Well, its rather difficult You see, this is my murder, so to speak. Ive thought it out and planned it and it all fits indovetails[19]. Well, if you know anything at all about writers, youll know that they cant stand suggestions. People say Splendid, but wouldnt it be better if so and so did so and so? or Wouldnt it be a wonderful idea if the victim was A instead of B? Or the murderer turned out to be D instead of E? I mean, one wants to say: All right then, write it yourself if you want it that way!
Poirot nodded.
And that is what has been happening?
Not quite That sort of silly suggestion has been made, and then Ive flared up, and theyve given in, but have just slipped in some quite minor trivial suggestion and because Ive made a stand over the other, Ive accepted the triviality without noticing much.
I see, said Poirot. Yesit is a method, that Something rather crude and preposterous is put forwardbut that is not really the point. The small minor alteration is really the objective. Is that what you mean?
Thats exactly what I mean, said Mrs Oliver. And, of course, I may be imagining it, but I dont think I amand none of the things seem to matter anyway. But its got me worriedthat, and a sort ofwellatmosphere.
Who has made these suggestions of alterations to you?
Different people, said Mrs Oliver. If it was just one person Id be more sure of my ground. But its not just one personalthough I think it is really. I mean its one person working through other quite unsuspecting people.
Have you an idea as to who that one person is?
Mrs Oliver shook her head.
Its somebody very clever and very careful, she said. It might be anybody.
Who is there? asked Poirot. The cast of characters must be fairly limited?
Well, began Mrs Oliver. Theres Sir George Stubbs who owns this place. Rich and plebeian[20] and frightfully stupid outside business, I should think, but probably dead sharp in it. And theres Lady StubbsHattieabout twenty years younger than he is, rather beautiful, but dumb as a fishin fact, I think shes definitely halfwitted. Married him for his money, of course, and doesnt think about anything but clothes and jewels. Then theres Michael Weymanhes an architect, quite young, and good-looking in a craggy kind of artistic way. Hes designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George and repairing the Folly.
Folly? What is thata masquerade?
No, its architectural. One of those little sort of temple things, white, with columns. Youve probably seen them at Kew. Then theres Miss Brewis, shes a sort of secretary housekeeper, who runs things and writes lettersvery 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 riverAlec Legge and his wife Sally. And Captain Warburton, whos the Mastertons agent. And the Mastertons, of course, and old Mrs Folliat who lives in what used to be the lodge. Her husbands people owned Nasse originally. But theyve died out, or been killed in wars, and there were lots of death duties[21] so the last heir sold the place.
Poirot considered this list of characters, but at the moment they were only names to him. He returned to the main issue.
Whose idea was the Murder Hunt?
Mrs Mastertons, I think. Shes the local M.P.s wife, very good at organizing. It was she who persuaded Sir George to have the fête 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.
That all seems straightforward enough, said Poirot.
It all seems straightforward, said Mrs Oliver obstinately; but it isnt. I tell you, M. Poirot, theres something wrong.
Poirot looked at Mrs Oliver and Mrs Oliver looked back at Poirot.
How have you accounted for my presence here? For your summons to me? Poirot asked.
That was easy, said Mrs Oliver. Youre to give away the prizes for the Murder Hunt. Everybodys 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 drawas, of course, it will be, Mrs Oliver added tactfully.
And the suggestion was acceptedwithout demur?
I tell you, everybody was thrilled.
Mrs Oliver thought it unnecessary to mention that amongst the younger generation one or two had asked Who is Hercule Poirot?
Everybody? Nobody spoke against the idea?
Mrs Oliver shook her head.
That is a pity, said Hercule Poirot.
You mean it might have given us a line?
A would-be criminal could hardly be expected to welcome my presence.
I suppose you think Ive imagined the whole thing, said Mrs Oliver ruefully. I must admit that until I started talking to you I hadnt realized how very little Ive got to go upon.
Calm yourself, said Poirot kindly. I am intrigued and interested. Where do we begin?
Mrs Oliver glanced at her watch.
Its just tea-time. Well go back to the house and then you can meet everybody.
She took a different path from the one by which Poirot had come. This one seemed to lead in the opposite direction.
We pass by the boathouse this way, Mrs Oliver explained.
As she spoke the boathouse came into view. It jutted out on to the river and was a picturesque thatched affair.[22]
Thats where the Bodys going to be, said Mrs Oliver. The body for the Murder Hunt, I mean.
And who is going to be killed?
Oh, a girl hiker, who is really the Yugoslavian first wife of a young Atom Scientist, said Mrs Oliver glibly.
Poirot blinked.
Of course it looks as though the Atom Scientist had killed herbut naturally its not as simple as that.
Naturally notsince you are concerned
Mrs Oliver accepted the compliment with a wave of the hand.
Actually, she said, shes killed by the Country Squire[23]and the motive is really rather ingeniousI dont believe many people will get itthough theres a perfectly clear pointer in the fifth clue.
Poirot abandoned the subtleties of Mrs Olivers plot to ask a practical question:
But how do you arrange for a suitable body?
Girl Guide, said Mrs Oliver. Sally Legge was going to be itbut now they want her to dress up in a turban and do the fortune telling[24]. So its a Girl Guide called Marlene Tucker. Rather dumb and sniffs,[25] she added in an explanatory manner. Its quite easyjust peasant scarves and a rucksackand 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 kidjust sticking inside that boathouse until shes found, but Ive arranged for her to have a nice bundle of comicstheres a clue to the murderer scribbled on one of them as a matter of factso it all works in.
