"You say she couldn't tell you anything definite – do you mean couldn't, Sir George – or might it have been wouldn't?"
"I don't think…" He broke off. "I don't know. You've muddled me. As I say, I didn't take any of it seriously. I thought perhaps this cousin had teased her a bit when she was a kid – something of that kind. It's difficult to explain to you because you don't know my wife. I am devoted to her, but half the time I don't listen to what she says because it just doesn't make sense. Anyway, this De Sousa fellow couldn't have had anything to do with all this – don't 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?"
"I'm not suggesting that anything like that happened," said Inspector Bland, "but you must realise, Sir George, that in looking for the murderer of Marlene Tucker the field is a more restricted one than one might think at first."
"Restricted!" Sir George stared. "You've got the whole ruddy fête to choose from, haven't you? Two hundred – three hundred – people? Any one of 'em might have done it."
"Yes, I thought so at first, but from what I've learnt now that's hardly so. The boathouse door has a Yale lock. Nobody could come in from outside without a key."
"Well, there were three keys."
"Exactly. 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 organiser of the Murder Hunt. Where is the third key, Sir George?"
"It ought to be in the drawer of that desk where you're sitting. No, the right-hand one with a lot of the other estate duplicates."
He came over and rummaged in the drawer.
"Yes. Here it is all right."
"Then you see," said Inspector Bland, "what 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."
"Well, that latter point covers pretty well everyone, doesn't it?"
"Very far from it," said Inspector Bland. "If 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 clue – the 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 house – that is to say, yourself, Lady Stubbs, Miss Brewis, Mrs Oliver – possibly M. Poirot whom I believe she had met this morning. Who else, Sir George?"
Sir George considered for a moment or two.
"The Legges, of course," he said. "Alec and Sally Legge. They've been in it from the start. And Michael Weyman, he's an architect staying here in the house to design a tennis pavilion. And Warburton, the Mastertons – oh, and Mrs Folliat of course."
"That is all – nobody else?"
"That's the lot."
"So you see. Sir George, it is not a very wide field."
Sir George's face went scarlet.
"I think you're talking nonsense – absolute nonsense! Are you suggesting – what are you suggesting?"
"I'm only suggesting," said Inspector Bland, "that there's a great deal we don't know as yet. It's 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." He added in a slightly changed voice, "I can assure you, Sir George, that we're doing all we can to find Lady Stubbs. In the meantime I'd like to have a word with Mr and Mrs Alec Legge and Mr Michael Weyman."
"Amanda."
"I'll see what I can do about it, Inspector," said Miss Brewis. "I expect Mrs Legge is still telling fortunes in the tent. A lot of people have come in with the half-price admission since five o'clock, and all the side shows are busy. I can probably get hold of Mr Legge or Mr Weyman for you – whichever you want to see first."
"It doesn't matter in what order I see them," said Inspector Bland.
Miss Brewis nodded and left the room. Sir George followed her, his voice rising plaintively.
"Look here, Amanda, you've got to…"
Inspector Bland realised 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 Espérance.
"You realise, I suppose," he said to Hoskins who was obviously quite incapable of realizing anything of the sort," that there's just one perfectly possible place where this damn woman might be – and that's on board De Sousa's yacht?"
"How d'you make that out, sir?"
"Well, the woman has not been seen to leave by any of the usual exits, she's togged up in a way that makes it unlikely that she's 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 fête afterwards."
"And why would he do that, sir?" demanded Hoskins, puzzled.
"I've no idea," said the inspector, "and it's very unlikely that he did. But it's a possibility. And if she is on the Espérance, I'll see to it that she won't get off there without being observed."
"But if her fair hated the sight of him…" Hoskins dropped into the vernacular.
"All we know is that she said she did. Women," said the inspector sententiously, "tell a lot of lies. Always remember that, Hoskins."
"Aah," 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.
"Mr Alec Legge?" said the inspector, looking up.
