Dead Man's Folly (6 page)

Lady Stubbs got up abruptly from the table.

“I have a headache,” she said. “I shall go and lie down in my room.”

Sir George sprang up anxiously.

“My dear girl. You're all right, aren't you?”

“It's just a headache.”

“You'll be fit enough for this afternoon, won't you?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Take some aspirin, Lady Stubbs,” said Miss Brewis briskly. “Have you got some or shall I bring it to you?”

“I've got some.”

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.

“About the parking of cars this afternoon, Sir George. I'm just going to give Mitchell instructions. Do you think that the best plan would be, as you said—?”

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

He caught up his hostess on the stairs.

“Madame, you dropped this.”

He proffered the handkerchief with a bow.

She took it unheedingly.

“Did I? Thank you.”

“I am most distressed, Madame, that you should be suffering. Particularly when your cousin is coming.”

She answered quickly, almost violently.

“I don't want to see Etienne. I don't like him. He's bad. He was always bad. I'm afraid of him. He does bad things.”

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

“Hattie, my poor darling. Let me come and tuck you up.”

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.

“Lady Stubbs' headache—” he began.

“No more headache than my foot,” 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.

“Such a nuisance, these affairs,” she observed. “And they will always put everything in the wrong place. No, Rogers! More to the
left—
left
—not right! What do you think of the weather, M. Poirot? Looks doubtful to me. Rain, of course, would spoil everything. And we've had such a fine summer this year for a change. Where's Sir George? I want to talk to him about car parking.”

“His wife had a headache and has gone to lie down.”

“She'll be all right this afternoon,” said Mrs. Masterton confidently. “Likes functions, you know. She'll 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.”

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.

“Got to do everything yourself, I find. Only way…By the way, you're a friend of the Eliots, I believe?”

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

“Nice 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 ‘Guest House' or ‘Private Hotel' or ‘Hotel A.A. Fully Licensed.' All the houses one stayed in as a girl—or where one went to dances. Very sad. Yes, I'm glad about Nasse and so is poor dear Amy Folliat, of course. She's had such a hard life—but never complains, I will say. Sir George has done wonders for Nasse—and
not
vulgarized it. Don't know whether that's the result of Amy Folliat's influence—or
whether it's his own natural good taste. He
has
got quite good taste, you know. Very surprising in a man like that.”

“He is not, I understand, one of the landed gentry?” said Poirot cautiously.

“He isn't even really Sir George—was christened it, I understand. Took the idea from Lord George Sanger's Circus, I suspect. Very amusing really. Of course we never let on. Rich men must be allowed their little snobberies, don't you agree? The funny thing is that in spite of his origins George Stubbs would go down perfectly well anywhere. He's a throwback. Pure type of the eighteenth-century country squire. Good blood in him, I'd say. Father a gent and mother a barmaid, is my guess.”

Mrs. Masterton interrupted herself to yell to a gardener.

“Not by that rhododendron. You must leave room for the skittles over to the right.
Right
—not left!”

She went on: “Extraordinary how they can't tell their left from their right. The Brewis woman is efficient. Doesn't like poor Hattie, though. Looks at her sometimes as though she'd 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 ‘Captain.' Not a regular soldier and never within miles of a German. One has to put up, of course, with what one can get these days—and he's a hard worker—but I feel there's something rather fishy about him. Ah! Here are the Legges.”

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

“We've come to help.”

“Lots to do,” boomed Mrs. Masterton. “Now, let me see…”

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 yesterday's lift in the car. From the window of Lady Stubbs' bedroom Sir George leaned out and addressed them wrathfully.

“You're trespassing,” he shouted.

“Please?” said the young woman with the green headscarf.

“You can't come through here. Private.”

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

“Please? Nassecombe Quay…” She pronounced it carefully. “It is this way? Please.”

“You're trespassing,” bellowed Sir George.

“Please?”

“
Trespassing!
No way through. You've got to go back.
BACK!
The way you came.”

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

“Back? To Hostel?”

“That's right. And you take the road—
road
round that way.”

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

“Spend my time turning people off,” he said. “Used to come through the top gate. I've 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 there's no right of way—never has been. And
they're practically all foreigners—don't understand what you say, and just jabber back at you in Dutch or something.”

