The memory of the public is limited. The intense interest and excitement caused by the murder of George Alfred Saint Vincent Marsh, the fourth Baron Edgeware, already belong to oblivion. New impressions have taken their place.
My friend Hercule Poirot never openly mentioned the case. This, I can say, was entirely in accordance with his wishes. He himself chose not to appear. The credit went elsewhere – and that was how he wanted it. Moreover, according to his peculiar personal opinion, the case counts among his failures. He insists on swearing that a chance comment from a stranger on the street put him on the right path.
In any case, it was his genius that revealed the truth. Without Hercule Poirot, I doubt the crime would have been attributed to its perpetrator. Therefore, I feel that the time has come to unequivocally record everything I know about this particular case. I know its details thoroughly and can also say that in doing so I fulfill the wish of a very charming lady.
I often remember that day in Poirot’s respectable, elegant, small sitting room, where, pacing up and down a specific strip of carpet, my small-statured friend summarized the case in an elaborate and impressive manner. I intend to begin my narration from where he himself started then – a London theatre in June of last year.