After the funeral - Agatha Christie

He dreamed of the green malachite table. On it was the glass-covered stand of wax flowers — only the whole thing had been painted over with thick crimson oil paint. Paint the colour of blood. He could smell the paint, and Timothy was groaning, was saying "I'm dying — dying... this is the end."

And Maude, standing by, tall and stern, with a large knife in her hand was echoing him, saying "Yes, it's the end..." The end — a deathbed, with candles and a nun praying. If he could just see the nun's face, he would know...

Hercule Poirot woke up — and he did know