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Spending more time with Ally.

She poured two cups, using the sieve, then dropped three sugar cubes into her own brew. Poirot indicated that he wanted the same and so she repeated the action, then slid it across to him. "Merci." She wanted to talk but she sensed that he was deep in thought, letting the machinations of his brain work through the problem before him.

Joceline sipped her tea while observing the man that was Hercule Poirot. She had heard of him, as of course, the entire world had. The famous detective who never lost a case. He wasn't what you would call, handsome, but he was certainly charismatic. His head was shaped like an egg, elliptical with a dusting of black hair on top and a crown of the same dark hair tracing the circumference of his skull. His brows were thick as was his carefully sculpted mustache and pale pink lips completed a strong face.

"These were all written by the same person, even though he or she has tried to cover the fact up. They cannot fool Hercule Poirot. The little grey cells enjoy exercise such as this."

She nodded, still deep in her examination of the great detective. His body was mostly hidden by his extravagant finery but she could discern muscle beneath the fine cloth and his hands were well-manicured. Even the hairs on the backs had been trimmed. She found herself secretly wondering what it would be like to be worthy of Hercule Poirot's love. What kind of woman would be lucky enough to be the love of this fastidious man's life? Super-smart? Sexy? A combination of both?

"Did you hear me, Lina?"

Joceline caught his eyes and set her cup down. "I'm sorry, Hercule."

He seemed concerned. "Are you worried, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, I am." She knitted her fingers together, remembering the fear that she'd felt when she read the first one. "I may not be the right color or the right sex but I don't want to die."

The compassion in his eyes floored her and she fought the urge to throw herself into his arms. "Lina," His voice was soft, reaching not only her ears but her heart. "Seldom does a day go by in which I am not called a foreigner or a frog. These people do not realize that Hercule Poirot is Belgian, not French!" He calmed himself, wanting to apologize for the angry hiss but knowing that she understood. "You have been called much worse, I surmise, but nothing warrants the taking of your life." His gaze penetrated the tears that welled up in her eyes. "Hercule Poirot will make sure that no one takes your life, dear Lina. No one."

Joceline lowered her head, letting the tears fall into her tea, unable to stem the flow of emotion. It had been a long time since she'd felt that someone cared, really cared. "Thank you." She choked out.

"No." Poirot dropped his voice to a resonant whisper, capturing her hand and raising it reverently to his lips. "Thank you."


Poirot had scarcely closed the door behind him when Miss Lemon darted out from her office, Hastings behind her.

"Mr. Poirot!"

"Yes, Miss Lemon?"

"Chief Inspector Japp called for you. There's been a murder at the Saint-Th__r__se Orphanage and he'd like you to get out there as soon as possible."

"And where is this place?"


Hastings consulted the clock on the mantle. "We'd better hurry if we're going to catch the train."


Chief Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard was rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he navigated the stairs of the orphanage, heading for a breath of fresh early evening air. The nuns of the Saint-Th__r__se Orphanage were frightened, as well they should be. Murders of this sort weren't run of the mill in rural Bath and certainly didn't occur to respectable older ladies like Sister Bernadetta. Until his lads could figure out what had happened, all of their lives were at stake.

He was particularly perturbed that a sister named Lilia was not allowing him access to the scene because she said that Sister Bernadetta was in an 'ungodly state' and that it would be disrespectful to lay eyes upon her until the local priest could correct

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