he saw. I tried my

best to read his mind. As I know now, I failed in this latter task. Though

Poirot showed me all his discoveries—as, for instance, the gold wedding-ring—he

held back the vital and yet logical impressions that he formed. As I came to

know later, this secrecy was characteristic of him. He would throw out hints and

suggestions, but beyond that he would not go.

 

As I say, up till the Monday evening, my narrative might have been that of

Poirot himself. I played Watson to his Sherlock. But after Monday our ways

diverged. Poirot was busy on his own account. I got to hear of what he was

doing, because, in King’s Abbot, you get to hear of everything, but he did not

take me into his confidence beforehand. And I, too, had my own preoccupations.

 

On looking back, the thing that strikes me most is the piecemeal character of

this period. Every one had a hand in the elucidation of the mystery. It was

rather like a jig-saw puzzle to which every one contributed their own little

piece of knowledge or discovery. But their task ended there. To Poirot alone

belongs the renown of fitting those pieces into their correct place.

 

Some of the incidents seemed at the time irrelevant and unmeaning.

 

There was, for instance, the question of the black boots. But that comes

later.... To take things strictly in chronological order, I must begin with the

summons from Mrs. Ackroyd.