“You’ve no ideas yourself, Mr. Weyman?”
“Well, offhand, I’d 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. How’s that?”
“Is that a serious suggestion, Mr. Weyman?”
“It’s the only probability I can think of.”
“There’s one other thing I would like to ask you, Mr. Weyman. Did you see Lady Stubbs during the course of the afternoon?”
“Of course I saw her. Who could miss her? Dressed up like a mannequin of Jacques Fath or Christian Dior?”
“When did you see her last?”
“Last? I don’t know. Striking an attitude on the lawn about half past three—or a quarter to four perhaps.”
“And you didn’t see her after that?”
“No. Why?”
“I wondered—because after four o’clock nobody seems to have seen her. Lady Stubbs has—vanished, Mr. Weyman.”
“Vanished! Our Hattie?”
“That surprises you?”
“Yes, it does rather…What’s she up to, I wonder?”
“D’you know Lady Stubbs well, Mr. Weyman?”
“Never met her till I came down here four or five days ago.”
“Have you formed any opinions about her?”
“I should say she knows which side her bread is buttered better than most,” said Michael Weyman dryly. “A very ornamental young woman and knows how to make the most of it.”
“But mentally not very active? Is that right?”
“Depends what you mean by mentally,” said Michael Weyman. “I wouldn’t describe her as an intellectual. But if you’re thinking that she’s not all there, you’re wrong.” A tone of bitterness came into his voice. “I’d say she was very much all there. Nobody more so.”
The inspector’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s not the generally accepted opinion.”
“For some reason she likes playing the dim nitwit. I don’t know why. But as I’ve said before, in my opinion, she’s very much all there.”
The inspector studied him for a moment, then he said:
“And you really can’t get any nearer to exact times and places between the hours I have mentioned?”
“Sorry.” Weyman spoke jerkily. “I’m afraid I can’t. Rotten memory, never any good about time.” He added, “Finished with me?”
As the inspector nodded, he left the room quickly.
“And I’d like to know,” said the inspector, half to himself and half to Hoskins, “what there’s been between him and her Ladyship. Either he’s made a pass at her and she’s turned him down, or there’s been some kind of a dustup.” He went on, “What would you say was the general opinion round these parts about Sir George and his lady?”
“She’s daft,” said Constable Hoskins.
“I know you think that, Hoskins. Is that the accepted view?”
“I’d say so.”
“And Sir George—is he liked?”
“He’s liked well enough. He’s a good sportsman and he knows a bit about farming. The old lady’s done a lot to help.”
“What old lady?”
“Mrs. Folliat who lives at the Lodge here.”
“Oh, of course. The Folliats used to own this place, didn’t they?”
“Yes, and it’s owing to the old lady that Sir George and Lady Stubbs have been taken up as well as they have. Got ’em in with the nobs everywhere, she has.”
“Paid for doing so, do you think?”
“Oh, no, not Mrs. Folliat.” Hoskins sounded shocked. “I understand she knew Lady Stubbs before she was married and it was she who urged on Sir George to buy this place.”
“I’ll have to talk to Mrs. Folliat,” said the inspector.
“Ah, she’s a shrewd old lady, she is. If anything is going on, she’d know about it.”
“I must talk to her,” said the inspector. “I wonder where she is now.”
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:
“Oh, it’s you, M. Poirot.”
“I apologize, Madame. I disturbed you.”
“No, no. You don’t disturb me. I’m just resting, that’s all. I’m not as young as I was. The shock—it was too much for me.”
“I comprehend,” said Poirot. “Indeed, I comprehend.”
Mrs. Folliat, a handkerchief clutched in her small hand, was staring up at the ceiling. She said in a voice half-stifled with emotion:
“I can hardly bear to think of it. That poor girl. That poor, poor girl—”
“I know,” said Poirot. “I know.”
“So young,” said Mrs. Folliat; “just at the beginning of life.” She said again, “I can hardly bear to think of it.”
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.
“You said to me only yesterday, Madame, it is a very wicked world.”
“Did I say that?” Mrs. Folliat seemed startled. “It’s true…Oh, yes, I’m only just beginning to know how true it is.” She added in a low voice, “But I never thought anything like this would happen.”
Again he looked at her curiously.
“What did you think would happen, then? Something?”
“No, no. I didn’t mean that.”
Poirot persisted.
“But you did expect something to happen—something out of the usual.”
