Agatha Christie

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

A Hercule Poirot Mystery

Dedication

To Peggy and Humphrey Trevelyan

One

I

It was Miss Lemon, Poirotâs efficient secretary, who took the telephone call.

Laying aside her shorthand notebook, she raised the receiver and said without emphasis, âTrafalgar 8137.â

Hercule Poirot leaned back in his upright chair and closed his eyes. His fingers beat a meditative soft tattoo on the edge of the table. In his head he continued to compose the polished periods of the letter he had been dictating.

Placing her hand over the receiver, Miss Lemon asked in a low voice:

âWill you accept a personal call from Nassecombe, Devon?â

Poirot frowned. The place meant nothing to him.

âThe name of the caller?â he demanded cautiously.

Miss Lemon spoke into the mouthpiece.

âAir raid?â she asked doubtingly. âOh, yesâwhat was the last name again?â

Once more she turned to Hercule Poirot.

âMrs. Ariadne Oliver.â

Hercule Poirotâs eyebrows shot up. A memory rose in his mind: windswept grey hairâ¦an eagle profileâ¦.

He rose and replaced Miss Lemon at the telephone.

âHercule Poirot speaks,â he announced grandiloquently.

âIs that Mr. Hercules Porrot speaking personally?â the suspicious voice of the telephone operator demanded.

Poirot assured her that that was the case.

âYouâre through to Mr. Porrot,â said the voice.

Its thin reedy accents were replaced by a magnificent booming contralto which caused Poirot hastily to shift the receiver a couple of inches farther from his ear.

âM. Poirot, is that really you?â demanded Mrs. Oliver.

âMyself in person, Madame.â

âThis is Mrs. Oliver. I donât know if youâll remember meââ

âBut of course I remember you, Madame. Who could forget you?â

âWell, people do sometimes,â said Mrs. Oliver. âQuite often, in fact. I donât think that Iâve got a very distinctive personality. Or perhaps itâs because Iâm always doing different things to my hair. But all thatâs neither here nor there. I hope Iâm not interrupting you when youâre frightfully busy?â

âNo, no, you do not derange me in the least.â

âGood graciousâIâm sure I donât want to drive you out of your mind. The fact is, I need you.â

âNeed me?â

âYes, at once. Can you take an aeroplane?â

âI do not take aeroplanes. They make me sick.â

âThey do me, too. Anyway, I donât suppose it would be any quicker than the train really, because I think the only airport near here is Exeter which is miles away. So come by train. Twelve oâclock from Paddington to Nassecombe. You can do it nicely. Youâve got three-quarters of an hour if my watch is rightâthough it isnât usually.â

âBut where are you, Madame? What is all this about?â

âNasse House, Nassecombe. A car or taxi will meet you at the station at Nassecombe.â

âBut why do you need me? What is all this about?â Poirot repeated frantically.

âTelephones are in such awkward places,â said Mrs. Oliver. âThis oneâs in the hallâ¦People passing through and talkingâ¦I canât really hear. But Iâm expecting you. Everybody will be so thrilled. Good-bye.â

There was a sharp click as the receiver was replaced. The line hummed gently.

With a baffled air of bewilderment, Poirot put back the receiver and murmured something under his breath. Miss Lemon sat with her pencil poised, incurious. She repeated in muted tones the final phrase of dictation before the interruption.

ââallow me to assure you, my dear sir, that the hypothesis you have advancedâ¦.â

Poirot waved aside the advancement of the hypothesis.

âThat was Mrs. Oliver,â he said. âAriadne Oliver, the detective novelist. You may have readâ¦â But he stopped, remembering that Miss Lemon only read improving books and regarded such frivolities as fictional crime with contempt. âShe wants me to go down to Devonshire today, at once, inââhe glanced at the clockââthirty-five minutes.â

Miss Lemon raised disapproving eyebrows.

âThat will be running it rather fine,â she said. âFor what reason?â

âYou may well ask! She did not tell me.â

âHow very peculiar. Why not?â

âBecause,â said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, âshe was afraid of being overheard. Yes, she made that quite clear.â

âWell, really,â said Miss Lemon, bristling in her employerâs defence. âThe things people expect! Fancy thinking that youâd go rushing off on some wild goose chase like that! An important man like you! I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalancedâno sense of proportion. Shall I telephone through a telegram: Regret unable leave London?â

Her hand went out to the telephone. Poirotâs voice arrested the gesture.

âDu tout!â he said. âOn the contrary. Be so kind as to summon a taxi immediately.â He raised his voice. âGeorges! A few necessities of toilet in my small valise. And quickly, very quickly, I have a train to catch.â

II

The train, having done one hundred and eighty-odd miles of its two hundred and twelve miles journey at top speed, puffed gently and apologetically through the last thirty and drew into Nassecombe station. Only one person alighted, Hercule Poirot. He negotiated with care a yawning gap between the step of the train and the platform and looked round him. At the far end of the train a porter was busy inside a luggage compartment. Poirot picked up his valise and walked back along the platform to the exit. He gave up his ticket and walked out through the booking office.

A large Humber saloon was drawn up outside and a chauffeur in uniform came forward.

âMr. Hercule Poirot?â he inquired respectfully.

He took Poirotâs case from him and opened the door of the car. They drove away from the station over the railway bridge and turned down a country lane which wound between high hedges on either side. Presently the ground fell away on the right and disclosed a very beautiful river view with hills of a misty blue in the distance. The chauffeur drew into the hedge and stopped.

âThe River Helm, sir,â he said. âWith Dartmoor in the distance.â

It was clear that admiration was necessary. Poirot made the necessary noises, murmuring Magnifique! several times. Actually, Nature appealed to him very little. A well-cultivated neatly arranged kitchen garden was far more likely to bring a murmur of admiration to Poirotâs lips. Two girls passed the car, toiling slowly up the hill. They were carrying heavy rucksacks on their backs and wore shorts, with bright coloured scarves tied over their heads.

âThere is a Youth Hostel next door to us, sir,â explained the chauffeur, who had clearly constituted himself Poirotâs guide to Devon. âHoodown Park. Mr. Fletcherâs place it used to be. The Youth Hostel Association bought it and itâs fairly crammed in summer time. Take in over a hundred a night, they do. Theyâre not allowed to stay longer than a couple of nightsâthen theyâve got to move on. Both sexes and mostly foreigners.â

Poirot nodded absently. He was reflecting, not for the first time, that seen from the back, shorts were becoming to very few of the female sex. He shut his eyes in pain. Why, oh why, must young women array themselves thus? Those scarlet thighs were singularly unattractive!

âThey seem heavily laden,â he murmured.

âYes, sir, and itâs a long pull from the station or the bus stop. Best part of two miles to Hoodown Park.â He hesitated. âIf you donât object, sir, we could give them a lift?â

âBy all means, by all means,â said Poirot benignantly. There was he in luxury in an almost empty car and here were these two panting and perspiring young women weighed down with heavy rucksacks and without the least idea how to dress themselves so as to appear attractive to the other sex. The chauffeur started the car and came to a slow purring halt beside the two girls. Their flushed and perspiring faces were raised hopefully.

Poirot opened the door and the girls climbed in.

âIt is most kind, please,â said one of them, a fair girl with a foreign accent. âIt is longer way than I think, yes.â

The other girl, who had a sunburnt and deeply flushed face with bronzed chestnut curls peeping out beneath her headscarf, merely nodded her head several times, flashed her teeth, and murmured, Grazie. The fair girl continued to talk vivaciously.

âI to England come for two week holiday. I come from Holland. I like England very much. I have been Stratford Avon, Shakespeare Theatre and Warwick Castle. Then I have been Clovelly, now I have seen Exeter Cathedral and Torquayâvery niceâI come to famous beauty spot here and tomorrow I cross river, go to Plymouth where discovery of New World was made from Plymouth Hoe.â

âAnd you, signorina?â Poirot turned to the other girl. But she only smiled and shook her curls.

âShe does not much English speak,â said the Dutch girl kindly. âWe both a little French speakâso we talk in train. She is coming from near Milan and has relative in England married to gentleman who keeps shop for much groceries. She has come with friend to Exeter yesterday, but friend has eat veal ham pie not good from shop in Exeter and has to stay there sick. It is not good in hot weather, the veal ham pie.â

At this point the chauffeur slowed down where the road forked. The girls got out, uttered thanks in two languages and proceeded up the left-hand road. The chauffeur laid aside for a moment his Olympian aloofness and said feelingly to Poirot:

âItâs not only veal and ham pieâyou want to be careful of Cornish pasties too. Put anything in a pasty they will, holiday time!â

He restarted the car and drove down the right-hand road which shortly afterwards passed into thick woods. He proceeded to give a final verdict on the occupants of Hoodown Park Youth Hostel.

âNice enough young women, some of âem, at that hostel,â he said; âbut itâs hard to get them to understand about trespassing. Absolutely shocking the way they trespass. Donât seem to understand that a gentlemanâs place is private here. Always coming through our woods, they are, and pretending that they donât understand what you say to them.â He shook his head darkly.

They went on, down a steep hill through woods, then through big iron gates, and along a drive, winding up finally in front of a big white Georgian house looking out over the river.

The chauffeur opened the door of the car as a tall black-haired butler appeared on the steps.

âMr. Hercule Poirot?â murmured the latter.

âYes.â

âMrs. Oliver is expecting you, sir. You will find her down at the Battery. Allow me to show you the way.â

Poirot was directed to a winding path that led along the wood with glimpses of the river below. The path descended gradually until it came out at last on an open space, round in shape, with a low battlemented parapet. On the parapet Mrs. Oliver was sitting.

She rose to meet him and several apples fell from her lap and rolled in all directions. Apples seemed to be an inescapable motif of meeting Mrs. Oliver.

âI canât think why I always drop things,â said Mrs. Oliver somewhat indistinctly, since her mouth was full of apple. âHow are you, M. Poirot?â

âTrÃ¨s bien, chÃ¨re Madame,â replied Poirot politely. âAnd you?â

Mrs. Oliver was looking somewhat different from when Poirot had last seen her, and the reason lay, as she had already hinted over the telephone, in the fact that she had once more experimented with her coiffure. The last time Poirot had seen her, she had been adopting a windswept effect. Today, her hair, richly blued, was piled upward in a multiplicity of rather artificial little curls in a pseudo Marquise style. The Marquise effect ended at her neck; the rest of her could have been definitely labelled âcountry practical,â consisting of a violent yolk-of-egg rough tweed coat and skirt and a rather bilious-looking mustard-coloured jumper.

âI knew youâd come,â said Mrs. Oliver cheerfully.

âYou could not possibly have known,â said Poirot severely.

âOh, yes, I did.â

âI still ask myself why I am here.â

âWell, I know the answer. Curiosity.â

Poirot looked at her and his eyes twinkled a little. âYour famous womanâs intuition,â he said, âhas, perhaps, for once not led you too far astray.â

âNow, donât laugh at my womanâs intuition. Havenât I always spotted the murderer right away?â

Poirot was gallantly silent. Otherwise he might have replied, âAt the fifth attempt, perhaps, and not always then!â

Instead he said, looking round him:

âIt is indeed a beautiful property that you have here.â

âThis? But it doesnât belong to me, M. Poirot. Did you think it did? Oh, no, it belongs to some people called Stubbs.â

âWho are they?â

âOh, nobody really,â said Mrs. Oliver vaguely. âJust rich. No, Iâm down here professionally, doing a job.â

âAh, you are getting local colour for one of your chefs-dâoeuvre?â

âNo, no. Just what I said. Iâm doing a job. Iâve been engaged to arrange a murder.â

Poirot stared at her.

âOh, not a real one,â said Mrs. Oliver reassuringly. âThereâs a big fÃªte thing on tomorrow, and as a kind of novelty thereâs going to be a Murder Hunt. Arranged by me. Like a Treasure Hunt, you see; only theyâve had a Treasure Hunt so often that they thought this would be a novelty. So they offered me a very substantial fee to come down and think it up. Quite fun, reallyârather a change from the usual grim routine.â

âHow does it work?â

âWell, thereâll be a Victim, of course. And Clues. And Suspects. All rather conventionalâyou know, the Vamp and the Blackmailer and the Young Lovers and the Sinister Butler and so on. Half a crown to enter and you get shown the first Clue and youâve got to find the Victim, and the Weapon and say Whodunnit and the Motive. And there are Prizes.â

âRemarkable!â said Hercule Poirot.

âActually,â said Mrs. Oliver ruefully, âitâs all much harder to arrange than youâd think. Because youâve got to allow for real people being quite intelligent, and in my books they neednât be.â

âAnd it is to assist you in arranging this that you have sent for me?â

Poirot did not try very hard to keep an outraged resentment out of his voice.

âOh, no,â said Mrs. Oliver. âOf course not! Iâve done all that. Everythingâs all set for tomorrow. No, I wanted you for quite another reason.â

âWhat reason?â

Mrs. Oliverâs hands strayed upward to her head. She was just about to sweep them frenziedly through her hair in the old familiar gesture when she remembered the intricacy of her hairdo. Instead, she relieved her feelings by tugging at her ear lobes.

âI dare say Iâm a fool,â she said. âBut I think thereâs something wrong.â

Two

There was a momentâs silence as Poirot stared at her. Then he asked sharply: âSomething wrong? How?â

âI donât knowâ¦Thatâs what I want you to find out. But Iâve feltâmore and moreâthat I was beingâoh!âengineeredâ¦jockeyed alongâ¦Call me a fool if you like, but I can only say that if there was to be a real murder tomorrow instead of a fake one, I shouldnât be surprised!â

Poirot stared at her and she looked back at him defiantly.

âVery interesting,â said Poirot.

âI suppose you think Iâm a complete fool,â said Mrs. Oliver defensively.

âI have never thought you a fool,â said Poirot.

âAnd I know what you always sayâor lookâabout intuition.â

âOne calls things by different names,â said Poirot. âI am quite ready to believe that you have noticed something, or heard something, that has definitely aroused in you anxiety. I think it is possible that you yourself may not even know just what it is that you have seen or noticed or heard. You are aware only of the result. If I may so put it, you do not know what it is that you know. You may label that intuition if you like.â

âIt makes one feel such a fool,â said Mrs. Oliver, ruefully, ânot to be able to be definite.â

âWe shall arrive,â said Poirot encouragingly. âYou say that you have had the feeling of beingâhow did you put itâjockeyed along? Can you explain a little more clearly what you mean by that?â

âWell, itâs rather difficultâ¦You see, this is my murder, so to speak. Iâve thought it out and planned it and it all fits inâdovetails. Well, if you know anything at all about writers, youâll know that they canât stand suggestions. People say âSplendid, but wouldnât it be better if so and so did so and so?â or âWouldnât it be a wonderful idea if the victim was A instead of B? Or the murderer turned out to be D instead of E?â I mean, one wants to say: âAll right then, write it yourself if you want it that way!ââ

Poirot nodded.

âAnd that is what has been happening?â

âNot quiteâ¦That sort of silly suggestion has been made, and then Iâve flared up, and theyâve given in, but have just slipped in some quite minor trivial suggestion and because Iâve made a stand over the other, Iâve accepted the triviality without noticing much.â

âI see,â said Poirot. âYesâit is a method, thatâ¦Something rather crude and preposterous is put forwardâbut that is not really the point. The small minor alteration is really the objective. Is that what you mean?â

âThatâs exactly what I mean,â said Mrs. Oliver. âAnd, of course, I may be imagining it, but I donât think I amâand none of the things seem to matter anyway. But itâs got me worriedâthat, and a sort ofâwellâatmosphere.â

âWho has made these suggestions of alterations to you?â

âDifferent people,â said Mrs. Oliver. âIf it was just one person Iâd be more sure of my ground. But itâs not just one personâalthough I think it is really. I mean itâs one person working through other quite unsuspecting people.â

âHave you an idea as to who that one person is?â

Mrs. Oliver shook her head.

âItâs somebody very clever and very careful,â she said. âIt might be anybody.â

âWho is there?â asked Poirot. âThe cast of characters must be fairly limited?â

âWell,â began Mrs. Oliver. âThereâs Sir George Stubbs who owns this place. Rich and plebeian and frightfully stupid outside business, I should think, but probably dead sharp in it. And thereâs Lady StubbsâHattieâabout twenty years younger than he is, rather beautiful, but dumb as a fishâin fact, I think sheâs definitely half-witted. Married him for his money, of course, and doesnât think about anything but clothes and jewels. Then thereâs Michael Weymanâheâs an architect, quite young, and good-looking in a craggy kind of artistic way. Heâs designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George and repairing the Folly.â

âFolly? What is thatâa masquerade?â

âNo, itâs architectural. One of those little sort of temple things, white, with columns. Youâve probably seen them at Kew. Then thereâs Miss Brewis, sheâs a sort of secretary housekeeper, who runs things and writes lettersâvery grim and efficient. And then there are the people round about who come in and help. A young married couple who have taken a cottage down by the riverâAlec Legge and his wife Sally. And Captain Warburton, whoâs the Mastertonsâ agent. And the Mastertons, of course, and old Mrs. Folliat who lives in what used to be the lodge. Her husbandâs people owned Nasse originally. But theyâve died out, or been killed in wars, and there were lots of death duties so the last heir sold the place.â

Poirot considered this list of characters, but at the moment they were only names to him. He returned to the main issue.

âWhose idea was the Murder Hunt?â

âMrs. Mastertonâs, I think. Sheâs the local M.P.âs wife, very good at organizing. It was she who persuaded Sir George to have the fÃªte here. You see the place has been empty for so many years that she thinks people will be keen to pay and come in to see it.â

âThat all seems straightforward enough,â said Poirot.

âIt all seems straightforward,â said Mrs. Oliver obstinately; âbut it isnât. I tell you, M. Poirot, thereâs something wrong.â

Poirot looked at Mrs. Oliver and Mrs. Oliver looked back at Poirot.

âHow have you accounted for my presence here? For your summons to me?â Poirot asked.

âThat was easy,â said Mrs. Oliver. âYouâre to give away the prizes for the Murder Hunt. Everybodyâs awfully thrilled. I said I knew you, and could probably persuade you to come and that I was sure your name would be a terrific drawâas, of course, it will be,â Mrs. Oliver added tactfully.

âAnd the suggestion was acceptedâwithout demur?â

âI tell you, everybody was thrilled.â

Mrs. Oliver thought it unnecessary to mention that amongst the younger generation one or two had asked âWho is Hercule Poirot?â

âEverybody? Nobody spoke against the idea?â

Mrs. Oliver shook her head.

âThat is a pity,â said Hercule Poirot.

âYou mean it might have given us a line?â

âA would-be criminal could hardly be expected to welcome my presence.â

âI suppose you think Iâve imagined the whole thing,â said Mrs. Oliver ruefully. âI must admit that until I started talking to you I hadnât realized how very little Iâve got to go upon.â

âCalm yourself,â said Poirot kindly. âI am intrigued and interested. Where do we begin?â

Mrs. Oliver glanced at her watch.

âItâs just teatime. Weâll go back to the house and then you can meet everybody.â

She took a different path from the one by which Poirot had come. This one seemed to lead in the opposite direction.

âWe pass by the boathouse this way,â Mrs. Oliver explained.

As she spoke the boathouse came into view. It jutted out on to the river and was a picturesque thatched affair.

âThatâs where the Bodyâs going to be,â said Mrs. Oliver. âThe body for the Murder Hunt, I mean.â

âAnd who is going to be killed?â

âOh, a girl hiker, who is really the Yugoslavian first wife of a young Atom Scientist,â said Mrs. Oliver glibly.

Poirot blinked.

âOf course it looks as though the Atom Scientist had killed herâbut naturally itâs not as simple as that.â

âNaturally notâsince you are concernedâ¦.â

Mrs. Oliver accepted the compliment with a wave of the hand.

âActually,â she said, âsheâs killed by the Country Squireâand the motive is really rather ingeniousâI donât believe many people will get itâthough thereâs a perfectly clear pointer in the fifth clue.â

Poirot abandoned the subtleties of Mrs. Oliverâs plot to ask a practical question:

âBut how do you arrange for a suitable body?â

âGirl Guide,â said Mrs. Oliver. âSally Legge was going to be itâbut now they want her to dress up in a turban and do the fortune-telling. So itâs a Girl Guide called Marlene Tucker. Rather dumb and sniffs,â she added in an explanatory manner. âItâs quite easyâjust peasant scarves and a rucksackâand all she has to do when she hears someone coming is to flop down on the floor and arrange the cord round her neck. Rather dull for the poor kidâjust sticking inside that boathouse until sheâs found, but Iâve arranged for her to have a nice bundle of comicsâthereâs a clue to the murderer scribbled on one of them as a matter of factâso it all works in.â

âYour ingenuity leaves me spellbound! The things you think of!â

âItâs never difficult to think of things,â said Mrs. Oliver. âThe trouble is that you think of too many, and then it all becomes too complicated, so you have to relinquish some of them and that is rather agony. We go up this way now.â

They started up a steep zigzagging path that led them back along the river at a higher level. At a twist through the trees they came out on a space surmounted by a small white pilastered temple. Standing back and frowning at it was a young man wearing dilapidated flannel trousers and a shirt of rather virulent green. He spun round towards them.

âMr. Michael Weyman, M. Hercule Poirot,â said Mrs. Oliver.

The young man acknowledged the introduction with a careless nod.

âExtraordinary,â he said bitterly, âthe places people put things! This thing here, for instance. Put up only about a year agoâquite nice of its kind and quite in keeping with the period of the house. But why here? These things were meant to be seenââsituated on an eminenceââthatâs how they phrased itâwith a nice grassy approach and daffodils, etcetera. But hereâs this poor little devil, stuck away in the midst of treesânot visible from anywhereâyouâd have to cut down about twenty trees before youâd even see it from the river.â

âPerhaps there wasnât any other place,â said Mrs. Oliver.

Michael Weyman snorted.

âTop of that grassy bank by the houseâperfect natural setting. But no, these tycoon fellows are all the sameâno artistic sense. Has a fancy for a âFolly,â as he calls it, orders one. Looks round for somewhere to put it. Then, I understand, a big oak tree crashes down in a gale. Leaves a nasty scar. âOh, weâll tidy the place up by putting a Folly there,â says the silly ass. Thatâs all they ever think about, these rich city fellows, tidying up! I wonder he hasnât put beds of red geraniums and calceolarias all round the house! A man like that shouldnât be allowed to own a place like this!â

He sounded heated.

âThis young man,â Poirot observed to himself, âassuredly does not like Sir George Stubbs.â

âItâs bedded down in concrete,â said Weyman. âAnd thereâs loose soil underneathâso itâs subsided. Cracked all up hereâit will be dangerous soonâ¦Better pull the whole thing down and re-erect it on the top of the bank near the house. Thatâs my advice, but the obstinate old fool wonât hear of it.â

âWhat about the tennis pavilion?â asked Mrs. Oliver.

Gloom settled even more deeply on the young man.

âHe wants a kind of Chinese pagoda,â he said, with a groan. âDragons if you please! Just because Lady Stubbs fancies herself in Chinese coolie hats. Whoâd be an architect? Anyone who wants something decent built hasnât got the money, and those who have the money want something too utterly goddam awful!â

âYou have my commiserations,â said Poirot gravely.

âGeorge Stubbs,â said the architect scornfully. âWho does he think he is? Dug himself into some cushy Admiralty job in the safe depths of Wales during the warâand grows a beard to suggest he saw active naval service on convoy dutyâor thatâs what they say. Stinking with moneyâabsolutely stinking!â

âWell, you architects have got to have someone whoâs got money to spend, or youâd never have a job,â Mrs. Oliver pointed out reasonably enough. She moved on towards the house and Poirot and the dispirited architect prepared to follow her.

âThese tycoons,â said the latter bitterly, âcanât understand first principles.â He delivered a final kick to the lopsided Folly. âIf the foundations are rottenâeverythingâs rotten.â

âIt is profound what you say there,â said Poirot. âYes, it is profound.â

The path they were following came out from the trees and the house showed white and beautiful before them in its setting of dark trees rising up behind it.

âIt is of a veritable beauty, yes,â murmured Poirot.

âHe wants to build a billiard room on,â said Mr. Weyman venomously.

On the bank below them a small elderly lady was busy with sÃ©cateurs on a clump of shrubs. She climbed up to greet them, panting slightly.

âEverything neglected for years,â she said. âAnd so difficult nowadays to get a man who understands shrubs. This hillside should be a blaze of colour in March and April, but very disappointing this yearâall this dead wood ought to have been cut away last autumnââ

âM. Hercule Poirot, Mrs. Folliat,â said Mrs. Oliver.

The elderly lady beamed.

âSo this is the great M. Poirot! It is kind of you to come and help us tomorrow. This clever lady here has thought out a most puzzling problemâit will be such a novelty.â

Poirot was faintly puzzled by the graciousness of the little ladyâs manner. She might, he thought, have been his hostess.

He said politely:

âMrs. Oliver is an old friend of mine. I was delighted to be able to respond to her request. This is indeed a beautiful spot, and what a superb and noble mansion.â

Mrs. Folliat nodded in a matter-of-fact manner.

âYes. It was built by my husbandâs great-grandfather in 1790. There was an Elizabethan house previously. It fell into disrepair and burned down in about 1700. Our family has lived here since 1598.â

Her voice was calm and matter of fact. Poirot looked at her with closer attention. He saw a very small and compact little person, dressed in shabby tweeds. The most noticeable feature about her was her clear china-blue eyes. Her grey hair was closely confined by a hairnet. Though obviously careless of her appearance, she had that indefinable air of being someone which is so hard to explain.

As they walked together towards the house, Poirot said diffidently, âIt must be hard for you to have strangers living here.â

There was a momentâs pause before Mrs. Folliat answered. Her voice was clear and precise and curiously devoid of emotion.

âSo many things are hard, M. Poirot,â she said.

Three

It was Mrs. Folliat who led the way into the house and Poirot followed her. It was a gracious house, beautifully proportioned. Mrs. Folliat went through a door on the left into a small daintily furnished sitting room and on into the big drawing room beyond, which was full of people who all seemed, at the moment, to be talking at once.

âGeorge,â said Mrs. Folliat, âthis is M. Poirot who is so kind as to come and help us. Sir George Stubbs.â

Sir George, who had been talking in a loud voice, swung round. He was a big man with a rather florid red face and a slightly unexpected beard. It gave a rather disconcerting effect of an actor who had not quite made up his mind whether he was playing the part of a country squire, or of a ârough diamondâ from the Dominions. It certainly did not suggest the navy, in spite of Michael Weymanâs remarks. His manner and voice were jovial, but his eyes were small and shrewd, of a particularly penetrating pale blue.

He greeted Poirot heartily.

âWeâre so glad that your friend Mrs. Oliver managed to persuade you to come,â he said. âQuite a brain wave on her part. Youâll be an enormous attraction.â

He looked round a little vaguely.

âHattie?â He repeated the name in a slightly sharper tone. âHattie!â

Lady Stubbs was reclining in a big armchair a little distance from the others. She seemed to be paying no attention to what was going on round her. Instead she was smiling down at her hand which was stretched out on the arm of the chair. She was turning it from left to right, so that a big solitaire emerald on her third finger caught the light in its green depths.

She looked up now in a slightly startled childlike way and said, âHow do you do.â

Poirot bowed over her hand.

Sir George continued his introductions.

âMrs. Masterton.â

Mrs. Masterton was a somewhat monumental woman who reminded Poirot faintly of a bloodhound. She had a full underhung jaw and large, mournful, slightly blood-shot eyes.

She bowed and resumed her discourse in a deep voice which again made Poirot think of a bloodhoundâs baying note.

âThis silly dispute about the tea tent has got to be settled, Jim,â she said forcefully. âTheyâve got to see sense about it. We canât have the whole show a fiasco because of these idiotic womenâs local feuds.â

âOh, quite,â said the man addressed.

âCaptain Warburton,â said Sir George.

Captain Warburton, who wore a check sports coat and had a vaguely horsy appearance, showed a lot of white teeth in a somewhat wolfish smile, then continued his conversation.

âDonât you worry, Iâll settle it,â he said. âIâll go and talk to them like a Dutch uncle. What about the fortune-telling tent? In the space by the magnolia? Or at the far end of the lawn by the rhododendrons?â

Sir George continued his introductions.

âMr. and Mrs. Legge.â

A tall young man with his face peeling badly from sunburn grinned agreeably. His wife, an attractive freckled redhead, nodded in a friendly fashion, then plunged into controversy with Mrs. Masterton, her agreeable high treble making a kind of duet with Mrs. Mastertonâs deep bay.

âânot by the magnoliaâa bottle-neckââ

ââone wants to disperse thingsâbut if thereâs a queueââ

ââmuch cooler. I mean, with the sun full on the houseââ

ââand the coconut shy canât be too near the houseâthe boys are so wild when they throwââ

âAnd this,â said Sir George, âis Miss Brewisâwho runs us all.â

Miss Brewis was seated behind the large silver tea tray.

She was a spare efficient-looking woman of fortyodd, with a brisk pleasant manner.

âHow do you do, M. Poirot,â she said. âI do hope you didnât have too crowded a journey? The trains are sometimes too terrible this time of year. Let me give you some tea. Milk? Sugar?â

âVery little milk, mademoiselle, and four lumps of sugar.â He added, as Miss Brewis dealt with his request, âI see that you are all in a great state of activity.â

âYes, indeed. There are always so many last-minute things to see to. And people let one down in the most extraordinary way nowadays. Over marquees, and tents and chairs and catering equipment. One has to keep on at them. I was on the telephone half the morning.â

âWhat about these pegs, Amanda?â said Sir George. âAnd the extra putters for the clock golf?â

âThatâs all arranged, Sir George. Mr. Benson at the golf club was most kind.â

She handed Poirot his cup.

âA sandwich, M. Poirot? Those are tomato and these are patÃ©. But perhaps,â said Miss Brewis, thinking of the four lumps of sugar, âyou would rather have a cream cake?â

Poirot would rather have a cream cake, and helped himself to a particularly sweet and squelchy one.

Then, balancing it carefully on his saucer, he went and sat down by his hostess. She was still letting the light play over the jewel on her hand, and she looked up at him with a pleased childâs smile.

âLook,â she said. âItâs pretty, isnât it?â

He had been studying her carefully. She was wearing a big coolie-style hat of vivid magenta straw. Beneath it her face showed its pinky reflection on the dead-white surface of her skin. She was heavily made up in an exotic un-English style. Dead-white matt skin; vivid cyclamen lips, mascara applied lavishly to the eyes. Her hair showed beneath the hat, black and smooth, fitting like a velvet cap. There was a languorous un-English beauty about the face. She was a creature of the tropical sun, caught, as it were, by chance in an English drawing room. But it was the eyes that startled Poirot. They had a childlike, almost vacant, stare.

She had asked her question in a confidential childish way, and it was as though to a child that Poirot answered.

âIt is a very lovely ring,â he said.

She looked pleased.

âGeorge gave it to me yesterday,â she said, dropping her voice as though she were sharing a secret with him. âHe gives me lots of things. Heâs very kind.â

Poirot looked down at the ring again and the hand outstretched on the side of the chair. The nails were very long and varnished a deep puce.

Into his mind a quotation came: âThey toil not, neither do they spinâ¦.â

He certainly couldnât imagine Lady Stubbs toiling or spinning. And yet he would hardly have described her as a lily of the field. She was a far more artificial product.

âThis is a beautiful room you have here, Madame,â he said, looking round appreciatively.

âI suppose it is,â said Lady Stubbs vaguely.

Her attention was still on her ring; her head on one side, she watched the green fire in its depths as her hand moved.

She said in a confidential whisper, âDâyou see? Itâs winking at me.â

She burst out laughing and Poirot had a sense of sudden shock. It was a loud uncontrolled laugh.

From across the room Sir George said: âHattie.â

His voice was quite kind but held a faint admonition. Lady Stubbs stopped laughing.

Poirot said in a conventional manner:

âDevonshire is a very lovely county. Do you not think so?â

âItâs nice in the daytime,â said Lady Stubbs. âWhen it doesnât rain,â she added mournfully. âBut there arenât any nightclubs.â

âAh, I see. You like nightclubs?â

âOh, yes,â said Lady Stubbs fervently.

âAnd why do you like nightclubs so much?â

âThere is music and you dance. And I wear my nicest clothes and bracelets and rings. And all the other women have nice clothes and jewels, but not as nice as mine.â

She smiled with enormous satisfaction. Poirot felt a slight pang of pity.

âAnd all that amuses you very much?â

âYes. I like the casino, too. Why are there not any casinos in England?â

âI have often wondered,â said Poirot, with a sigh. âI do not think it would accord with the English character.â

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then she bent slightly towards him.

âI won sixty thousand francs at Monte Carlo once. I put it on number twenty-seven and it came up.â

âThat must have been very exciting, Madame.â

âOh, it was. George gives me money to play withâbut usually I lose it.â

She looked disconsolate.

âThat is sad.â

âOh, it does not really matter. George is very rich. It is nice to be rich, donât you think so?â

âVery nice,â said Poirot gently.

âPerhaps, if I was not rich, I should look like Amanda.â Her gaze went to Miss Brewis at the tea table and studied her dispassionately. âShe is very ugly, donât you think?â

Miss Brewis looked up at that moment and across to where they were sitting. Lady Stubbs had not spoken loudly, but Poirot wondered whether Amanda Brewis had heard.

As he withdrew his gaze, his eyes met those of Captain Warburton. The Captainâs glance was ironic and amused.

Poirot endeavoured to change the subject.

âHave you been very busy preparing for the fÃªte?â he asked.

Hattie Stubbs shook her head.

âOh, no, I think it is all very boringâvery stupid. There are servants and gardeners. Why should not they make the preparations?â

âOh, my dear.â It was Mrs. Folliat who spoke. She had come to sit on the sofa nearby. âThose are the ideas you were brought up with on your island estates. But life isnât like that in England these days. I wish it were.â She sighed. âNowadays one has to do nearly everything oneself.â

Lady Stubbs shrugged her shoulders.

âI think it is stupid. What is the good of being rich if one has to do everything oneself?â

âSome people find it fun,â said Mrs. Folliat, smiling at her. âI do really. Not all things, but some. I like gardening myself and I like preparing for a festivity like this one tomorrow.â

âIt will be like a party?â asked Lady Stubbs hopefully.

âJust like a partyâwith lots and lots of people.â

âWill it be like Ascot? With big hats and everyone very chic?â

âWell, not quite like Ascot,â said Mrs. Folliat. She added gently, âBut you must try and enjoy country things, Hattie. You should have helped us this morning, instead of staying in bed and not getting up until teatime.â

âI had a headache,â said Hattie sulkily. Then her mood changed and she smiled affectionately at Mrs. Folliat.

âBut I will be good tomorrow. I will do everything you tell me.â

âThatâs very sweet of you, dear.â

âIâve got a new dress to wear. It came this morning. Come upstairs with me and look at it.â

Mrs. Folliat hesitated. Lady Stubbs rose to her feet and said insistently:

âYou must come. Please. It is a lovely dress. Come now!â

âOh, very well.â Mrs. Folliat gave a half laugh and rose.

As she went out of the room, her small figure following Hattieâs tall one, Poirot saw her face and was quite startled at the weariness on it which had replaced her smiling composure. It was as though, relaxed and off her guard for a moment, she no longer bothered to keep up the social mask. And yetâit seemed more than that. Perhaps she was suffering from some disease about which, like many women, she never spoke. She was not a person, he thought, who would care to invite pity or sympathy.