"No," said the young man, "I'm Michael Weyman. You asked for me, I understand."
"Quite true, sir," said Inspector Bland. "Won't you take a chair?" He indicated a chair at the opposite side of the table.
"I don't care for sitting," said Michael Weyman, "I like to stride about. What are all you police doing here anyway? What's happened?"
Inspector Bland looked at him in surprise.
"Didn't Sir George inform you, sir?" he asked.
"Nobody's 'informed me,' as you put it, of anything. I don't sit in Sir George's pocket all the time. What has happened?"
"You're staying in the house, I understand?"
"Of course I'm staying in the house. What's that got to do with it?"
"Simply that I imagined that all the people staying in the house would by now have been informed of this afternoon's tragedy."
"Tragedy? What tragedy?"
"The girl who was playing the part of the murder victim has been killed."
"No!" Michael Weyman seemed exuberantly surprised. "Do you mean really killed? No fakery-pokery?"
"I don't know what you mean by fakery-pokery. The girl's dead."
"How was she killed?"
"Strangled with a piece of cord."
Michael Weyman gave a whistle.
"Exactly as in the scenario? Well, well, that does give one ideas." He strode over to the window, turned rapidly about, and said, "So we're all under suspicion, are we? Or was it one of the local boys?"
"We don't see how it could possibly have been one of the local boys, as you put it," said the inspector.
"No more do I real
ly," said Michael Weyman. "Well, Inspector, many of my friends call me crazy, but I'm not that kind of crazy. I don't roam around the countryside strangling under-developed spotty young women."
"You are down here, I understand, Mr Weyman, designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George?"
"A blameless occupation," said Michael. "Criminally speaking, that is. Architecturally, I'm not so sure. The finished product will probably represent a crime against good taste. But that doesn't interest you, Inspector. What does interest you?"
"Well, I should like to know, Mr Weyman, exactly where you were between quarter past four this afternoon and say five o'clock."
"How do you tape it down to that – medical evidence?"
"Not entirely, sir. A witness saw the girl alive at a quarter past four."
"What witness – or mayn't I ask?"
"Miss Brewis. Lady Stubbs asked her to take down a tray of creamy cakes with some fruit-ade to the girl."
"Our Hattie asked her that? I don't believe it for a moment."
"Why don't you believe it, Mr Weyman?"
"It's not like her. Not the sort of thing she'd think of or bother about. Dear Lady Stubbs's mind revolves entirely round herself."
"I'm still waiting, Mr Weyman, for your answer to my question?"
"Where I was between four-fifteen and five o'clock? Well, really. Inspector, I can't say off-hand. I was about – if you know what I mean."
"About where?"
"Oh, 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."
"Did someone identify it?"
"Yes, I believe someone did come along, but I wasn't really noticing by then. I got a new idea about the Pavilion – a way of making the best of two worlds. My own and Sir George's."
"And after that?"
"After that? Well, I strolled around and came back to the house. I strolled down to the quay and had a crack with old Merdell, then came back. I can't fix any of the times with any accuracy. I was, as I said, in the first place, about! That's all there is to it."
"Well, Mr Weyman," said the inspector briskly, "I expect we can get some confirmation of all this."
"Merdell can tell you that I talked to him on the quay. But of course that'll be rather later than the time you're interested in. Must have been after five when I got down there. Very unsatisfactory, isn't it, Inspector?"
"We shall be able to narrow it down, I expect, Mr Weyman."
The inspector's tone was pleasant, but there was a steely ring in it that did not escape the young architect's notice. He sat down on the arm of a chair.
"Seriously," he said; "who can have wanted to murder that girl?"
"You've no ideas yourself, Mr Weyman?"
"Well, off-hand, I'd say it was our prolific authoress, the Purple Peril. Have you seen her imperial purple get-up? 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 dust-up." 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."
Chapter 11
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 apologise, 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:
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