“Of these, one is German and the other Italian, I think—I saw the Italian girl on her way from the station yesterday.”

“Every kind of language they talk…Yes, Hattie? What did you say?” 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.

“This is Marlene,” said Mrs. Oliver.

Marlene giggled.

“I'm the horrible Corpse,” she said. “But I'm not going to have any blood on me.” Her tone expressed disappointment.

“No?”

“No. Just strangled with a cord, that's all. I'd of
liked
to be stabbed—and have lashings of red paint.”

“Captain Warburton thought it might look too realistic,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“In a murder I think you
ought
to have blood,” said Marlene sulkily. She looked at Poirot with hungry interest. “Seen lots of murders, haven't you? So
she
says.”

“One or two,” said Poirot modestly.

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

“Any sex maniacs?” asked Marlene with avidity.

“Certainly not.”

“I like sex maniacs,” said Marlene with relish. “Reading about them, I mean.”

“You would probably not like meeting one.”

“Oh, I dunno. D'you know what? I believe we've 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 woman's body. But of course he's batty, my granddad is, so no one listens to what he says.”

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

L
unch was an early and quickly snatched affair of a cold buffet. At two-thirty a minor film star was to open the fête. The weather, after looking ominously like rain, began to improve. By three o'clock the fête 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. Masterton's 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:

“Thinks it's the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, evidently!”

But Poirot complimented her gravely.

“It is a beautiful creation that you have on, Madame.”

“It is nice, isn't it,” said Hattie happily. “I wore it for Ascot.”

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

Poirot retreated into the background. He wandered around disconsolately—everything seemed to be proceeding in the normal fashion of fêtes. There was a coconut shy, presided over by Sir George in his heartiest fashion, a skittle alley and a hoopla. There were various “stalls” displaying local produce of fruit, vegetables, jams and cakes—and others displaying “fancy objects.” There were “raffles” of cakes, of baskets of fruit; even, it seemed, of a pig; and a “Lucky Dip” for children at twopence a go.

There was a good crowd of people by now and an Exhibition of Children's Dancing began. Poirot saw no sign of Mrs. Oliver, but Lady Stubbs' 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 appearance—wearing 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.

“Amy, my dear, how are you?”

“Oh, Pamela, how nice of you and Edward to come. Such a long way from Tiverton.”

“The weather's held for you. Remember the year before the war? Cloudburst came down about four o'clock. Ruined the whole show.”

“But it's been a wonderful summer this year. Dorothy! It's
ages
since I've seen you.”

“We felt we
had
to come and see Nasse in its glory. I see you've cut back the berberis on the bank.”

“Yes, it shows the hydrangeas better, don't you think?”

“How wonderful they are. What a blue! But, my dear, you've done wonders in the last year. Nasse is really beginning to look like itself again.”

Dorothy's husband boomed in a deep voice:

“Came over to see the commandant here during the war. Nearly broke my heart.”

Mrs. Folliat turned to greet a humbler visitor.

“Mrs. Knapper, I am pleased to see you. Is this Lucy? How she's grown!”

“She'll be leaving school next year. Pleased to see you looking so well, ma'am.”

“I'm 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.”

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

“Pleased to have you back at Nasse, ma'am. Seems like old times.”

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

“Amy, dear, such
ages.
This looks the
greatest
success! Do tell me what you've done about the rose garden. Muriel told me that you're restocking it with all the new floribundas.”

The beefy man chipped in.

“Where's Marylin Gale—?”

“Reggie's just dying to meet her. He saw her last picture.”

“That her in the big hat? My word, that's some getup.”

“Don't be stupid, darling. That's Hattie Stubbs. You know, Amy, you really shouldn't let her go round
quite
so like a mannequin.”

“Amy?” Another friend claimed attention. “This is Roger, Edward's boy. My dear, so nice to have you back at Nasse.”

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

He heard faintly still, the “So good of you to come” 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 “
Madame Zuleika will tell your Fortune for
2
s.
6
d.
” 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 Poirot's 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.

“It is very agreeable all that you tell me, Madame Legge. I only wish that it could come true.”

“Oh!” said Sally. “So you know me, do you?”