Captain Warburton dropped down in the chair Hattie Stubbs had just vacated. He, too, looked at the door through which the two women had just passed, but it was not of the older woman that he spoke. Instead he drawled, with a slight grin:

âBeautiful creature, isnât she?â He observed with the tail of his eye Sir Georgeâs exit through a french window with Mrs. Masterton and Mrs. Oliver in tow. âBowled over old George Stubbs all right. Nothingâs too good for her! Jewels, mink, all the rest of it. Whether he realizes sheâs a bit wanting in the top storey, Iâve never discovered. Probably thinks it doesnât matter. After all, these financial johnnies donât ask for intellectual companionship.â

âWhat nationality is she?â Poirot asked curiously.

âLooks South American, I always think. But I believe she comes from the West Indies. One of those islands with sugar and rum and all that. One of the old families thereâa creole, I donât mean a half-caste. All very intermarried, I believe, on these islands. Accounts for the mental deficiency.â

Young Mrs. Legge came over to join them.

âLook here, Jim,â she said, âyouâve got to be on my side. That tentâs got to be where we all decidedâon the far side of the lawn backing on the rhododendrons. Itâs the only possible place.â

âMa Masterton doesnât think so.â

âWell, youâve got to talk her out of it.â

He gave her his foxy smile.

âMrs. Mastertonâs my boss.â

âWilfred Mastertonâs your boss. Heâs the M.P.â

âI dare say, but she should be. Sheâs the one who wears the pantsâand donât I know it.â

Sir George reentered the window.

âOh, there you are, Sally,â he said. âWe need you. You wouldnât think everyone could get het up over who butters the buns and who raffles a cake, and why the garden produce stall is where the fancy woollens was promised it should be. Whereâs Amy Folliat? She can deal with these peopleâabout the only person who can.â

âShe went upstairs with Hattie.â

âOh, did sheâ?â

Sir George looked round in a vaguely helpless manner and Miss Brewis jumped up from where she was writing tickets, and said, âIâll fetch her for you, Sir George.â

âThank you, Amanda.â

Miss Brewis went out of the room.

âMust get hold of some more wire fencing,â murmured Sir George.

âFor the fÃªte?â

âNo, no. To put up where we adjoin Hoodown Park in the woods. The old stuffâs rotted away, and thatâs where they get through.â

âWho get through?â

âTrespassers!â ejaculated Sir George.

Sally Legge said amusedly:

âYou sound like Betsy Trotwood campaigning against donkeys.â

âBetsy Trotwood? Whoâs she?â asked Sir George simply.

âDickens.â

âOh, Dickens. I read the Pickwick Papers once. Not bad. Not bad at allâsurprised me. But, seriously, trespassers are a menace since theyâve started this Youth Hostel tomfoolery. They come out at you from everywhere wearing the most incredible shirtsâboy this morning had one all covered with crawling turtles and thingsâmade me think Iâd been hitting the bottle or something. Half of them canât speak Englishâjust gibber at youâ¦â He mimicked: ââOh, pleesâyes, haf youâtell meâiss way to ferry?â I say no, it isnât, roar at them, and send them back where theyâve come from, but half the time they just blink and stare and donât understand. And the girls giggle. All kinds of nationalities, Italian, Yugoslavian, Dutch, FinnishâEskimos I shouldnât be surprised! Half of them communists, I shouldnât wonder,â he ended darkly.

âCome now, George, donât get started on communists,â said Mrs. Legge. âIâll come and help you deal with the rabid women.â

She led him out of the window and called over her shoulder: âCome on, Jim. Come and be torn to pieces in a good cause.â

âAll right, but I want to put M. Poirot in the picture about the Murder Hunt since heâs going to present the prizes.â

âYou can do that presently.â

âI will await you here,â said Poirot agreeably.

In the ensuing silence, Alec Legge stretched himself out in his chair and sighed.

âWomen!â he said. âLike a swarm of bees.â

He turned his head to look out of the window.

âAnd whatâs it all about? Some silly garden fÃªte that doesnât matter to anyone.â

âBut obviously,â Poirot pointed out, âthere are those to whom it does matter.â

âWhy canât people have some sense? Why canât they think? Think of the mess the whole world has got itself into. Donât they realize that the inhabitants of the globe are busy committing suicide?â

Poirot judged rightly that he was not intended to reply to this question. He merely shook his head doubtfully.

âUnless we can do something before itâs too lateâ¦â Alec Legge broke off. An angry look swept over his face. âOh, yes,â he said, âI know what youâre thinking. That Iâm nervy, neuroticâall the rest of it. Like those damned doctors. Advising rest and change and sea air. All right, Sally and I came down here and took the Mill Cottage for three months, and Iâve followed their prescription. Iâve fished and bathed and taken long walks and sunbathedââ

âI noticed that you had sunbathed, yes,â said Poirot politely.

âOh, this?â Alecâs hand went to his sore face. âThatâs the result of a fine English summer for once in a way. But whatâs the good of it all? You canât get away from facing truth just by running away from it.â

âNo, it is never any good running away.â

âAnd being in a rural atmosphere like this just makes you realize things more keenlyâthat and the incredible apathy of the people of this country. Even Sally, whoâs intelligent enough, is just the same. Why bother? Thatâs what she says. It makes me mad! Why bother?â

âAs a matter of interest, why do you?â

âGood God, you too?â

âNo, it is not advice. It is just that I would like to know your answer.â

âDonât you see, somebodyâs got to do something.â

âAnd that somebody is you?â

âNo, no, not me personally. One canât be personal in times like these.â

âI do not see why not. Even in âthese timesâ as you call it, one is still a person.â

âBut one shouldnât be! In times of stress, when itâs a matter of life or death, one canât think of oneâs own insignificant ills or preoccupations.â

âI assure you, you are quite wrong. In the late war, during a severe air raid, I was much less preoccupied by the thought of death than of the pain from a corn on my little toe. It surprised me at the time that it should be so. âThink,â I said to myself, âat any moment now, death may come.â But I was still conscious of my cornâindeed, I felt injured that I should have that to suffer as well as the fear of death. It was because I might die that every small personal matter in my life acquired increased importance. I have seen a woman knocked down in a street accident, with a broken leg, and she has burst out crying because she sees that there is a ladder in her stocking.â

âWhich just shows you what fools women are!â

âIt shows you what people are. It is, perhaps, that absorption in oneâs personal life that has led the human race to survive.â

Alec Legge gave a scornful laugh.

âSometimes,â he said, âI think itâs a pity they ever did.â

âIt is, you know,â Poirot persisted, âa form of humility. And humility is valuable. There was a slogan that was written up in your underground railways here, I remember, during the war. âIt all depends on you.â It was composed, I think, by some eminent divineâbut in my opinion it was a dangerous and undesirable doctrine. For it is not true. Everything does not depend on, say, Mrs. Blank of Little-Blank-in-the-Marsh. And if she is led to think it does, it will not be good for her character. While she thinks of the part she can play in world affairs, the baby pulls over the kettle.â

âYou are rather old-fashioned in your views, I think. Letâs hear what your slogan would be.â

âI do not need to formulate one of my own. There is an older one in this country which contents me very well.â

âWhat is that?â

ââPut your trust in God, and keep your powder dry.ââ

âWell, wellâ¦â Alec Legge seemed amused. âMost unexpected coming from you. Do you know what I should like to see done in this country?â

âSomething, no doubt, forceful and unpleasant,â said Poirot, smiling.

Alec Legge remained serious.

âI should like to see every feeble-minded person put outâright out! Donât let them breed. If, for one generation, only the intelligent were allowed to breed, think what the result would be.â

âA very large increase of patients in the psychiatric wards, perhaps,â said Poirot dryly. âOne needs roots as well as flowers on a plant, Mr. Legge. However large and beautiful the flowers, if the earthy roots are destroyed there will be no more flowers.â He added in a conversational tone: âWould you consider Lady Stubbs a candidate for the lethal chamber?â

âYes, indeed. Whatâs the good of a woman like that? What contribution has she ever made to society? Has she ever had an idea in her head that wasnât of clothes or furs or jewels? As I say, what good is she?â

âYou and I,â said Poirot blandly, âare certainly much more intelligent than Lady Stubbs. Butââhe shook his head sadlyââit is true, I fear, that we are not nearly so ornamental.â

âOrnamentalâ¦â Alec was beginning with a fierce snort, but he was interrupted by the reentry of Mrs. Oliver and Captain Warburton through the window.

Four

âYou must come and see the clues and things for the Murder Hunt, M. Poirot,â said Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.

Poirot rose and followed them obediently.

The three of them went across the hall and into a small room furnished plainly as a business office.

âLethal weapons to your left,â observed Captain Warburton, waving his hand towards a small baize-covered card table. On it were laid out a small pistol, a piece of lead piping with a rusty sinister stain on it, a blue bottle labelled Poison, a length of clothesline and a hypodermic syringe.

âThose are the Weapons,â explained Mrs. Oliver, âand these are the Suspects.â

She handed him a printed card which he read with interest.

Â 

Suspects

Estelle Glynne

â

a beautiful and mysterious young woman, the guest of

Colonel Blunt

â

the local Squire, whose daughter

Joan

â

is married to

Peter Gaye

â

a young Atom Scientist.

Miss Willing

â

a housekeeper.

Quiett

â

a butler.

Maya Stavisky

â

a girl hiker.

Esteban Loyola

â

an uninvited guest.

Â 

Poirot blinked and looked towards Mrs. Oliver in mute incomprehension.

âA magnificent Cast of Characters,â he said politely. âBut permit me to ask, Madame, what does the Competitor do?â

âTurn the card over,â said Captain Warburton.

Poirot did so.

On the other side was printed:

Â 

Name and addressâ¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦

Â 

Solution:

Name of Murderer:â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦..

Weapon:â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦.

Motive:â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦..

Time and Place:â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦..

Reasons for arriving at your conclusions:â¦â¦â¦â¦â¦.

Â 

âEveryone who enters gets one of these,â explained Captain Warburton rapidly. âAlso a notebook and pencil for copying clues. There will be six clues. You go on from one to the other like a Treasure Hunt, and the weapons are concealed in suspicious places. Hereâs the first clue. A snapshot. Everyone starts with one of these.â

Poirot took the small print from him and studied it with a frown. Then he turned it upside down. He still looked puzzled. Warburton laughed.

âIngenious bit of trick photography, isnât it?â he said complacently. âQuite simple once you know what it is.â

Poirot, who did not know what it was, felt a mounting annoyance.

âSome kind of barred window?â he suggested.

âLooks a bit like it, I admit. No, itâs a section of a tennis net.â

âAh.â Poirot looked again at the snapshot. âYes, it is as you sayâquite obvious when you have been told what it is!â

âSo much depends on how you look at a thing,â laughed Warburton.

âThat is a very profound truth.â

âThe second clue will be found in a box under the centre of the tennis net. In the box are this empty poison bottleâhere, and a loose cork.â

âOnly, you see,â said Mrs. Oliver rapidly, âitâs a screw-topped bottle, so the cork is really the clue.â

âI know, Madame, that you are always full of ingenuity, but I do not quite seeââ

Mrs. Oliver interrupted him.

âOh, but of course,â she said, âthereâs a story. Like in a magazine serialâa synopsis.â She turned to Captain Warburton. âHave you got the leaflets?â

âTheyâve not come from the printers yet.â

âBut they promised!â

âI know. I know. Everyone always promises. Theyâll be ready this evening at six. Iâm going in to fetch them in the car.â

âOh, good.â

Mrs. Oliver gave a deep sigh and turned to Poirot.

âWell, Iâll have to tell it you, then. Only Iâm not very good at telling things. I mean if I write things, I get them perfectly clear, but if I talk, it always sounds the most frightful muddle; and thatâs why I never discuss my plots with anyone. Iâve learnt not to, because if I do, they just look at me blankly and say ââerâyes, butâI donât see what happenedâand surely that canât possibly make a book.â So damping. And not true, because when I write it, it does!â

Mrs. Oliver paused for breath, and then went on:

âWell, itâs like this. Thereâs Peter Gaye whoâs a young Atom Scientist and heâs suspected of being in the pay of the Communists, and heâs married to this girl, Joan Blunt, and his first wifeâs dead, but she isnât, and she turns up because sheâs a secret agent, or perhaps not, I mean she may really be a hikerâand the wifeâs having an affair, and this man Loyola turns up either to meet Maya, or to spy upon her, and thereâs a blackmailing letter which might be from the housekeeper, or again it might be the butler, and the revolverâs missing, and as you donât know who the blackmailing letterâs to, and the hypodermic syringe fell out at dinner, and after that it disappearedâ¦.â

Mrs. Oliver came to a full stop, estimating correctly Poirotâs reaction.

âI know,â she said sympathetically. âIt sounds just a muddle, but it isnât reallyânot in my headâand when you see the synopsis leaflet, youâll find itâs quite clear.

âAnd, anyway,â she ended, âthe story doesnât really matter, does it? I mean, not to you. All youâve got to do is to present the prizesâvery nice prizes, the firstâs a silver cigarette case shaped like a revolverâand say how remarkably clever the solver has been.â

Poirot thought to himself that the solver would indeed have been clever. In fact, he doubted very much that there would be a solver. The whole plot and action of the Murder Hunt seemed to him to be wrapped in impenetrable fog.

âWell,â said Captain Warburton cheerfully, glancing at his wristwatch, âIâd better be off to the printers and collect.â

Mrs. Oliver groaned.

âIf theyâre not doneââ

âOh, theyâre done all right. I telephoned. So long.â

He left the room.

Mrs. Oliver immediately clutched Poirot by the arm and demanded in a hoarse whisper:

âWell?â

âWellâwhat?â

âHave you found out anything? Or spotted anybody?â

Poirot replied with mild reproof in his tones:

âEverybody and everything seems to me completely normal.â

âNormal?â

âWell, perhaps that is not quite the right word. Lady Stubbs, as you say, is definitely subnormal, and Mr. Legge would appear to be rather abnormal.â

âOh, heâs all right,â said Mrs. Oliver impatiently. âHeâs had a nervous breakdown.â

Poirot did not question the somewhat doubtful wording of this sentence but accepted it at its face value.

âEverybody appears to be in the expected state of nervous agitation, high excitement, general fatigue, and strong irritation, which are characteristic of preparations for this form of entertainment. If you could only indicateââ

âSh!â Mrs. Oliver grasped his arm again. âSomeoneâs coming.â

It was just like a bad melodrama, Poirot felt, his own irritation mounting.

The pleasant mild face of Miss Brewis appeared round the door.

âOh, there you are, M. Poirot. Iâve been looking for you to show you your room.â

She led him up the staircase and along a passage to a big airy room looking out over the river.

âThere is a bathroom just opposite. Sir George talks of adding more bathrooms, but to do so would sadly impair the proportions of the rooms. I hope youâll find everything quite comfortable.â

âYes, indeed.â Poirot swept an appreciative eye over the small bookstand, the reading lamp and the box labelled âBiscuitsâ by the bedside. âYou seem, in this house, to have everything organized to perfection. Am I to congratulate you, or my charming hostess?â

âLady Stubbsâ time is fully taken up in being charming,â said Miss Brewis, a slightly acid note in her voice.

âA very decorative young woman,â mused Poirot.

âAs you say.â

âBut in other respects is she not, perhapsâ¦â He broke off. âPardon. I am indiscreet. I comment on something I ought not, perhaps, to mention.â

Miss Brewis gave him a steady look. She said dryly:

âLady Stubbs knows perfectly well exactly what she is doing. Besides being, as you said, a very decorative young woman, she is also a very shrewd one.â

She had turned away and left the room before Poirotâs eyebrows had fully risen in surprise. So that was what the efficient Miss Brewis thought, was it? Or had she merely said so for some reason of her own? And why had she made such a statement to himâto a newcomer? Because he was a newcomer, perhaps? And also because he was a foreigner. As Hercule Poirot had discovered by experience, there were many English people who considered that what one said to foreigners didnât count!

He frowned perplexedly, staring absentmindedly at the door out of which Miss Brewis had gone. Then he strolled over to the window and stood looking out. As he did so, he saw Lady Stubbs come out of the house with Mrs. Folliat and they stood for a moment or two talking by the big magnolia tree. Then Mrs. Folliat nodded a good-bye, picked up her gardening basket and gloves and trotted off down the drive. Lady Stubbs stood watching her for a moment, then absentmindedly pulled off a magnolia flower, smelt it and began slowly to walk down the path that led through the trees to the river. She looked just once over her shoulder before she disappeared from sight. From behind the magnolia tree Michael Weyman came quietly into view, paused a moment irresolutely and then followed the tall slim figure down into the trees.

A good-looking and dynamic young man, Poirot thought. With a more attractive personality, no doubt, than that of Sir George Stubbsâ¦.

But if so, what of it? Such patterns formed themselves eternally through life. Rich middle-aged unattractive husband, young and beautiful wife with or without sufficient mental development, attractive and susceptible young man. What was there in that to make Mrs. Oliver utter a peremptory summons through the telephone? Mrs. Oliver, no doubt, had a vivid imagination, butâ¦.

âBut after all,â murmured Hercule Poirot to himself, âI am not a consultant in adulteryâor in incipient adultery.â

Could there really be anything in this extraordinary notion of Mrs. Oliverâs that something was wrong? Mrs. Oliver was a singularly muddle-headed woman, and how she managed somehow or other to turn out coherent detective stories was beyond him, and yet, for all her muddle-headedness she often surprised him by her sudden perception of truth.

âThe time is shortâshort,â he murmured to himself. âIs there something wrong here, as Mrs. Oliver believes? I am inclined to think there is. But what? Who is there who could enlighten me? I need to know more, much more, about the people in this house. Who is there who could inform me?â

After a momentâs reflection he seized his hat (Poirot never risked going out in the evening air with uncovered head), and hurried out of his room and down the stairs. He heard afar the dictatorial baying of Mrs. Mastertonâs deep voice. Nearer at hand, Sir Georgeâs voice rose with an amorous intonation.

âDamned becoming that yashmak thing. Wish I had you in my harem, Sally. I shall come and have my fortune told a good deal tomorrow. Whatâll you tell me, eh?â

There was a slight scuffle and Sally Leggeâs voice said breathlessly:

âGeorge, you mustnât.â

Poirot raised his eyebrows, and slipped out of a conveniently adjacent side door. He set off at top speed down a back drive which his sense of locality enabled him to predict would at some point join the front drive.

His manoeuvre was successful and enabled himâpanting very slightlyâto come up beside Mrs. Folliat and relieve her in a gallant manner of her gardening basket.

âYou permit, Madame?â

âOh, thank you, M. Poirot, thatâs very kind of you. But itâs not heavy.â

âAllow me to carry it for you to your home. You live near here?â

âI actually live in the lodge by the front gate. Sir George very kindly rents it to me.â

The lodge by the front gate of her former homeâ¦How did she really feel about that, Poirot wondered. Her composure was so absolute that he had no clue to her feelings. He changed the subject by observing:

âLady Stubbs is much younger than her husband, is she not?â

âTwenty-three years younger.â

âPhysically she is very attractive.â

Mrs. Folliat said quietly:

âHattie is a dear good child.â

It was not an answer he had expected. Mrs. Folliat went on:

âI know her very well, you see. For a short time she was under my care.â

âI did not know that.â

âHow should you? It is in a way a sad story. Her people had estates, sugar estates, in the West Indies. As a result of an earthquake, the house there was burned down and her parents and brothers and sisters all lost their lives. Hattie herself was at a convent in Paris and was thus suddenly left without any near relatives. It was considered advisable by the executors that Hattie should be chaperoned and introduced into society after she had spent a certain time abroad. I accepted the charge of her.â Mrs. Folliat added with a dry smile: âI can smarten myself up on occasions and, naturally, I had the necessary connectionsâin fact, the late Governor had been a close friend of ours.â

âNaturally, Madame, I understand all that.â

âIt suited me very wellâI was going through a difficult time. My husband had died just before the outbreak of war. My elder son who was in the navy went down with his ship, my younger son, who had been out in Kenya, came back, joined the commandos and was killed in Italy. That meant three lots of death duties and this house had to be put up for sale. I myself was very badly off and I was glad of the distraction of having someone young to look after and travel about with. I became very fond of Hattie, all the more so, perhaps, because I soon realized that she wasâshall we sayânot fully capable of fending for herself? Understand me, M. Poirot, Hattie is not mentally deficient, but she is what country folk describe as âsimple.â She is easily imposed upon, overdocile, completely open to suggestion. I think myself that it was a blessing that there was practically no money. If she had been an heiress her position might have been one of much greater difficulty. She was attractive to men and being of an affectionate nature was easily attracted and influencedâshe had definitely to be looked after. When, after the final winding up of her parentsâ estate, it was discovered that the plantation was destroyed and there were more debts than assets, I could only be thankful that a man such as Sir George Stubbs had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her.â

âPossiblyâyesâit was a solution.â

âSir George,â said Mrs. Folliat, âthough he is a self-made man andâlet us face itâa complete vulgarian, is kindly and fundamentally decent, besides being extremely wealthy. I donât think he would ever ask for mental companionship from a wife, which is just as well. Hattie is everything he wants. She displays clothes and jewels to perfection, is affectionate and willing, and is completely happy with him. I confess that I am very thankful that that is so, for I admit that I deliberately influenced her to accept him. If it had turned out badlyââher voice faltered a littleââit would have been my fault for urging her to marry a man so many years older than herself. You see, as I told you, Hattie is completely suggestible. Anyone she is with at the time can dominate her.â

âIt seems to me,â said Poirot approvingly, âthat you made there a most prudent arrangement for her. I am not, like the English, romantic. To arrange a good marriage, one must take more than romance into consideration.â

He added:

âAnd as for this place here, Nasse House, it is a most beautiful spot. Quite, as the saying goes, out of this world.â

âSince Nasse had to be sold,â said Mrs. Folliat, with a faint tremor in her voice, âI am glad that Sir George bought it. It was requisitioned during the war by the Army and afterwards it might have been bought and made into a guest house or a school, the rooms cut up and partitioned, distorted out of their natural beauty. Our neighbours, the Fletchers, at Hoodown, had to sell their place and it is now a Youth Hostel. One is glad that young people should enjoy themselvesâand fortunately Hoodown is late-Victorian, and of no great architectural merit, so that the alterations do not matter. Iâm afraid some of the young people trespass on our grounds. It makes Sir George very angry. Itâs true that they have occasionally damaged the rare shrubs by hacking them aboutâthey come through here trying to get a shortcut to the ferry across the river.â

They were standing now by the front gate. The lodge, a small white one-storied building, lay a little back from the drive with a small railed garden round it.

Mrs. Folliat took back her basket from Poirot with a word of thanks.

âI was always very fond of the lodge,â she said, looking at it affectionately. âMerdle, our head gardener for thirty years, used to live there. I much prefer it to the top cottage, though that has been enlarged and modernized by Sir George. It had to be; weâve got quite a young man now as head gardener, with a young wifeâand these young women must have electric irons and modern cookers and television, and all that. One must go with the timesâ¦â She sighed. âThere is hardly a person left now on the estate from the old daysâall new faces.â

âI am glad, Madame,â said Poirot, âthat you at least have found a haven.â

âYou know those lines of Spenserâs? âSleep after toyle, port after stormie seas, ease after war, death after life, doth greatly pleaseâ¦.ââ

She paused and said without any change of tone: âItâs a very wicked world, M. Poirot. And there are very wicked people in the world. You probably know that as well as I do. I donât say so before the younger people, it might discourage them, but itâs trueâ¦Yes, itâs a very wicked worldâ¦.â

She gave him a little nod, then turned and went into the lodge. Poirot stood still, staring at the shut door.

Five

I

In a mood of exploration Poirot went through the front gates and down the steeply twisting road that presently emerged on a small quay. A large bell with a chain had a notice upon it: âRing for the Ferry.â There were various boats moored by the side of the quay. A very old man with rheumy eyes, who had been leaning against a bollard, came shuffling towards Poirot.

âDu ee want the ferry, sir?â

âI thank you, no. I have just come down from Nasse House for a little walk.â

âAh, âtis up at Nasse yu are? Worked there as a boy, I did, and my son, he were head gardener there. But I did use to look after the boats. Old Squire Folliat, he was fair mazed about boats. Sail in all weathers, he would. The Major, now, his son, he didnât care for sailing. Horses, thatâs all he cared about. And a pretty packet went on âem. That and the bottleâhad a hard time with him, his wife did. Yuâve seen her, maybeâlives at the Lodge now, she du.â

âYes, I have just left her there now.â

âHer be a Folliat, tu, second cousin from over Tiverton way. A great one for the garden, she is, all them there flowering shrubs she had put in. Even when it was took over during the war, and the two young gentlemen was gone to the war, she still looked after they shrubs and kept âem from being overrun.â

âIt was hard on her, both her sons being killed.â

âAh, sheâve had a hard life, she have, what with this and that. Trouble with her husband, and trouble with the young gentlemen, tu. Not Mr. Henry. He was as nice a young gentleman as yu could wish, took after his grandfather, fond of sailing and went into the Navy as a matter of course, but Mr. James, he caused her a lot of trouble. Debts and women it were, and then, tu, he were real wild in his temper. Born one of they as canât go straight. But the war suited him, as yu might sayâgive him his chance. Ah! Thereâs many who canât go straight in peace who dies bravely in war.â

âSo now,â said Poirot, âthere are no more Folliats at Nasse.â

The old manâs flow of talk died abruptly.

âJust as yu say, sir.â

Poirot looked curiously at the old man.

âInstead you have Sir George Stubbs. What is thought locally of him?â

âUs understands,â said the old man, âthat he be powerful rich.â

His tone sounded dry and almost amused.

âAnd his wife?â

âAh, sheâs a fine lady from London, she is. No use for gardens, not her. They du say, tu, as her du be wanting up here.â

He tapped his temple significantly.

âNot as her isnât always very nice spoken and friendly. Just over a year theyâve been here. Bought the place and had it all done up like new. I remember as though âtwere yesterday them arriving. Arrived in the evening, they did, day after the worst gale as I ever remember. Trees down right and leftâone down across the drive and us had to get it sawn away in a hurry to get the drive clear for the car. And the big oak up along, that come down and brought a lot of others down with it, made a rare mess, it did.â

âAh, yes, where the Folly stands now?â

The old man turned aside and spat disgustedly.

âFolly âtis called and Folly âtisânewfangled nonsense. Never was no Folly in the old Folliatsâ time. Her ladyshipâs idea that Folly was. Put up not three weeks after they first come, and Iâve no doubt she talked Sir George into it. Rare silly it looks stuck up there among the trees, like a heathen temple. A nice summerhouse now, made rustic like with stained glass. Iâd have nothing against that.â

Poirot smiled faintly.

âThe London ladies,â he said, âthey must have their fancies. It is sad that the day of the Folliats is over.â

âDonât ee never believe that, sir.â The old man gave a wheezy chuckle. âAlways be Folliats at Nasse.â

âBut the house belongs to Sir George Stubbs.â

âThatâs as may beâbut thereâs still a Folliat here. Ah! Rare and cunning the Folliats are!â

âWhat do you mean?â

The old man gave him a sly sideways glance.

âMrs. Folliat be living up tu Lodge, bainât she?â he demanded.

âYes,â said Poirot slowly. âMrs. Folliat is living at the Lodge and the world is very wicked, and all the people in it are very wicked.â

The old man stared at him.

âAh,â he said. âYuâve got something there, maybe.â

He shuffled away again.

âBut what have I got?â Poirot asked himself with irritation as he slowly walked up the hill back to the house.

II

Hercule Poirot made a meticulous toilet, applying a scented pomade to his moustaches and twirling them to a ferocious couple of points. He stood back from the mirror and was satisfied with what he saw.

The sound of a gong resounded through the house, and he descended the stairs.

The butler, having finished a most artistic performance, crescendo, forte, diminuendo, rallentando, was just replacing the gong stick on its hook. His dark melancholy face showed pleasure.

Poirot thought to himself: âA blackmailing letter from the housekeeperâor it may be the butlerâ¦â This butler looked as though blackmailing letters would be well within his scope. Poirot wondered if Mrs. Oliver took her characters from life.

Miss Brewis crossed the hall in an unbecoming flowered chiffon dress and he caught up with her, asking as he did so:

âYou have a housekeeper here?â

âOh, no, M. Poirot. Iâm afraid one doesnât run to niceties of that kind nowadays, except in a really large establishment, of course. Oh, no, Iâm the housekeeperâmore housekeeper than secretary, sometimes, in this house.â

She gave a short acid laugh.

âSo you are the housekeeper?â Poirot considered her thoughtfully.

He could not see Miss Brewis writing a blackmailing letter. Now, an anonymous letterâthat would be a different thing. He had known anonymous letters written by women not unlike Miss Brewisâsolid, dependable women, totally unsuspected by those around them.

âWhat is your butlerâs name?â he asked.

âHenden.â Miss Brewis looked a little astonished.

Poirot recollected himself and explained quickly:

âI ask because I had a fancy I had seen him somewhere before.â

âVery likely,â said Miss Brewis. âNone of these people ever seem to stay in any place more than four months. They must soon have done the round of all the available situations in England. After all, itâs not many people who can afford butlers and cooks nowadays.â

They came into the drawing room, where Sir George, looking somehow rather unnatural in a dinner jacket, was proffering sherry. Mrs. Oliver, in iron-grey satin, was looking like an obsolete battleship, and Lady Stubbsâ smooth black head was bent down as she studied the fashions in Vogue.

Alec and Sally Legge were dining and also Jim Warburton.

âWeâve a heavy evening ahead of us,â he warned them. âNo bridge tonight. All hands to the pumps. There are any amount of notices to print, and the big card for the Fortune Telling. What name shall we have? Madame Zuleika? Esmeralda? Or Romany Leigh, the Gipsy Queen?â

âThe Eastern touch,â said Sally. âEveryone in agricultural districts hates gipsies. Zuleika sounds all right. I brought my paint box over and I thought Michael could do us a curling snake to ornament the notice.â

âCleopatra rather than Zuleika, then?â

Henden appeared at the door.

âDinner is served, my lady.â

They went in. There were candles on the long table. The room was full of shadows.

Warburton and Alec Legge sat on either side of their hostess. Poirot was between Mrs. Oliver and Miss Brewis. The latter was engaged in brisk general conversation about further details of preparation for tomorrow.

Mrs. Oliver sat in brooding abstraction and hardly spoke.

When she did at last break her silence, it was with a somewhat contradictory explanation.

âDonât bother about me,â she said to Poirot. âIâm just remembering if thereâs anything Iâve forgotten.â

Sir George laughed heartily.

âThe fatal flaw, eh?â he remarked.

âThatâs just it,â said Mrs. Oliver. âThere always is one. Sometimes one doesnât realize it until a bookâs actually in print. And then itâs agony!â Her face reflected this emotion. She sighed. âThe curious thing is that most people never notice it. I say to myself, âBut of course the cook would have been bound to notice that two cutlets hadnât been eaten.â But nobody else thinks of it at all.â

âYou fascinate me.â Michael Weyman leant across the table. âThe Mystery of the Second Cutlet. Please, please never explain. I shall wonder about it in my bath.â

Mrs. Oliver gave him an abstracted smile and relapsed into her preoccupations.

Lady Stubbs was also silent. Now and again she yawned. Warburton, Alec Legge and Miss Brewis talked across her.

As they came out of the dining room, Lady Stubbs stopped by the stairs.

âIâm going to bed,â she announced. âIâm very sleepy.â

âOh, Lady Stubbs,â exclaimed Miss Brewis, âthereâs so much to be done. Weâve been counting on you to help us.â

âYes, I know,â said Lady Stubbs. âBut Iâm going to bed.â

She spoke with the satisfaction of a small child.

She turned her head as Sir George came out of the dining room.

âIâm tired, George. Iâm going to bed. You donât mind?â

He came up to her and patted her on the shoulder affectionately.

âYou go and get your beauty sleep, Hattie. Be fresh for tomorrow.â

He kissed her lightly and she went up the stairs, waving her hand and calling out:

âGoodnight, all.â

Sir George smiled up at her. Miss Brewis drew in her breath sharply and turned brusquely away.

âCome along, everybody,â she said, with a forced cheerfulness that did not ring true. âWeâve got to work.â

Presently everyone was set to their tasks. Since Miss Brewis could not be everywhere at once, there were soon some defaulters. Michael Weyman ornamented a placard with a ferociously magnificent serpent and the words, Madame Zuleika will tell your Fortune, and then vanished unobtrusively. Alec Legge did a few nondescript chores and then went out avowedly to measure for the hoopla and did not reappear. The women, as women do, worked energetically and conscientiously. Hercule Poirot followed his hostessâs example and went early to bed.

III

Poirot came down to breakfast on the following morning at nine-thirty. Breakfast was served in pre-war fashion. A row of hot dishes on an electric heater. Sir George was eating a full-sized Englishmanâs breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and kidneys. Mrs. Oliver and Miss Brewis had a modified version of the same. Michael Weyman was eating a plateful of cold ham. Only Lady Stubbs was unheedful of the fleshpots and was nibbling thin toast and sipping black coffee. She was wearing a large pale-pink hat which looked odd at the breakfast table.

The post had just arrived. Miss Brewis had an enormous pile of letters in front of her which she was rapidly sorting into piles. Any of Sir Georgeâs marked âPersonalâ she passed over to him. The others she opened herself and sorted into categories.

Lady Stubbs had three letters. She opened what were clearly a couple of bills and tossed them aside. Then she opened the third letter and said suddenly and clearly:

âOh!â

The exclamation was so startled that all heads turned towards her.

âItâs from Etienne,â she said. âMy cousin Etienne. Heâs coming here in a yacht.â

âLetâs see, Hattie.â Sir George held out his hand. She passed the letter down the table. He smoothed out the sheet and read.

âWhoâs this Etienne de Sousa? A cousin, you say?â

âI think so. A second cousin. I do not remember him very wellâhardly at all. He wasââ

âYes, my dear?â

She shrugged her shoulders.

âIt does not matter. It is all a long time ago. I was a little girl.â

âI suppose you wouldnât remember him very well. But we must make him welcome, of course,â said Sir George heartily. âPity in a way itâs the fÃªte today, but weâll ask him to dinner. Perhaps we could put him up for a night or twoâshow him something of the country?â

Sir George was being the hearty country squire.

Lady Stubbs said nothing. She stared down into her coffee cup.

Conversation on the inevitable subject of the fÃªte became general. Only Poirot remained detached, watching the slim exotic figure at the head of the table. He wondered just what was going on in her mind. At that very moment her eyes came up and cast a swift glance along the table to where he sat. It was a look so shrewd and appraising that he was startled. As their eyes met, the shrewd expression vanishedâemptiness returned. But that other look had been there, cold, calculating, watchfulâ¦.

Or had he imagined it? In any case, wasnât it true that people who were slightly mentally deficient very often had a kind of sly native cunning that sometimes surprised even the people who knew them best?

He thought to himself that Lady Stubbs was certainly an enigma. People seemed to hold diametrically opposite ideas concerning her. Miss Brewis had intimated that Lady Stubbs knew very well what she was doing. Yet Mrs. Oliver definitely thought her half-witted, and Mrs. Folliat who had known her long and intimately had spoken of her as someone not quite normal, who needed care and watchfulness.