“You misunderstand me, M. Poirot. I only mean that it’s the last thing you would expect to happen in the middle of a fête like this.”
“Lady Stubbs this morning also spoke of wickedness.”
“Hattie did? Oh, don’t speak of her to me—don’t speak of her. I don’t want to think about her.” She was silent for a moment or two, and then said, “What did she say—about wickedness?”
“She 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.”
He watched, but she merely shook her head incredulously.
“Etienne de Sousa—who is he?”
“Of 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.”
“And did he come?”
“Yes. He arrived here about half past four.”
“Surely—d’you mean that rather handsome, dark young man who came up the ferry path? I wondered who he was at the time.”
“Yes, Madame, that was Mr. de Sousa.”
Mrs. Folliat said energetically:
“If I were you I should pay no attention to the things Hattie says.” She flushed as Poirot looked at her in surprise and went on, “She is like a child—I mean, she uses terms like a child—wicked, good. No half shades. I shouldn’t pay any attention to what she tells you about this Etienne de Sousa.”
Again Poirot wondered. He said slowly:
“You know Lady Stubbs very well, do you not, Mrs. Folliat?”
“Probably as well as anyone knows her. Possibly even better than her husband really knows her. And if I do?”
“What is she really like, Madame?”
“What a very odd question, M. Poirot.”
“You know, do you not, Madame, that Lady Stubbs cannot be found anywhere?”
Again her answer surprised him. She expressed no concern or astonishment. She said:
“So she has run away, has she? I see.”
“It s
eems to you quite natural, that?”
“Natural? Oh, I don’t know. Hattie is rather unaccountable.”
“Do you think she has run away because she has a guilty conscience?”
“What do you mean, M. Poirot?”
“Her 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.”
“What are you trying to say, M. Poirot?”
“Such people are, as you say, very simple—like children. In a sudden fit of rage they might even kill.”
Mrs. Folliat turned on him in sudden anger.
“Hattie was never like that! I won’t allow you to say such things. She was a gentle warmhearted girl, even if she was—a little simple mentally. Hattie would never have killed anyone.”
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:
“I’ve been looking for you, ma’am.”
“Good evening, Hoskins.” Mrs. Folliat was once more her poised self again, the mistress of Nasse House. “Yes, what is it?”
“The inspector’s compliments, and he’d be glad to have a word with you—if you feels up to it, that is,” Hoskins hastened to add; noting, as Hercule Poirot had done, the effects of shock.
“Of course I feel up to it.” 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.
“I’m sorry to worry you, Mrs. Folliat,” said Bland. “But I imagine that you know all the people in the neighbourhood and I think you may be able to help us.”
Mrs. Folliat smiled faintly. “I expect,” she said, “that I know everyone round here as well as anyone could do. What do you want to know, Inspector?”
“You knew the Tuckers? The family and the girl?”
“Oh, yes, of course, they’ve 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 labourer—a 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.”
“Now, knowing the family as you do, Mrs. Folliat, can you think of any reason why Marlene should have been killed today?”
“No, indeed I can’t. It’s quite, quite unbelievable, if you know what I mean, Inspector. There was no boyfriend or anything of that kind, or I shouldn’t think so. Not that I’ve ever heard of, anyway.”
“Now what about the people who’ve been taking part in this Murder Hunt? Can you tell me anything about them?”
“Well, Mrs. Oliver I’d never met before. She is quite unlike my idea of what a crime novelist would be. She’s very upset, poor dear, by what has happened—naturally.”
“And what about the other helpers—Captain Warburton, for instance?”
“I don’t see any reason why he should murder Marlene Tucker, if that’s what you’re asking me,” said Mrs. Folliat composedly. “I don’t like him very much. He’s 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. He’s certainly energetic and has worked very hard over this fête. I don’t think he could have killed the girl, anyway, because he was on the lawn the whole time this afternoon.”
The inspector nodded.
“And the Legges? What do you know about the Legges?”
“Well, they seem a very nice young couple. He’s inclined to be what I should call—moody. I don’t 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 they’ve enjoyed their holiday here. We’ve all got very friendly together.”
“She’s an attractive lady, I understand.”
“Oh, yes, very attractive.”
“Would you say that at any time Sir George had felt that attraction?”
Mrs. Folliat looked rather astonished.
“Oh, no, I’m sure there was nothing of that kind. Sir George is really absorbed by his business, and very fond of his wife. He’s not at all a philandering sort of man.”