“I had advance information—Mrs. Oliver told me that you were originally to be the ‘victim,' but that you had been snatched from her for the Occult.”

“I wish I
was
being the ‘body,'” said Sally. “Much more peace
ful. All Jim Warburton's fault. Is it four o'clock yet? I want my tea. I'm off duty from four to half past.”

“Ten minutes to go, still,” said Poirot, consulting his large old-fashioned watch. “Shall I bring you a cup of tea here?”

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

“No. I think they are lining up for tea.”

“Good.”

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.

“You seem to have been enjoying yourself, M. Poirot,” he said, with a sardonic grin.

Poirot contemplated his prize.

“It is truly horrible, is it not?” he said sadly.

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

“
Voilà,
it is for you.”

The tears ceased abruptly.

“There—Violet—isn't the gentleman kind? Say, Ta, ever so—”

“Children's Fancy Dress,” called out Captain Warburton through a megaphone. “The first class—three to five. Form up, please.”

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 man's shirt. He recognized it as the “turtle' shirt of Sir George's 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.

“So you have come to the fête,” he said. “And your friend?”

“Oh, 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.”

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

He said: “I saw your friend this morning.”

“Oh, 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.”

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

“But now—this afternoon, he is very polite.”

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.

“Have you seen Lady Stubbs, Poirot? Anyone seen Lady Stubbs? She's supposed to be judging this Fancy Dress business and I can't find her anywhere.”

“I saw her, let me see—oh, about half an hour ago. But then I went to have my fortune told.”

“Curse the woman,” said Warburton angrily. “Where can she have disappeared to? The children are waiting and we're behind schedule as it is.”

He looked round.

“Where's Amanda Brewis?”

Miss Brewis, also, was not in evidence.

“It really is too bad,” said Warburton. “One's got to have
some
cooperation if one's trying to run a show. Where
can
Hattie be? Perhaps she's gone into the house.”

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.

“You will excuse me. Is this the house of Sir George Stubbs?”

“It is indeed.” Poirot paused and then hazarded a guess. “Are you, perhaps, the cousin of Lady Stubbs?”

“I am Etienne de Sousa—”

“My name is Hercule Poirot.”

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

“De Sousa? Delighted to see you. Hattie got your letter this morning. Where's your yacht?”

“It is moored at Helmmouth. I came up the river to the quay here in my launch.”

“We must find Hattie. She's somewhere about…You'll dine with us this evening, I hope?”

“You are most kind.”

“Can we put you up?”

“That also is most kind, but I will sleep on my yacht. It is easier so.”

“Are you staying here long?”

“Two or three days, perhaps. It depends.” De Sousa shrugged elegant shoulders.

“Hattie will be delighted, I'm sure,” said Sir George politely. “Where
is
she? I saw her not long ago.”

He looked round in a perplexed manner.

“She ought to be judging the children's fancy dress. I can't understand it. Excuse me a moment. I'll ask Miss Brewis.”

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

“It is some little time since you last saw your cousin?” he asked.

The other shrugged his shoulders.

“I have not seen her since she was fifteen years old. Soon after that she was sent abroad—to school at a convent in France. As a child she promised to have good looks.”

He looked inquiringly at Poirot.

“She is a beautiful woman,” said Poirot.

“And that is her husband? He seems what they call ‘a good fellow,' but not perhaps very polished? Still, for Hattie it might be perhaps a little difficult to find a suitable husband.”

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

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

“It would seem so—yes,” said Poirot cautiously.

De Sousa shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah, well! Why should one ask it of women—that they should be intelligent? It is not necessary.”

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

“I've no idea where she is, Sir George. I saw her over by the fortune teller's tent last. But that was at least twenty minutes or half an hour ago. She's not in the house.”

“Is it not possible,” asked Poirot, “that she has gone to observe the progress of Mrs. Oliver's murder hunt?”

Sir George's brow cleared.

“That's probably it. Look here, I can't leave the shows here. I'm in charge. And Amanda's got her hands full. Could
you
possibly have a look round, Poirot? You know the course.”

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: “Tennis Court, Camellia Garden, The Folly, Upper Nursery Garden, Boathouse….”

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.