Miss Brewis was probably prejudiced. She disliked Lady Stubbs for her indolence and her aloofness. Poirot wondered if Miss Brewis had been Sir Georgeâs secretary prior to his marriage. If so, she might easily resent the coming of the new rÃ©gime.

Poirot himself would have agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs. Folliat and Mrs. Oliverâuntil this morning. And, after all, could he really rely on what had been only a fleeting impression?

Lady Stubbs got up abruptly from the table.

âI have a headache,â she said. âI shall go and lie down in my room.â

Sir George sprang up anxiously.

âMy dear girl. Youâre all right, arenât you?â

âItâs just a headache.â

âYouâll be fit enough for this afternoon, wonât you?â

âYes, I think so.â

âTake some aspirin, Lady Stubbs,â said Miss Brewis briskly. âHave you got some or shall I bring it to you?â

âIâve got some.â

She moved towards the door. As she went she dropped the handkerchief she had been squeezing between her fingers. Poirot, moving quietly forward, picked it up unobtrusively.

Sir George, about to follow his wife, was stopped by Miss Brewis.

âAbout the parking of cars this afternoon, Sir George. Iâm just going to give Mitchell instructions. Do you think that the best plan would be, as you saidâ?â

Poirot, going out of the room, heard no more.

He caught up his hostess on the stairs.

âMadame, you dropped this.â

He proffered the handkerchief with a bow.

She took it unheedingly.

âDid I? Thank you.â

âI am most distressed, Madame, that you should be suffering. Particularly when your cousin is coming.â

She answered quickly, almost violently.

âI donât want to see Etienne. I donât like him. Heâs bad. He was always bad. Iâm afraid of him. He does bad things.â

The door of the dining room opened and Sir George came across the hall and up the stairs.

âHattie, my poor darling. Let me come and tuck you up.â

They went up the stairs together, his arm round her tenderly, his face worried and absorbed.

Poirot looked up after them, then turned to encounter Miss Brewis moving fast, and clasping papers.

âLady Stubbsâ headacheââ he began.

âNo more headache than my foot,â said Miss Brewis crossly, and disappeared into her office, closing the door behind her.

Poirot sighed and went out through the front door on to the terrace. Mrs. Masterton had just driven up in a small car and was directing the elevation of a tea marquee, baying out orders in rich full-blooded tones.

She turned to greet Poirot.

âSuch a nuisance, these affairs,â she observed. âAnd they will always put everything in the wrong place. No, Rogers! More to the leftâleftânot right! What do you think of the weather, M. Poirot? Looks doubtful to me. Rain, of course, would spoil everything. And weâve had such a fine summer this year for a change. Whereâs Sir George? I want to talk to him about car parking.â

âHis wife had a headache and has gone to lie down.â

âSheâll be all right this afternoon,â said Mrs. Masterton confidently. âLikes functions, you know. Sheâll make a terrific toilet and be as pleased about it as a child. Just fetch me a bundle of those pegs over there, will you? I want to mark the places for the clock golf numbers.â

Poirot, thus pressed into service, was worked by Mrs. Masterton relentlessly, as a useful apprentice. She condescended to talk to him in the intervals of hard labour.

âGot to do everything yourself, I find. Only wayâ¦By the way, youâre a friend of the Eliots, I believe?â

Poirot, after his long sojourn in England, comprehended that this was an indication of social recognition. Mrs. Masterton was in fact saying: âAlthough a foreigner, I understand you are One of Us.â She continued to chat in an intimate manner.

âNice to have Nasse lived in again. We were all so afraid it was going to be a hotel. You know what it is nowadays; one drives through the country and passes place after place with the board up âGuest Houseâ or âPrivate Hotelâ or âHotel A.A. Fully Licensed.â All the houses one stayed in as a girlâor where one went to dances. Very sad. Yes, Iâm glad about Nasse and so is poor dear Amy Folliat, of course. Sheâs had such a hard lifeâbut never complains, I will say. Sir George has done wonders for Nasseâand not vulgarized it. Donât know whether thatâs the result of Amy Folliatâs influenceâor whether itâs his own natural good taste. He has got quite good taste, you know. Very surprising in a man like that.â

âHe is not, I understand, one of the landed gentry?â said Poirot cautiously.

âHe isnât even really Sir Georgeâwas christened it, I understand. Took the idea from Lord George Sangerâs Circus, I suspect. Very amusing really. Of course we never let on. Rich men must be allowed their little snobberies, donât you agree? The funny thing is that in spite of his origins George Stubbs would go down perfectly well anywhere. Heâs a throwback. Pure type of the eighteenth-century country squire. Good blood in him, Iâd say. Father a gent and mother a barmaid, is my guess.â

Mrs. Masterton interrupted herself to yell to a gardener.

âNot by that rhododendron. You must leave room for the skittles over to the right. Rightânot left!â

She went on: âExtraordinary how they canât tell their left from their right. The Brewis woman is efficient. Doesnât like poor Hattie, though. Looks at her sometimes as though sheâd like to murder her. So many of these good secretaries are in love with their boss. Now where do you think Jim Warburton can have got to? Silly the way he sticks to calling himself âCaptain.â Not a regular soldier and never within miles of a German. One has to put up, of course, with what one can get these daysâand heâs a hard workerâbut I feel thereâs something rather fishy about him. Ah! Here are the Legges.â

Sally Legge, dressed in slacks and a yellow pullover, said brightly:

âWeâve come to help.â

âLots to do,â boomed Mrs. Masterton. âNow, let me seeâ¦â

Poirot, profiting by her inattention, slipped away. As he came round the corner of the house on to the front terrace he became a spectator of a new drama.

Two young women, in shorts, with bright blouses, had come out from the wood and were standing uncertainly looking up at the house. In one of them he thought he recognized the Italian girl of yesterdayâs lift in the car. From the window of Lady Stubbsâ bedroom Sir George leaned out and addressed them wrathfully.

âYouâre trespassing,â he shouted.

âPlease?â said the young woman with the green headscarf.

âYou canât come through here. Private.â

The other young woman, who had a royal blue headscarf, said brightly:

âPlease? Nassecombe Quayâ¦â She pronounced it carefully. âIt is this way? Please.â

âYouâre trespassing,â bellowed Sir George.

âPlease?â

âTrespassing! No way through. Youâve got to go back. BACK! The way you came.â

They stared as he gesticulated. Then they consulted together in a flood of foreign speech. Finally, doubtfully, blue-scarf said:

âBack? To Hostel?â

âThatâs right. And you take the roadâroad round that way.â

They retreated unwillingly. Sir George mopped his brow and looked down at Poirot.

âSpend my time turning people off,â he said. âUsed to come through the top gate. Iâve padlocked that. Now they come through the woods, having got over the fence. Think they can get down to the shore and the quay easily this way. Well, they can, of course, much quicker. But thereâs no right of wayânever has been. And theyâre practically all foreignersâdonât understand what you say, and just jabber back at you in Dutch or something.â

âOf these, one is German and the other Italian, I thinkâI saw the Italian girl on her way from the station yesterday.â

âEvery kind of language they talkâ¦Yes, Hattie? What did you say?â He drew back into the room.

Poirot turned to find Mrs. Oliver and a well-developed girl of fourteen dressed in Guide uniform close behind him.

âThis is Marlene,â said Mrs. Oliver.

Marlene giggled.

âIâm the horrible Corpse,â she said. âBut Iâm not going to have any blood on me.â Her tone expressed disappointment.

âNo?â

âNo. Just strangled with a cord, thatâs all. Iâd of liked to be stabbedâand have lashings of red paint.â

âCaptain Warburton thought it might look too realistic,â said Mrs. Oliver.

âIn a murder I think you ought to have blood,â said Marlene sulkily. She looked at Poirot with hungry interest. âSeen lots of murders, havenât you? So she says.â

âOne or two,â said Poirot modestly.

He observed with alarm that Mrs. Oliver was leaving them.

âAny sex maniacs?â asked Marlene with avidity.

âCertainly not.â

âI like sex maniacs,â said Marlene with relish. âReading about them, I mean.â

âYou would probably not like meeting one.â

âOh, I dunno. Dâyou know what? I believe weâve got a sex maniac round here. My granddad saw a body in the woods once. He was scared and ran away, and when he come back it was gone. It was a womanâs body. But of course heâs batty, my granddad is, so no one listens to what he says.â

Poirot managed to escape and, regaining the house by a circuitous route, took refuge in his bedroom. He felt in need of repose.

Six

Lunch was an early and quickly snatched affair of a cold buffet. At two-thirty a minor film star was to open the fÃªte. The weather, after looking ominously like rain, began to improve. By three oâclock the fÃªte was in full swing. People were paying the admission charge of half a crown in large numbers, and cars were lining one side of the long drive. Students from the Youth Hostel arrived in batches conversing loudly in foreign tongues. True to Mrs. Mastertonâs forecast, Lady Stubbs had emerged from her bedroom just before half past two, dressed in a cyclamen dress with an enormous coolie-shaped hat of black straw. She wore large quantities of diamonds.

Miss Brewis murmured sardonically:

âThinks itâs the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, evidently!â

But Poirot complimented her gravely.

âIt is a beautiful creation that you have on, Madame.â

âIt is nice, isnât it,â said Hattie happily. âI wore it for Ascot.â

The minor film star was arriving and Hattie moved forward to greet her.

Poirot retreated into the background. He wandered around disconsolatelyâeverything seemed to be proceeding in the normal fashion of fÃªtes. There was a coconut shy, presided over by Sir George in his heartiest fashion, a skittle alley and a hoopla. There were various âstallsâ displaying local produce of fruit, vegetables, jams and cakesâand others displaying âfancy objects.â There were ârafflesâ of cakes, of baskets of fruit; even, it seemed, of a pig; and a âLucky Dipâ for children at twopence a go.

There was a good crowd of people by now and an Exhibition of Childrenâs Dancing began. Poirot saw no sign of Mrs. Oliver, but Lady Stubbsâ cyclamen pink figure showed up amongst the crowd as she drifted rather vaguely about. The focus of attention, however, seemed to be Mrs. Folliat. She was quite transformed in appearanceâwearing a hydrangea-blue foulard frock and a smart grey hat, she appeared to preside over the proceedings, greeting new arrivals, and directing people to the various side shows.

Poirot lingered near her and listened to some of the conversations.

âAmy, my dear, how are you?â

âOh, Pamela, how nice of you and Edward to come. Such a long way from Tiverton.â

âThe weatherâs held for you. Remember the year before the war? Cloudburst came down about four oâclock. Ruined the whole show.â

âBut itâs been a wonderful summer this year. Dorothy! Itâs ages since Iâve seen you.â

âWe felt we had to come and see Nasse in its glory. I see youâve cut back the berberis on the bank.â

âYes, it shows the hydrangeas better, donât you think?â

âHow wonderful they are. What a blue! But, my dear, youâve done wonders in the last year. Nasse is really beginning to look like itself again.â

Dorothyâs husband boomed in a deep voice:

âCame over to see the commandant here during the war. Nearly broke my heart.â

Mrs. Folliat turned to greet a humbler visitor.

âMrs. Knapper, I am pleased to see you. Is this Lucy? How sheâs grown!â

âSheâll be leaving school next year. Pleased to see you looking so well, maâam.â

âIâm very well, thank you. You must go and try your luck at hoopla, Lucy. See you in the tea tent later, Mrs. Knapper. I shall be helping with the teas.â

An elderly man, presumably Mr. Knapper, said diffidently:

âPleased to have you back at Nasse, maâam. Seems like old times.â

Mrs. Folliatâs response was drowned as two women and a big beefy man rushed towards her.

âAmy, dear, such ages. This looks the greatest success! Do tell me what youâve done about the rose garden. Muriel told me that youâre restocking it with all the new floribundas.â

The beefy man chipped in.

âWhereâs Marylin Galeâ?â

âReggieâs just dying to meet her. He saw her last picture.â

âThat her in the big hat? My word, thatâs some getup.â

âDonât be stupid, darling. Thatâs Hattie Stubbs. You know, Amy, you really shouldnât let her go round quite so like a mannequin.â

âAmy?â Another friend claimed attention. âThis is Roger, Edwardâs boy. My dear, so nice to have you back at Nasse.â

Poirot moved slowly away and absentmindedly invested a shilling on a ticket that might win him the pig.

He heard faintly still, the âSo good of you to comeâ refrain from behind him. He wondered whether Mrs. Folliat realized how completely she had slipped into the role of hostess or whether it was entirely unconscious. She was, very definitely this afternoon, Mrs. Folliat of Nasse House.

He was standing by the tent labelled âMadame Zuleika will tell your Fortune for 2s. 6d.â Teas had just begun to be served and there was no longer a queue for the fortune telling. Poirot bowed his head, entered the tent and paid over his half crown willingly for the privilege of sinking into a chair and resting his aching feet.

Madame Zuleika was wearing flowing black robes, a gold tinsel scarf wound round her head and a veil across the lower half of her face which slightly muffled her remarks. A gold bracelet hung with lucky charms tinkled as she took Poirotâs hand and gave him a rapid reading, agreeably full of money to come, success with a dark beauty and a miraculous escape from an accident.

âIt is very agreeable all that you tell me, Madame Legge. I only wish that it could come true.â

âOh!â said Sally. âSo you know me, do you?â

âI had advance informationâMrs. Oliver told me that you were originally to be the âvictim,â but that you had been snatched from her for the Occult.â

âI wish I was being the âbody,ââ said Sally. âMuch more peaceful. All Jim Warburtonâs fault. Is it four oâclock yet? I want my tea. Iâm off duty from four to half past.â

âTen minutes to go, still,â said Poirot, consulting his large old-fashioned watch. âShall I bring you a cup of tea here?â

âNo, no. I want the break. This tent is stifling. Are there a lot of people waiting still?â

âNo. I think they are lining up for tea.â

âGood.â

Poirot emerged from the tent and was immediately challenged by a determined woman and made to pay sixpence and guess the weight of a cake.

A hoopla stall presided over by a fat motherly woman urged him to try his luck and, much to his discomfiture, he immediately won a large Kewpie doll. Walking sheepishly along with this he encountered Michael Weyman who was standing gloomily on the outskirts near the top of a path that led down to the quay.

âYou seem to have been enjoying yourself, M. Poirot,â he said, with a sardonic grin.

Poirot contemplated his prize.

âIt is truly horrible, is it not?â he said sadly.

A small child near him suddenly burst out crying. Poirot stooped swiftly and tucked the doll into the childâs arm.

âVoilÃ , it is for you.â

The tears ceased abruptly.

âThereâVioletâisnât the gentleman kind? Say, Ta, ever soââ

âChildrenâs Fancy Dress,â called out Captain Warburton through a megaphone. âThe first classâthree to five. Form up, please.â

Poirot moved towards the house and was cannoned into by a young man who was stepping backwards to take a better aim at a coconut. The young man scowled and Poirot apologized, mechanically, his eye held fascinated by the varied pattern of the young manâs shirt. He recognized it as the âturtleâ shirt of Sir Georgeâs description. Every kind of turtle, tortoise and sea monster appeared to be writhing and crawling over it.

Poirot blinked and was accosted by the Dutch girl to whom he had given a lift the day before.

âSo you have come to the fÃªte,â he said. âAnd your friend?â

âOh, yes, she, too, comes here this afternoon. I have not seen her yet, but we shall leave together by the bus that goes from the gates at five-fifteen. We go to Torquay and there I change to another bus for Plymouth. It is convenient.â

This explained what had puzzled Poirot, the fact that the Dutch girl was perspiring under the weight of a rucksack.

He said: âI saw your friend this morning.â

âOh, yes, Elsa, a German girl, was with her and she told me they had tried to get through woods to the river and quay. And the gentleman who owns the house was very angry and made them go back.â

She added, turning her head to where Sir George was urging competitors on at the coconut shy:

âBut nowâthis afternoon, he is very polite.â

Poirot considered explaining that there was a difference between young women who were trespassers and the same young women when they had paid two shillings and sixpence entrance fee and were legally entitled to sample the delights of Nasse House and its grounds. But Captain Warburton and his megaphone bore down upon him. The Captain was looking hot and bothered.

âHave you seen Lady Stubbs, Poirot? Anyone seen Lady Stubbs? Sheâs supposed to be judging this Fancy Dress business and I canât find her anywhere.â

âI saw her, let me seeâoh, about half an hour ago. But then I went to have my fortune told.â

âCurse the woman,â said Warburton angrily. âWhere can she have disappeared to? The children are waiting and weâre behind schedule as it is.â

He looked round.

âWhereâs Amanda Brewis?â

Miss Brewis, also, was not in evidence.

âIt really is too bad,â said Warburton. âOneâs got to have some cooperation if oneâs trying to run a show. Where can Hattie be? Perhaps sheâs gone into the house.â

He strode off rapidly.

Poirot edged his way towards the roped-off space where teas were being served in a large marquee, but there was a long queue waiting and he decided against it.

He inspected the Fancy Goods stall where a determined old lady very nearly managed to sell him a plastic collar box, and finally made his way round the outskirts to a place where he could contemplate the activity from a safe distance.

He wondered where Mrs. Oliver was.

Footsteps behind him made him turn his head. A young man was coming up the path from the quay; a very dark young man, faultlessly attired in yachting costume. He paused as though disconcerted by the scene before him.

Then he spoke hesitatingly to Poirot.

âYou will excuse me. Is this the house of Sir George Stubbs?â

âIt is indeed.â Poirot paused and then hazarded a guess. âAre you, perhaps, the cousin of Lady Stubbs?â

âI am Etienne de Sousaââ

âMy name is Hercule Poirot.â

They bowed to each other. Poirot explained the circumstances of the fÃªte. As he finished, Sir George came across the lawn towards them from the coconut shy.

âDe Sousa? Delighted to see you. Hattie got your letter this morning. Whereâs your yacht?â

âIt is moored at Helmmouth. I came up the river to the quay here in my launch.â

âWe must find Hattie. Sheâs somewhere aboutâ¦Youâll dine with us this evening, I hope?â

âYou are most kind.â

âCan we put you up?â

âThat also is most kind, but I will sleep on my yacht. It is easier so.â

âAre you staying here long?â

âTwo or three days, perhaps. It depends.â De Sousa shrugged elegant shoulders.

âHattie will be delighted, Iâm sure,â said Sir George politely. âWhere is she? I saw her not long ago.â

He looked round in a perplexed manner.

âShe ought to be judging the childrenâs fancy dress. I canât understand it. Excuse me a moment. Iâll ask Miss Brewis.â

He hurried off. De Sousa looked after him. Poirot looked at de Sousa.

âIt is some little time since you last saw your cousin?â he asked.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

âI have not seen her since she was fifteen years old. Soon after that she was sent abroadâto school at a convent in France. As a child she promised to have good looks.â

He looked inquiringly at Poirot.

âShe is a beautiful woman,â said Poirot.

âAnd that is her husband? He seems what they call âa good fellow,â but not perhaps very polished? Still, for Hattie it might be perhaps a little difficult to find a suitable husband.â

Poirot remained with a politely inquiring expression on his face. The other laughed.

âOh, it is no secret. At fifteen Hattie was mentally undeveloped. Feebleminded, do you not call it? She is still the same?â

âIt would seem soâyes,â said Poirot cautiously.

De Sousa shrugged his shoulders.

âAh, well! Why should one ask it of womenâthat they should be intelligent? It is not necessary.â

Sir George was back, fuming. Miss Brewis was with him, speaking rather breathlessly.

âIâve no idea where she is, Sir George. I saw her over by the fortune tellerâs tent last. But that was at least twenty minutes or half an hour ago. Sheâs not in the house.â

âIs it not possible,â asked Poirot, âthat she has gone to observe the progress of Mrs. Oliverâs murder hunt?â

Sir Georgeâs brow cleared.

âThatâs probably it. Look here, I canât leave the shows here. Iâm in charge. And Amandaâs got her hands full. Could you possibly have a look round, Poirot? You know the course.â

But Poirot did not know the course. However, an inquiry of Miss Brewis gave him rough guidance. Miss Brewis took brisk charge of de Sousa and Poirot went off murmuring to himself, like an incantation: âTennis Court, Camellia Garden, The Folly, Upper Nursery Garden, Boathouseâ¦.â

As he passed the coconut shy he was amused to notice Sir George proffering wooden balls with a dazzling smile of welcome to the same young Italian woman whom he had driven off that morning and who was clearly puzzled at his change of attitude.

He went on his way to the tennis court. But there was no one there but an old gentleman of military aspect who was fast asleep on a garden seat with his hat pulled over his eyes. Poirot retraced his steps to the house and went on down to the camellia garden.

In the camellia garden Poirot found Mrs. Oliver dressed in purple splendour, sitting on a garden seat in a brooding attitude, and looking rather like Mrs. Siddons. She beckoned him to the seat beside her.

âThis is only the second clue,â she hissed. âI think Iâve made them too difficult. Nobodyâs come yet.â

At this moment a young man in shorts, with a prominent Adamâs apple, entered the garden. With a cry of satisfaction he hurried to a tree in one corner and a further satisfied cry announced his discovery of the next clue. Passing them, he felt impelled to communicate his satisfaction.

âLots of people donât know about cork trees,â he said confidentially. âClever photograph, the first clue, but I spotted what it wasâsection of a tennis net. There was a poison bottle, empty, and a cork. Most of âem will go all out after the bottle clueâI guessed it was a red herring. Very delicate, cork trees, only hardy in this part of the world. Iâm interested in rare shrubs and trees. Now where does one go, I wonder?â

He frowned over the entry in the notebook he carried.

âIâve copied the next clue but it doesnât seem to make sense.â He eyed them suspiciously. âYou competing?â

âOh, no,â said Mrs. Oliver. âWeâre justâlooking on.â

âRighty-hoâ¦âWhen lovely woman stoops to folly.ââ¦Iâve an idea Iâve heard that somewhere.â

âIt is a well-known quotation,â said Poirot.

âA Folly can also be a building,â said Mrs. Oliver helpfully. âWhiteâwith pillars,â she added.

âThatâs an idea! Thanks a lot. They say Mrs. Ariadne Oliver is down here herself somewhere about. Iâd like to get her autograph. You havenât seen her about, have you?â

âNo,â said Mrs. Oliver firmly.

âIâd like to meet her. Good yarns she writes.â He lowered his voice. âBut they say she drinks like a fish.â

He hurried off and Mrs. Oliver said indignantly:

âReally! Thatâs most unfair when I only like lemonade!â

âAnd have you not just perpetrated the greatest unfairness in helping that young man towards the next clue?â

âConsidering heâs the only one whoâs got here so far, I thought he ought to be encouraged.â

âBut you wouldnât give him your autograph.â

âThatâs different,â said Mrs. Oliver. âSh! Here come some more.â

But these were not clue hunters. They were two women who having paid for admittance were determined to get their moneyâs worth by seeing the grounds thoroughly.

They were hot and dissatisfied.

âYouâd think theyâd have some nice flower beds,â said one to the other. âNothing but trees and more trees. Itâs not what I call a garden.â

Mrs. Oliver nudged Poirot, and they slipped quietly away.

âSupposing,â said Mrs. Oliver distractedly, âthat nobody ever finds my body?â

âPatience, Madame, and courage,â said Poirot. âThe afternoon is still young.â

âThatâs true,â said Mrs. Oliver, brightening. âAnd itâs half-price admission after four-thirty, so probably lots of people will flock in. Letâs go and see how that Marlene child is getting on. I donât really trust that girl, you know. No sense of responsibility. I wouldnât put it past her to sneak away quietly, instead of being a corpse, and go and have tea. You know what people are like about their teas.â

They proceeded amicably along the woodland path and Poirot commented on the geography of the property.

âI find it very confusing,â he said. âSo many paths, and one is never sure where they lead. And trees, trees everywhere.â

âYou sound like that disgruntled woman weâve just left.â

They passed the Folly and zigzagged down the path to the river. The outlines of the boathouse showed beneath them.

Poirot remarked that it would be awkward if the murder searchers were to light upon the boathouse and find the body by accident.

âA sort of short cut? I thought of that. Thatâs why the last clue is just a key. You canât unlock the door without it. Itâs a Yale. You can only open it from the inside.â

A short steep slope led down to the door of the boathouse which was built out over the river, with a little wharf and a storage place for boats underneath. Mrs. Oliver took a key from a pocket concealed amongst her purple folds and unlocked the door.

âWeâve just come to cheer you up, Marlene,â she said brightly as she entered.

She felt slightly remorseful at her unjust suspicions of Marleneâs loyalty, for Marlene, artistically arranged as âthe body,â was playing her part nobly, sprawled on the floor by the window.

Marlene made no response. She lay quite motionless. The wind blowing gently through the open window rustled a pile of âcomicsâ spread out on the table.

âItâs all right,â said Mrs. Oliver impatiently. âItâs only me and M. Poirot. Nobodyâs got any distance with the clues yet.â

Poirot was frowning. Very gently he pushed Mrs. Oliver aside and went and bent over the girl on the floor. A suppressed exclamation came from his lips. He looked up at Mrs. Oliver.

âSoâ¦â he said. âThat which you expected has happened.â

âYou donât meanâ¦â Mrs. Oliverâs eyes widened in horror. She grasped for one of the basket chairs and sat down. âYou canât meanâ¦She isnât dead?â

Poirot nodded.

âOh, yes,â he said. âShe is dead. Though not very long dead.â

âBut howâ?â

He lifted the corner of the gay scarf bound round the girlâs head, so that Mrs. Oliver could see the ends of the clothesline.

âJust like my murder,â said Mrs. Oliver unsteadily. âBut who? And why?â

âThat is the question,â said Poirot.

He forebore to add that those had also been her questions.

And that the answers to them could not be her answers, since the victim was not the Yugoslavian first wife of an Atom Scientist, but Marlene Tucker, a fourteen-year-old village girl who, as far as was known, had not an enemy in the world.

Seven

Detective-Inspector Bland sat behind a table in the study. Sir George had met him on arrival, had taken him down to the boathouse and had now returned with him to the house. Down at the boathouse a photographic unit was now busy and the fingerprint men and the medical officer had just arrived.

âThis do for you here all right?â asked Sir George.

âVery nicely, thank you, sir.â

âWhat am I to do about this show thatâs going on, tell âem about it, stop it, or what?â

Inspector Bland considered for a moment or two.

âWhat have you done so far, Sir George?â he asked.

âHavenât said anything. Thereâs a sort of idea floating round that thereâs been an accident. Nothing more than that. I donât think anyoneâs suspected yet that itâsâerâwell, murder.â

âThen leave things as they are just for the moment,â decided Bland. âThe news will get round fast enough, I daresay,â he added cynically. He thought again for a moment or two before asking, âHow many people do you think there are at this affair?â

âCouple of hundred I should say,â answered Sir George, âand more pouring in every moment. People seem to have come from a good long way round. In fact the whole thingâs being a roaring success. Damned unfortunate.â

Inspector Bland inferred correctly that it was the murder and not the success of the fÃªte to which Sir George was referring.

âA couple of hundred,â he mused, âand any one of them, I suppose, could have done it.â

He sighed.

âTricky,â said Sir George sympathetically. âBut I donât see what reason any one of them could have had. The whole thing seems quite fantasticâdonât see who would want to go murdering a girl like that.â

âHow much can you tell me about the girl? She was a local girl, I understand?â

âYes. Her people live in one of the cottages down near the quay. Her father works at one of the local farmsâPatersonâs, I think.â He added, âThe mother is here at the fÃªte this afternoon. Miss Brewisâthatâs my secretary, and she can tell you about everything much better than I canâMiss Brewis winkled the woman out and has got her somewhere, giving her cups of tea.â

âQuite so,â said the inspector, approvingly. âIâm not quite clear yet, Sir George, as to the circumstances of all this. What was the girl doing down there in the boathouse? I understand thereâs some kind of a murder huntâor treasure hunt, going on.â

Sir George nodded.

âYes. We all thought it rather a bright idea. Doesnât seem quite so bright now. I think Miss Brewis can probably explain it all to you better than I can. Iâll send her to you, shall I? Unless thereâs anything else you want to know about first.â

âNot at the moment, Sir George. I may have more questions to ask you later. There are people I shall want to see. You, and Lady Stubbs, and the people who discovered the body. One of them, I gather, is the woman novelist who designed this murder hunt as you call it.â

âThatâs right. Mrs. Oliver. Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.â

The inspectorâs eyebrows went up slightly.

âOhâher!â he said. âQuite a best-seller. Iâve read a lot of her books myself.â

âSheâs a bit upset at present,â said Sir George, ânaturally, I suppose. Iâll tell her youâll be wanting her, shall I? I donât know where my wife is. She seems to have disappeared completely from view. Somewhere among the two or three hundred, I supposeânot that sheâll be able to tell you much. I mean about the girl or anything like that. Who would you like to see first?â

âI think perhaps your secretary, Miss Brewis, and after that the girlâs mother.â

Sir George nodded and left the room.

The local police constable, Robert Hoskins, opened the door for him and shut it after he went out. He then volunteered a statement, obviously intended as a commentary on some of Sir Georgeâs remarks.

âLady Stubbs is a bit wanting,â he said, âup here.â He tapped his forehead. âThatâs why he said she wouldnât be much help. Scatty, thatâs what she is.â

âDid he marry a local girl?â

âNo. Foreigner of some sort. Coloured, some say, but I donât think thatâs so myself.â

Bland nodded. He was silent for a moment, doodling with a pencil on a sheet of paper in front of him. Then he asked a question which was clearly off the record.

âWho did it, Hoskins?â he said.

If anyone did have any ideas as to what had been going on, Bland thought, it would be P.C. Hoskins. Hoskins was a man of inquisitive mind with a great interest in everybody and everything. He had a gossiping wife and that, taken with his position as local constable, provided him with vast stores of information of a personal nature.

âForeigner, if you ask me. âTwouldnât be anyone local. The Tuckers is all right. Nice, respectable family. Nine of âem all told. Two of the older girls is married, one boy in the Navy, the other oneâs doing his National Service, another girlâs over to a hairdresserâs at Torquay. Thereâs three younger ones at home, two boys and a girl.â He paused, considering. âNone of âemâs what youâd call bright, but Mrs. Tucker keeps her home nice, clean as a pinâyoungest of eleven, she was. Sheâs got her old father living with her.â

Bland received this information in silence. Given in Hoskinsâ particular idiom, it was an outline of the Tuckersâ social position and standing.

âThatâs why I say it was a foreigner,â continued Hoskins. âOne of those that stop up to the Hostel at Hoodown, likely as not. Thereâs some queer ones among themâand a lot of goings-on. Be surprised, you would, at what Iâve seen âem doing in the bushes and the woods! Every bit as bad as what goes on in parked cars along the Common.â

P.C. Hoskins was by this time an absolute specialist on the subject of sexual âgoings-on.â They formed a large portion of his conversation when off duty and having his pint in the Bull and Bear. Bland said:

âI donât think there was anythingâwell, of that kind. The doctor will tell us, of course, as soon as heâs finished his examination.â

âYes, sir, thatâll be up to him, that will. But what I say is, you never know with foreigners. Turn nasty, they can, all in a moment.â

Inspector Bland sighed as he thought to himself that it was not quite as easy as that. It was all very well for Constable Hoskins to put the blame conveniently on âforeigners.â The door opened and the doctor walked in.

âDone my bit,â he remarked. âShall they take her away now? The other outfits have packed up.â

âSergeant Cottrill will attend to that,â said Bland. âWell, Doc, whatâs the finding?â

âSimple and straightforward as it can be,â said the doctor. âNo complications. Garrotted with a piece of clothesline. Nothing could be simpler or easier to do. No struggle of any kind beforehand. Iâd say the kid didnât know what was happening to her until it had happened.â

âAny signs of assault?â

âNone. No assault, signs of rape, or interference of any kind.â

âNot presumably a sexual crime, then?â

âI wouldnât say so, no.â The doctor added, âI shouldnât say sheâd been a particularly attractive girl.â

âWas she fond of the boys?â

Bland addressed this question to Constable Hoskins.

âI wouldnât say theyâd much use for her,â said Constable Hoskins, âthough maybe sheâd have liked it if they had.â

âMaybe,â agreed Bland. His mind went back to the pile of comic papers in the boathouse and the idle scrawls on the margin. âJohnny goes with Kate,â âGeorgie Porgie kisses hikers in the wood.â He thought there had been a little wishful thinking there. On the whole, though, it seemed unlikely that there was a sex angle to Marlene Tuckerâs death. Although, of course, one never knewâ¦There were always those queer criminal individuals, men with a secret lust to kill, who specialized in immature female victims. One of these might be present in this part of the world during this holiday season. He almost believed that it must be soâfor otherwise he could really see no reason for so pointless a crime. However, he thought, weâre only at the beginning. Iâd better see what all these people have to tell me.

âWhat about time of death?â he asked.

The doctor glanced over at the clock and his own watch.

âJust after half past five now,â he said. âSay I saw her about twenty past fiveâsheâd been dead about an hour. Roughly, that is to say. Put it between four oâclock and twenty to five. Let you know if thereâs anything more after the autopsy.â He added: âYouâll get the proper report with the long words in due course. Iâll be off now. Iâve got some patients to see.â

He left the room and Inspector Bland asked Hoskins to fetch Miss Brewis. His spirits rose a little when Miss Brewis came into the room. Here, as he recognized at once, was efficiency. He would get clear answers to his questions, definite times and no muddleheadedness.

âMrs. Tuckerâs in my sitting room,â Miss Brewis said as she sat down. âIâve broken the news to her and given her some tea. Sheâs very upset, naturally. She wanted to see the body but I told her it was much better not. Mr. Tucker gets off work at six oâclock and was coming to join his wife here. I told them to look out for him and bring him along when he arrives. The younger children are at the fÃªte still, and someone is keeping an eye on them.â

âExcellent,â said Inspector Bland, with approval. âI think before I see Mrs. Tucker I would like to hear what you and Lady Stubbs can tell me.â

âI donât know where Lady Stubbs is,â said Miss Brewis acidly. âI rather imagine she got bored with the fÃªte and has wandered off somewhere, but I donât expect she can tell you anything more than I can. What exactly is it that you want to know?â

âI want to know all the details of this murder hunt first and of how this girl, Marlene Tucker, came to be taking a part in it.â

âThatâs quite easy.â

Succinctly and clearly Miss Brewis explained the idea of the murder hunt as an original attraction for the fÃªte, the engaging of Mrs. Oliver, the well-known novelist, to arrange the matter, and a short outline of the plot.

âOriginally,â Miss Brewis explained, âMrs. Alec Legge was to have taken the part of the victim.â

âMrs. Alec Legge?â queried the inspector.

Constable Hoskins put in an explanatory word.

âShe and Mr. Legge have the Lawdersâ cottage, the pink one down by Mill Creek. Came here a month ago, they did. Two or three months they got it for.â

âI see. And Mrs. Legge, you say, was to be the original victim? Why was that changed?â

âWell, one evening Mrs. Legge told all our fortunes and was so good at it that it was decided weâd have a fortune tellerâs tent as one of the attractions and that Mrs. Legge should put on Eastern dress and be Madame Zuleika and tell fortunes at half a crown a time. I donât think thatâs really illegal, is it, Inspector? I mean itâs usually done at these kind of fÃªtes?â

Inspector Bland smiled faintly.

