Hercules Poirot thought the joke in poor taste, not to be expected of his gracious hosts, Lord and Lady Angkatell. At the edge of the swimming pool lay a man in a puddle of red paint, and standing over him, pistol in hand, was a woman feigning hysteria. But Poirot quickly learned it was no charade. The paint was blood, the corpse was real, and a pleasant country weekend had turned into one of the legendary detectives most baffling cases.