I came to an abrupt pause.
"Yes," said Poirot, nodding his head. "There is Gerald Paynter, as you say. He is his uncle's heir. He was dining out that night, though."
"He might have got at some of the ingredients of the curry," I suggested. "And he would take care to be out, so as not to have to partake of the dish."
I think my reasoning rather impressed Poirot. He looked at me with a more respectful attention than he had given me so far.
"He returns late," I mused, pursuing a hypothetical case. "Sees the light in his uncle's study, enters, and, finding his plan has failed, thrusts the old man down into the fire."
"Mr. Paynter, who was a fairly hearty man of fifty-five, would not permit himself to be burnt to death without a struggle, Hastings. Such a reconstruction is not feasible."
"Well, Poirot," I cried, "we're nearly there, I fancy. Let us hear what you think?"
Poirot threw me a smile, swelled out his chest, and began in a pompous manner.
"Assuming murder, the question at once arises, why choose that particular method? I can think of only one reason—to confuse identity, the face being charred beyond recognition."
"What?" I cried. "You think—"