âFortune telling and raffles arenât always taken too seriously, Miss Brewis,â he said. âNow and then we have toâerâmake an example.â

âBut usually youâre tactful? Well, thatâs how it was. Mrs. Legge agreed to help us that way and so we had to find somebody else to do the body. The local Guides were helping us at the fÃªte, and I think someone suggested that one of the Guides would do quite well.â

âJust who was it who suggested that, Miss Brewis?â

âReally, I donât quite knowâ¦I think it may have been Mrs. Masterton, the Memberâs wife. No, perhaps it was Captain Warburtonâ¦Really, I canât be sure. But, anyway, it was suggested.â

âIs there any reason why this particular girl should have been chosen?â

âN-no, I donât think so. Her people are tenants on the estate, and her mother, Mrs. Tucker, sometimes comes to help in the kitchen. I donât know quite why we settled on her. Probably her name came to mind first. We asked her and she seemed quite pleased to do it.â

âShe definitely wanted to do it?â

âOh, yes, I think she was flattered. She was a very moronic kind of girl,â continued Miss Brewis, âshe couldnât have acted a part or anything like that. But this was all very simple, and she felt sheâd been singled out from the others and was pleased about it.â

âWhat exactly was it that she had to do?â

âShe had to stay in the boathouse. When she heard anyone coming to the door she was to lie down on the floor, put the cord round her neck and sham dead.â Miss Brewisâ tones were calm and businesslike. The fact that the girl who was to sham dead had actually been found dead did not at the moment appear to affect her emotionally.

âRather a boring way for the girl to spend the afternoon when she might have been at the fÃªte,â suggested Inspector Bland.

âI suppose it was in a way,â said Miss Brewis, âbut one canât have everything, can one? And Marlene did enjoy the idea of being the body. It made her feel important. She had a pile of papers and things to read to keep her amused.â

âAnd something to eat as well?â said the inspector. âI noticed there was a tray down there with a plate and glass.â

âOh, yes, she had a big plate of sweet cakes, and a raspberry fruit drink. I took them down to her myself.â

Bland looked up sharply.

âYou took them down to her? When?â

âAbout the middle of the afternoon.â

âWhat time exactly? Can you remember?â

Miss Brewis considered a moment.

âLet me see. Childrenâs Fancy Dress was judged, there was a little delayâLady Stubbs couldnât be found, but Mrs. Folliat took her place, so that was all rightâ¦Yes, it must have beenâIâm almost sureâabout five minutes past four that I collected the cakes and the fruit drink.â

âAnd you took them down to her at the boathouse yourself. What time did you reach there?â

âOh, it takes about five minutes to go down to the boathouseâabout quarter past four, I should think.â

âAnd at quarter past four Marlene Tucker was alive and well?â

âYes, of course,â said Miss Brewis, âand very eager to know how people were getting on with the murder hunt, too. Iâm afraid I couldnât tell her. Iâd been too busy with the sideshow on the lawn, but I did know that a lot of people had entered for it. Twenty or thirty to my knowledge. Probably a good many more.â

âHow did you find Marlene when you arrived at the boathouse?â

âIâve just told you.â

âNo, no, I donât mean that. I mean, was she lying on the floor shamming dead when you opened the door?â

âOh, no,â said Miss Brewis, âbecause I called out just before I got there. So she opened the door and I took the tray in and put it on the table.â

âAt a quarter past four,â said Bland, writing it down, âMarlene Tucker was alive and well. You will understand, Iâm sure, Miss Brewis, that that is a very important point. You are quite sure of your times?â

âI canât be exactly sure because I didnât look at my watch, but I had looked at it a short time previously and thatâs as near as I can get.â She added, with a sudden dawning realization of the inspectorâs point, âDo you mean that it was soon afterâ?â

âIt canât have been very long after, Miss Brewis.â

âOh, dear,â said Miss Brewis.

It was a rather inadequate expression, but nevertheless it conveyed well enough Miss Brewisâ dismay and concern.

âNow, Miss Brewis, on your way down to the boathouse and on your way back again to the house, did you meet anybody or see anyone near the boathouse?â

Miss Brewis considered.

âNo,â she said, âI didnât meet anyone. I might have, of course, because the grounds are open to everyone this afternoon. But on the whole, people tend to stay round the lawn and the side shows and all that. They like to go round the kitchen gardens and the greenhouses, but they donât walk through the woodlands as much as I should have thought they would. People tend to herd together very much at these affairs, donât you think so, Inspector?â

The inspector said that that was probably so.

âThough, I think,â said Miss Brewis, with sudden memory, âthat there was someone in the Folly.â

âThe Folly?â

âYes. A small white temple arrangement. It was put up just a year or two ago. Itâs to the right of the path as you go down to the boathouse. There was someone in there. A courting couple, I suspect. Someone was laughing and then someone said, âHush.ââ

âYou donât know who this courting couple was?â

âIâve no idea. You canât see the front of the Folly from the path. The sides and back are enclosed.â

The inspector thought for a moment or two, but it did not seem likely to him that the coupleâwhoever they wereâin the Folly were important. Better find out who they were, perhaps, because they in their turn might have seen someone coming up from or going down to the boathouse.

âAnd there was no one else on the path? No one at all?â he insisted.

âI see what youâre driving at, of course,â said Miss Brewis. âI can only assure you that I didnât meet anyone. But then, you see, I neednât have. I mean, if there had been anyone on the path who didnât want me to see them, itâs the simplest thing in the world just to slip behind some of the rhododendron bushes. The pathâs ordered on both sides with shrubs and rhododendron bushes. If anyone who had no business to be there heard someone coming along the path, they could slip out of sight in a moment.â

The inspector shifted on to another tack.

âIs there anything you know about this girl yourself, that could help us?â he asked.

âI really know nothing about her,â said Miss Brewis. âI donât think Iâd ever spoken to her until this affair. Sheâs one of the girls Iâve seen aboutâI know her vaguely by sight, but thatâs all.â

âAnd you know nothing about herânothing that could be helpful?â

âI donât know of any reason why anyone should want to murder her,â said Miss Brewis. âIn fact it seems to me, if you know what I mean, quite impossible that such a thing should have happened. I can only think that to some unbalanced mind, the fact that she was to be the murdered victim might have induced the wish to make her a real victim. But even that sounds very far-fetched and silly.â

Bland sighed.

âOh, well,â he said, âI suppose Iâd better see the mother now.â

Mrs. Tucker was a thin, hatchet-faced woman with stringy blonde hair and a sharp nose. Her eyes were reddened with crying, but she had herself in hand now, and was ready to answer the inspectorâs questions.

âDoesnât seem right that a thing like that should happen,â she said. âYou read of these things in the papers, but that it should happen to our Marleneââ

âIâm very, very sorry about it,â said Inspector Bland gently. âWhat I want you to do is to think as hard as you can and tell me if there is anyone who could have had any reason to harm the girl?â

âIâve been thinking about that already,â said Mrs. Tucker, with a sudden sniff. âThought and thought, I have, but I canât get anywhere. Words with the teacher at school Marlene had now and again, and sheâd have her quarrels now and again with one of the girls or boys, but nothing serious in any way. Thereâs no one who had a real down on her, nobody whoâd do her a mischief.â

âShe never talked to you about anyone who might have been an enemy of any kind?â

âShe talked silly often, Marlene did, but nothing of that kind. It was all makeup and hairdos, and what sheâd like to do to her face and herself. You know what girls are. Far too young she was, to put on lipstick and all that muck, and her dad told her so, and so did I. But thatâs what sheâd do when she got hold of any money. Buy herself scent and lipsticks and hide them away.â

Bland nodded. There was nothing here that could help him. An adolescent, rather silly girl, her head full of film stars and glamourâthere were hundreds of Marlenes.

âWhat her dadâll say, I donât know,â said Mrs. Tucker. âComing here any minute heâll be, expecting to enjoy himself. Heâs a rare shot at the coconuts, he is.â

She broke down suddenly and began to sob.

âIf you ask me,â she said, âitâs one of them nasty foreigners up at the Hostel. You never know where you are with foreigners. Nice spoken as most of them are, some of the shirts they wear you wouldnât believe. Shirts with girls on them with these bikinis, as they call them. And all of them sunning themselves here and there with no shirts at all onâit all leads to trouble. Thatâs what I say!â

Still weeping, Mrs. Tucker was escorted from the room by Constable Hoskins. Bland reflected that the local verdict seemed to be the comfortable and probably age-long one of attributing every tragic occurrence to unspecified foreigners.

Eight

âGot a sharp tongue, she has,â Hoskins said when he returned. âNags her husband and bullies her old father. I daresay sheâs spoke sharp to the girl once or twice and now sheâs feeling bad about it. Not that girls mind what their mothers say to them. Drops off âem like water off a duckâs back.â

Inspector Bland cut short these general reflections and told Hoskins to fetch Mrs. Oliver.

The inspector was slightly startled by the sight of Mrs. Oliver. He had not expected anything so voluminous, so purple and in such a state of emotional disturbance.

âI feel awful,â said Mrs. Oliver, sinking down in the chair in front of him like a purple blancmange. âAWFUL,â she added in what were clearly capital letters.

The inspector made a few ambiguous noises, and Mrs. Oliver swept on.

âBecause, you see, itâs my murder. I did it!â

For a startled moment Inspector Bland thought that Mrs. Oliver was accusing herself of the crime.

âWhy I should ever have wanted the Yugoslavian wife of an Atom Scientist to be the victim, I canât imagine,â said Mrs. Oliver, sweeping her hands through her elaborate hairdo in a frenzied manner with the result that she looked slightly drunk. âAbsolutely asinine of me. It might just as well have been the second gardener who wasnât what he seemedâand that wouldnât have mattered half as much because, after all, most men can look after themselves. If they canât look after themselves they ought to be able to look after themselves, and in that case I shouldnât have minded so much. Men get killed and nobody mindsâI mean, nobody except their wives and sweethearts and children and things like that.â

At this point the inspector entertained unworthy suspicions about Mrs. Oliver. This was aided by the faint fragrance of brandy which was wafted towards him. On their return to the house Hercule Poirot had firmly administered to his friend this sovereign remedy for shocks.

âIâm not mad and Iâm not drunk,â said Mrs. Oliver, intuitively divining his thoughts, âthough I daresay with that man about who thinks I drink like a fish and says everybody says so, you probably think so too.â

âWhat man?â demanded the inspector, his mind switching from the unexpected introduction of the second gardener into the drama, to the further introduction of an unspecified man.

âFreckles and a Yorkshire accent,â said Mrs. Oliver. âBut, as I say, Iâm not drunk and Iâm not mad. Iâm just upset. Thoroughly UPSET,â she repeated, once more resorting to capital letters.

âIâm sure, madam, it must have been most distressing,â said the inspector.

âThe awful thing is,â said Mrs. Oliver, âthat she wanted to be a sex maniacâs victim, and now I suppose she wasâisâwhich should I mean?â

âThereâs no question of a sex maniac,â said the inspector.

âIsnât there?â said Mrs. Oliver. âWell, thank God for that. Or, at least, I donât know. Perhaps she would rather have had it that way. But if he wasnât a sex maniac, why did anybody murder her, Inspector?â

âI was hoping,â said the inspector, âthat you could help me there.â

Undoubtedly, he thought, Mrs. Oliver had put her finger on the crucial point. Why should anyone murder Marlene?

âI canât help you,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI canât imagine who could have done it. At least, of course, I can imagineâI can imagine anything! Thatâs the trouble with me. I can imagine things nowâthis minute. I could even make them sound all right, but of course none of them would be true. I mean, she could have been murdered by someone who just likes murdering girls but thatâs too easyâand, anyway, too much of a coincidence that somebody should be at this fÃªte who wanted to murder a girl. And how would he know that Marlene was in the boathouse? Or she might have known some secret about somebodyâs love affairs, or she may have seen someone bury a body at night, or she may have recognized somebody who was concealing his identityâor she may have known a secret about where some treasure was buried during the war. Or the man in the launch may have thrown somebody into the river and she saw it from the window of the boathouseâor she may even have got hold of some very important message in secret code and not known what it was herself.â

âPlease!â The inspector held up his hand. His head was whirling.

Mrs. Oliver stopped obediently. It was clear that she could have gone on in this vein for some time, although it seemed to the inspector that she had already envisaged every possibility, likely or otherwise. Out of the richness of the material presented to him, he seized upon one phrase.

âWhat did you mean, Mrs. Oliver, by the âman in the launch?â Are you just imagining a man in a launch?â

âSomebody told me heâd come in a launch,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI canât remember who. The one we were talking about at breakfast, I mean,â she added.

âPlease.â The inspectorâs tone was now pleading. He had had no idea before what the writers of detective stories were like. He knew that Mrs. Oliver had written forty-odd books. It seemed to him astonishing at the moment that she had not written a hundred and forty. He rapped out a peremptory inquiry. âWhat is all this about a man at breakfast who came in a launch?â

âHe didnât come in the launch at breakfast time,â said Mrs. Oliver, âit was a yacht. At least, I donât mean that exactly. It was a letter.â

âWell, what was it?â demanded Bland. âA yacht or a letter?â

âIt was a letter,â said Mrs. Oliver, âto Lady Stubbs. From a cousin in a yacht. And she was frightened,â she ended.

âFrightened? What of?â

âOf him, I suppose,â said Mrs. Oliver. âAnybody could see it. She was terrified of him and she didnât want him to come, and I think thatâs why sheâs hiding now.â

âHiding?â said the inspector.

âWell, she isnât about anywhere,â said Mrs. Oliver. âEveryoneâs been looking for her. And I think sheâs hiding because sheâs afraid of him and doesnât want to meet him.â

âWho is this man?â demanded the inspector.

âYouâd better ask M. Poirot,â said Mrs. Oliver. âBecause he spoke to him and I havenât. His nameâs Estebanâno, it isnât, that was in my plot. De Sousa, thatâs what his name is, Etienne de Sousa.â

But another name had caught the inspectorâs attention.

âWho did you say?â he asked. âMr. Poirot?â

âYes. Hercule Poirot. He was with me when we found the body.â

âHercule Poirotâ¦I wonder now. Can it be the same man? A Belgian, a small man with a very big moustache?â

âAn enormous moustache,â agreed Mrs. Oliver. âYes. Do you know him?â

âItâs a good many years since I met him. I was a young sergeant at the time.â

âYou met him on a murder case?â

âYes, I did. Whatâs he doing down here?â

âHe was to give away the prizes,â said Mrs. Oliver.

There was a momentary hesitation before she gave this answer, but it went unperceived by the inspector.

âAnd he was with you when you discovered the body,â said Bland. âHâm, Iâd like to talk to him.â

âShall I get him for you?â Mrs. Oliver gathered up her purple draperies hopefully.

âThereâs nothing more that you can add, madam? Nothing more that you think could help us in any way?â

âI donât think so,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI donât know anything. As I say, I could imagine reasonsââ

The inspector cut her short. He had no wish to hear any more of Mrs. Oliverâs imagined solutions. They were far too confusing.

âThank you very much, madam,â he said briskly. âIf youâll ask M. Poirot to come and speak to me here I shall be very much obliged to you.â

Mrs. Oliver left the room. P.C. Hoskins inquired with interest:

âWhoâs this Monsieur Poirot, sir?â

âYouâd describe him probably as a scream,â said Inspector Bland. âKind of music hall parody of a Frenchman, but actually heâs a Belgian. But in spite of his absurdities, heâs got brains. He must be a fair age now.â

âWhat about this de Sousa?â asked the constable. âThink thereâs anything in that, sir?â

Inspector Bland did not hear the question. He was struck by a fact which, though he had been told it several times, was only now beginning to register.

First it had been Sir George, irritated and alarmed. âMy wife seems to have disappeared. I canât think where she has got to.â Then Miss Brewis, contemptuous: âLady Stubbs was not to be found. Sheâd got bored with the show.â And now Mrs. Oliver with her theory that Lady Stubbs was hiding.

âEh? What?â he asked absently.

Constable Hoskins cleared his throat.

âI was asking you, sir, if you thought there was anything in this business of de Sousaâwhoever he is.â

Constable Hoskins was clearly delighted at having a specific foreigner rather than foreigners in the mass introduced into the case. But Inspector Blandâs mind was running on a different course.

âI want Lady Stubbs,â he said curtly. âGet hold of her for me. If she isnât about, look for her.â

Hoskins looked slightly puzzled but he left the room obediently. In the doorway he paused and fell back a little to allow Hercule Poirot to enter. He looked back over his shoulder with some interest before closing the door behind him.

âI donât suppose,â said Bland, rising and holding out his hand, âthat you remember me, M. Poirot.â

âBut assuredly,â said Poirot. âIt isânow give me a moment, just a little moment. It is the young sergeantâyes, Sergeant Bland whom I met fourteenâno, fifteen years ago.â

âQuite right. What a memory!â

âNot at all. Since you remember me, why should I not remember you?â

It would be difficult, Bland thought, to forget Hercule Poirot, and this not entirely for complimentary reasons.

âSo here you are, M. Poirot,â he said. âAssisting at a murder once again.â

âYou are right,â said Poirot. âI was called down here to assist.â

âCalled down to assist?â Bland looked puzzled. Poirot said quickly:

âI mean, I was asked down here to give away the prizes of this murder hunt.â

âSo Mrs. Oliver told me.â

âShe told you nothing else?â Poirot said it with apparent carelessness. He was anxious to discover whether Mrs. Oliver had given the inspector any hint of the real motives which had led her to insist on Poirotâs journey to Devon.

âTold me nothing else? She never stopped telling me things. Every possible and impossible motive for the girlâs murder. She set my head spinning. Phew! What an imagination!â

âShe earns her living by her imagination, mon ami,â said Poirot dryly.

âShe mentioned a man called de Sousaâdid she imagine that?â

âNo, that is sober fact.â

âThere was something about a letter at breakfast and a yacht and coming up the river in a launch. I couldnât make head or tail of it.â

Poirot embarked upon an explanation. He told of the scene at the breakfast table, the letter, Lady Stubbsâ headache.

âMrs. Oliver said that Lady Stubbs was frightened. Did you think she was afraid, too?â

âThat was the impression she gave me.â

âAfraid of this cousin of hers? Why?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âI have no idea. All she told me was that he was badâa bad man. She is, you understand, a little simple. Subnormal.â

âYes, that seems to be pretty generally known round here. She didnât say why she was afraid of this de Sousa?â

âNo.â

âBut you think her fear was real?â

âIf it was not, then she is a very clever actress,â said Poirot dryly.

âIâm beginning to have some odd ideas about this case,â said Bland. He got up and walked restlessly to and fro. âItâs that cursed womanâs fault, I believe.â

âMrs. Oliverâs?â

âYes. Sheâs put a lot of melodramatic ideas into my head.â

âAnd you think they may be true?â

âNot all of themânaturallyâbut one or two of them mightnât be as wild as they sounded. It all dependsâ¦â He broke off as the door opened to re-admit P.C. Hoskins.

âDonât seem able to find the lady, sir,â he said. âSheâs not about anywhere.â

âI know that already,â said Bland irritably. âI told you to find her.â

âSergeant Farrell and P.C. Lorimer are searching the grounds, sir,â said Hoskins. âSheâs not in the house,â he added.

âFind out from the man whoâs taking admission tickets at the gate if sheâs left the place. Either on foot or in a car.â

âYes, sir.â

Hoskins departed.

âAnd find out when she was last seen and where,â Bland shouted after him.

âSo that is the way your mind is working,â said Poirot.

âIt isnât working anywhere yet,â said Bland, âbut Iâve just woken up to the fact that a lady who ought to be on the premises isnât on the premises! And I want to know why. Tell me what more you know about whatâs-his-name de Sousa.â

Poirot described his meeting with the young man who had come up the path from the quay.

âHe is probably still here at the fÃªte,â he said. âShall I tell Sir George that you want to see him?â

âNot for a moment or two,â said Bland. âIâd like to find out a little more first. When did you yourself last see Lady Stubbs?â

Poirot cast his mind back. He found it difficult to remember exactly. He recalled vague glimpses of her tall, cyclamen-clad figure with the drooping black hat moving about the lawn talking to people, hovering here and there; occasionally he would hear that strange laugh of hers, distinctive amongst the many other confused sounds.

âI think,â he said doubtfully, âit must have been not long before four oâclock.â

âAnd where was she then, and who was she with?â

âShe was in the middle of a group of people near the house.â

âWas she there when de Sousa arrived?â

âI donât remember. I donât think so, at least I did not see her. Sir George told de Sousa that his wife was somewhere about. He seemed surprised, I remember, that she was not judging the Childrenâs Fancy Dress, as she was supposed to do.â

âWhat time was it when de Sousa arrived?â

âIt must have been about half past four, I should think. I did not look at my watch so I cannot tell you exactly.â

âAnd Lady Stubbs had disappeared before he arrived?â

âIt seems so.â

âPossibly she ran away so as not to meet him,â suggested the inspector.

âPossibly,â Poirot agreed.

âWell, she canât have gone far,â said Bland. âWe ought to be able to find her quite easily, and when we doâ¦â He broke off.

âAnd supposing you donât?â Poirot put the question with a curious intonation in his voice.

âThatâs nonsense,â said the inspector vigorously. âWhy? What dâyou thinkâs happened to her?â

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

âWhat indeed! One does not know. All one does know is that she hasâdisappeared!â

âDash it all, M. Poirot, youâre making it sound quite sinister.â

âPerhaps it is sinister.â

âItâs the murder of Marlene Tucker that weâre investigating,â said the inspector severely.

âBut evidently. Soâwhy this interest in de Sousa? Do you think he killed Marlene Tucker?â

Inspector Bland replied irrelevantly:

âItâs that woman!â

Poirot smiled faintly.

âMrs. Oliver, you mean?â

âYes. You see, M. Poirot, the murder of Marlene Tucker doesnât make sense. It doesnât make sense at all. Hereâs a nondescript, rather moronic kid found strangled and not a hint of any possible motive.â

âAnd Mrs. Oliver supplied you with a motive?â

âWith a dozen at least! Amongst them she suggested that Marlene might have a knowledge of somebodyâs secret love affair, or that Marlene might have witnessed somebody being murdered, or that she knew where a buried treasure was hidden, or that she might have seen from the window of the boathouse some action performed by de Sousa in his launch as he was going up the river.â

âAh. And which of those theories appeals to you, mon cher?â

âI donât know. But I canât help thinking about them. Listen, M. Poirot. Think back carefully. Would you say from your impression of what Lady Stubbs said to you this morning that she was afraid of her cousinâs coming because he might, perhaps, know something about her which she did not want to come to the ears of her husband, or would you say that it was a direct personal fear of the man himself?â

Poirot had no hesitation in his reply.

âI should say it was a direct personal fear of the man himself.â

âHâm,â said Inspector Bland. âWell, Iâd better have a little talk with this young man if heâs still about the place.â

Nine

I

Although he had none of Constable Hoskinsâ ingrained prejudice against foreigners, Inspector Bland took an instant dislike to Etienne de Sousa. The polished elegance of the young man, his sartorial perfection, the rich flowery smell of his brilliantined hair, all combined to annoy the inspector.

De Sousa was very sure of himself, very much at ease. He also displayed, decorously veiled, a certain aloof amusement.

âOne must admit,â he said, âthat life is full of surprises. I arrive here on a holiday cruise, I admire the beautiful scenery, I come to spend an afternoon with a little cousin that I have not seen for yearsâand what happens? First I am engulfed in a kind of carnival with coconuts whizzing past my head, and immediately afterwards, passing from comedy to tragedy, I am embroiled in a murder.â

He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and said:

âNot that it concerns me in any way, this murder. Indeed, I am at a loss to know why you should want to interview me.â

âYou arrived here as a stranger, Mr. de Sousaââ

De Sousa interrupted:

âAnd strangers are necessarily suspicious, is that it?â

âNo, no, not at all, sir. No, you donât take my meaning. Your yacht, I understand, is moored in Helmmouth?â

âThat is so, yes.â

âAnd you came up the river this afternoon in a motor launch?â

âAgainâthat is so.â

âAs you came up the river, did you notice on your right a small boathouse jutting out into the river with a thatched roof and a little mooring quay underneath it?â

De Sousa threw back his handsome, dark head and frowned as he reflected.

âLet me see, there was a creek and a small grey tiled house.â

âFarther up the river than that, Mr. de Sousa. Set amongst trees.â

âAh, yes, I remember now. A very picturesque spot. I did not know it was the boathouse attached to this house. If I had done so, I would have moored my boat there and come ashore. When I asked for directions I had been told to come up to the ferry itself and go ashore at the quay there.â

âQuite so. And that is what you did?â

âThat is what I did.â

âYou didnât land at, or near, the boathouse?â

De Sousa shook his head.

âDid you see anyone at the boathouse as you passed?â

âSee anyone? No. Should I have seen anyone?â

âIt was just a possibility. You see, Mr. de Sousa, the murdered girl was in the boathouse this afternoon. She was killed there, and she must have been killed at a time not very distant from when you were passing.â

Again de Sousa raised his eyebrows.

âYou think I might have been a witness to this murder?â

âThe murder took place inside the boathouse, but you might have seen the girlâshe might have looked out from the window or come out on to the balcony. If you had seen her it would, at any rate, have narrowed the time of death for us. If, when youâd passed, sheâd been still aliveââ

âAh. I see. Yes, I see. But why ask me particularly? There are plenty of boats going up and down from Helmmouth. Pleasure steamers. They pass the whole time. Why not ask them?â

âWe shall ask them,â said the inspector. âNever fear, we shall ask them. I am to take it, then, that you saw nothing unusual at the boathouse?â

âNothing whatever. There was nothing to show there was anyone there. Of course I did not look at it with any special attention, and I did not pass very near. Somebody might have been looking out of the windows, as you suggest, but if so I should not have seen that person.â He added in a polite tone, âI am very sorry that I cannot assist you.â

âOh, well,â said Inspector Bland in a friendly manner, âwe canât hope for too much. There are just a few other things I would like to know, Mr. de Sousa.â

âYes?â

âAre you alone down here or have you friends with you on this cruise?â

âI have had friends with me until quite recently, but for the last three days I have been on my ownâwith the crew, of course.â

âAnd the name of your yacht, Mr. de Sousa?â

âThe EspÃ©rance.â

âLady Stubbs is, I understand, a cousin of yours?â

De Sousa shrugged his shoulders.

âA distant cousin. Not very near. In the islands, you must understand, there is much intermarrying. We are all cousins of one another. Hattie is a second or third cousin. I have not seen her since she was practically a little girl, fourteenâfifteen.â

âAnd you thought you would pay her a surprise visit today?â

âHardly a surprise visit, Inspector. I had already written to her.â

âI know that she received a letter from you this morning, but it was a surprise to her to know that you were in this country.â

âOh, but you are wrong there, Inspector. I wrote to my cousinâlet me see, three weeks ago. I wrote to her from France just before I came across to this country.â

The inspector was surprised.

âYou wrote to her from France telling her you proposed to visit her?â

âYes. I told her I was going on a yachting cruise and that we should probably arrive at Torquay or Helmmouth round about this date, and that I would let her know later exactly when I should arrive.â

Inspector Bland stared at him. This statement was at complete variance with what he had been told about the arrival of Etienne de Sousaâs letter at the breakfast table. More than one witness had testified to Lady Stubbs having been alarmed and upset and very clearly startled at the contents of the letter. De Sousa returned his stare calmly. With a little smile he flicked a fragment of dust from his knee.

âDid Lady Stubbs reply to your first letter?â the inspector asked.

De Sousa hesitated for a moment or two before he answered, then he said:

âIt is so difficult to rememberâ¦No, I do not think she did. But it was not necessary. I was travelling about, I had no fixed address. And besides, I do not think my cousin, Hattie, is very good at writing letters.â He added: âShe is not, you know, very intelligent, though I understand that she has grown into a very beautiful woman.â

âYou have not yet seen her?â Bland put it in the form of a question and de Sousa showed his teeth in an agreeable smile.

âShe seems to be most unaccountably missing,â he said. âNo doubt this espÃ¨ce de gala bores her.â

Choosing his words carefully, Inspector Bland said:

âHave you any reason to believe, Mr. de Sousa, that your cousin might have some reason for wishing to avoid you?â

âHattie wish to avoid me? Really, I do not see why. What reason could she have?â

âThat is what I am asking you, Mr. de Sousa.â

âYou think that Hattie has absented herself from this fÃªte in order to avoid me? What an absurd idea.â

âShe had no reason, as far as you know, to beâshall we sayâafraid of you in any way?â

âAfraidâof me?â De Sousaâs voice was sceptical and amused. âBut if I may say so, Inspector, what a fantastic idea!â

âYour relations with her have always been quite amicable?â

âIt is as I have told you. I have had no relations with her. I have not seen her since she was a child of fourteen.â

âYet you look her up when you come to England?â

âOh, as to that, I had seen a paragraph about her in one of your society papers. It mentions her maiden name and that she is married to this rich Englishman, and I think âI must see what the little Hattie has turned into. Whether her brains now work better than they used to do.ââ He shrugged his shoulders again. âIt was a mere cousinly politeness. A gentle curiosityâno more.â

Again the inspector stared hard at de Sousa. What, he wondered, was going on behind the mocking, smooth faÃ§ade? He adopted a more confidential manner.

âI wonder if you can perhaps tell me a little more about your cousin? Her character, her reactions?â

De Sousa appeared politely surprised.

âReallyâhas this anything to do with the murder of the girl in the boathouse, which I understand is the real matter with which you occupy yourself?â

âIt might have a connection,â said Inspector Bland.

De Sousa studied him for a moment or two in silence. Then he said with a slight shrug of the shoulders:

âI never knew my cousin at all well. She was a unit in a large family and not particularly interesting to me. But in answer to your question I would say to you that although mentally weak, she was not, as far as I know, ever possessed by any homicidal tendencies.â

âReally, Mr. de Sousa, I wasnât suggesting that!â

âWerenât you? I wonder. I can see no other reason for your question. No, unless Hattie has changed very much, she is not homicidal!â He rose. âI am sure that you cannot want to ask me anything further, Inspector. I can only wish you every possible success in tracking down the murderer.â

âYou are not thinking of leaving Helmmouth for a day or two, I hope, Mr. de Sousa?â

âYou speak very politely, Inspector. Is that an order?â

âJust a request, sir.â

âThank you. I propose to stay in Helmmouth for two days. Sir George has very kindly asked me to come and stay in the house, but I prefer to remain on the EspÃ©rance. If you should want to ask me any further questions, that is where you will find me.â

He bowed politely. P.C. Hoskins opened the door for him, and he went out.

âSmarmy sort of fellow,â muttered the inspector to himself.

âAah,â said P.C. Hoskins in complete agreement.

âSay she is homicidal if you like,â went on the inspector, to himself. âWhy should she attack a nondescript girl? Thereâd be no sense in it.â

âYou never know with the barmy ones,â said Hoskins.

âThe question really is, how barmy is she?â

Hoskins shook his head sapiently.

âGot a low I.Q., I reckon,â he said.

The inspector looked at him with annoyance.

âDonât bring out these newfangled terms like a parrot. I donât care if sheâs got a high I.Q. or a low I.Q. All I care about is, is she the sort of woman whoâd think it funny, or desirable, or necessary, to put a cord round a girlâs neck and strangle her? And where the devil is the woman, anyway? Go out and see how Frankâs getting on.â

Hoskins left obediently, and returned a moment or two later with Sergeant Cottrell, a brisk young man with a good opinion of himself, who always managed to annoy his superior officer. Inspector Bland much preferred the rural wisdom of Hoskins to the smart know-all attitude of Frank Cottrell.

âStill searching the grounds, sir,â said Cottrell. âThe lady hasnât passed out through the gate, weâre quite sure of that. Itâs the second gardener whoâs there giving out the tickets and taking the admission money. Heâll swear she hasnât left.â

âThere are other ways of leaving than by the main gate, I suppose?â

âOh, yes, sir. Thereâs the path down to the ferry, but the old boy down thereâMerdell, his name isâis also quite positive that she hasnât left that way. Heâs about a hundred, but pretty reliable, I think. He described quite clearly how the foreign gentleman arrived in his launch and asked the way to Nasse House. The old man told him he must go up the road to the gate and pay for admission. But he said the gentleman seemed to know nothing about the fÃªte and said he was a relation of the family. So the old man set him on the path up from the ferry through the woods. Merdell seems to have been hanging about the quay all the afternoon so heâd be pretty sure to have seen her ladyship if sheâd come that way. Then thereâs the top gate that leads over the fields to Hoodown Park, but thatâs been wired up because of trespassers, so she didnât go through there. Seems as though she must be still here, doesnât it?â

âThat may be so,â said the inspector, âbut thereâs nothing to prevent her, is there, from slipping under a fence and going off across country? Sir George is still complaining of trespassing here from the hostel next door, I understand. If you can get in the way the trespassers get in, you can get out the same way, I suppose.â

âOh, yes, sir, indubitably, sir. But Iâve talked to her maid, sir. Sheâs wearingââCottrell consulted a paper in his handââa dress of cyclamen crÃªpe georgette (whatever that is), a large black hat, black court shoes with four-inch french heels. Not the sort of things youâd wear for a cross-country run.â

âShe didnât change her clothes?â

âNo. I went into that with the maid. Thereâs nothing missingânothing whatever. She didnât pack a suitcase or anything of that kind. She didnât even change her shoes. Every pairâs there and accounted for.â

Inspector Bland frowned. Unpleasant possibilities were rising in his mind. He said curtly:

âGet me that secretary woman againâBruceâwhatever her name is.â

II

Miss Brewis came in looking rather more ruffled than usual, and a little out of breath.

âYes, Inspector?â she said. âYou wanted me? If it isnât urgent, Sir George is in a terrible state andââ

âWhatâs he in a state about?â

âHeâs only just realized that Lady Stubbs isâwell, really missing. I told him sheâs probably only gone for a walk in the woods or something, but heâs got it into his head that somethingâs happened to her. Quite absurd.â

âIt might not be so absurd, Miss Brewis. After all, weâve had oneâmurder here this afternoon.â

âYou surely donât think that Lady Stubbsâ? But thatâs ridiculous! Lady Stubbs can look after herself.â

âCan she?â

âOf course she can! Sheâs a grown woman, isnât she?â

âBut rather a helpless one, by all accounts.â

âNonsense,â said Miss Brewis. âIt suits Lady Stubbs now and then to play the helpless nitwit if she doesnât want to do anything. It takes her husband in, I dare say, but it doesnât take me in!â

âYou donât like her very much, Miss Brewis?â Bland sounded gently interested.

Miss Brewisâ lips closed in a thin line.

âItâs not my business either to like or dislike her,â she said.

The door burst open and Sir George came in.

âLook here,â he said violently, âyouâve got to do something. Whereâs Hattie? Youâve got to find Hattie. What the hellâs going on round here I donât know. This confounded fÃªteâsome ruddy homicidal maniacâs got in here, paying his half crown and looking like everyone else, spending his afternoon going round murdering people. Thatâs what it looks like to me.â

âI donât think we need take such an exaggerated view as that, Sir George.â

âItâs all very well for you sitting there behind the table, writing things down. What I want is my wife.â

âIâm having the grounds searched, Sir George.â

âWhy did nobody tell me sheâd disappeared? Sheâs been missing a couple of hours now, it seems. I thought it was odd that she didnât turn up to judge the Childrenâs Fancy Dress stuff, but nobody told me sheâd really gone.â

âNobody knew,â said the inspector.