“And there was nothing, you would say, between Lady Stubbs and Mr. Legge?”
Again Mrs. Folliat shook her head.
“Oh, no, positively.”
The inspector persisted.
“There’s been no trouble of any kind between Sir George and his wife, that you know of?”
“I’m sure there hasn’t,” said Mrs. Folliat, emphatically. “And I would know if there had been.”
“It wouldn’t be, then, as a result of any disagreement between husband and wife that Lady Stubbs has gone away?”
“Oh, no.” She added lightly, “The silly girl, I understand, didn’t want to meet this cousin of hers. Some childish phobia. So she’s run away just like a child might do.”
“That’s your opinion. Nothing more than that?”
“Oh, no. I expect she’ll turn up again quite soon. Feeling rather ashamed of herself.” She added carelessly, “What’s become of this cousin, by the way? Is he still here in the house?”
“I understand he’s gone back to his yacht.”
“And that’s at Helmmouth, is it?”
“Yes, at Helmmouth.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Folliat. “Well, it’s rather unfortunate—Hattie behaving so childishly. However, if he’s staying on here for a day or so, we can make her see she must behave properly.”
It was, the inspector thought, a question, but although he noticed it he did not answer it.
“You are probably thinking,” he said, “that all this is rather beside the point. But you do understand, don’t you, Mrs. Folliat, that we have to range over rather a wide field. Miss Brewis, for instance. What do you know about Miss Brewis?”
“Well, she’s an excellent secretary. More than a secretary. She practically acts as housekeeper down here. In fact, I don’t know what they’d do without her.”
“Was she Sir George’s secretary before he married his wife?”
“I think so. I’m not quite sure. I’ve only known her since she came down here with them.”
“She doesn’t like Lady Stubbs very much, does she?”
“No,” said Mrs. Folliat, “I’m afraid she doesn’t. I don’t think these good secretaries ever do care for wives much, if you know what I mean. Perhaps it’s natural.”
“Was it you or Lady Stubbs who asked Miss Brewis to take cakes and a fruit drink to the girl in the boathouse?”
Mrs. Folliat looked slightly surprised.
“I remember Miss Brewis collecting some cakes and things and saying she was taking them along to Marlene. I didn’t know anyone had particularly asked her to do it, or arranged about it. It certainly wasn’t me.”
“I see. You say you were in the tea tent from four o’clock on. I believe Mrs. Legge was also having tea in the tent at that time.”
“Mrs. Legge? No, I don’t think so. At least I don’t remember seeing her there. In fact, I’m quite sure she wasn’t there. We’d 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.”
“Oh, well,” said the inspector, “it does
n’t matter.” He added smoothly, “Well, I really think that’s all. Thank you, Mrs. Folliat, you’ve been very kind. We can only hope that Lady Stubbs will return shortly.”
“I hope so, too,” said Mrs. Folliat. “Very thoughtless of the dear child giving us all so much anxiety.” She spoke briskly but the animation in her voice was not very natural. “I’m sure,” said Mrs. Folliat, “that she’s quite all right. Quite all right.”
At that moment the door opened and an attractive young woman with red hair and a freckled face came in, and said:
“I hear you’ve been asking for me?”
“This is Mrs. Legge, Inspector,” said Mrs. Folliat. “Sally, dear, I don’t know whether you’ve heard about the terrible thing that has happened?”
“Oh, yes! Ghastly, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Legge. She uttered an exhausted sigh, and sank down in the chair as Mrs. Folliat left the room.
“I’m terribly sorry about all this,” she said. “It seems really unbelievable, if you know what I mean. I’m afraid I can’t help you in any way. You see, I’ve been telling fortunes all the afternoon, so I haven’t seen anything of what was going on.”
“I 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 o’clock?”
“Well, I went and had tea at four o’clock.”
“In the tea tent?”
“Yes.”
“It was very crowded, I believe?”
“Oh, frightfully crowded.”
“Did you see anyone you knew there?”
“Oh, a few old people, yes. Nobody to speak to. Goodness, how I wanted that tea! That was four o’clock, 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 Hollywood—heaven knows what. Mere journeys across the sea and suspicious dark women seemed too tame.”
“What happened during the half hour when you were absent—I mean, supposing people wanted to have their fortunes told?”
“Oh, I hung a card up outside the tent. ‘Back at four-thirty.’”
The inspector made a note in his pad.
“When did you last see Lady Stubbs?”