"You know Lady Stubbs very well, do you not, Mrs Folliat?"
"Probably as well as anyone knows her. Possibly even better than her husband 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 seems 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 warm-hearted 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 thi
nking 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 doesn'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?"
"Hattie? I don't really know. She was quite near at hand when I came out of the fortune telling tent to go to tea, but I didn't speak to her. I don't remember seeing her afterwards. Somebody told me just now that she's missing. Is that true?"
"Yes, it is."
"Oh, well," said Sally Legge cheerfully, "she's a bit queer in the top story, you know. I dare say having a murder here has frightened her."
"Well, thank you, Mrs Legge."
Mrs Legge accepted the dismissal with promptitude. She went out, passing Hercule Poirot in the doorway.
III
Looking at the ceiling, the inspector spoke.
"Mrs 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 o'clock on but that Mrs Legge was not among those present." He paused and then went on, "Miss Brewis says that Lady Stubbs asked her to take a tray of cakes and fruit juice to Marlene Tucker. Michael Weyman says that it's quite impossible Lady Stubbs should have done any such thing – it would be most uncharacteristic of her."
"Ah," said Poirot, "the conflicting statements! Yes, one always has them."
"And what a nuisance they are to clear up, too," said the inspector. "Sometimes they matter but in nine times out of ten they don't. Well, we've got to do a lot of spade work, that's clear."
"And what do you think now, mon cher? What are the latest ideas?"
"I think," said the inspector gravely, "that 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."
"I will not contradict you," said Poirot. "The point is what did she see?"
"She might have seen a murder," said the inspector. "Or she might have seen the person who did the murder."
"Murder?" said Poirot. "The murder of whom?"
"What do you think, Poirot? Is Lady Stubbs alive or dead?"
Poirot took a moment or two before he replied.
Then he said:
"I 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," he added, "knows a great deal that we do not."
Chapter 12
Hercule Poirot came down to the breakfast table on the following morning to a depleted table. Mrs Oliver, still suffering from the shock of yesterday's 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:
"Morning, M. Poirot," perfunctorily, and then relapsed into his state of preoccupation. At times a few ejaculatory murmurs came from him.
"So incredible, the whole damn' thing. Where can she be?"
"The inquest will be held at the Institute on Thursday," said Miss Brewis. "They rang up to tell us."
Her employer looked at her as if he did not understand.
"Inquest?" he said. "Oh, yes, of course." He sounded dazed and uninterested. After another sip or two of coffee he said, "Women are incalculable. What does she think she's doing?"
Miss Brewis pursed her lips. Poirot observed acutely enough that she was in a state of taut nervous tension.
"Hodgson's coming to see you this morning," she remarked, "about the electrification of the milking sheds on the farm. And at twelve o'clock there's the -"
Sir George interrupted.
"I can't see anyone. Put 'em all off! How the devil d'you think a man can attend to business when he's worried half out of his mind about his wife?"
"If you say so, Sir George." Miss Brewis gave the domestic equivalent of a barrister saying "as your lordship pleases." Her dissatisfaction was obvious.
"Never know," said Sir George, "what women get into their heads, or what fool things they're likely to do! You agree, eh?" He shot the last question at Poirot.
"Les femmes! They are incalculable," said Poirot, raising his eyebrows and his hands with Gallic fervour. Miss Brewis blew her nose in an annoyed fashion.
"She seemed all right," said Sir George. "Damn pleased about her new ring, dressed herself up to enjoy the fête. All just the same as usual. Not as though we'd had words or a quarrel of any kind. Going off without a word."
"About those letters, Sir George," began Miss Brewis.
"Damn the bloody letters to hell," 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.
"Answer them any way you like! I can't be bothered." He went on more or less to himself in an injured tone, "Doesn't seem to be anything I can do… Don't even know if that police chap's any good. Very soft spoken and all that."
"The police are, I believe" said Miss Brewis, "very efficient. They have ample facilities for tracing the whereabouts of missing persons."
"They take days sometimes," said Sir George, "to find some miserable kid who's run off and hidden himself in a haystack."
"I don't think Lady Stubbs is likely to be in a haystack, Sir George."
"If only I could do something," repeated the unhappy husband. "I think, you know, I'll put an advertisement in the papers. Take it down, Amanda, will you?" He paused a moment in thought. "Hattie. Please come home. Desperate about you. George. All the papers, Amanda."
; Miss Brewis said acidly:
"Lady Stubbs doesn't often read the papers, Sir George. She's no interest at all in current affairs or what's going on in th world." She added, rather cattily, but Sir George was not in the mood to appreciate cattiness, "Of course you could put an advertisement in Vogue. That might catch her eye."
Sir George said simply:
"Anywhere you think but get on with it."
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.
"Look here, Poirot," he said, "you don't think she's dead, do you?"
Poirot fixed his eyes on his coffee-cup as he replied:
"I 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."
"So you do think so," said Sir George, heavily. "Well," he added defiantly. "I don't! I say she's quite all right." 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 husband's demise, he suspected the wife.) But in this case he did not suspect Sir George with 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 Hattie's 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 murder – a double murder.
Miss Brewis interrupted his thoughts by speaking with almost tearful venom.
"Men are such fools," she said, "such absolute fools! They're quite shrewd in most ways, and then they go marrying entirely the wrong sort of woman."
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