âWell, someone ought toâve known. Somebody ought to have noticed.â

He turned on Miss Brewis.

âYou ought to have known, Amanda, you were keeping an eye on things.â

âI canât be everywhere,â said Miss Brewis. She sounded suddenly almost tearful. âIâve got so much to see to. If Lady Stubbs chose to wander awayââ

âWander away? Why should she wander away? Sheâd no reason to wander away unless she wanted to avoid that dago fellow.â

Bland seized his opportunity.

âThere is something I want to ask you,â he said. âDid your wife receive a letter from Mr. de Sousa some three weeks ago, telling her he was coming to this country?â

Sir George looked astonished.

âNo, of course she didnât.â

âYouâre sure of that?â

âOh, quite sure. Hattie would have told me. Why, she was thoroughly startled and upset when she got his letter this morning. It more or less knocked her out. She was lying down most of the morning with a headache.â

âWhat did she say to you privately about her cousinâs visit? Why did she dread seeing him so much?â

Sir George looked rather embarrassed.

âBlessed if I really know,â he said. âShe just kept saying that he was wicked.â

âWicked? In what way?â

âShe wasnât very articulate about it. Just went on rather like a child saying that he was a wicked man. Bad; and that she wished he wasnât coming here. She said heâd done bad things.â

âDone bad things? When?â

âOh, long ago. I should imagine this Etienne de Sousa was the black sheep of the family and that Hattie picked up odds and ends about him during her childhood without understanding them very well. And as a result sheâs got a sort of horror of him. I thought it was just a childish hangover myself. My wife is rather childish sometimes. Has likes and dislikes, but canât explain them.â

âYou are sure she did not particularize in any way, Sir George?â

Sir George looked uneasy.

âI wouldnât want you to go byâerâwhat she said.â

âThen she did say something?â

âAll right. Iâll let you have it. What she said wasâand she said it several timesââHe kills people.ââ

Ten

I

âHe kills people,â Inspector Bland repeated.

âI donât think you ought to take it too seriously,â said Sir George. âShe kept repeating it and saying, âHe kills people,â but she couldnât tell me who he killed or when or why. I thought myself it was just some queer, childlike memoryâtrouble with the nativesâsomething like that.â

âYou say she couldnât tell you anything definiteâdo you mean couldnât, Sir Georgeâor might it have been wouldnât?â

âI donât thinkâ¦â He broke off. âI donât know. Youâve muddled me. As I say, I didnât take any of it seriously. I thought perhaps this cousin had teased her a bit when she was a kidâsomething of that kind. Itâs difficult to explain to you because you donât know my wife. I am devoted to her, but half the time I donât listen to what she says because it just doesnât make sense. Anyway, this de Sousa fellow couldnât have had anything to do with all thisâdonât tell me he lands here off a yacht and goes straight away through the woods and kills a wretched Girl Guide in a boathouse! Why should he?â

âIâm not suggesting that anything like that happened,â said Inspector Bland, âbut you must realize, Sir George, that in looking for the murderer of Marlene Tucker the field is a more restricted one than one might think at first.â

âRestricted!â Sir George stared. âYouâve got the whole ruddy fÃªte to choose from, havenât you? Two hundredâthree hundredâpeople? Any one of âem might have done it.â

âYes, I thought so at first, but from what Iâve learnt now thatâs hardly so. The boathouse door has a Yale lock. Nobody could come in from outside without a key.â

âWell, there were three keys.â

âExactly. One key was the final clue in this Murder Hunt. It is still concealed in the hydrangea walk at the very top of the garden. The second key was in the possession of Mrs. Oliver, the organizer of the Murder Hunt. Where is the third key, Sir George?â

âIt ought to be in the drawer of that desk where youâre sitting. No, the right-hand one with a lot of the other estate duplicates.â

He came over and rummaged in the drawer.

âYes. Here it is all right.â

âThen you see,â said Inspector Bland, âwhat that means? The only people who could have got into the boathouse were first, the person who had completed the Murder Hunt and found the key (which as far as we know, did not happen). Second, Mrs. Oliver or some member of the household to whom she may have lent her key, and, third, someone whom Marlene herself admitted to the room.â

âWell, that latter point covers pretty well everyone, doesnât it?â

âVery far from it,â said Inspector Bland. âIf I understand the arrangement of this Murder Hunt correctly, when the girl heard anyone approaching the door she was to lie down and enact the part of the Victim, and wait to be discovered by the person who had found the last clueâthe key. Therefore, as you must see for yourself, the only people whom she would have admitted, had they called to her from outside and asked her to do so, were the people who had actually arranged the Murder Hunt. Any inmate, that is, of this houseâthat is to say, yourself, Lady Stubbs, Miss Brewis, Mrs. Oliverâpossibly M. Poirot whom I believe she had met this morning. Who else, Sir George?â

Sir George considered for a moment or two.

âThe Legges, of course,â he said. âAlec and Sally Legge. Theyâve been in it from the start. And Michael Weyman, heâs an architect staying here in the house to design a tennis pavilion. And Warburton, the Mastertonsâoh, and Mrs. Folliat of course.â

âThat is allânobody else?â

âThatâs the lot.â

âSo you see, Sir George, it is not a very wide field.â

Sir Georgeâs face went scarlet.

âI think youâre talking nonsenseâabsolute nonsense! Are you suggestingâwhat you are suggesting?â

âIâm only suggesting,â said Inspector Bland, âthat thereâs a great deal we donât know as yet. Itâs possible, for instance, that Marlene, for some reason, came out of the boathouse. She may even have been strangled somewhere else, and her body brought back and arranged on the floor. But even if so, whoever arranged her was again someone who was thoroughly cognisant with all the details of the Murder Hunt. We always come back to that.â He added in a slightly changed voice, âI can assure you, Sir George, that weâre doing all we can to find Lady Stubbs. In the meantime Iâd like to have a word with Mr. and Mrs. Alec Legge and Mr. Michael Weyman.â

âAmanda.â

âIâll see what I can do about it, Inspector,â said Miss Brewis. âI expect Mrs. Legge is still telling fortunes in the tent. A lot of people have come in with the half-price admission since five oâclock, and all the sideshows are busy. I can probably get hold of Mr. Legge or Mr. Weyman for youâwhichever you want to see first.â

âIt doesnât matter in what order I see them,â said Inspector Bland.

Miss Brewis nodded and left the room. Sir George followed her, his voice rising plaintively.

âLook here, Amanda, youâve got toâ¦.â

Inspector Bland realized that Sir George depended a great deal upon the efficient Miss Brewis. Indeed, at this moment, Bland found the master of the house rather like a small boy.

Whilst waiting, Inspector Bland picked up the telephone, demanded to be put through to the police station at Helmmouth and made certain arrangements with them concerning the yacht EspÃ©rance.

âYou realize, I suppose,â he said to Hoskins, who was obviously quite incapable of realizing anything of the sort, âthat thereâs just one perfectly possible place where this damnâ woman might beâand thatâs on board de Sousaâs yacht?â

âHow dâyou make that out, sir?â

âWell, the woman has not been seen to leave by any of the usual exits, sheâs togged up in a way that makes it unlikely that sheâs legging it through the fields or woods, but it is just possible that she met de Sousa by appointment down at the boathouse and that he took her by launch to the yacht, returning to the fÃªte afterwards.â

âAnd why would he do that, sir?â demanded Hoskins, puzzled.

âIâve no idea,â said the inspector, âand itâs very unlikely that he did. But itâs a possibility. And if she is on the EspÃ©rance, Iâll see to it that she wonât get off there without being observed.â

âBut if her fair hated the sight of himâ¦â Hoskins dropped into the vernacular.

âAll we know is that she said she did. Women,â said the inspector sententiously, âtell a lot of lies. Always remember that, Hoskins.â

âAah,â said Constable Hoskins appreciatively.

II

Further conversation was brought to an end as the door opened and a tall vague-looking young man entered. He was wearing a neat grey flannel suit, but his shirt collar was crumpled and his tie askew and his hair stood up on end in an unruly fashion.

âMr. Alec Legge?â said the inspector, looking up.

âNo,â said the young man, âIâm Michael Weyman. You asked for me, I understand.â

âQuite true, sir,â said Inspector Bland. âWonât you take a chair?â He indicated a chair at the opposite side of the table.

âI donât care for sitting,â said Michael Weyman, âI like to stride about. What are all you police doing here anyway? Whatâs happened?â

Inspector Bland looked at him in surprise.

âDidnât Sir George inform you, sir?â he asked.

âNobodyâs âinformed me,â as you put it, of anything. I donât sit in Sir Georgeâs pocket all the time. What has happened?â

âYouâre staying in the house, I understand?â

âOf course Iâm staying in the house. Whatâs that got to do with it?â

âSimply that I imagined that all the people staying in the house would by now have been informed of this afternoonâs tragedy.â

âTragedy? What tragedy?â

âThe girl who was playing the part of the murder victim has been killed.â

âNo!â Michael Weyman seemed exuberantly surprised. âDo you mean really killed? No fakery-pokery?â

âI donât know what you mean by fakery-pokery. The girlâs dead.â

âHow was she killed?â

âStrangled with a piece of cord.â

Michael Weyman gave a whistle.

âExactly as in the scenario? Well, well, that does give one ideas.â He strode over to the window, turned rapidly about, and said, âSo weâre all under suspicion, are we? Or was it one of the local boys?â

âWe donât see how it could possibly have been one of the local boys, as you put it,â said the inspector.

âNo more do I really,â said Michael Weyman. âWell, Inspector, many of my friends call me crazy, but Iâm not that kind of crazy. I donât roam around the countryside strangling underdeveloped spotty young women.â

âYou are down here, I understand, Mr. Weyman, designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George?â

âA blameless occupation,â said Michael. âCriminally speaking, that is. Architecturally, Iâm not so sure. The finished product will probably represent a crime against good taste. But that doesnât interest you, Inspector. What does interest you?â

âWell, I should like to know, Mr. Weyman, exactly where you were between quarter past four this afternoon and say five oâclock.â

âHow do you tape it down to thatâmedical evidence?â

âNot entirely, sir. A witness saw the girl alive at a quarter past four.â

âWhat witnessâor maynât I ask?â

âMiss Brewis. Lady Stubbs asked her to take down a tray of creamy cakes with some fruitade to the girl.â

âOur Hattie asked her that? I donât believe it for a moment.â

âWhy donât you believe it, Mr. Weyman?â

âItâs not like her. Not the sort of thing sheâd think of or bother about. Dear Lady Stubbsâ mind revolves entirely round herself.â

âIâm still waiting, Mr. Weyman, for your answer to my question.â

âWhere I was between four fifteen and five oâclock? Well, really, Inspector, I canât say offhand. I was aboutâif you know what I mean.â

âAbout where?â

âOh, here and there. I mingled a bit on the lawn, watched the locals amusing themselves, had a word or two with the fluttery film star. Then, when I got sick of it all, I went along to the tennis court and mused over the design for the Pavilion. I also wondered how soon someone would identify the photograph that was the first clue for the Murder Hunt with a section of tennis net.â

âDid someone identify it?â

âYes, I believe someone did come along, but I wasnât really noticing by then. I got a new idea about the Pavilionâa way of making the best of two worlds. My own and Sir Georgeâs.â

âAnd after that?â

âAfter that? Well, I strolled around and came back to the house. I strolled down the quay and had a crack with old Merdell, then came back. I canât fix any of the times with any accuracy. I was, as I said, in the first place, about! Thatâs all there is to it.â

âWell, Mr. Weyman,â said the inspector briskly, âI expect we can get some confirmation of all this.â

âMerdell can tell you that I talked to him on the quay. But of course thatâll be rather later than the time youâre interested in. Must have been after five when I got down there. Very unsatisfactory, isnât it, Inspector?â

âWe shall be able to narrow it down, I expect, Mr. Weyman.â

The inspectorâs tone was pleasant, but there was a steely ring in it that did not escape the young architectâs notice. He sat down on the arm of a chair.

âSeriously,â he said, âwho can have wanted to murder that girl?â

âYouâve no ideas yourself, Mr. Weyman?â

âWell, offhand, Iâd say it was our prolific authoress, the Purple Peril. Have you seen her imperial purple getup? I suggest that she went a bit off her onion and thought how much better the Murder Hunt would be if there was a real body. Howâs that?â

âIs that a serious suggestion, Mr. Weyman?â

âItâs the only probability I can think of.â

âThereâs one other thing I would like to ask you, Mr. Weyman. Did you see Lady Stubbs during the course of the afternoon?â

âOf course I saw her. Who could miss her? Dressed up like a mannequin of Jacques Fath or Christian Dior?â

âWhen did you see her last?â

âLast? I donât know. Striking an attitude on the lawn about half past threeâor a quarter to four perhaps.â

âAnd you didnât see her after that?â

âNo. Why?â

âI wonderedâbecause after four oâclock nobody seems to have seen her. Lady Stubbs hasâvanished, Mr. Weyman.â

âVanished! Our Hattie?â

âThat surprises you?â

âYes, it does ratherâ¦Whatâs she up to, I wonder?â

âDâyou know Lady Stubbs well, Mr. Weyman?â

âNever met her till I came down here four or five days ago.â

âHave you formed any opinions about her?â

âI should say she knows which side her bread is buttered better than most,â said Michael Weyman dryly. âA very ornamental young woman and knows how to make the most of it.â

âBut mentally not very active? Is that right?â

âDepends what you mean by mentally,â said Michael Weyman. âI wouldnât describe her as an intellectual. But if youâre thinking that sheâs not all there, youâre wrong.â A tone of bitterness came into his voice. âIâd say she was very much all there. Nobody more so.â

The inspectorâs eyebrows rose.

âThatâs not the generally accepted opinion.â

âFor some reason she likes playing the dim nitwit. I donât know why. But as Iâve said before, in my opinion, sheâs very much all there.â

The inspector studied him for a moment, then he said:

âAnd you really canât get any nearer to exact times and places between the hours I have mentioned?â

âSorry.â Weyman spoke jerkily. âIâm afraid I canât. Rotten memory, never any good about time.â He added, âFinished with me?â

As the inspector nodded, he left the room quickly.

âAnd Iâd like to know,â said the inspector, half to himself and half to Hoskins, âwhat thereâs been between him and her Ladyship. Either heâs made a pass at her and sheâs turned him down, or thereâs been some kind of a dustup.â He went on, âWhat would you say was the general opinion round these parts about Sir George and his lady?â

âSheâs daft,â said Constable Hoskins.

âI know you think that, Hoskins. Is that the accepted view?â

âIâd say so.â

âAnd Sir Georgeâis he liked?â

âHeâs liked well enough. Heâs a good sportsman and he knows a bit about farming. The old ladyâs done a lot to help.â

âWhat old lady?â

âMrs. Folliat who lives at the Lodge here.â

âOh, of course. The Folliats used to own this place, didnât they?â

âYes, and itâs owing to the old lady that Sir George and Lady Stubbs have been taken up as well as they have. Got âem in with the nobs everywhere, she has.â

âPaid for doing so, do you think?â

âOh, no, not Mrs. Folliat.â Hoskins sounded shocked. âI understand she knew Lady Stubbs before she was married and it was she who urged on Sir George to buy this place.â

âIâll have to talk to Mrs. Folliat,â said the inspector.

âAh, sheâs a shrewd old lady, she is. If anything is going on, sheâd know about it.â

âI must talk to her,â said the inspector. âI wonder where she is now.â

Eleven

I

Mrs. Folliat was at that moment being talked to by Hercule Poirot in the big drawing room. He had found her there leaning back in a chair in a corner of the room. She had started nervously when he came in. Then sinking back, she had murmured:

âOh, itâs you, M. Poirot.â

âI apologize, Madame. I disturbed you.â

âNo, no. You donât disturb me. Iâm just resting, thatâs all. Iâm not as young as I was. The shockâit was too much for me.â

âI comprehend,â said Poirot. âIndeed, I comprehend.â

Mrs. Folliat, a handkerchief clutched in her small hand, was staring up at the ceiling. She said in a voice half-stifled with emotion:

âI can hardly bear to think of it. That poor girl. That poor, poor girlââ

âI know,â said Poirot. âI know.â

âSo young,â said Mrs. Folliat; âjust at the beginning of life.â She said again, âI can hardly bear to think of it.â

Poirot looked at her curiously. She seemed, he thought, to have aged by about ten years since the time early in the afternoon, when he had seen her, the gracious hostess, welcoming her guests. Now her face seemed drawn and haggard with the lines in it clearly marked.

âYou said to me only yesterday, Madame, it is a very wicked world.â

âDid I say that?â Mrs. Folliat seemed startled. âItâs trueâ¦Oh, yes, Iâm only just beginning to know how true it is.â She added in a low voice, âBut I never thought anything like this would happen.â

Again he looked at her curiously.

âWhat did you think would happen, then? Something?â

âNo, no. I didnât mean that.â

Poirot persisted.

âBut you did expect something to happenâsomething out of the usual.â

âYou misunderstand me, M. Poirot. I only mean that itâs the last thing you would expect to happen in the middle of a fÃªte like this.â

âLady Stubbs this morning also spoke of wickedness.â

âHattie did? Oh, donât speak of her to meâdonât speak of her. I donât want to think about her.â She was silent for a moment or two, and then said, âWhat did she sayâabout wickedness?â

âShe was speaking of her cousin. Etienne de Sousa. She said that he was wicked, that he was a bad man. She said, too, that she was afraid of him.â

He watched, but she merely shook her head incredulously.

âEtienne de Sousaâwho is he?â

âOf course, you were not at breakfast. I forgot, Mrs. Folliat. Lady Stubbs received a letter from this cousin of hers whom she had not seen since she was a girl of fifteen. He told her that he proposed to call upon her today, this afternoon.â

âAnd did he come?â

âYes. He arrived here about half past four.â

âSurelyâdâyou mean that rather handsome, dark young man who came up the ferry path? I wondered who he was at the time.â

âYes, Madame, that was Mr. de Sousa.â

Mrs. Folliat said energetically:

âIf I were you I should pay no attention to the things Hattie says.â She flushed as Poirot looked at her in surprise and went on, âShe is like a childâI mean, she uses terms like a childâwicked, good. No half shades. I shouldnât pay any attention to what she tells you about this Etienne de Sousa.â

Again Poirot wondered. He said slowly:

âYou know Lady Stubbs very well, do you not, Mrs. Folliat?â

âProbably as well as anyone knows her. Possibly even better than her husband really knows her. And if I do?â

âWhat is she really like, Madame?â

âWhat a very odd question, M. Poirot.â

âYou know, do you not, Madame, that Lady Stubbs cannot be found anywhere?â

Again her answer surprised him. She expressed no concern or astonishment. She said:

âSo she has run away, has she? I see.â

âIt seems to you quite natural, that?â

âNatural? Oh, I donât know. Hattie is rather unaccountable.â

âDo you think she has run away because she has a guilty conscience?â

âWhat do you mean, M. Poirot?â

âHer cousin was talking about her this afternoon. He mentioned casually that she had always been mentally subnormal. I think you must know, Madame, that people who are subnormal mentally are not always accountable for their actions.â

âWhat are you trying to say, M. Poirot?â

âSuch people are, as you say, very simpleâlike children. In a sudden fit of rage they might even kill.â

Mrs. Folliat turned on him in sudden anger.

âHattie was never like that! I wonât allow you to say such things. She was a gentle warmhearted girl, even if she wasâa little simple mentally. Hattie would never have killed anyone.â

She faced him, breathing hard, still indignant.

Poirot wondered. He wondered very much.

II

Breaking into this scene, P.C. Hoskins made his appearance.

He said in an apologetic manner:

âIâve been looking for you, maâam.â

âGood evening, Hoskins.â Mrs. Folliat was once more her poised self again, the mistress of Nasse House. âYes, what is it?â

âThe inspectorâs compliments, and heâd be glad to have a word with youâif you feels up to it, that is,â Hoskins hastened to add; noting, as Hercule Poirot had done, the effects of shock.

âOf course I feel up to it.â Mrs. Folliat rose to her feet. She followed Hoskins out of the room. Poirot, having risen politely, sat down again and stared up at the ceiling with a puzzled frown.

The inspector rose when Mrs. Folliat entered and the constable held the chair for her to sit down.

âIâm sorry to worry you, Mrs. Folliat,â said Bland. âBut I imagine that you know all the people in the neighbourhood and I think you may be able to help us.â

Mrs. Folliat smiled faintly. âI expect,â she said, âthat I know everyone round here as well as anyone could do. What do you want to know, Inspector?â

âYou knew the Tuckers? The family and the girl?â

âOh, yes, of course, theyâve always been tenants on the estate. Mrs. Tucker was the youngest of a large family. Her eldest brother was our head gardener. She married Alfred Tucker, who is a farm labourerâa stupid man but very nice. Mrs. Tucker is a bit of a shrew. A good housewife, you know, and very clean in the house, but Tucker is never allowed to come anywhere farther than the scullery with his muddy boots on. All that sort of thing. She nags the children rather. Most of them have married and gone into jobs now. There was just this poor child, Marlene, left and three younger children. Two boys and a girl still at school.â

âNow, knowing the family as you do, Mrs. Folliat, can you think of any reason why Marlene should have been killed today?â

âNo, indeed I canât. Itâs quite, quite unbelievable, if you know what I mean, Inspector. There was no boyfriend or anything of that kind, or I shouldnât think so. Not that Iâve ever heard of, anyway.â

âNow what about the people whoâve been taking part in this Murder Hunt? Can you tell me anything about them?â

âWell, Mrs. Oliver Iâd never met before. She is quite unlike my idea of what a crime novelist would be. Sheâs very upset, poor dear, by what has happenedânaturally.â

âAnd what about the other helpersâCaptain Warburton, for instance?â

âI donât see any reason why he should murder Marlene Tucker, if thatâs what youâre asking me,â said Mrs. Folliat composedly. âI donât like him very much. Heâs what I call a foxy sort of man, but I suppose one has to be up to all the political tricks and all that kind of thing, if one is a political agent. Heâs certainly energetic and has worked very hard over this fÃªte. I donât think he could have killed the girl, anyway, because he was on the lawn the whole time this afternoon.â

The inspector nodded.

âAnd the Legges? What do you know about the Legges?â

âWell, they seem a very nice young couple. Heâs inclined to be what I should callâmoody. I donât know very much about him. She was a Carstairs before her marriage and I know some relations of hers very well. They took the Mill Cottage for two months, and I hope theyâve enjoyed their holiday here. Weâve all got very friendly together.â

âSheâs an attractive lady, I understand.â

âOh, yes, very attractive.â

âWould you say that at any time Sir George had felt that attraction?â

Mrs. Folliat looked rather astonished.

âOh, no, Iâm sure there was nothing of that kind. Sir George is really absorbed by his business, and very fond of his wife. Heâs not at all a philandering sort of man.â

âAnd there was nothing, you would say, between Lady Stubbs and Mr. Legge?â

Again Mrs. Folliat shook her head.

âOh, no, positively.â

The inspector persisted.

âThereâs been no trouble of any kind between Sir George and his wife, that you know of?â

âIâm sure there hasnât,â said Mrs. Folliat, emphatically. âAnd I would know if there had been.â

âIt wouldnât be, then, as a result of any disagreement between husband and wife that Lady Stubbs has gone away?â

âOh, no.â She added lightly, âThe silly girl, I understand, didnât want to meet this cousin of hers. Some childish phobia. So sheâs run away just like a child might do.â

âThatâs your opinion. Nothing more than that?â

âOh, no. I expect sheâll turn up again quite soon. Feeling rather ashamed of herself.â She added carelessly, âWhatâs become of this cousin, by the way? Is he still here in the house?â

âI understand heâs gone back to his yacht.â

âAnd thatâs at Helmmouth, is it?â

âYes, at Helmmouth.â

âI see,â said Mrs. Folliat. âWell, itâs rather unfortunateâHattie behaving so childishly. However, if heâs staying on here for a day or so, we can make her see she must behave properly.â

It was, the inspector thought, a question, but although he noticed it he did not answer it.

âYou are probably thinking,â he said, âthat all this is rather beside the point. But you do understand, donât you, Mrs. Folliat, that we have to range over rather a wide field. Miss Brewis, for instance. What do you know about Miss Brewis?â

âWell, sheâs an excellent secretary. More than a secretary. She practically acts as housekeeper down here. In fact, I donât know what theyâd do without her.â

âWas she Sir Georgeâs secretary before he married his wife?â

âI think so. Iâm not quite sure. Iâve only known her since she came down here with them.â

âShe doesnât like Lady Stubbs very much, does she?â

âNo,â said Mrs. Folliat, âIâm afraid she doesnât. I donât think these good secretaries ever do care for wives much, if you know what I mean. Perhaps itâs natural.â

âWas it you or Lady Stubbs who asked Miss Brewis to take cakes and a fruit drink to the girl in the boathouse?â

Mrs. Folliat looked slightly surprised.

âI remember Miss Brewis collecting some cakes and things and saying she was taking them along to Marlene. I didnât know anyone had particularly asked her to do it, or arranged about it. It certainly wasnât me.â

âI see. You say you were in the tea tent from four oâclock on. I believe Mrs. Legge was also having tea in the tent at that time.â

âMrs. Legge? No, I donât think so. At least I donât remember seeing her there. In fact, Iâm quite sure she wasnât there. Weâd had a great influx by the bus from Torquay, and I remember looking round the tent and thinking that they must all be summer visitors; there was hardly a face there that I knew. I think Mrs. Legge must have come in to tea later.â

âOh, well,â said the inspector, âit doesnât matter.â He added smoothly, âWell, I really think thatâs all. Thank you, Mrs. Folliat, youâve been very kind. We can only hope that Lady Stubbs will return shortly.â

âI hope so, too,â said Mrs. Folliat. âVery thoughtless of the dear child giving us all so much anxiety.â She spoke briskly but the animation in her voice was not very natural. âIâm sure,â said Mrs. Folliat, âthat sheâs quite all right. Quite all right.â

At that moment the door opened and an attractive young woman with red hair and a freckled face came in, and said:

âI hear youâve been asking for me?â

âThis is Mrs. Legge, Inspector,â said Mrs. Folliat. âSally, dear, I donât know whether youâve heard about the terrible thing that has happened?â

âOh, yes! Ghastly, isnât it?â said Mrs. Legge. She uttered an exhausted sigh, and sank down in the chair as Mrs. Folliat left the room.

âIâm terribly sorry about all this,â she said. âIt seems really unbelievable, if you know what I mean. Iâm afraid I canât help you in any way. You see, Iâve been telling fortunes all the afternoon, so I havenât seen anything of what was going on.â

âI know, Mrs. Legge. But we just have to ask everybody the same routine questions. For instance, just where were you between four fifteen and five oâclock?â

âWell, I went and had tea at four oâclock.â

âIn the tea tent?â

âYes.â

âIt was very crowded, I believe?â

âOh, frightfully crowded.â

âDid you see anyone you knew there?â

âOh, a few old people, yes. Nobody to speak to. Goodness, how I wanted that tea! That was four oâclock, as I say. I got back to the fortune-telling tent at half past four and went on with my job. And goodness knows what I was promising the women in the end. Millionaire husbands, film stardom in Hollywoodâheaven knows what. Mere journeys across the sea and suspicious dark women seemed too tame.â

âWhat happened during the half hour when you were absentâI mean, supposing people wanted to have their fortunes told?â

âOh, I hung a card up outside the tent. âBack at four-thirty.ââ

The inspector made a note in his pad.

âWhen did you last see Lady Stubbs?â

âHattie? I donât really know. She was quite near at hand when I came out of the fortune-telling tent to go to tea, but I didnât speak to her. I donât remember seeing her afterwards. Somebody told me just now that sheâs missing. Is that true?â

âYes, it is.â

âOh, well,â said Sally Legge cheerfully, âsheâs a bit queer in the top storey, you know. I dare say having a murder here has frightened her.â

âWell, thank you, Mrs. Legge.â

Mrs. Legge accepted the dismissal with promptitude. She went out, passing Hercule Poirot in the doorway.

III

Looking at the ceiling, the inspector spoke.

âMrs. Legge says she was in the tea tent between four and four-thirty. Mrs. Folliat says she was helping in the tea tent from four oâclock on but that Mrs. Legge was not among those present.â He paused and then went on, âMiss Brewis says that Lady Stubbs asked her to take a tray of cakes and fruit juice to Marlene Tucker. Michael Weyman says that itâs quite impossible Lady Stubbs should have done any such thingâit would be most uncharacteristic of her.â

âAh,â said Poirot, âthe conflicting statements! Yes, one always has them.â

âAnd what a nuisance they are to clear up, too,â said the inspector. âSometimes they matter but in nine times out of ten they donât. Well, weâve got to do a lot of spade work, thatâs clear.â

âAnd what do you think now, mon cher? What are the latest ideas?â

âI think,â said the inspector gravely, âthat Marlene Tucker saw something she was not meant to see. I think that it was because of what Marlene Tucker saw that she had to be killed.â

âI will not contradict you,â said Poirot. âThe point is what did she see?â

âShe might have seen a murder,â said the inspector. âOr she might have seen the person who did the murder.â

âMurder?â said Poirot. âThe murder of whom?â

âWhat do you think, Poirot? Is Lady Stubbs alive or dead?â

Poirot took a moment or two before he replied. Then he said:

âI think, mon ami, that Lady Stubbs is dead. And I will tell you why I think that. It is because Mrs. Folliat thinks she is dead. Yes, whatever she may say now, or pretend to think, Mrs. Folliat believes that Hattie Stubbs is dead. Mrs. Folliat,â he added, âknows a great deal that we do not.â

Twelve

Hercule Poirot came down to the breakfast table on the following morning to a depleted table. Mrs. Oliver, still suffering from the shock of yesterdayâs occurrence, was having her breakfast in bed. Michael Weyman had had a cup of coffee and gone out early. Only Sir George and the faithful Miss Brewis were at the breakfast table. Sir George was giving indubitable proof of his mental condition by being unable to eat any breakfast. His plate lay almost untasted before him. He pushed aside the small pile of letters which, after opening them, Miss Brewis had placed before him. He drank coffee with an air of not knowing what he was doing. He said:

âMorning, M. Poirot,â perfunctorily, and then relapsed into his state of preoccupation. At times a few ejaculatory murmurs came from him.

âSo incredible, the whole damnâ thing. Where can she be?â

âThe inquest will be held at the Institute on Thursday,â said Miss Brewis. âThey rang up to tell us.â

Her employer looked at her as if he did not understand.

âInquest?â he said. âOh, yes, of course.â He sounded dazed and uninterested. After another sip or two of coffee he said, âWomen are incalculable. What does she think sheâs doing?â

Miss Brewis pursed her lips. Poirot observed acutely enough that she was in a state of taut nervous tension.

âHodgsonâs coming to see you this morning,â she remarked, âabout the electrification of the milking sheds on the farm. And at twelve oâclock thereâs theââ

Sir George interrupted.

âI canât see anyone. Put âem all off! How the devil dâyou think a man can attend to business when heâs worried half out of his mind about his wife?â

âIf you say so, Sir George.â Miss Brewis gave the domestic equivalent of a barrister saying âas your lordship pleases.â Her dissatisfaction was obvious.

âNever know,â said Sir George, âwhat women get into their heads, or what fool things theyâre likely to do! You agree, eh?â he shot the last question at Poirot.

âLes femmes? They are incalculable,â said Poirot, raising his eyebrows and his hands with Gallic fervour. Miss Brewis blew her nose in an annoyed fashion.

âShe seemed all right,â said Sir George. âDamnâ pleased about her new ring, dressed herself up to enjoy the fÃªte. All just the same as usual. Not as though weâd had words or a quarrel of any kind. Going off without a word.â

âAbout those letters, Sir George,â began Miss Brewis.

âDamn the bloody letters to hell,â said Sir George, and pushed aside his coffee cup.

He picked up the letters by his plate and more or less threw them at her.

âAnswer them any way you like! I canât be bothered.â He went on more or less to himself, in an injured tone, âDoesnât seem to be anything I can doâ¦Donât even know if that police chapâs any good. Very soft spoken and all that.â

âThe police are, I believe,â said Miss Brewis, âvery efficient. They have ample facilities for tracing the whereabouts of missing persons.â

âThey take days sometimes,â said Sir George, âto find some miserable kid whoâs run off and hidden himself in a haystack.â

âI donât think Lady Stubbs is likely to be in a haystack, Sir George.â

âIf only I could do something,â repeated the unhappy husband. âI think, you know, Iâll put an advertisement in the papers. Take it down, Amanda, will you?â He paused a moment in thought. âHattie. Please come home. Desperate about you. George. All the papers, Amanda.â

Miss Brewis said acidly:

âLady Stubbs doesnât often read the papers, Sir George. Sheâs no interest at all in current affairs or whatâs going on in the world.â She added, rather cattily, but Sir George was not in the mood to appreciate cattiness, âOf course you could put an advertisement in Vogue. That might catch her eye.â

Sir George said simply:

âAnywhere you think but get on with it.â

He got up and walked towards the door. With his hand on the handle he paused and came back a few steps. He spoke directly to Poirot.

âLook here, Poirot,â he said, âyou donât think sheâs dead, do you?â

Poirot fixed his eyes on his coffee cup as he replied:

âI should say it is far too soon, Sir George, to assume anything of that kind. There is no reason as yet to entertain such an idea.â

âSo you do think so,â said Sir George, heavily. âWell,â he added defiantly, âI donât! I say sheâs quite all right.â He nodded his head several times with increasing defiance, and went out banging the door behind him.

Poirot buttered a piece of toast thoughtfully. In cases where there was any suspicion of a wife being murdered, he always automatically suspected the husband. (Similarly, with a husbandâs demise, he suspected the wife.) But in this case he did not suspect Sir George of having done away with Lady Stubbs. From his brief observation of them he was quite convinced that Sir George was devoted to his wife. Moreover, as far as his excellent memory served him (and it served him pretty well), Sir George had been present on the lawn the entire afternoon until he himself had left with Mrs. Oliver to discover the body. He had been there on the lawn when they had returned with the news. No, it was not Sir George who was responsible for Hattieâs death. That is, if Hattie were dead. After all, Poirot told himself, there was no reason to believe so as yet. What he had just said to Sir George was true enough. But in his own mind the conviction was unalterable. The pattern, he thought, was the pattern of murderâa double murder.

Miss Brewis interrupted his thoughts by speaking with almost tearful venom.

âMen are such fools,â she said, âsuch absolute fools! Theyâre quite shrewd in most ways, and then they go marrying entirely the wrong sort of woman.â

Poirot was always willing to let people talk. The more people who talked to him, and the more they said, the better. There was nearly always a grain of wheat among the chaff.

âYou think it has been an unfortunate marriage?â he demanded.

âDisastrousâquite disastrous.â

âYou meanâthat they were not happy together?â

âSheâd a thoroughly bad influence over him in every way.â

âNow I find that very interesting. What kind of a bad influence?â

âMaking him run to and fro at her beck and call, getting expensive presents out of himâfar more jewels than one woman could wear. And furs. Sheâs got two mink coats and a Russian ermine. What could any woman want with two mink coats, Iâd like to know?â

Poirot shook his head.

âThat I would not know,â he said.

