The Big Four by Agatha Christie

tragedy occurred.”
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œMr. Paynter kept up a fair staff at Croftlands—six servants as well as his own Chinese body servant—Ah Ling.”
    â€œHis Chinese servant, Ah Ling,” murmured Poirot.
    â€œOn 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.
    â€œThe 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.
    â€œOf course, at the moment, no suspicion was aroused as to its being anything but a ghastly accident. If blame attached to anyone, 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.
    â€œThere 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 theforefinger 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 inkpot 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.
    â€œCroftlands 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.”
    â€œThey are unimportant, you say?” said Poirot. “Well, doubtless, since you say so, it must be so.”
    I regarded him dubiously, but I could detect no mockery in his eye.
    â€œAnd then,” I continued, “there came the excitements of the inquest.”
    â€œThis is where you lick your lips, I perceive.”
    â€œThere was a certain amount of feeling evidenced against Dr. Quentin. To begin with, he was not the regular doctor, only a locum, putting in a month’s work, whilst Dr. Bolitho was away on a well-earned holiday. Then it was felt that his carelessness was the direct cause of the accident. But his evidence was little short of sensational. Mr. Paynter had been ailing in health since his arrival at Croftlands. Dr. Bolitho had attended him for some time, but when Dr. Quentin first saw his patient, he was mystified by some of the symptoms. He had only attended him once before the nightwhen he was sent for after dinner. As soon as he was alone with Mr. Paynter, the latter had unfolded a surprising tale.