Your ingenuity leaves me spellbound! The things you think of!
Its never difficult to think of things, said Mrs Oliver. The 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.
They started up a steep zig-zagging 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.
Mr Michael Weyman, M. Hercule Poirot, said Mrs Oliver.
The young man acknowledged the introduction with a careless nod.
Extraordinary, he said bitterly, the places people put things! This thing here, for instance. Put up only about a year agoquite nice of its kind and quite in keeping with the period of the house. But why here? These things were meant to be seensituated on an eminencethats how they phrased itwith a nice grassy approach and daffodils, et cetera. But heres this poor little devil, stuck away in the midst of treesnot visible from anywhereyoud have to cut down about twenty trees before youd even see it from the river.
Perhaps there wasnt any other place, said Mrs Oliver.
Michael Weyman snorted.
Top of that grassy bank by the houseperfect natural setting. But no, these tycoon fellows are all the sameno artistic sense. Has a fancy for a Folly, 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. Oh, well tidy the place up by putting a Folly there, says the silly ass. Thats all they ever think about, these rich city fellows, tidying up! I wonder he hasnt put beds of red geraniums and calceolarias all round the house! A man like that shouldnt be allowed to own a place like this!
He sounded heated.
This young man, Poirot observed to himself, assuredly does not like Sir George Stubbs.
Its bedded down in concrete, said Weyman. And theres loose soil underneathso its subsided. Cracked all up hereit will be dangerous soon Better pull the whole thing down and re-erect it on the top of the bank near the house. Thats my advice, but the obstinate old fool wont hear of it.
What about the tennis pavilion? asked Mrs Oliver.
Gloom settled even more deeply on the young man. He wants a kind of Chinese pagoda,[26] he said, with a groan. Dragons if you please! Just because Lady Stubbs fancies herself in Chinese coolie hats[27]. Whod be an architect? Anyone who wants something decent built hasnt got the money, and those who have the money want something too utterly goddam awful!
You have my commiserations, said Poirot gravely.
George Stubbs, said the architect scornfully. Who does he think he is? Dug himself into some cushy Admiralty job in the safe depths of Wales during the warand grows a beard to suggest he saw active naval service on convoy dutyor thats what they say. Stinking with moneyabsolutely stinking!
Well, you architects have got to have someone whos got money to spend, or youd never have a job, Mrs Oliver pointed out reasonably enough. She moved on towards the house and Poirot and the dispirited architect prepared to follow her.
These tycoons, said the latter bitterly, cant understand first principles. He delivered a final kick to the lopsided Folly. If the foundations are rotteneverythings rotten.
It is profound what you say there, said Poirot. Yes, it is profound.
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.
It is of a veritable beauty, yes, murmured Poirot.
He wants to build a billiard room on, said Mr Weyman venomously.
On the bank below them a small elderly lady was busy with secateurs on a clump of shrubs. She climbed up to greet them, panting slightly.
Everything neglected for years, she said. And 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 yearall this dead wood ought to have been cut away last autumn
M. Hercule Poirot, Mrs Folliat, said Mrs Oliver.
The elderly lady beamed.
So 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 problemit will be such a novelty.
Poirot was faintly puzzled by the graciousness of the little ladys manner. She might, he thought, have been his hostess.
He said politely:
Mrs 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.
Mrs Folliat nodded in a matter-of-fact manner.
Yes. It was built by my husbands great-grandfather in 1790. There was an Elizabethan house[28] previously. It fell into disrepair[29] and burned down in about 1700. Our family has lived here since 1598.
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[30]. 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, It must be hard for you to have strangers living here.
There was a moments pause before Mrs Folliat answered. Her voice was clear and precise and curiously devoid of emotion.
So many things are hard, M. Poirot, she said.
CHAPTER 3
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.
George, said Mrs Folliat, this is M. Poirot who is so kind as to come and help us. Sir George Stubbs.
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 rough diamond[31] from the Dominions[32]. It certainly did not suggest the navy, in spite of Michael Weymans remarks. His manner and voice were jovial, but his eyes were small and shrewd, of a particularly penetrating pale blue.
He greeted Poirot heartily.
Were so glad that your friend Mrs Oliver managed to persuade you to come, he said. Quite a brain-wave on her part[33]. Youll be an enormous attraction.
He looked round a little vaguely.
Hattie? He repeated the name in a slightly sharper tone. Hattie!
Lady Stubbs was reclining in a big arm-chair 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, How do you do?
Poirot bowed over her hand.
Sir George continued his introductions.
Mrs Masterton.
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 bloodhounds baying note.
This silly dispute about the tea tent has got to be settled, Jim, she said forcefully. Theyve got to see sense about it. We cant have the whole show a fiasco because of these idiotic womens local feuds.
Oh, quite, said the man addressed.
Captain Warburton, 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.
Dont you worry, Ill settle it, he said. Ill go and talk to them like a Dutch uncle[34]. What about the fortune-telling tent? In the space by the magnolia? Or at the far end of the lawn by the rhododendrons?
Sir George continued his introductions.
Mr and Mrs Legge.
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 Mastertons deep bay.
not by the magnoliaa bottle-neck
one wants to disperse thingsbut if theres a queue
much cooler. I mean, with the sun full on the house