âSly,â continued Miss Brewis. âDeceitful! Always playing the simpletonâespecially when people were here. I suppose because she thought he liked her that way!â

âAnd did he like her that way?â

âOh, men!â said Miss Brewis, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. âThey donât appreciate efficiency or unselfishness, or loyalty or any one of those qualities! Now with a clever, capable wife Sir George would have got somewhere.â

âGot where?â asked Poirot.

âWell, he could take a prominent part in local affairs. Or stand for Parliament. Heâs a much more able man than poor Mr. Masterton. I donât know if youâve ever heard Mr. Masterton on a platformâa most halting and uninspired speaker. He owes his position entirely to his wife. Itâs Mrs. Masterton whoâs the power behind the throne. Sheâs got all the drive and the initiative and the political acumen.â

Poirot shuddered inwardly at the thought of being married to Mrs. Masterton, but he agreed quite truthfully with Miss Brewisâ words.

âYes,â he said, âshe is all that you say. A femme formidable,â he murmured to himself.

âSir George doesnât seem ambitious,â went on Miss Brewis; âhe seems quite content to live here and potter about and play the country squire, and just go to London occasionally to attend to all his city directorships and all that, but he could make far more of himself than that with his abilities. Heâs really a very remarkable man, M. Poirot. That woman never understood him. She just regards him as a kind of machine for tipping out fur coats and jewels and expensive clothes. If he were married to someone who really appreciated his abilitiesâ¦â She broke off, her voice wavering uncertainly.

Poirot looked at her with a real compassion. Miss Brewis was in love with her employer. She gave him a faithful, loyal and passionate devotion of which he was probably quite unaware and in which he would certainly not be interested. To Sir George, Amanda Brewis was an efficient machine who took the drudgery of daily life off his shoulders, who answered telephone calls, wrote letters, engaged servants, ordered meals and generally made life smooth for him. Poirot doubted if he had ever once thought of her as a woman. And that, he reflected, had its dangers. Women could work themselves up, they could reach an alarming pitch of hysteria unnoticed by the oblivious male who was the object of their devotion.

âA sly, scheming, clever cat, thatâs what she is,â said Miss Brewis tearfully.

âYou say is, not was, I observe,â said Poirot.

âOf course she isnât dead!â said Miss Brewis, scornfully. âGone off with a man, thatâs what sheâs done! Thatâs her type.â

âIt is possible. It is always possible,â said Poirot. He took another piece of toast, inspected the marmalade pot gloomily and looked down the table to see if there were any kind of jam. There was none, so he resigned himself to butter.

âItâs the only explanation,â said Miss Brewis. âOf course he wouldnât think of it.â

âHas thereâbeen anyâtrouble with men?â asked Poirot, delicately.

âOh, sheâs been very clever,â said Miss Brewis.

âYou mean you have not observed anything of the kind?â

âSheâd be careful that I shouldnât,â said Miss Brewis.

âBut you think that there may have beenâwhat shall I say?âsurreptitious episodes?â

âSheâs done her best to make a fool of Michael Weyman,â said Miss Brewis. âTaking him down to see the camellia gardens at this time of year! Pretending sheâs so interested in the tennis pavilion.â

âAfter all, that is his business for being here and I understand Sir George is having it built principally to please his wife.â

âSheâs no good at tennis,â said Miss Brewis. âSheâs no good at any games. Just wants an attractive setting to sit in, while other people run about and get hot. Oh, yes, sheâs done her best to make a fool of Michael Weyman. Sheâd probably have done it too, if he hadnât had other fish to fry.â

âAh,â said Poirot, helping himself to a very little marmalade, placing it on the corner of a piece of toast and taking a mouthful dubiously. âSo he has other fish to fry, M. Weyman?â

âIt was Mrs. Legge who recommended him to Sir George,â said Miss Brewis. âShe knew him before she was married. Chelsea, I understand, and all that. She used to paint, you know.â

âShe seems a very attractive and intelligent young woman,â said Poirot tentatively.

âOh, yes, sheâs very intelligent,â said Miss Brewis. âSheâs had a university education and I daresay could have made a career for herself if she hadnât married.â

âHas she been married long?â

âAbout three years, I believe. I donât think the marriage has turned out very well.â

âThere isâincompatibility?â

âHeâs a queer young man, very moody. Wanders off a lot by himself and Iâve heard him very bad-tempered with her sometimes.â

âAh, well,â said Poirot, âthe quarrels, the reconciliations, they are a part of early married life. Without them it is possible that life would be drab.â

âSheâs spent a good deal of time with Michael Weyman since heâs been down here,â said Miss Brewis. âI think he was in love with her before she married Alec Legge. I dare say itâs only a flirtation on her side.â

âBut Mr. Legge was not pleased about it, perhaps?â

âOne never knows with him, heâs so vague. But I think heâs been even moodier than usual, lately.â

âDid he admire Lady Stubbs, perhaps?â

âI dare say she thought he did. She thinks she only has to hold up a finger for any man to fall in love with her!â

âIn any case, if she has gone off with a man, as you suggest, it is not Mr. Weyman, for Mr. Weyman is still here.â

âItâs somebody sheâs been meeting on the sly, Iâve no doubt,â said Miss Brewis. âShe often slips out of the house on the quiet and goes off into the woods by herself. She was out the night before last. Yawning and saying she was going up to bed. I caught sight of her not half an hour later slipping out by the side door with a shawl over her head.â

Poirot looked thoughtfully at the woman opposite him. He wondered if any reliance at all was to be placed in Miss Brewisâ statements where Lady Stubbs was concerned, or whether it was entirely wishful thinking on her part. Mrs. Folliat, he was sure, did not share Miss Brewisâ ideas and Mrs. Folliat knew Hattie much better than Miss Brewis could do. If Lady Stubbs had run away with a lover it would clearly suit Miss Brewisâ book very well. She would be left to console the bereaved husband and to arrange for him efficiently the details of divorce. But that did not make it true, or probable, or even likely. If Hattie Stubbs had left with a lover, she had chosen a very curious time to do so, Poirot thought. For his own part he did not believe she had.

Miss Brewis sniffed through her nose and gathered together various scattered correspondence.

âIf Sir George really wants those advertisements put in, I suppose Iâd better see about it,â she said. âComplete nonsense and waste of time. Oh, good morning, Mrs. Masterton,â she added, as the door opened with authority and Mrs. Masterton walked in.

âInquest is set for Thursday, I hear,â she boomed. âMorning, M. Poirot.â

Miss Brewis paused, her hand full of letters.

âAnything I can do for you, Mrs. Masterton?â she asked.

âNo, thank you, Miss Brewis. I expect youâve plenty on your hands this morning, but I do want to thank you for all the excellent work you put in yesterday. Youâre such a good organizer and such a hard worker. Weâre all very grateful.â

âThank you, Mrs. Masterton.â

âNow donât let me keep you. Iâll sit down and have a word with M. Poirot.â

âEnchanted, Madame,â said Poirot. He had risen to his feet and he bowed.

Mrs. Masterton pulled out a chair and sat down. Miss Brewis left the room, quite restored to her usual efficient self.

âMarvellous woman, that,â said Mrs. Masterton. âDonât know what the Stubbses would do without her. Running a house takes some doing nowadays. Poor Hattie couldnât have coped with it. Extraordinary business, this, M. Poirot. I came to ask you what you thought about it.â

âWhat do you yourself think, Madame?â

âWell, itâs an unpleasant thing to face, but I should say weâve got some pathological character in this part of the world. Not a native, I hope. Perhaps been let out of an asylumâtheyâre always letting âem out half-cured nowadays. What I mean is, no one would ever want to strangle that Tucker girl. There couldnât be any motive, I mean, except some abnormal one. And if this man, whoever he is, is abnormal I should say heâs probably strangled that poor girl, Hattie Stubbs, as well. She hasnât very much sense you know, poor child. If she met an ordinary-looking man and he asked her to come and look at something in the woods sheâd probably go like a lamb, quite unsuspecting and docile.â

âYou think her body is somewhere on the estate?â

âYes, M. Poirot, I do. Theyâll find it once they search around. Mind you, with about sixty-five acres of woodland here, itâll take some finding, if itâs been dragged into the bushes or tumbled down a slope into the trees. What they need is bloodhounds,â said Mrs. Masterton, looking, as she spoke, exactly like a bloodhound herself. âBloodhounds! I shall ring up the Chief Constable myself and say so.â

âIt is very possible that you are right, Madame,â said Poirot. It was clearly the only thing one could say to Mrs. Masterton.

âOf course Iâm right,â said Mrs. Masterton; âbut I must say, you know, it makes me very uneasy because the fellow is somewhere about. Iâm calling in at the village when I leave here, telling the mothers to be very careful about their daughtersânot let âem go about alone. Itâs not a nice thought, M. Poirot, to have a killer in our midst.â

âA little point, Madame. How could a strange man have obtained admission to the boathouse? That would need a key.â

âOh, that,â said Mrs. Masterton, âthatâs easy enough. She came out, of course.â

âCame out of the boathouse?â

âYes. I expect she got bored, like girls do. Probably wandered out and looked about her. The most likely thing, I think, is that she actually saw Hattie Stubbs murdered. Heard a struggle or something, went to see and the man, having disposed of Lady Stubbs, naturally had to kill her too. Easy enough for him to take her back to the boathouse, dump her there and come out, pulling the door behind him. It was a Yale lock. It would pull to, and lock.â

Poirot nodded gently. It was not his purpose to argue with Mrs. Masterton or to point out to her the interesting fact which she had completely overlooked, that if Marlene Tucker had been killed away from the boathouse, somebody must have known enough about the murder game to put her back in the exact place and position which the victim was supposed to assume. Instead, he said gently:

âSir George Stubbs is confident that his wife is still alive.â

âThatâs what he says, man, because he wants to believe it. He was very devoted to her, you know.â She added, rather unexpectedly, âI like George Stubbs in spite of his origins and his city background and all that, he goes down very well in the county. The worst that can be said about him is that heâs a bit of a snob. And after all, social snobberyâs harmless enough.â

Poirot said somewhat cynically:

âIn these days, Madame, surely money has become as acceptable as good birth.â

âMy dear man, I couldnât agree with you more. Thereâs no need for him to be a snobâonly got to buy the place and throw his money about, and weâd all come and call! But actually, the manâs liked. Itâs not only his money. Of course Amy Folliatâs had something to do with that. She has sponsored them, and mind you, sheâs got a lot of influence in this part of the world. Why, there have been Folliats here since Tudor times.â

âThere have always been Folliats at Nasse House,â Poirot murmured to himself.

âYes.â Mrs. Masterton sighed. âItâs sad, the toll taken by the war. Young men killed in battleâdeath duties and all that. Then whoever comes into a place canât afford to keep it up and has to sellââ

âBut Mrs. Folliat, although she has lost her home, still lives on the estate.â

âYes. Sheâs made the Lodge quite charming too. Have you been inside it?â

âNo, we parted at the door.â

âIt wouldnât be everybodyâs cup of tea,â said Mrs. Masterton. âTo live at the lodge of your old home and see strangers in possession. But to do Amy Folliat justice I donât think she feels bitter about that. In fact, she engineered the whole thing. Thereâs no doubt she imbued Hattie with the idea of living down here, and got her to persuade George Stubbs into it. The thing, I think, that Amy Folliat couldnât have borne was to see the place turned into a hostel or institution, or carved up for building.â She rose to her feet. âWell, I must be getting along. Iâm a busy woman.â

âOf course. You have to talk to the Chief Constable about bloodhounds.â

Mrs. Masterton gave a sudden deep bay of laughter. âUsed to breed âem at one time,â she said. âPeople tell me Iâm a bit like a bloodhound myself.â

Poirot was slightly taken aback and she was quick enough to see it.

âI bet youâve been thinking so, M. Poirot,â she said.

Thirteen

After Mrs. Masterton had left, Poirot went out and strolled through the woods. His nerves were not quite what they should be. He felt an irresistible desire to look behind every bush and to consider every thicket of rhododendron as a possible hiding place for a body. He came at last to the Folly and, going inside it, he sat down on the stone bench there, to rest his feet which were, as was his custom, enclosed in tight, pointed patent leather shoes.

Through the trees he could catch faint glimmers of the river and of the wooded banks on the opposite side. He found himself agreeing with the young architect that this was no place to put an architectural fantasy of this kind. Gaps could be cut in the trees, of course, but even then there would be no proper view. Whereas, as Michael Weyman had said, on the grassy bank near the house a Folly could have been erected with a delightful vista right down the river to Helmmouth. Poirotâs thoughts flew off at a tangent. Helmmouth, the yacht EspÃ©rance, and Etienne de Sousa. The whole thing must tie up in some kind of pattern, but what the pattern was he could not visualize. Tempting strands of it showed here and there but that was all.

Something that glittered caught his eye and he bent to pick it up. It had come to rest in a small crack of the concrete base to the temple. He held it in the palm of his hand and looked at it with a faint stirring of recognition. It was a little gold aeroplane charm. As he frowned at it, a picture came into his mind. A bracelet. A gold bracelet hung over with dangling charms. He was sitting once more in the tent and the voice of Madame Zuleika, alias Sally Legge, was talking of dark women and journeys across the sea and good fortune in a letter. Yes, she had had on a bracelet from which depended a multiplicity of small gold objects. One of these modern fashions which repeated the fashions of Poirotâs early days. Probably that was why it had made an impression on him. Some time or other, presumably, Mrs. Legge had sat here in the Folly, and one of the charms had fallen from her bracelet. Perhaps she had not even noticed it. It might have been yesterday afternoon.

Poirot considered that latter point. Then he heard footsteps outside and looked up sharply. A figure came round to the front of the Folly and stopped, startled, at the sight of Poirot. Poirot looked with a considering eye on the slim, fair young man wearing a shirt on which a variety of tortoise and turtle was depicted. The shirt was unmistakable. He had observed it closely yesterday when its wearer was throwing coconuts.

He noticed that the young man was almost unusually perturbed. He said quickly in a foreign accent:

âI beg your pardonâI did not knowââ

Poirot smiled gently at him but with a reproving air.

âI am afraid,â he said, âthat you are trespassing.â

âYes, I am sorry.â

âYou come from the hostel?â

âYes. Yes, I do. I thought perhaps one could get through the woods this way and so to the quay.â

âI am afraid,â said Poirot gently, âthat you will have to go back the way you came. There is no through road.â

The young man said again, showing all his teeth in a would-be agreeable smile:

âI am sorry. I am very sorry.â

He bowed and turned away.

Poirot came out of the Folly and back on to the path, watching the boy retreat. When he got to the ending of the path, he looked over his shoulder. Then, seeing Poirot watching him, he quickened his pace and disappeared round the bend.

âEh bien,â said Poirot to himself, âis this a murderer I have seen, or is it not?â

The young man had certainly been at the fÃªte yesterday and had scowled when he had collided with Poirot, and just as certainly therefore he must know quite well that there was no through path by way of the woods to the ferry. If, indeed, he had been looking for a path to the ferry he would not have taken this path by the Folly, but would have kept on the lower level near the river. Moreover, he had arrived at the Folly with the air of one who has reached his rendezvous, and who is badly startled at finding the wrong person at the meeting place.

âSo it is like this,â said Poirot to himself. âHe came here to meet someone. Who did he come to meet?â He added as an afterthought, âAnd why?â

He strolled down to the bend of the path and looked at it where it wound away into the trees. There was no sign of the young man in the turtle shirt now. Presumably he had deemed it prudent to retreat as rapidly as possible. Poirot retraced his steps, shaking his head.

Lost in thought, he came quietly round the side of the Folly, and stopped on the threshold, startled in his turn. Sally Legge was there on her knees, her head bent down to the cracks in the flooring. She jumped up, startled.

âOh, M. Poirot, you gave me such a shock. I didnât hear you coming.â

âYou were looking for something, Madame?â

âIâno, not exactly.â

âYou had lost something, perhaps,â said Poirot. âDropped something. Or perhapsâ¦â He adopted a roguish, gallant air, âOr perhaps, Madame, it is a rendezvous. I am, most unfortunately, not the person you came to meet?â

She had recovered her aplomb by now.

âDoes one ever have rendezvous in the middle of the morning?â she demanded, questioningly.

âSometimes,â said Poirot, âone has to have a rendezvous at the only time one can. Husbands,â he added sententiously, âare sometimes jealous.â

âI doubt if mine is,â said Sally Legge.

She said the words lightly enough, but behind them Poirot heard an undertone of bitterness.

âHeâs so completely engrossed in his own affairs.â

âAll women complain of that in husbands,â said Poirot. âEspecially in English husbands,â he added.

âYou foreigners are more gallant.â

âWe know,â said Poirot, âthat it is necessary to tell a woman at least once a week, and preferably three or four times, that we love her; and that it is also wise to bring her a few flowers, to pay her a few compliments, to tell her that she looks well in her new dress or new hat.â

âIs that what you do?â

âI, Madame, am not a husband,â said Hercule Poirot. âAlas!â he added.

âIâm sure thereâs no alas about it. Iâm sure youâre quite delighted to be a carefree bachelor.â

âNo, no, Madame, it is terrible all that I have missed in life.â

âI think oneâs a fool to marry,â said Sally Legge.

âYou regret the days when you painted in your studio in Chelsea?â

âYou seem to know all about me, M. Poirot?â

âI am a gossip,â said Hercule Poirot. âI like to hear all about people.â He went on, âDo you really regret, Madame?â

âOh, I donât know.â She sat down impatiently on the seat. Poirot sat beside her.

He witnessed once more the phenomenon to which he was becoming accustomed. This attractive, redhaired girl was about to say things to him that she would have thought twice about saying to an Englishman.

âI hoped,â she said, âthat when we came down here for a holiday away from everything, that things would be the same againâ¦But it hasnât worked out like that.â

âNo?â

âNo. Alecâs just as moody andâoh, I donât knowâwrapped up in himself. I donât know whatâs the matter with him. Heâs so nervy and on edge. People ring him up and leave queer messages for him and he wonât tell me anything. Thatâs what makes me mad. He wonât tell me anything! I thought at first it was some other woman, but I donât think it is. Not reallyâ¦.â

But her voice held a certain doubt which Poirot was quick to notice.

âDid you enjoy your tea yesterday afternoon, Madame?â he asked.

âEnjoy my tea?â She frowned at him, her thoughts seeming to come back from a long way away. Then she said hastily, âOh, yes. Youâve no idea how exhausting it was, sitting in that tent muffled up in all those veils. It was stifling.â

âThe tea tent also must have been somewhat stifling?â

âOh, yes, it was. However, thereâs nothing like a cuppa, is there?â

âYou were searching for something just now, were you not, Madame? Would it, by any possibility, be this?â He held out in his hand the little gold charm.

âIâoh, yes. Oh, thank you, M. Poirot. Where did you find it?â

âIt was here, on the floor, in that crack over there.â

âI must have dropped it some time.â

âYesterday?â

âOh, no, not yesterday. It was before that.â

âBut surely, Madame, I remember seeing that particular charm on your wrist when you were telling me my fortune.â

Nobody could tell a deliberate lie better than Hercule Poirot. He spoke with complete assurance and before that assurance Sally Leggeâs eyelids dropped.

âI donât really remember,â she said. âI only noticed this morning that it was missing.â

âThen I am happy,â said Poirot gallantly, âto be able to restore it to you.â

She was turning the little charm over nervously in her fingers. Now she rose.

âWell, thank you, M. Poirot, thank you very much,â she said. Her breath was coming rather unevenly and her eyes were nervous.

She hurried out of the Folly. Poirot leaned back in the seat and nodded his head slowly.

No, he said to himself, no, you did not go to the tea tent yesterday afternoon. It was not because you wanted your tea that you were so anxious to know if it was four oâclock. It was here you came yesterday afternoon. Here, to the Folly. Halfway to the boathouse. You came here to meet someone.

Once again he heard footsteps approaching. Rapid impatient footsteps. âAnd here perhaps,â said Poirot, smiling in anticipation, âcomes whoever it was that Mrs. Legge came up here to meet.â

But then, as Alec Legge came round the corner of the Folly, Poirot ejaculated:

âWrong again.â

âEh? Whatâs that?â Alec Legge looked startled.

âI said,â explained Poirot, âthat I was wrong again. I am not often wrong,â he explained, âand it exasperates me. It was not you I expected to see.â

âWhom did you expect to see?â asked Alec Legge.

Poirot replied promptly.

âA young manâa boy almostâin one of these gaily-patterned shirts with turtles on it.â

He was pleased at the effect of his words. Alec Legge took a step forward. He said rather incoherently:

âHow do you know? How didâwhat dâyou mean?â

âI am psychic,â said Hercule Poirot, and closed his eyes.

Alec Legge took another couple of steps forward. Poirot was conscious that a very angry man was standing in front of him.

âWhat the devil did you mean?â he demanded.

âYour friend has, I think,â said Poirot, âgone back to the Youth Hostel. If you want to see him you will have to go there to find him.â

âSo thatâs it,â muttered Alec Legge.

He dropped down at the other end of the stone bench.

âSo thatâs why youâre down here? It wasnât a question of âgiving away the prizes.â I might have known better.â He turned towards Poirot. His face was haggard and unhappy. âI know what it must seem like,â he said. âI know what the whole thing looks like. But it isnât as you think it is. Iâm being victimized. I tell you that once you get into these peopleâs clutches, it isnât so easy to get out of them. And I want to get out of them. Thatâs the point. I want to get out of them. You get desperate, you know. You feel like taking desperate measures. You feel youâre caught like a rat in a trap and thereâs nothing you can do. Oh, well, whatâs the good of talking! You know what you want to know now, I suppose. Youâve got your evidence.â

He got up, stumbled a little as though he could hardly see his way, then rushed off energetically without a backward look.

Hercule Poirot remained behind with his eyes very wide open and his eyebrows rising.

âAll this is very curious,â he murmured. âCurious and interesting. I have the evidence I need, have I? Evidence of what? Murder?â

Fourteen

I

Inspector Bland sat in Helmmouth Police Station. Superintendent Baldwin, a large comfortable-looking man, sat on the other side of the table. Between the two men, on the table, was a black sodden mass. Inspector Bland poked at it with a cautious forefinger.

âThatâs her hat all right,â he said. âIâm sure of it, though I donât suppose I could swear to it. She fancied that shape, it seems. So her maid told me. Sheâd got one or two of them. A pale pink and a sort of puce colour, but yesterday she was wearing the black one. Yes, this is it. And you fished it out of the river? That makes it look as though itâs the way we think it is.â

âNo certainty yet,â said Baldwin. âAfter all,â he added, âanyone could throw a hat into the river.â

âYes,â said Bland, âthey could throw it in from the boathouse, or they could throw it in off a yacht.â

âThe yachtâs sewed up, all right,â said Baldwin. âIf sheâs there, alive or dead, sheâs still there.â

âHe hasnât been ashore today?â

âNot so far. Heâs on board. Heâs been sitting out in a deck chair smoking a cigar.â

Inspector Bland glanced at the clock.

âAlmost time to go aboard,â he said.

âThink youâll find her?â asked Baldwin.

âI wouldnât bank on it,â said Bland. âIâve got the feeling, you know, that heâs a clever devil.â He was lost in thought for a moment, poking again at the hat. Then he said, âWhat about the bodyâif there was a body? Any ideas about that?â

âYes,â said Baldwin, âI talked to Otterweight this morning. Ex-coastguard man. I always consult him in anything to do with tides and currents. About the time the lady went into the Helm, if she did go into the Helm, the tide was just on the ebb. There is a full moon now and it would be flowing swiftly. Reckon sheâd be carried out to sea and the current would take her towards the Cornish coast. Thereâs no certainty where the body would fetch up or if it would fetch up at all. One or two drownings weâve had here, weâve never recovered the body. It gets broken up, too, on the rocks. Here, by Start Point. On the other hand, it might fetch up any day.â

âIf it doesnât, itâs going to be difficult,â said Bland.

âYouâre certain in your own mind that she did go into the river?â

âI donât see what else it can be,â said Inspector Bland sombrely. âWeâve checked up, you know, on the buses and the trains. This place is a cul-de-sac. She was wearing conspicuous clothes and she didnât take any others with her. So I should say she never left Nasse. Either her bodyâs in the sea or else itâs hidden somewhere on the property. What I want now,â he went on heavily, âis motive. And the body of course,â he added, as an afterthought. âCanât get anywhere until I find the body.â

âWhat about the other girl?â

âShe saw itâor she saw something. Weâll get at the facts in the end, but it wonât be easy.â

Baldwin in his turn looked up at the clock.

âTime to go,â he said.

The two police officers were received on board the EspÃ©rance with all de Sousaâs charming courtesy. He offered them drinks which they refused, and went on to express a kindly interest in their activities.

âYou are farther forward with your inquiries regarding the death of this young girl?â

âWeâre progressing,â Inspector Bland told him.

The superintendent took up the running and expressed very delicately the object of their visit.

âYou would like to search the EspÃ©rance?â De Sousa did not seem annoyed. Instead he seemed rather amused. âBut why? You think I conceal the murderer or do you think perhaps that I am the murderer myself?â

âItâs necessary, Mr. de Sousa, as Iâm sure youâll understand. A search warrantâ¦.â

De Sousa raised his hands.

âBut I am anxious to cooperateâeager! Let this be all among friends. You are welcome to search where you will in my boat. Ah, perhaps you think that I have here my cousin, Lady Stubbs? You think, perhaps, she has run away from her husband and taken shelter with me? But search, gentlemen, by all means search.â

The search was duly undertaken. It was a thorough one. In the end, striving to conceal their chagrin, the two police officers took leave of Mr. de Sousa.

âYou have found nothing? How disappointing. But I told you that was so. You will perhaps have some refreshment now. No?â

He accompanied them to where their boat lay alongside.

âAnd for myself?â he asked. âI am free to depart? You understand it becomes a little boring here. The weather is good. I should like very much to proceed to Plymouth.â

âIf you would be kind enough, sir, to remain here for the inquestâthat is tomorrowâin case the Coroner should wish to ask you anything.â

âWhy, certainly. I want to do all that I can. But after that?â

âAfter that, sir,â said Superintendent Baldwin, his face wooden, âyou are, of course, at liberty to proceed where you will.â

The last thing they saw as the launch moved away from the yacht was de Sousaâs smiling face looking down on them.

II

The inquest was almost painfully devoid of interest. Apart from the medical evidence and evidence of identity, there was little to feed the curiosity of the spectators. An adjournment was asked for and granted. The whole proceedings had been purely formal.

What followed the inquest, however, was not quite so formal. Inspector Bland spent the afternoon taking a trip in that well-known pleasure steamer, the Devon Belle. Leaving Brixwell at about three oâclock, it rounded the headland, proceeded around the coast, entered the mouth of the Helm and went up the river. There were about two hundred and thirty people on board besides Inspector Bland. He sat on the starboard side of the boat, scanning the wooded shore. They came round a bend in the river and passed the isolated grey tiled boathouse that belonged to Hoodown Park. Inspector Bland looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was just quarter past four. They were coming now close beside the Nasse boathouse. It nestled remote in its trees with its little balcony and its small quay below. There was no sign apparent that there was anyone inside the boathouse, though as a matter of fact, to Inspector Blandâs certain knowledge, there was someone inside. P.C. Hoskins, in accordance with orders, was on duty there.

Not far from the boathouse steps was a small launch. In the launch were a man and girl in holiday kit. They were indulging in what seemed like some rather rough horseplay. The girl was screaming, the man was playfully pretending he was going to duck her overboard. At that same moment a stentorian voice spoke through a megaphone.

âLadies and gentlemen,â it boomed, âyou are now approaching the famous village of Gitcham where we shall remain for three-quarters of an hour and where you can have a crab or lobster tea, as well as Devonshire cream. On your right are the grounds of Nasse House. You will pass the house itself in two or three minutes, it is just visible through the trees. Originally the home of Sir Gervase Folliat, a contemporary of Sir Francis Drake who sailed with him in his voyage to the new world, it is now the property of Sir George Stubbs. On your left is the famous Gooseacre Rock. There, ladies and gentlemen, it was the habit to deposit scolding wives at low tide and leave them there until the water came up to their necks.â

Everybody on the Devon Belle stared with fascinated interest at the Gooseacre Rock. Jokes were made and there were many shrill giggles and guffaws.

While this was happening, the holidaymaker in the boat, with a final scuffle, did push his lady friend overboard. Leaning over, he held her in the water, laughing and saying, âNo, I donât pull you out till youâve promised to behave.â

Nobody, however, observed this with the exception of Inspector Bland. They had all been listening to the megaphone, staring for the first sight of Nasse House through the trees, and gazing with fascinated interest at the Gooseacre Rock.

The holidaymaker released the girl, she sank under water and a few moments later appeared on the other side of the boat. She swam to it and got in, heaving herself over the side with practised skill. Policewoman Alice Jones was an accomplished swimmer.

Inspector Bland came ashore at Gitcham with the other two hundred and thirty passengers and consumed a lobster tea with Devonshire cream and scones. He said to himself as he did so, âSo it could be done, and no one would notice!â

III

While Inspector Bland was doing his experiment on the Helm, Hercule Poirot was experimenting with a tent on the lawn at Nasse House. It was, in actual fact, the same tent where Madame Zuleika had told her fortunes. When the rest of the marquees and stands had been dismantled Poirot had asked for this to remain behind.

He went into it now, closed the flaps and went to the back of it. Deftly he unlaced the flaps there, slipped out, relaced them, and plunged into the hedge of rhododendron that immediately backed the tent. Slipping between a couple of bushes, he soon reached a small rustic arbour. It was a kind of summerhouse with a closed door. Poirot opened the door and went inside.

It was very dim inside because very little light came in through the rhododendrons which had grown up round it since it had been first placed there many years ago. There was a box there with croquet balls in it, and some old rusted hoops. There were one or two broken hockey sticks, a good many earwigs and spiders, and a round irregular mark on the dust on the floor. At this Poirot looked for some time. He knelt down, and taking a little yard measure from his pocket, he measured its dimensions carefully. Then he nodded his head in a satisfied fashion.

He slipped out quietly, shutting the door behind him. Then he pursued an oblique course through the rhododendron bushes. He worked his way up the hill in this way and came out a short time after on the path which led to the Folly and down from there to the boathouse.

He did not visit the Folly this time, but went straight down the zigzagging way until he reached the boathouse. He had the key with him and he opened the door and went in.

Except for the removal of the body, and of the tea tray with its glass and plate, it was just as he remembered it. The police had noted and photographed all that it contained. He went over now to the table where the pile of comics lay. He turned them over and his expression was not unlike Inspector Blandâs had been as he noted the words Marlene had doodled down there before she died. âJackie Blake goes with Susan Brown.â âPeter pinches girls at the pictures.â âGeorgie Porgie kisses hikers in the wood.â âBiddy Fox likes boys.â âAlbert goes with Doreen.â

He found the remarks pathetic in their young crudity. He remembered Marleneâs plain, rather spotty face. He suspected that boys had not pinched Marlene at the pictures. Frustrated, Marlene had got a vicarious thrill by her spying and peering at her young contemporaries. She had spied on people, she had snooped, and she had seen things. Things that she was not meant to have seenâthings, usually, of small importance, but on one occasion perhaps something of more importance? Something of whose importance she herself had had no idea.

It was all conjecture, and Poirot shook his head doubtfully. He replaced the pile of comics neatly on the table, his passion for tidiness always in the ascendent. As he did so, he was suddenly assailed with the feeling of something missing. Somethingâ¦What was it? Something that ought to have been thereâ¦Somethingâ¦He shook his head as the elusive impression faded.

He went slowly out of the boathouse, unhappy and displeased with himself. He, Hercule Poirot, had been summoned to prevent a murderâand he had not prevented it. It had happened. What was even more humiliating was that he had no real ideas, even now, as to what had actually happened. It was ignominious. And tomorrow he must return to London defeated. His ego was seriously deflatedâeven his moustaches drooped.

Fifteen

It was a fortnight later that Inspector Bland had a long and unsatisfying interview with the Chief Constable of the County.

Major Merrall had irritable tufted eyebrows and looked rather like an angry terrier. But his men all liked him and respected his judgment.

âWell, well, well,â said Major Merrall. âWhat have we got? Nothing that we can act on. This fellow de Sousa now? We canât connect him in any way with the Girl Guide. If Lady Stubbsâ body had turned up, that would have been different.â He brought his eyebrows down towards his nose and glared at Bland. âYou think there is a body, donât you?â

âWhat do you think, sir?â

âOh, I agree with you. Otherwise, weâd have traced her by now. Unless, of course, sheâd made her plans very carefully. And I donât see the least indication of that. Sheâd no money, you know. Weâve been into all the financial side of it. Sir George had the money. He made her a very generous allowance, but sheâs not got a stiver of her own. And thereâs no trace of a lover. No rumour of one, no gossipâand there would be, mark you, in a country district like that.â

He took a turn up and down the floor.

âThe plain fact of it is that we donât know. We think de Sousa for some unknown reason of his own made away with his cousin. The most probable thing is that he got her to meet him down at the boathouse, took her aboard the launch and pushed her overboard. Youâve tested that that could happen?â

âGood lord, sir! You could drown a whole boatful of people during holiday time in the river or on the seashore. Nobodyâd think anything of it. Everyone spends their time squealing and pushing each other off things. But the thing de Sousa didnât know about, was that that girl was in the boathouse, bored to death with nothing to do and ten to one was looking out of the window.â

âHoskins looked out of the window and watched the performance you put up, and you didnât see him?â

âNo, sir. Youâd have no idea anyone was in that boathouse unless they came out on the balcony and showed themselvesââ

âPerhaps the girl did come out on the balcony. De Sousa realizes sheâs seen what heâs doing, so he comes ashore and deals with her, gets her to let him into the boathouse by asking her what sheâs doing there. She tells him, pleased with her part in the Murder Hunt, he puts the cord round her neck in a playful mannerâand whooooshâ¦â Major Merrall made an expressive gesture with his hands. âThatâs that! Okay, Bland; okay. Letâs say thatâs how it happened. Pure guesswork. We havenât got any evidence. We havenât got a body, and if we attempted to detain de Sousa in this country weâd have a hornetsâ nest about our ears. Weâll have to let him go.â

âIs he going, sir?â

âHeâs laying up his yacht a week from now. Going back to his blasted island.â

âSo we havenât got much time,â said Inspector Bland gloomily.

âThere are other possibilities, I suppose?â

âOh, yes, sir, there are several possibilities. I still hold to it that she must have been murdered by somebody who was in on the facts of the Murder Hunt. We can clear two people completely. Sir George Stubbs and Captain Warburton. They were running shows on the lawn and taking charge of things the entire afternoon. They are vouched for by dozens of people. The same applies to Mrs. Masterton, if, that is, one can include her at all.â

âInclude everybody,â said Major Merrall. âSheâs continually ringing me up about bloodhounds. In a detective story,â he added wistfully, âsheâd be just the woman who had done it. But, dash it, Iâve known Connie Masterton pretty well all my life. I just canât see her going round strangling Girl Guides, or disposing of mysterious exotic beauties. Now, then, who else is there?â

âThereâs Mrs. Oliver,â said Bland. âShe devised the Murder Hunt. Sheâs rather eccentric and she was away on her own for a good part of the afternoon. Then thereâs Mr. Alec Legge.â

âFellow in the pink cottage, eh?â

âYes. He left the show fairly early on, or he wasnât seen there. He says he got fed up with it and walked back to his cottage. On the other hand, old Merdellâthatâs the old boy down at the quay who looks after peopleâs boats for them and helps with the parkingâhe says Alec Legge passed him going back to the cottage about five oâclock. Not earlier. That leaves about an hour of his time unaccounted for. He says, of course, that Merdell has no idea of time and was quite wrong as to when he saw him. And after all, the old man is ninety-two.â

âRather unsatisfactory,â said Major Merrall. âNo motive or anything of that kind to tie him in?â

âHe might have been having an affair with Lady Stubbs,â said Bland doubtfully, âand she might have been threatening to tell his wife, and he might have done her in, and the girl might have seen it happenââ

âAnd he concealed Lady Stubbsâ body somewhere?â

âYes. But Iâm blessed if I know how or where. My men have searched that sixty-five acres and thereâs no trace anywhere of disturbed earth, and I should say that by now weâve rooted under every bush there is. Still, say he did manage to hide the body, he could have thrown her hat into the river as a blind. And Marlene Tucker saw him and so he disposed of her? That part of itâs always the same.â Inspector Bland paused, then said, âAnd, of course, thereâs Mrs. Leggeââ

âWhat have we got on her?â

âShe wasnât in the tea tent from four to half past as she says she was,â said Inspector Bland slowly. âI spotted that as soon as Iâd talked to her and to Mrs. Folliat. Evidence supports Mrs. Folliatâs statement. And thatâs the particular, vital half hour.â Again he paused. âThen thereâs the architect, young Michael Weyman. Itâs difficult to tie him up with it in any way, but heâs what I should call a likely murdererâone of those cocky, nervy young fellows. Would kill anyone and not turn a hair about it. In with a loose set, I shouldnât wonder.â

âYouâre so damned respectable, Bland,â said Major Merrall. âHow does he account for his movements?â

âVery vague, sir. Very vague indeed.â

âThat proves heâs a genuine architect,â said Major Merrall with feeling. He had recently built himself a house near the sea coast. âTheyâre so vague, I wonder theyâre alive at all sometimes.â

âDoesnât know where he was or when and thereâs nobody who seems to have seen him. There is some evidence that Lady Stubbs was keen on him.â

âI suppose youâre hinting at one of these sex murders?â

âIâm only looking about for what I can find, sir,â said Inspector Bland with dignity. âAnd then thereâs Miss Brewisâ¦â He paused. It was a long pause.

âThatâs the secretary, isnât it?â

âYes, sir. Very efficient woman.â

Again there was a pause. Major Merrall eyed his subordinate keenly.

âYouâve got something on your mind about her, havenât you?â he said.

âYes, I have, sir. You see, she admits quite openly that she was in the boathouse at about the time the murder must have been committed.â

âWould she do that if she was guilty?â

âShe might,â said Inspector Bland slowly. âActually, itâs the best thing she could do. You see, if she picks up a tray with cake and a fruit drink and tells everyone sheâs taking that for the child down thereâwell, then, her presence is accounted for. She goes there and comes back and says the girl was alive at that time. Weâve taken her word for it. But if you remember, sir, and look again at the medical evidence, Dr. Cookâs time of death is between four oâclock and quarter to five. Weâve only Miss Brewisâ word for it that Marlene was alive at a quarter past four. And thereâs one curious point that came up about her testimony. She told me that it was Lady Stubbs who told her to take the cakes and fruit drink to Marlene. But another witness said quite definitely that that wasnât the sort of thing that Lady Stubbs would think about. And I think, you know, that theyâre right there. Itâs not like Lady Stubbs. Lady Stubbs was a dumb beauty wrapped up in herself and her own appearance. She never seems to have ordered meals or taken an interest in household management or thought of anybody at all except her own handsome self. The more I think of it, the more it seems most unlikely that she should have told Miss Brewis to take anything to the Girl Guide.â

âYou know, Bland,â said Merrall, âyouâve got something there. But whatâs her motive, if so?â

âNo motive for killing the girl,â said Bland; âbut I do think, you know, that she might have a motive for killing Lady Stubbs. According to M. Poirot, whom I told you about, sheâs head over heels in love with her employer. Supposing she followed Lady Stubbs into the woods and killed her and that Marlene Tucker, bored in the boathouse, came out and happened to see it? Then of course sheâd have to kill Marlene too. What would she do next? Put the girlâs body in the boathouse, come back to the house, fetch the tray and go down to the boathouse again. Then sheâs covered her own absence from the fÃªte and weâve got her testimony, our only reliable testimony on the face of it, that Marlene Tucker was alive at a quarter past four.â

âWell,â said Major Merrall, with a sigh, âkeep after it, Bland. Keep after it. What do you think she did with Lady Stubbsâ body, if sheâs the guilty party?â

âHid it in the woods, buried it, or threw it into the river.â

âThe last would be rather difficult, wouldnât it?â

âIt depends where the murder was committed,â said the inspector. âSheâs quite a hefty woman. If it was not far from the boathouse, she could have carried her down there and thrown her off the edge of the quay.â

âWith every pleasure steamer on the Helm looking on?â

âIt would be just another piece of horseplay. Risky, but possible. But I think it far more likely myself that she hid the body somewhere, and just threw the hat into the Helm. Itâs possible, you see, that she, knowing the house and grounds well, might know some place where you could conceal a body. She may have managed to dispose of it in the river later. Who knows? That is, of course, if she did it,â added Inspector Bland as an afterthought. âBut, actually, sir, I stick to de Sousaââ

Major Merrall had been noting down points on a pad. He looked up now, clearing his throat.

âIt comes to this, then. We can summarize it as follows: weâve got five or six people who could have killed Marlene Tucker. Some of them are more likely than others, but thatâs as far as we can go. In a general way, we know why she was killed. She was killed because she saw something. But until we know exactly what it was she sawâwe donât know who killed her.â

âPut like that, you make it sound a bit difficult, sir.â

âOh, it is difficult. But we shall get thereâin the end.â

âAnd meantime that chap will have left Englandâlaughing in his sleeveâhaving got away with two murders.â

âYouâre fairly sure about him, arenât you? I donât say youâre wrong. All the sameâ¦.â

The chief constable was silent for a moment or two, then he said, with a shrug of his shoulders:

âAnyway, itâs better than having one of these psychopathic murderers. Weâd probably be having a third murder on our hands by now.â

âThey do say things go in threes,â said the inspector gloomily.

He repeated that remark the following morning when he heard that old Merdell, returning home from a visit to his favourite pub across the river at Gitcham, must have exceeded his usual potations and had fallen in the river when boarding the quay. His boat was found adrift, and the old manâs body was recovered that evening.

The inquest was short and simple. The night had been dark and overcast, old Merdell had had three pints of beer and, after all, he was ninety-two.

The verdict brought in was Accidental Death.

Sixteen

I

Hercule Poirot sat in a square chair in front of the square fireplace in the square room of his London flat. In front of him were various objects that were not square: that were instead violently and almost impossibly curved. Each of them, studied separately, looked as if it could not have any conceivable function in a sane world. They appeared improbable, irresponsible, and wholly fortuitous. In actual fact, of course, they were nothing of the sort.

Assessed correctly, each had its particular place in a particular universe. Assembled in their proper place in their particular universe, they not only made sense, they made a picture. In other words, Hercule Poirot was doing a jigsaw puzzle.

He looked down at where a rectangle still showed improbably shaped gaps. It was an occupation he found soothing and pleasant. It brought disorder into order. It had, he reflected, a certain resemblance to his own profession. There, too, one was faced with various improbably shaped and unlikely facts which, though seeming to bear no relationship to each other, yet did each have its properly balanced part in assembling the whole. His fingers deftly picked up an improbable piece of dark grey and fitted it into a blue sky. It was, he now perceived, part of an aeroplane.

âYes,â murmured Poirot to himself, âthat is what one must do. The unlikely piece here, the improbable piece there, the oh-so-rational piece that is not what it seems; all of these have their appointed place, and once they are fitted in, eh bien, there is an end of the business! All is clear. All isâas they say nowadaysâin the picture.â

He fitted in, in rapid succession, a small piece of a minaret, another piece that looked as though it was part of a striped awning and was actually the backside of a cat, and a missing piece of sunset that had changed with Turneresque suddenness from orange to pink.

If one knew what to look for, it would be so easy, said Hercule Poirot to himself. But one does not know what to look for. And so one looks in the wrong places or for the wrong things. He sighed vexedly. His eyes strayed from the jigsaw puzzle in front of him to the chair on the other side of the fireplace. There, not half an hour ago, Inspector Bland had sat consuming tea and crumpets (square crumpets) and talking sadly. He had had to come to London on police business and that police business having been accomplished, he had come to call upon M. Poirot. He had wondered, he explained, whether M. Poirot had any ideas. He had then proceeded to explain his own ideas. On every point he outlined, Poirot had agreed with him. Inspector Bland, so Poirot thought, had made a very fair and unprejudiced survey of the case.

It was now a month, nearly five weeks, since the occurrences at Nasse House. It had been five weeks of stagnation and of negation. Lady Stubbsâ body had not been recovered. Lady Stubbs, if living, had not been traced. The odds, Inspector Bland pointed out, were strongly against her being alive. Poirot agreed with him.

âOf course,â said Bland, âthe body might not have been washed up. Thereâs no telling with a body once itâs in the water. It may show up yet, though it will be pretty unrecognizable when it does.â

âThere is a third possibility,â Poirot pointed out.

Bland nodded.

âYes,â he said, âIâve thought of that. I keep thinking of that, in fact. You mean the bodyâs thereâat Nasse, hidden somewhere where weâve never thought of looking. It could be, you know. It just could be. With an old house, and with grounds like that, there are places youâd never think ofâthat youâd never know were there.â

He paused a moment, ruminated, and then said:

âThereâs a house I was in only the other day. Theyâd built an air raid shelter, you know, in the war. A flimsy sort of more or less homemade job in the garden, by the wall of the house, and had made a way from it into the houseâinto the cellar. Well, the war ended, the shelters tumbled down, they heaped it up in irregular mounds and made a kind of rockery of it. Walking through that garden now, youâd never think that the place had once been an air raid shelter and that there was a chamber underneath. Looks as though it was always meant to be a rockery. And all the time, behind a wine bin in the cellar, thereâs a passage leading into it. Thatâs what I mean. That kind of thing. Some sort of way into some kind of place that no outsider would know about. I donât suppose thereâs an actual Priestâs Hole or anything of that kind?â

âHardlyânot at that period.â

âThatâs what Mr. Weyman saysâhe says the house was built about 1790 or thereabouts. No reason for priests to hide themselves by that date. All the same, you know, there might beâsomewhere, some alteration in the structureâsomething that one of the family might know about. What do you think, M. Poirot?â

âIt is possible, yes,â said Poirot. âMais oui, decidedly it is an idea. If one accepts the possibility, then the next thing isâwho would know about it? Anyone staying in the house might know, I suppose?â

âYes. Of course it would let out de Sousa.â The inspector looked dissatisfied. De Sousa was still his preferred suspect. âAs you say, anyone who lived in the house, such as a servant or one of the family, might know about it. Someone just staying in the house would be less likely. People who only came in from outside, like the Legges, less likely still.â

âThe person who would certainly know about such a thing, and who could tell you if you asked her, would be Mrs. Folliat,â said Poirot.

Mrs. Folliat, he thought, knew all there was to know about Nasse House. Mrs. Folliat knew a great dealâ¦Mrs. Folliat had known straight away that Hattie Stubbs was dead. Mrs. Folliat knew, before Marlene and Hattie Stubbs died, that it was a very wicked world and that there were very wicked people in it. Mrs. Folliat, thought Poirot vexedly, was the key to the whole business. But Mrs. Folliat, he reflected, was a key that would not easily turn in the lock.

âIâve interviewed the lady several times,â said the inspector. âVery nice, very pleasant sheâs been about everything, and seems very distressed that she canât suggest anything helpful.â

Canât or wonât? thought Poirot. Bland was perhaps thinking the same.

âThereâs a type of lady,â he said, âthat you canât force. You canât frighten them, or persuade them, or diddle them.â

No, Poirot thought, you couldnât force or persuade or diddle Mrs. Folliat.

The inspector had finished his tea, and sighed and gone, and Poirot had got out his jigsaw puzzle to alleviate his mounting exasperation. For he was exasperated. Both exasperated and humiliated. Mrs. Oliver had summoned him, Hercule Poirot, to elucidate a mystery. She had felt that there was something wrong, and there had been something wrong. And she had looked confidently to Hercule Poirot, first to prevent itâand he had not prevented itâand, secondly, to discover the killer, and he had not discovered the killer. He was in a fog, in the type of fog where there are from time to time baffling gleams of light. Every now and then, or so it seemed to him, he had had one of those glimpses. And each time he had failed to penetrate farther. He had failed to assess the value of what he seemed, for one brief moment, to have seen.

Poirot got up, crossed to the other side of the hearth, rearranged the second square chair so that it was at a definite geometric angle, and sat down in it. He had passed from the jigsaw of painted wood and cardboard to the jigsaw of a murder problem. He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote in small neat characters:

âEtienne de Sousa, Amanda Brewis, Alec Legge, Sally Legge, Michael Weyman.â

It was physically impossible for Sir George or Jim Warburton to have killed Marlene Tucker. Since it was not physically impossible for Mrs. Oliver to have done so, he added her name after a brief space. He also added the name of Mrs. Masterton since he did not remember of his own knowledge having seen Mrs. Masterton constantly on the lawn between four oâclock and quarter to five. He added the name of Henden, the butler; more, perhaps, because a sinister butler had figured in Mrs. Oliverâs Murder Hunt than because he had really any suspicions of the dark-haired artist with the gong stick. He also put down âBoy in turtle shirtâ with a query mark after it. Then he smiled, shook his head, took a pin from the lapel of his jacket, shut his eyes and stabbed with it. It was as good a way as any other, he thought.

He was justifiably annoyed when the pin proved to have transfixed the last entry.

âI am an imbecile,â said Hercule Poirot. âWhat has a boy in a turtle shirt to do with this?â

But he also realized he must have had some reason for including this enigmatic character in his list. He recalled again the day he had sat in the Folly, and the surprise on the boyâs face at seeing him there. Not a very pleasant face, despite the youthful good looks. An arrogant ruthless face. The young man had come there for some purpose. He had come to meet someone, and it followed that that someone was a person whom he could not meet, or did not wish to meet, in the ordinary way. It was a meeting, in fact, to which attention must not be called. A guilty meeting. Something to do with the murder?

Poirot pursued his reflections. A boy who was staying at the Youth Hostelâthat is to say, a boy who would be in that neighbourhood for two nights at most. Had he come there casually? One of the many young students visiting Britain? Or had he come there for a special purpose, to meet some special person? There could have been what seemed a casual encounter on the day of the fÃªteâpossibly there had been.

I know a good deal, said Hercule Poirot to himself. I have in my hands many, many pieces of this jigsaw. I have an idea of the kind of crime this wasâbut it must be that I am not looking at it the right way.

He turned a page of his notebook, and wrote:

Did Lady Stubbs ask Miss Brewis to take tea to Marlene? If not, why does Miss Brewis say that she did?

He considered the point. Miss Brewis might quite easily herself have thought of taking cake and a fruit drink to the girl. But if so why did she not simply say so? Why lie about Lady Stubbs having asked her to do so? Could this be because Miss Brewis went to the boathouse and found Marlene dead? Unless Miss Brewis was herself guilty of the murder, that seemed very unlikely. She was not a nervous woman nor an imaginative one. If she had found the girl dead, she would surely at once have given the alarm?

He stared for some time at the two questions he had written. He could not help feeling that somewhere in those words there was some vital pointer to the truth that had escaped him. After four or five minutes of thought he wrote down something more.

Etienne de Sousa declares that he wrote to his cousin three weeks before his arrival at Nasse House. Is that statement true or false?

Poirot felt almost certain that it was false. He recalled the scene at the breakfast table. There seemed no earthly reason why Sir George or Lady Stubbs should pretend to a surprise and, in the latterâs case, a dismay, which they did not feel. He could see no purpose to be accomplished by it. Granting, however, that Etienne de Sousa had lied, why did he lie? To give the impression that his visit had been announced and welcomed? It might be so, but it seemed a very doubtful reason. There was certainly no evidence that such a letter had ever been written or received. Was it an attempt on de Sousaâs part to establish his bona fidesâto make his visit appear natural and even expected? Certainly Sir George had received him amicably enough, although he did not know him.

Poirot paused, his thoughts coming to a stop. Sir George did not know de Sousa. His wife, who did know him, had not seen him. Was there perhaps something there? Could it be possible that the Etienne de Sousa who had arrived that day at the fÃªte was not the real Etienne de Sousa? He went over the idea in his mind, but again he could see no point to it. What had de Sousa to gain by coming and representing himself as de Sousa if he was not de Sousa? In any case, de Sousa did not derive any benefit from Hattieâs death. Hattie, as the police had ascertained, had no money of her own except that which was allowed her by her husband.

Poirot tried to remember exactly what she had said to him that morning. âHe is a bad man. He does wicked things.â And, according to Bland, she had said to her husband: âHe kills people.â

There was something rather significant about that, now that one came to examine all the facts. He kills people.

On the day Etienne de Sousa had come to Nasse House one person certainly had been killed, possibly two people. Mrs. Folliat had said that one should pay no attention to these melodramatic remarks of Hattieâs. She had said so very insistently. Mrs. Folliatâ¦.

Hercule Poirot frowned, then brought his hand down with a bang on the arm of his chair.

âAlways, alwaysâI return to Mrs. Folliat. She is the key to the whole business. If I knew what she knowsâ¦I can no longer sit in an armchair and just think. No, I must take a train and go again to Devon and visit Mrs. Folliat.â

II

Hercule Poirot paused for a moment outside the big wrought iron gates of Nasse House. He looked ahead of him along the curving drive. It was no longer summer. Golden-brown leaves fluttered gently down from the trees. Near at hand the grassy banks were coloured with small mauve cyclamen. Poirot sighed. The beauty of Nasse House appealed to him in spite of himself. He was not a great admirer of nature in the wild, he liked things trim and neat, yet he could not but appreciate the soft wild beauty of massed shrubs and trees.

At his left was the small white porticoed lodge. It was a fine afternoon. Probably Mrs. Folliat would not be at home. She would be out somewhere with her gardening basket or else visiting some friends in the neighbourhood. She had many friends. This was her home, and had been her home for many long years. What was it the old man on the quay had said? âThereâll always be Folliats at Nasse House.â

Poirot rapped gently upon the door of the Lodge. After a few momentsâ delay he heard footsteps inside. They sounded to his ear slow and almost hesitant. Then the door was opened and Mrs. Folliat stood framed in the doorway. He was startled to see how old and frail she looked. She stared at him incredulously for a moment or two, then she said:

âM. Poirot? You!â

He thought for a moment that he had seen fear leap into her eyes, but perhaps that was sheer imagination on his part. He said politely:

âMay I come in, Madame?â

âBut of course.â

She had recovered all her poise now, beckoned him in with a gesture and led the way into her small sittingroom. There were some delicate Chelsea figures on the mantelpiece, a couple of chairs covered in exquisite petit point, and a Derby tea service stood on the small table. Mrs. Folliat said:

âI will fetch another cup.â

Poirot raised a faintly protesting hand, but she pushed the protest aside.

âOf course you must have some tea.â

She went out of the room. He looked round him once more. A piece of needlework, a petit point chair seat, lay on a table with a needle sticking in it. Against the wall was a bookcase with books. There was a little cluster of miniatures on the wall and a faded photograph in a silver frame of a man in uniform with a stiff moustache and a weak chin.

Mrs. Folliat came back into the room with a cup and saucer in her hand.

Poirot said, âYour husband, Madame?â

âYes.â

Noticing that Poirotâs eyes swept along the top of the bookcase as though in search of further photographs, she said brusquely:

âIâm not fond of photographs. They make one live in the past too much. One must learn to forget. One must cut away the dead wood.â

Poirot remembered how the first time he had seen Mrs. Folliat she had been clipping with sÃ©cateurs at a shrub on the bank. She had said then, he remembered, something about dead wood. He looked at her thoughtfully, appraising her character. An enigmatical woman, he thought, and a woman who, in spite of the gentleness and fragility of her appearance, had a side to her that could be ruthless. A woman who could cut away dead wood not only from plants but from her own lifeâ¦

She sat down and poured out a cup of tea, asking: âMilk? Sugar?â

âThree lumps if you will be so good, Madame?â

She handed him his cup and said conversationally:

âI was surprised to see you. Somehow I did not imagine you would be passing through this part of the world again.â

âI am not exactly passing through,â said Poirot.

âNo?â She queried him with slightly uplifted eyebrows.

âMy visit to this part of the world is intentional.â

She still looked at him in inquiry.

âI came here partly to see you, Madame.â

âReally?â

âFirst of allâthere has been no news of the young Lady Stubbs?â

Mrs. Folliat shook her head.

âThere was a body washed up the other day in Cornwall,â she said. âGeorge went there to see if he could identify it. But it was not her.â She added: âI am very sorry for George. The strain has been very great.â

âDoes he still believe that his wife may be alive?â

Slowly Mrs. Folliat shook her head.

âI think,â she said, âthat he has given up hope. After all, if Hattie were alive, she couldnât possibly conceal herself successfully with the whole of the Press and the police looking for her. Even if something like loss of memory had happened to herâwell, surely the police would have found her by now?â

âIt would seem so, yes,â said Poirot. âDo the police still search?â

âI suppose so. I do not really know.â

âBut Sir George has given up hope.â

âHe does not say so,â said Mrs. Folliat. âOf course I have not seen him lately. He has been mostly in London.â

âAnd the murdered girl? There have been no developments there?â

âNot that I know of.â She added. âIt seems a senseless crimeâabsolutely pointless. Poor childââ

âIt still upsets you, I see, to think of her, Madame.â

Mrs. Folliat did not reply for a moment or two. Then she said:

âI think when one is old, the death of anyone who is young upsets one out of due proportion. We old folks expect to die, but that child had her life before her.â

âIt might not have been a very interesting life.â

âNot from our point of view, perhaps, but it might have been interesting to her.â

âAnd although, as you say, we old folk must expect to die,â said Poirot, âwe do not really want to. At least I do not want to. I find life very interesting still.â

âI donât think that I do.â

She spoke more to herself than him, her shoulders drooped still more.

âI am very tired, M. Poirot. I shall be not only ready, but thankful, when my time comes.â

He shot a quick glance at her. He wondered, as he had wondered before, whether it was a sick woman who sat talking to him, a woman who had perhaps the knowledge or even the certainty of approaching death. He could not otherwise account for the intense weariness and lassitude of her manner. That lassitude, he felt, was not really characteristic of the woman. Amy Folliat, he felt, was a woman of character, energy and determination. She had lived through many troubles, loss of her home, loss of wealth, the deaths of her sons. All these, he felt, she had survived. She had cut away the âdead wood,â as she herself had expressed it. But there was something now in her life that she could not cut away, that no one could cut away for her. If it was not physical illness he did not see what it could be. She gave a sudden little smile as though she were reading his thoughts.

âReally, you know, I have not very much to live for, M. Poirot,â she said. âI have many friends but no near relations, no family.â

âYou have your home,â said Poirot on an impulse.

âYou mean Nasse? Yesââ

âIt is your home, isnât it, although technically it is the property of Sir George Stubbs? Now Sir George Stubbs has gone to London you rule in his stead.â

Again he saw the sharp look of fear in her eyes. When she spoke her voice held an icy edge to it.

âI donât quite know what you mean, M. Poirot. I am grateful to Sir George for renting me this lodge, but I do rent it. I pay him a yearly sum for it with the right to walk in the grounds.â

Poirot spread out his hands.

âI apologize, Madame. I did not mean to offend you.â

âNo doubt I misunderstood you,â said Mrs. Folliat coldly.

âIt is a beautiful place,â said Poirot. âA beautiful house, beautiful grounds. It has about it a great peace, great serenity.â

âYes.â Her face lightened. âWe have always felt that. I felt it as a child when I first came here.â

âBut is there the same peace and serenity now, Madame?â

âWhy not?â

âMurder unavenged,â said Poirot. âThe spilling of innocent blood. Until that shadow lifts, there will not be peace.â He added, âI think you know that, Madame, as well as I do.â

Mrs. Folliat did not answer. She neither moved nor spoke. She sat quite still and Poirot had no idea what she was thinking. He leaned forward a little and spoke again.

âMadame, you know a good dealâperhaps everythingâabout this murder. You know who killed that girl, you know why. You know who killed Hattie Stubbs, you know, perhaps, where her body lies now.â

Mrs. Folliat spoke then. Her voice was loud, almost harsh.

âI know nothing,â she said. âNothing.â

âPerhaps I have used the wrong word. You do not know, but I think you guess, Madame. Iâm quite sure that you guess.â

âNow you are beingâexcuse meâabsurd!â

âIt is not absurdâit is something quite differentâit is dangerous.â

âDangerous? To whom?â

âTo you, Madame. So long as you keep your knowledge to yourself you are in danger. I know murderers better than you do, Madame.â

âI have told you already, I have no knowledge.â

âSuspicions, thenââ

âI have no suspicions.â

âThat, excuse me, is not true, Madame.â

âTo speak out of mere suspicion would be wrongâindeed, wicked.â

Poirot leaned forward. âAs wicked as what was done here just over a month ago?â

She shrank back into her chair, huddled into herself. She half whispered:

âDonât talk to me of it.â And then added, with a long shuddering sigh, âAnyway, itâs over now. Doneâfinished with.â

âHow can you tell that, Madame? I tell you of my own knowledge that it is never finished with a murderer.â

She shook her head.

âNo. No, itâs the end. And, anyway, there is nothing I can do. Nothing.â

He got up and stood looking down at her. She said almost fretfully:

âWhy, even the police have given up.â

Poirot shook his head.

âOh, no, Madame, you are wrong there. The police do not give up. And I,â he added, âdo not give up either. Remember that, Madame, I, Hercule Poirot, do not give up.â

It was a very typical exit line.

Seventeen

After leaving Nasse, Poirot went to the village where, by inquiry, he found the cottage occupied by the Tuckers. His knock at the door went unanswered for some moments as it was drowned by the high-pitched tone of Mrs. Tuckerâs voice from inside.

ââAnd what be yu thinking of, Jim Tucker, bringing them boots of yours on to my nice linoleum? If Iâve tell ee once Iâve tell ee a thousand times. Been polishing it all the morning, I have, and now look at it.â

A faint rumbling denoted Mr. Tuckerâs reaction to these remarks. It was on the whole a placatory rumble.

âYuâve no cause to go forgetting. âTis all this eagerness to get the sports news on the wireless. Why, âtwouldnât have took ee tu minutes to be off with them boots. And yu, Gary, do ee mind what yuâm doing with that lollipop. Sticky fingers I will not have on my best silver teapot. Marilyn, that be someone at the door, that be. Du ee go and see who âtis.â

The door was opened gingerly and a child of about eleven or twelve years old peered out suspiciously at Poirot. One cheek was bulged with a sweet. She was a fat child with small blue eyes and a rather piggy kind of prettiness.

ââTis a gentleman, Mum,â she shouted.

Mrs. Tucker, wisps of hair hanging over her somewhat hot face, came to the door.

âWhat is it?â she demanded sharply. âWe donât needâ¦â She paused, a faint look of recognition came across her face. âWhy let me see, now, didnât I see you with the police that day?â

âAlas, Madame, that I have brought back painful memories,â said Poirot, stepping firmly inside the door.

Mrs. Tucker cast a swift agonized glance at his feet, but Poirotâs pointed patent leather shoes had only trodden the high road. No mud was being deposited on Mrs. Tuckerâs brightly polished linoleum.

âCome in, wonât you, sir,â she said, backing before him, and throwing open the door of a room on her right hand.

Poirot was ushered into a devastatingly neat little parlour. It smelt of furniture polish and Brasso and contained a large Jacobean suite, a round table, two potted geraniums, an elaborate brass fender, and a large variety of china ornaments.

âSit down, sir, do. I canât remember the name. Indeed, I donât think as I ever heard it.â

âMy name is Hercule Poirot,â said Poirot rapidly. âI found myself once more in this part of the world and I called here to offer you my condolences and to ask you if there had been any developments. I trust the murderer of your daughter has been discovered.â

âNot sight or sound of him,â said Mrs. Tucker, speaking with some bitterness. âAnd âtis a downright wicked shame if you ask me. âTis my opinion the police donât disturb themselves when itâs only the likes of us. Whatâs the police anyway? If theyâm all like Bob Hoskins I wonder the whole country isnât a mass of crime. All that Bob Hoskins does is spend his time looking into parked cars on the Common.â

At this point, Mr. Tucker, his boots removed, appeared through the doorway, walking on his stockinged feet. He was a large, red-faced man with a pacific expression.

âPolice be all right,â he said in a husky voice. âGot their troubles like anyone else. These here maniacs arânât so easy to find. Look the same as you or me, if you take my meaning,â he added, speaking directly to Poirot.

The little girl who had opened the door to Poirot appeared behind her father, and a boy of about eight poked his head round her shoulder. They all stared at Poirot with intense interest.

âThis is your younger daughter, I suppose,â said Poirot.

âThatâs Marilyn, that is,â said Mrs. Tucker. âAnd thatâs Gary. Come and say how do you do, Gary, and mind your manners.â

Gary backed away.

âShy-like, he is,â said his mother.

âVery civil of you, Iâm sure, sir,â said Mr. Tucker, âto come and ask about Marlene. Ah, that was a terrible business, to be sure.â

âI have just called upon Mrs. Folliat,â said M. Poirot. âShe, too, seems to feel this very deeply.â

âSheâs been poorly-like ever since,â said Mrs. Tucker. âSheâs an old lady anât was a shock to her, happening as it did at her own place.â

Poirot noted once more everybodyâs unconscious assumption that Nasse House still belonged to Mrs. Folliat.

âMakes her feel responsible-like in a way,â said Mr. Tucker, ânot that âtwere anything to do with her.â

âWho was it that actually suggested that Marlene should play the victim?â asked Poirot.

âThe lady from London that writes the books,â said Mrs. Tucker promptly.

Poirot said mildly:

âBut she was a stranger down here. She did not even know Marlene.â

ââTwas Mrs. Masterton what rounded the girls up,â said Mrs. Tucker, âand I suppose âtwas Mrs. Masterton said Marlene was to do it. And Marlene, I must say, was pleased enough at the idea.â

Once again, Poirot felt, he came up against a blank wall. But he knew now what Mrs. Oliver had felt when she first sent for him. Someone had been working in the dark, someone who had pushed forward their own desires through other recognized personalities. Mrs. Oliver, Mrs. Masterton. Those were the figureheads. He said:

âI have been wondering, Mrs. Tucker, whether Marlene was already acquainted with thisâerâhomicidal maniac.â

âShe wouldnât know nobody like that,â said Mrs. Tucker virtuously.

âAh,â said Poirot, âbut as your husband has just observed, these maniacs are very difficult to spot. They look the same asâerâyou and me. Someone may have spoken to Marlene at the fÃªte, or even before it. Made friends with her in a perfectly harmless manner. Given her presents, perhaps.â

âOh, no, sir, nothing of that kind. Marlene wouldnât take presents from a stranger. I brought her up better than that.â

âBut she might see no harm in it,â said Poirot, persisting. âSupposing it had been some nice lady who had offered her things.â

âSomeone, you mean, like young Mrs. Legge down at the Mill Cottage.â

âYes,â said Poirot. âSomeone like that.â

âGive Marlene a lipstick once, she did,â said Mrs. Tucker. âEver so mad, I was. I wonât have you putting that muck on your face, Marlene, I said. Think what your father would say. Well, she says, perky as may be, âtis the lady down at Lawderâs Cottage as give it me. Said as how it would suit me, she did. Well, I said, donât you listen to what no London ladies say. âTis all very well for them, painting their faces and blacking their eyelashes and everything else. But youâre a decent girl, I said, and you wash your face with soap and water until youâre a good deal older than what you are now.â

âBut she did not agree with you, I expect,â said Poirot, smiling.

âWhen I say a thing I mean it,â said Mrs. Tucker.

The fat Marilyn suddenly gave an amused giggle. Poirot shot her a keen glance.

âDid Mrs. Legge give Marlene anything else?â he asked.

âBelieve she gave her a scarf or summatâone she hadnât no more use for. A showy sort of thing, but not much quality. I know quality when I see it,â said Mrs. Tucker, nodding her head. âUsed to work at Nasse House as a girl, I did. Proper stuff the ladies wore in those days. No gaudy colours and all this nylon and rayon; real good silk. Why, some of their taffeta dresses would have stood up by themselves.â

âGirls like a bit of finery,â said Mr. Tucker indulgently. âI donât mind a few bright colours myself, but I wonât have this âere mucky lipstick.â

âA bit sharp I was with her,â said Mrs. Tucker, her eyes suddenly misty, âand her gorn in that terrible way. Wished afterwards I hadnât spoken so sharp. Ah, nought but trouble and funerals lately, it seems. Troubles never come singly, so they say, and âtis true enough.â

âYou have had other losses?â inquired Poirot politely.

âThe wifeâs father,â explained Mr. Tucker. âCome across the ferry in his boat from the Three Dogs late at night, and must have missed his footing getting on to the quay and fallen in the river. Of course he ought to have stayed quiet at home at his age. But there, yu canât do anything with the old âuns. Always pottering about on the quay, he was.â

âFather was a great one for the boats always,â said Mrs. Tucker. âUsed to look after them in the old days for Mr. Folliat, years and years ago that was. Not,â she added brightly, âas Fatherâs much loss, as you might say. Well over ninety, he was, and trying in many of his ways. Always babbling some nonsense or other. âTwas time he went. But, of course, us had to bury him niceâand two funerals running costs a lot of money.â

These economic reflections passed Poirot byâa faint remembrance was stirring.

âAn old manâon the quay? I remember talking to him. Was his nameâ?â

âMerdell, sir. That was my name before I married.â

âYour father, if I remember rightly, was head gardener at Nasse?â

âNo, that was my eldest brother. I was the youngest of the familyâeleven of us, there were.â She added with some pride, âThereâs been Merdells at Nasse for years, but theyâre all scattered now. Father was the last of us.â

Poirot said softly:

âThereâll always be Folliats at Nasse House.â

âI beg your pardon, sir?â

âI am repeating what your old father said to me on the quay.â

âAh, talked a lot of nonsense, Father did. I had to shut him up pretty sharp now and then.â

âSo Marlene was Merdellâs granddaughter,â said Poirot. âYes, I begin to see.â He was silent for a moment, an immense excitement was surging within him. âYour father was drowned, you say, in the river?â

âYes, sir. Took a drop too much, he did. And where he got the money from, I donât know. Of course he used to get tips now and again on the quay helping people with boats or with parking their cars. Very cunning he was at hiding his money from me. Yes, Iâm afraid as heâd had a drop too much. Missed his footing, Iâd say, getting off his boat on to the quay. So he fell in and was drowned. His body was washed up down at Helmmouth the next day. âTis a wonder, as you might say, that it never happened before, him being ninety-two and half-blinded anyway.â

âThe fact remains that it did not happen beforeââ

âAh, well, accidents happen, sooner or laterââ

âAccident,â mused Poirot. âI wonder.â

He got up. He murmured:

âI should have guessed. Guessed long ago. The child practically told meââ

âI beg your pardon, sir?â

âIt is nothing,â said Poirot. âOnce more I tender you my condolences both on the death of your daughter and on that of your father.â

He shook hands with them both and left the cottage. He said to himself:

âI have been foolishâvery foolish. I have looked at everything the wrong way round.â

âHiâmister.â

It was a cautious whisper. Poirot looked round. The fat child Marilyn was standing in the shadow of the cottage wall. She beckoned him to her and spoke in a whisper.

âMum donât know everything,â she said. âMarlene didnât get that scarf off of the lady down at the cottage.â

âWhere did she get it?â

âBought it in Torquay. Bought some lipstick, too, and some scentâNewt in Parisâfunny name. And a jar of foundation cream, what sheâd read about in an advertisement.â Marilyn giggled. âMum doesnât know. Hid it at the back of her drawer, Marlene did, under her winter vests. Used to go into the convenience at the bus stop and do herself up, when she went to the pictures.â

Marilyn giggled again.

âMum never knew.â

âDidnât your mother find these things after your sister died?â

Marilyn shook her fair fluffy head.

âNo,â she said. âI got âem nowâin my drawer. Mum doesnât know.â

Poirot eyed her consideringly, and said:

âYou seem a very clever girl, Marilyn.â

Marilyn grinned rather sheepishly.

âMiss Bird says itâs no good my trying for the grammar school.â

âGrammar school is not everything,â said Poirot. âTell me, how did Marlene get the money to buy these things?â

Marilyn looked with close attention at a drainpipe.

âDunno,â she muttered.

âI think you do know,â said Poirot.

Shamelessly he drew out a half crown from his pocket and added another half crown to it.

âI believe,â he said, âthere is a new, very attractive shade of lipstick called âCarmine Kiss.ââ

âSounds smashing,â said Marilyn, her hand advanced towards the five shillings. She spoke in a rapid whisper. âShe used to snoop about a bit, Marlene did. Used to see goings-onâyou know what. Marlene would promise not to tell and then theyâd give her a present, see?â

Poirot relinquished the five shillings.

âI see,â he said.

He nodded to Marilyn and walked away. He murmured again under his breath, but this time with intensified meaning:

âI see.â

So many things now fell into place. Not all of it. Not clear yet by any meansâbut he was on the right track. A perfectly clear trail all the way if only he had had the wit to see it. That first conversation with Mrs. Oliver, some casual words of Michael Weymanâs, the significant conversation with old Merdell on the quay, an illuminating phrase spoken by Miss Brewisâthe arrival of Etienne de Sousa.

A public telephone box stood adjacent to the village post office. He entered it and rang up a number. A few minutes later he was speaking to Inspector Bland.

âWell, M. Poirot, where are you?â

âI am here, in Nassecombe.â

âBut you were in London yesterday afternoon?â

âIt only takes three and a half hours to come here by a good train,â Poirot pointed out. âI have a question for you.â

âYes?â

âWhat kind of a yacht did Etienne de Sousa have?â

âMaybe I can guess what youâre thinking, M. Poirot, but I assure you there was nothing of that kind. It wasnât fitted up for smuggling if thatâs what you mean. There were no fancy hidden partitions or secret cubbyholes. Weâd have found them if there had been. There was nowhere on it you could have stowed away a body.â

âYou are wrong, mon cher, that is not what I mean. I only asked what kind of yacht, big or small?â

âOh, it was very fancy. Must have cost the earth. All very smart, newly painted, luxury fittings.â

âExactly,â said Poirot. He sounded so pleased that Inspector Bland felt quite surprised.

âWhat are you getting at, M. Poirot?â he asked.

âEtienne de Sousa,â said Poirot, âis a rich man. That, my friend, is very significant.â

âWhy?â demanded Inspector Bland.

âIt fits in with my latest idea,â said Poirot.

âYouâve got an idea, then?â

âYes. At last I have an idea. Up to now I have been very stupid.â

âYou mean weâve all been very stupid.â

âNo,â said Poirot, âI mean specially myself. I had the good fortune to have a perfectly clear trail presented to me, and I did not see it.â

âBut now youâre definitely on to something?â

âI think so, yes.â

âLook here, M. Poirotââ

But Poirot had rung off. After searching his pockets for available change, he put through a personal call to Mrs. Oliver at her London number.

âBut do not,â he hastened to add, when he made his demand, âdisturb the lady to answer the telephone if she is at work.â

He remembered how bitterly Mrs. Oliver had once reproached him for interrupting a train of creative thought and how the world in consequence had been deprived of an intriguing mystery centring round an old-fashioned long-sleeved woollen vest. The exchange, however, was unable to appreciate his scruples.

âWell,â it demanded, âdo you want a personal call or donât you?â

âI do,â said Poirot, sacrificing Mrs. Oliverâs creative genius upon the altar of his own impatience. He was relieved when Mrs. Oliver spoke. She interrupted his apologies.

âItâs splendid that youâve rung me up,â she said. âI was just going out to give a talk on How I Write My Books. Now I can get my secretary to ring up and say I am unavoidably detained.â

âBut, Madame, you must not let me preventââ

âItâs not a case of preventing,â said Mrs. Oliver joyfully. âIâd have made the most awful fool of myself. I mean, what can you say about how you write books? What I mean is, first youâve got to think of something, and when youâve thought of it youâve got to force yourself to sit down and write it. Thatâs all. It would have taken me just three minutes to explain that, and then the Talk would have been ended and everyone would have been very fed up. I canât imagine why everybody is always so keen for authors to talk about writing. I should have thought it was an authorâs business to write, not talk.â

âAnd yet it is about how you write that I want to ask you.â

âYou can ask,â said Mrs. Oliver; âbut I probably shanât know the answer. I mean one just sits down and writes. Half a minute, Iâve got a frightfully silly hat on for the Talkâand I must take it off. It scratches my forehead.â There was a momentary pause and then the voice of Mrs. Oliver resumed in a relieved voice, âHats are really only a symbol, nowadays, arenât they? I mean, one doesnât wear them for sensible reasons anymore; to keep oneâs head warm, or shield one from the sun, or hide oneâs face from people one doesnât want to meet. I beg your pardon, M. Poirot, did you say something?â

âIt was an ejaculation only. It is extraordinary,â said Poirot, and his voice was awed. âAlways you give me ideas. So also did my friend Hastings whom I have not seen for many, many years. You have given me now the clue to yet another piece of my problem. But no more of all that. Let me ask you instead my question. Do you know an atom scientist, Madame?â

âDo I know an atom scientist?â said Mrs. Oliver in a surprised voice. âI donât know. I suppose I may. I mean, I know some professors and things. Iâm never quite sure what they actually do.â

âYet you made an atom scientist one of the suspects in your Murder Hunt?â

âOh, that! That was just to be up to date. I mean, when I went to buy presents for my nephews last Christmas, there was nothing but science fiction and the stratosphere and supersonic toys, and so I thought when I started on the Murder Hunt, âBetter have an atom scientist as the chief suspect and be modern.â After all, if Iâd needed a little technical jargon for it I could always have got it from Alec Legge.â

âAlec Leggeâthe husband of Sally Legge? Is he an atom scientist?â

âYes, he is. Not Harwell. Wales somewhere. Cardiff. Or Bristol, is it? Itâs just a holiday cottage they have on the Helm. Yes, so, of course, I do know an atom scientist after all.â

âAnd it was meeting him at Nasse House that probably put the idea of an atom scientist into your head? But his wife is not Yugoslavian.â

âOh, no,â said Mrs. Oliver, âSally is English as English. Surely you realize that?â

âThen what put the idea of the Yugoslavian wife into your head?â

âI really donât knowâ¦Refugees perhaps? Students? All those foreign girls at the hostel trespassing through the woods and speaking broken English.â

âI seeâ¦Yes, I see now a lot of things.â

âItâs about time,â said Mrs. Oliver.

âPardon?â

âI said it was about time,â said Mrs. Oliver. âThat you did see things, I mean. Up to now you donât seem to have done anything.â Her voice held reproach.

âOne cannot arrive at things all in a moment,â said Poirot, defending himself. âThe police,â he added, âhave been completely baffled.â

âOh, the police,â said Mrs. Oliver. âNow if a woman were the head of Scotland Yardâ¦.â

Recognizing this well-known phrase, Poirot hastened to interrupt.

âThe matter has been complex,â he said. âExtremely complex. But nowâI tell you this in confidenceâbut now I arrive!â

Mrs. Oliver remained unimpressed.

âI daresay,â she said; âbut in the meantime there have been two murders.â

âThree,â Poirot corrected her.

âThree murders? Whoâs the third?â

âAn old man called Merdell,â said Hercule Poirot.

âI havenât heard of that one,â said Mrs. Oliver. âWill it be in the paper?â

âNo,â said Poirot, âup to now no one has suspected that it was anything but an accident.â

âAnd it wasnât an accident?â

âNo,â said Poirot, âit was not an accident.â

âWell, tell me who did itâdid them, I meanâor canât you over the telephone?â

âOne does not say these things over the telephone,â said Poirot.

âThen I shall ring off,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI canât bear it.â

âWait a moment,â said Poirot, âthere is something else I wanted to ask you. Now, what was it?â

âThatâs a sign of age,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI do that, too. Forget thingsââ

âThere was something, some little pointâit worried me. I was in the boathouseâ¦.â

He cast his mind back. That pile of comics. Marleneâs phrases scrawled on the margin. âAlbert goes with Doreen.â He had had a feeling that there was something lackingâthat there was something he must ask Mrs. Oliver.

âAre you still there, M. Poirot?â demanded Mrs. Oliver. At the same time the operator requested more money.

These formalities completed, Poirot spoke once more.

âAre you still there, Madame?â

âIâm still here,â said Mrs. Oliver. âDonât letâs waste any more money asking each other if weâre there. What is it?â

âIt is something very important. You remember your Murder Hunt?â

âWell, of course I remember it. Itâs practically what weâve just been talking about, isnât it?â

âI made one grave mistake,â said Poirot. âI never read your synopsis for competitors. In the gravity of discovering a murder it did not seem to matter. I was wrong. It did matter. You are a sensitive person, Madame. You are affected by your atmosphere, by the personalities of the people you meet. And these are translated into your work. Not recognizably so, but they are the inspiration from which your fertile brain draws its creations.â

âThatâs very nice flowery language,â said Mrs. Oliver. âBut what exactly do you mean?â

âThat you have always known more about this crime than you have realized yourself. Now for the question I want to ask youâtwo questions actually; but the first is very important. Did you, when you first began to plan your Murder Hunt, mean the body to be discovered in the boathouse?â

âNo, I didnât.â

âWhere did you intend it to be?â

âIn that funny little summerhouse tucked away in the rhododendrons near the house. I thought it was just the place. But then someone, I canât remember who exactly, began insisting that it should be found in the Folly. Well, that, of course, was an absurd idea! I mean, anyone could have strolled in there quite casually and come across it without having followed a single clue. People are so stupid. Of course I couldnât agree to that.â

âSo, instead, you accepted the boathouse?â

âYes, thatâs just how it happened. There was really nothing against the boathouse though I still thought the little summerhouse would have been better.â

âYes, that is the technique you outlined to me that first day. There is one thing more. Do you remember telling me that there was a final clue written on one of the âcomicsâ that Marlene was given to amuse her?â

âYes, of course.â

âTell me, was it something likeâ (he forced his memory back to a moment when he had stood reading various scrawled phrases): âAlbert goes with Doreen; Georgie Porgie kisses hikers in the wood; Peter pinches girls in the Cinema?â

âGood gracious me, no,â said Mrs. Oliver in a slightly shocked voice. âIt wasnât anything silly like that. No, mine was a perfectly straightforward clue.â She lowered her voice and spoke in mysterious tones. âLook in the hikerâs rucksack.â

âEpatant!â cried Poirot. âEpatant! Of course, the âcomicâ with that on it would have to be taken away. It might have given someone ideas!â

âThe rucksack, of course, was on the floor by the body andââ

âAh, but it is another rucksack of which I am thinking.â

âYouâre confusing me with all these rucksacks,â Mrs. Oliver complained. âThere was only one in my murder story. Donât you want to know what was in it?â

âNot in the least,â said Poirot. âThat is to say,â he added politely, âI should be enchanted to hear, of course, butââ

Mrs. Oliver swept over the âbut.â

âVery ingenious, I think,â she said, the pride of authorship in her voice. âYou see, in Marleneâs haversack, which was supposed to be the Yugoslavian wifeâs haversack, if you understand what I meanââ

âYes, yes,â said Poirot, preparing himself to be lost in fog once more.

âWell, in it was the bottle of medicine containing poison with which the country squire poisoned his wife. You see, the Yugoslavian girl had been over here training as a nurse and sheâd been in the house when Colonel Blunt poisoned his first wife for her money. And she, the nurse, had got hold of the bottle and taken it away, and then come back to blackmail him. That, of course, is why he killed her. Does that fit in, M. Poirot?â

âFit in with what?â

âWith your ideas,â said Mrs. Oliver.

âNot at all,â said Poirot, but added hastily, âAll the same, my felicitations, Madame. I am sure your Murder Hunt was so ingenious that nobody won the prize.â

âBut they did,â said Mrs. Oliver. âQuite late, about seven oâclock. A very dogged old lady supposed to be quite gaga. She got through all the clues and arrived at the boathouse triumphantly, but of course the police were there. So then she heard about the murder, and she was the last person at the whole fÃªte to hear about it, I should imagine. Anyway, they gave her the prize.â She added with satisfaction, âThat horrid young man with the freckles who said I drank like a fish never got farther than the camellia garden.â

âSome day, Madame,â said Poirot, âyou shall tell me this story of yours.â

âActually,â said Mrs. Oliver, âIâm thinking of turning it into a book. It would be a pity to waste it.â

And it may here be mentioned that some three years later Hercule Poirot read The Woman in the Wood, by Ariadne Oliver, and wondered whilst he read it why some of the persons and incidents seemed to him vaguely familiar.

Eighteen

The sun was setting when Poirot came to what was called officially Mill Cottage, and known locally as the Pink Cottage down by Lawderâs Creek. He knocked on the door and it was flung open with such suddenness that he started back. The angry-looking young man in the doorway stared at him for a moment without recognizing him. Then he gave a short laugh.

âHallo,â he said, âitâs the sleuth. Come in, M. Poirot. Iâm packing up.â

Poirot accepted the invitation and stepped into the cottage. It was plainly, rather badly furnished. And Alec Leggeâs personal possessions were at the moment taking up a disproportionate amount of room. Books, papers and articles of stray clothing were strewn all around, an open suitcase stood on the floor.

âThe final breakup of the mÃ©nage,â said Alec Legge. âSally has cleared out. I expect you know that.â

âI did not know it, no.â

Alec Legge gave a short laugh.

âIâm glad thereâs something you donât know. Yes, sheâs had enough of married life. Going to link up her life with that tame architect.â

âI am sorry to hear it,â said Poirot.

âI donât see why you should be sorry.â

âI am sorry,â said Poirot, clearing off two books and a shirt and sitting down on the corner of the sofa, âbecause I do not think she will be as happy with him as she would be with you.â

âShe hasnât been particularly happy with me this last six months.â

âSix months is not a lifetime,â said Poirot, âit is a very short space out of what might be a long happy married life.â

âTalking rather like a parson, arenât you?â

âPossibly. May I say, Mr. Legge, that if your wife has not been happy with you it is probably more your fault than hers.â

âShe certainly thinks so. Everythingâs my fault, I suppose.â

âNot everything, but some things.â

âOh, blame everything on me. I might as well drown myself in the damnâ river and have done with it.â

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

âI am glad to observe,â he remarked, âthat you are now more perturbed with your own troubles than with those of the world.â

âThe world can go hang,â said Mr. Legge. He added bitterly, âI seem to have made the most complete fool of myself all along the line.â

âYes,â said Poirot, âI would say that you have been more unfortunate than reprehensible in your conduct.â

Alec Legge stared at him.

âWho hired you to sleuth me?â he demanded. âWas it Sally?â

âWhy should you think that?â

âWell, nothingâs happened officially. So I concluded that you must have come down after me on a private job.â

âYou are in error,â replied Poirot. âI have not at any time been sleuthing you. When I came down here I had no idea that you existed.â

âThen how do you know whether Iâve been unfortunate or made a fool of myself or what?â

âFrom the result of observation and reflection,â said Poirot. âShall I make a little guess and will you tell me if I am right?â

âYou can make as many little guesses as you like,â said Alec Legge. âBut donât expect me to play.â

âI think,â said Poirot, âthat some years ago you had an interest and sympathy for a certain political party. Like many other young men of a scientific bent. In your profession such sympathies and tendencies are naturally regarded with suspicion. I do not think you were ever seriously compromised, but I do think that pressure was brought upon you to consolidate your position in a way you did not want to consolidate it. You tried to withdraw and you were faced with a threat. You were given a rendezvous with someone. I doubt if I shall ever know that young manâs name. He will be for me always the young man in a turtle shirt.â

Alec Legge gave a sudden explosion of laughter.

âI suppose that shirt was a bit of a joke. I wasnât seeing things very funny at the time.â

Hercule Poirot continued.

âWhat with worry over the fate of the world, and the worry over your own predicament, you became, if I may say so, a man almost impossible for any woman to live with happily. You did not confide in your wife. That was unfortunate for you, as I should say that your wife was a woman of loyalty, and that if she had realized how unhappy and desperate you were, she would have been wholeheartedly on your side. Instead of that she merely began to compare you, unfavourably, with a former friend of hers, Michael Weyman.â

He rose.

âI should advise you, Mr. Legge, to complete your packing as soon as possible, to follow your wife to London, to ask her to forgive you and to tell her all that you have been through.â

âSo thatâs what you advise,â said Alec Legge. âAnd what the hell business is it of yours?â

âNone,â said Hercule Poirot. He withdrew towards the door. âBut I am always right.â

There was a momentâs silence. Then Alec Legge burst into a wild peal of laughter.

âDo you know,â he said, âI think Iâll take your advice. Divorce is damned expensive. Anyway, if youâve got hold of the woman you want, and are then not able to keep her, itâs a bit humiliating, donât you think? I shall go up to her flat in Chelsea, and if I find Michael there I shall take hold of him by that hand-knitted pansy tie he wears and throttle the life out of him. Iâd enjoy that. Yes, Iâd enjoy it a good deal.â

His face suddenly lit up with a most attractive smile.

âSorry for my filthy temper,â he said, âand thanks a lot.â

He clapped Poirot on the shoulder. With the force of the blow Poirot staggered and all but fell.

Mr. Leggeâs friendship was certainly more painful than his animosity.

âAnd now,â said Poirot, leaving Mill Cottage on painful feet and looking up at the darkening sky, âwhere do I go?â

Nineteen

The chief constable and Inspector Bland looked up with keen curiosity as Hercule Poirot was ushered in. The chief constable was not in the best of tempers. Only Blandâs quiet persistence had caused him to cancel his dinner appointment for that evening.

âI know, Bland, I know,â he said fretfully. âMaybe he was a little Belgian wizard in his dayâbut surely, man, his dayâs over. Heâs what age?â

Bland slid tactfully over the answer to this question which, in any case, he did not know. Poirot himself was always reticent on the subject of his age.

âThe point is, sir, he was thereâon the spot. And weâre not getting anywhere any other way. Up against a blank wall, thatâs where we are.â

The chief constable blew his nose irritably.

âI know. I know. Makes me begin to believe in Mrs. Mastertonâs homicidal pervert. Iâd even use bloodhounds, if there were anywhere to use them.â

âBloodhounds canât follow a scent over water.â

âYes. I know what youâve always thought, Bland. And Iâm inclined to agree with you. But thereâs absolutely no motive, you know. Not an iota of motive.â

âThe motive may be out in the islands.â

âMeaning that Hattie Stubbs knew something about de Sousa out there? I suppose thatâs reasonably possible, given her mentality. She was simple, everyone agrees on that. She might blurt out what she knew to anyone at any time. Is that the way you see it?â

âSomething like that.â

âIf so, he waited a long time before crossing the sea and doing something about it.â

âWell, sir, itâs possible he didnât know what exactly had become of her. His own story was that heâd seen a piece in some society periodical about Nasse House, and its beautiful chÃ¢telaine. (Which I have always thought myself,â added Bland parenthetically, âto be a silver thing with chains, and bits and pieces hung on it that peopleâs grandmothers used to clip on their waistbandsâand a good idea, too. Wouldnât be all these silly women forever leaving their handbags around.) Seems, though, that in womenâs jargon chÃ¢telaine means mistress of a house. As I say, thatâs history and maybe itâs true enough, and he didnât know where she was or who sheâd married until then.â

âBut once he did know, he came across posthaste in a yacht in order to murder her? Itâs far-fetched, Bland, very far-fetched.â

âBut it could be, sir.â

âAnd what on earth could the woman know?â

âRemember what she said to her husband. âHe kills people.ââ

âMurder remembered? From the time she was fifteen? And presumably only her word for it? Surely heâd be able to laugh that off?â

âWe donât know the facts,â said Bland stubbornly. âYou know yourself, sir, how once one knows who did a thing, one can look for evidence and find it.â

âHâm. Weâve made inquiries about de Sousaâdiscreetlyâthrough the usual channelsâand got nowhere.â

âThatâs just why, sir, this funny old Belgian boy might have stumbled on something. He was in the houseâthatâs the important thing. Lady Stubbs talked to him. Some of the random things she said may have come together in his mind and made sense. However that may be, heâs been down in Nassecombe most of today.â

âAnd he rang you up to ask what kind of a yacht Etienne de Sousa had?â

âWhen he rang up the first time, yes. The second time was to ask me to arrange this meeting.â

âWell,â the chief constable looked at his watch, âif he doesnât come within five minutesâ¦.â

But it was at that very moment that Hercule Poirot was shown in.

His appearance was not as immaculate as usual. His moustache was limp, affected by the damp Devon air, his patent-leather shoes were heavily coated with mud, he limped, and his hair was ruffled.

âWell, so here you are, M. Poirot.â The chief constable shook hands. âWeâre all keyed up, on our toes, waiting to hear what you have to tell us.â

The words were faintly ironic, but Hercule Poirot, however damp physically, was in no mood to be damped mentally.

âI cannot imagine,â he said, âhow it was I did not see the truth before.â

The chief constable received this rather coldly.

âAre we to understand that you do see the truth now?â

âYes, there are detailsâbut the outline is clear.â

âWe want more than an outline,â said the chief constable dryly. âWe want evidence. Have you got evidence, M. Poirot?â

âI can tell you where to find the evidence.â

Inspector Bland spoke. âSuch as?â

Poirot turned to him and asked a question.

âEtienne de Sousa has, I suppose, left the country?â

âTwo weeks ago.â Bland added bitterly, âIt wonât be easy to get him back.â

âHe might be persuaded.â

âPersuaded? Thereâs not sufficient evidence to warrant an extradition order, then?â

âIt is not a question of an extradition order. If the facts are put to himââ

âBut what facts, M. Poirot?â The chief constable spoke with some irritation. âWhat are these facts you talk about so glibly?â

âThe fact that Etienne de Sousa came here in a lavishly appointed luxury yacht showing that his family is rich, the fact that old Merdell was Marlene Tuckerâs grandfather (which I did not know until today), the fact that Lady Stubbs was fond of wearing the coolie type of hat, the fact that Mrs. Oliver, in spite of an unbridled and unreliable imagination, is, unrealized by herself, a very shrewd judge of character, the fact that Marlene Tucker had lipsticks and bottles of perfume hidden at the back of her bureau drawer, the fact that Miss Brewis maintains that it was Lady Stubbs who asked her to take a refreshment tray down to Marlene at the boathouse.â

âFacts?â The chief constable stared. âYou call those facts? But thereâs nothing new there.â

âYou prefer evidenceâdefinite evidenceâsuch asâLady Stubbsâ body?â

Now it was Bland who stared.

âYou have found Lady Stubbsâ body?â

âNot actually found itâbut I know where it is hidden. You shall go to the spot, and when you have found it, thenâthen you will have evidenceâall the evidence you need. For only one person could have hidden it there.â

âAnd whoâs that?â

Hercule Poirot smiledâthe contented smile of a cat who has lapped up a saucer of cream.

âThe person it so often is,â he said softly; âthe husband. Sir George Stubbs killed his wife.â

âBut thatâs impossible, M. Poirot. We know itâs impossible.â

âOh, no,â said Poirot, âit is not impossible at all! Listen, and I will tell you.â

Twenty

Hercule Poirot paused a moment at the big wrought iron gates. He looked ahead of him along the curving drive. The last of the golden-brown leaves fluttered down from the trees. The cyclamen were over.

Poirot sighed. He turned aside and rapped gently on the door of the little white pilastered lodge.

After a few momentsâ delay he heard footsteps inside, those slow hesitant footsteps. The door was opened by Mrs. Folliat. He was not startled this time to see how old and frail she looked.

She said, âM. Poirot? You again?â

âMay I come in?â

âOf course.â

He followed her in.

She offered him tea which he refused. Then she asked in a quiet voice:

âWhy have you come?â

âI think you can guess, Madame.â

Her answer was oblique.

âI am very tired,â she said.

âI know.â He went on, âThere have now been three deaths, Hattie Stubbs, Marlene Tucker, old Merdell.â

She said sharply:

âMerdell? That was an accident. He fell from the quay. He was very old, half-blind, and heâd been drinking in the pub.â

âIt was not an accident. Merdell knew too much.â

âWhat did he know?â

âHe recognized a face, or a way of walking, or a voiceâsomething like that. I talked to him the day I first came down here. He told me then all about the Folliat familyâabout your father-in-law and your husband, and your sons who were killed in the war. Onlyâthey were not both killed, were they? Your son Henry went down with his ship, but your second son, James, was not killed. He deserted. He was reported at first, perhaps, Missing believed killed, and later you told everyone that he was killed. It was nobodyâs business to disbelieve that statement. Why should they?â

Poirot paused and then went on:

âDo not imagine I have no sympathy for you, Madame. Life has been hard for you, I know. You can have had no real illusions about your younger son, but he was your son, and you loved him. You did all you could to give him a new life. You had the charge of a young girl, a subnormal but very rich girl. Oh yes, she was rich. You gave out that her parents had lost all their money, that she was poor, and that you had advised her to marry a rich man many years older than herself. Why should anybody disbelieve your story? Again, it was nobodyâs business. Her parents and near relatives had been killed. A firm of French lawyers in Paris acted as instructed by lawyers in San Miguel. On her marriage, she assumed control of her own fortune. She was, as you have told me, docile, affectionate, suggestible. Everything her husband asked her to sign, she signed. Securities were probably changed and re-sold many times, but in the end the desired financial result was reached. Sir George Stubbs, the new personality assumed by your son, became a rich man and his wife became a pauper. It is no legal offence to call yourself âsirâ unless it is done to obtain money under false pretences. A title creates confidenceâit suggests, if not birth, then certainly riches. So the rich Sir George Stubbs, older and changed in appearance and having grown a beard, bought Nasse House and came to live where he belonged, though he had not been there since he was a boy. There was nobody left after the devastation of war who was likely to have recognized him. But old Merdell did. He kept the knowledge to himself, but when he said to me slyly that there would always be Folliats at Nasse House, that was his own private joke.

âSo all had turned out well, or so you thought. Your plan, I fully believe, stopped there. Your son had wealth, his ancestral home, and though his wife was subnormal she was a beautiful and docile girl, and you hoped he would be kind to her and that she would be happy.â

Mrs. Folliat said in a low voice:

âThatâs how I thought it would beâI would look after Hattie and care for her. I never dreamedââ

âYou never dreamedâand your son carefully did not tell you, that at the time of the marriage he was already married. Oh, yesâwe have searched the records for what we knew must exist. Your son had married a girl in Trieste, a girl of the underground criminal world with whom he concealed himself after his desertion. She had no mind to be parted from him, nor for that matter had he any intention of being parted from her. He accepted the marriage with Hattie as a means to wealth, but in his own mind he knew from the beginning what he intended to do.â

âNo, no, I do not believe that! I cannot believe itâ¦It was that womanâthat wicked creature.â

Poirot went on inexorably:

âHe meant murder. Hattie had no relations, few friends. Immediately on their return to England, he brought her here. The servants hardly saw her that first evening, and the woman they saw the next morning was not Hattie, but his Italian wife made up as Hattie and behaving roughly much as Hattie behaved. And there again it might have ended. The false Hattie would have lived out her life as the real Hattie though doubtless her mental powers would have unexpectedly improved owing to what would vaguely be called ânew treatment.â The secretary, Miss Brewis, already realized that there was very little wrong with Lady Stubbsâ mental processes.

âBut then a totally unforeseen thing happened. A cousin of Hattieâs wrote that he was coming to England on a yachting trip, and although that cousin had not seen her for many years, he would not be likely to be deceived by an impostor.

âIt is odd,â said Poirot, breaking off his narrative, âthat though the thought did cross my mind that de Sousa might not be de Sousa, it never occurred to me that the truth lay the other way roundâthat is to say, that Hattie was not Hattie.â

He went on:

âThere might have been several different ways of meeting that situation. Lady Stubbs could have avoided a meeting with a plea of illness, but if de Sousa remained long in England she could hardly have continued to avoid meeting him. And there was already another complication. Old Merdell, garrulous in his old age, used to chatter to his granddaughter. She was probably the only person who bothered to listen to him, and even she dismissed most of what he said because she thought him âbatty.â Nevertheless, some of the things he said about having seen âa womanâs body in the woods,â and âSir George Stubbs being really Mr. Jamesâ made sufficient impression on her to make her hint about them tentatively to Sir George. In doing so, of course, she signed her own death warrant. Sir George and his wife could take no chances of stories like that getting around. I imagine that he handed her out small sums of hush money, and proceeded to make his plans.

âThey worked out their scheme very carefully. They already knew the date when de Sousa was due at Helmmouth. It coincided with the date fixed for the fÃªte. They arranged their plan so that Marlene should be killed and Lady Stubbs âdisappearâ in conditions which should throw vague suspicion on de Sousa. Hence the reference to his being a âwicked manâ and the accusation: âhe kills people.â Lady Stubbs was to disappear permanently (possibly a conveniently unrecognizable body might be identified at some time by Sir George), and a new personality was to take her place. Actually, âHattieâ would merely resume her own Italian personality. All that was needed was for her to double the parts over a period of a little more than twenty-four hours. With the connivance of Sir George, this was easy. On the day I arrived, âLady Stubbsâ was supposed to have remained in her room until just before teatime. Nobody saw her there except Sir George. Actually, she slipped out, took a bus or a train to Exeter, and travelled from Exeter in the company of another girl student (several travel every day this time of year) to whom she confided her story of the friend who had eaten bad veal and ham pie. She arrives at the hostel, books her cubicle, and goes out to âexplore.â By teatime, Lady Stubbs is in the drawing room. After dinner, Lady Stubbs goes early to bedâbut Miss Brewis caught a glimpse of her slipping out of the house a short while afterwards. She spends the night in the hostel, but is out early, and is back at Nasse as Lady Stubbs for breakfast. Again she spends a morning in her room with a âheadache,â and this time manages to stage an appearance as a âtrespasserâ rebuffed by Sir George from the window of his wifeâs room where he pretends to turn and speak to his wife inside that room. The changes of costume were not difficultâshorts and an open shirt under one of the elaborate dresses that Lady Stubbs was fond of wearing. Heavy white makeup for Lady Stubbs with a big coolie hat to shade her face; a gay peasant scarf, sunburned complexion, and bronze-red curls for the Italian girl. No one would have dreamed that those two were the same woman.

âAnd so the final drama was staged. Just before four oâclock Lady Stubbs told Miss Brewis to take a tea tray down to Marlene. That was because she was afraid such an idea might occur to Miss Brewis independently, and it would be fatal if Miss Brewis should inconveniently appear at the wrong moment. Perhaps, too, she had a malicious pleasure in arranging for Miss Brewis to be at the scene of the crime at approximately the time it was committed. Then, choosing her moment, she slipped into the empty fortune-telling tent, out through the back and into the summerhouse in the shrubbery where she kept her hikerâs rucksack with its change of costume. She slipped through the woods, called to Marlene to let her in, and strangled the unsuspecting girl then and there. The big coolie hat she threw into the river, then she changed into her hiker dress and makeup, packaged up her cyclamen georgette dress and high-heeled shoes in the rucksackâand presently an Italian student from the youth hostel joined her Dutch acquaintance at the shows on the lawn, and left with her by the local bus as planned. Where she is now I do not know. I suspect in Soho where she doubtless has underworld affiliations of her own nationality who can provide her with the necessary papers. In any case, it is not for an Italian girl that the police are looking, it is for Hattie Stubbs, simple, subnormal, exotic.

âBut poor Hattie Stubbs is dead, as you yourself, Madame, know only too well. You revealed that knowledge when I spoke to you in the drawing room on the day of the fÃªte. The death of Marlene had been a bad shock to youâyou had not had the least idea of what was planned; but you revealed very clearly, though I was dense enough not to see it at the time, that when you talked of âHattie,â you were talking of two different peopleâone a woman you disliked who would be âbetter dead,â and against whom you warned me ânot to believe a word she saidââthe other a girl of whom you spoke in the past tense, and whom you defended with a warm affection. I think, Madame, that you were very fond of poor Hattie Stubbsâ¦.â

There was a long pause.

Mrs. Folliat sat quite still in her chair. At last she roused herself and spoke. Her voice had the coldness of ice.

âYour whole story is quite fantastic, M. Poirot. I really think you must be madâ¦All this is entirely in your head, you have no evidence whatsoever.â

Poirot went across to one of the windows and opened it.

âListen, Madame. What do you hear?â

âI am a little deafâ¦What should I hear?â

âThe blows of a pick axeâ¦They are breaking up the concrete foundation of the Follyâ¦What a good place to bury a bodyâwhere a tree has been uprooted and the earth is already disturbed. A little later, to make all safe, concrete over the ground where the body lies, and, on the concrete, erect a Follyâ¦â He added gently: âSir Georgeâs Follyâ¦The Folly of the owner of Nasse House.â

A long shuddering sigh escaped Mrs. Folliat.

âSuch a beautiful place,â said Poirot. âOnly one thing evilâ¦The man who owns itâ¦.â

âI know.â Her words came hoarsely. âI have always knownâ¦Even as a child he frightened meâ¦Ruthlessâ¦Without pityâ¦And without conscienceâ¦But he was my son and I loved himâ¦I should have spoken out after Hattieâs deathâ¦But he was my son. How could I be the one to give him up? And so, because of my silenceâthat poor silly child was killedâ¦And after her, dear old Merdellâ¦Where would it have ended?â

âWith a murderer it does not end,â said Poirot.

She bowed her head. For a moment or two she stayed so, her hands covering her eyes.

Then Mrs. Folliat of Nasse House, daughter of a long line of brave men, drew herself erect. She looked straight at Poirot and her voice was formal and remote.

âThank you, M. Poirot,â she said, âfor coming to tell me yourself of this. Will you leave me now? There are some things that one has to face quite aloneâ¦.â

Â 

The
Agatha Christie
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THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

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THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from
St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

The Murder at the Vicarag

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving
couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

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The
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Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s
stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

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About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and
Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and
Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete
Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Credits

Cover design and illustration by Faith Laurel

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® POIROTÂ® DEAD MANâ€™S FOLLYâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1956 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

DEAD MANâ€™S FOLLY Â© 1956. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207388-4

EPub Edition Â© AUGUST 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-174463-1

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