"I've interviewed the lady several times," said the inspector. "Very nice, very pleasant she's been about everything, and seems very distressed that she can't suggest anything helpful."
Can't or won't? thought Poirot. Bland was perhaps thinking the same.
"There's a type of lady," he said, "that you can't force. You can't frighten them, or persuade them, or diddle them."
No, Poirot thought, you couldn't force or persuade or diddle Mrs Folliat.
The inspector had finished his tea, and sighed and gone, and Poirot had got out his jigsaw puzzle to alleviate his mounting exasperation. For he was exasperated. Both exasperated and humiliated. Mrs Oliver had summoned him, Hercule Poirot, to elucidate a mystery. She had felt that there was something wrong, and there had been something wrong. And she had looked confidently to Hercule Poirot, first to prevent it – and he had not prevented it – and, secondly, to discover the killer, and he had not discovered the killer. He was in a fog, in the type of fog where there is from time to time baffling gleams of light. Every now and then, or so it seemed to him, he had had one of those glimpses. And each time he had failed to penetrate farther. He had failed to assess the value of what he seemed, for one brief moment, to have seen.
Poirot got up, crossed to the other side of the hearth, rearranged the second square chair so that it was at a definite geometric angle, and sat down in it. He had passed from the jigsaw of painted wood and cardboard to the jigsaw of a murder problem. He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote in small neat characters:
"Etienne De Sousa, Amanda Brewis, Alec Legge, Sally Legge, Michael Weyman."
It was physically impossible for Sir George or Jim Warburton to have killed Marlene Tucker. Since it was not physically impossible for Mrs Oliver to have done so, he added her name after a brief space. He also added the name of Mrs Masterton since he did not remember of his own knowledge having seen Mrs Masterton constantly on the lawn between four o'clock and quarter to five. He added the name of Henden, the butler; more, perhaps, because a sinister butler had figured in Mrs Oliver's Murder Hunt than because he had really any suspicions of the dark-haired artist with the gong stick. He also put down "Boy in turtle shirt" with a query mark after it. Then he smiled, shook his head, took a pin from the lapel of his jacket, shut his eyes and stabbed with it. It was as good a way as any other, he thought.
He was justifiably annoyed when the pin proved to have transfixed the last entry.
"I am an imbecile," said Hercule Poirot. "What has a boy in a turtle shirt to do with this?"
But he also realised he must have had some reason for including this enigmatic character in his list. He recalled again the day he had sat in the Folly, and the surprise on the boy's face at seeing him there. Not a very pleasant face, despite the youthful good looks. An arrogant ruthless face. The young man had come there for some purpose. He had come to meet someone, and it followed that that someone was a person whom he could not meet, or did not wish to meet, in the ordinary way. It was a meeting, in fact, to which attention must not be called. A guilty meeting. Something to do with the murder?
Poirot pursued his reflections. A boy who was staying at the Youth Hostel – that is to say, a boy who would be in that neighbourhood for two nights at most. Had he come there casually? One of the many young students visiting Britain? Or had he come there for a special purpose, to meet some special person? There could have been what seemed a casual encounter on the day of the fête – possibly there had been.
I know a good deal, said Hercule Poirot to himself. I have in my hands many, many pieces of this jigsaw. I have an idea of the kind of crime this was – but it must be that I am not looking at it the right way.
He turned a page of his notebook, and wrote: Did Lady Stubbs ask Miss Brewis to take tea to Marlene? If not, why does Miss Brewis say that she did?
He considered the point. Miss Brewis might quite easily herself have thought of taking cake and a fruit drink to the girl. But if so why did she not simply say so? Why lie about Lady Stubbs having asked her to do so? Could this be because Miss Brewis went to the boathouse and found Marlene dead? Unless Miss Brewis was herself guilty of the murder, that seemed very unlikely. She was not a nervous woman nor an imaginative one. If she had found the girl dead, she would surely at once have given the alarm?
He stared for some time at the two questions he had written. He could not help feeling that somewhere in those words there was some vital pointer to the truth that had escaped him. After four or five minutes of thought he wrote down something more.
Etienne De Sousa declares that he wrote to his cousin three weeks before his arrival at Nasse House. Is that statement true or false?
Poirot felt almost certain that it was false. He recalled the scene at the breakfast table. There seemed no earthly reason why Sir George or Lady Stubbs should pretend to a surprise and, in the latter's case, a dismay, which they did not feel. He could see no purpose to be accomplished by it. Granting, however, that Etienne De Sousa had lied, why did he lie? To give the impression that his visit had been announced and welcomed? It might be so, but it seemed a very doubtful reason. There was certainly no evidence that such a letter had ever been written or received. Was it an attempt on De Sousa's part to establish his bona fides – to make his visit appear natural and even expected? Certainly Sir George had received him amicably enough, although he did not know him.
Poirot paused, his thoughts coming to a stop. Sir George did not know De Sousa. His wife, who did know him, had not seen him. Was there perhaps something there? Could it be possible that the Etienne De Sousa who had arrived that day at the fête was not the real Etienne De Sousa? He went over the idea in his mind, but again he could see no point to it. What had De Sousa to gain by coming and representing himself as De Sousa if he was not De Sousa? In any case De Sousa did not derive any benefit from Hattie's death. Hattie, as the police had ascertained, had no money of her own except that which was allowed her by her husband.
Poirot tried to remember exactly what she had said to him that morning. "He is a bad man. He does wicked things." And, according to Bland, she had said to her husband: "He kills people."
There was something rather significant about that, now that one came to examine all the facts. He kills people.
On the day Etienne De Sousa had come to Nasse House one person certainly had been killed, possibly two people. Mrs Folliat had said that one should pay no attention to these melodramatic remarks of Hattie's. She had said so very insistently. Mrs Folliat…
Hercule Poirot frowned, then brought his hand down with a bang on the arm of his chair.
"Always, always – I return to Mrs Folliat. She is the key to the whole business. If I knew what she knows… I can no longer sit in an arm-chair and just think. No, I must take a train and go again to Devon and visit Mrs Folliat."
II
Hercule Poirot paused for a moment outside the big wrought-iron gates of Nasse House. He looked ahead of him along the curving drive. It was no longer summer. Golden-brown leaves fluttered gently down from the trees. Near at hand the grassy banks were coloured with small mauve cyclamen. Poirot sighed. The beauty of Nasse House appealed to him in spite of himself. He was not a great admirer of nature in the wild, he liked things trim and neat, yet he could not but appreciate the soft wild beauty of massed shrubs and trees.
At his left was the small white porticoed lodge. It was a fine afternoon. Probably Mrs Folliat would not be at home. She would be out somewhere with her gardening basket or else visiting some friends in the neighbourhood. She had many friends. This was her home, and had been her home for many long years. What was it the old man on the quay had said? "There'll always be Folliats at Nasse House."
Poirot rapped gently upon the door of the Lodge. After a few moments' delay, he heard footsteps inside. They sounded to his ear slow and almost hesitant. Then the door was opened and Mrs Folliat stood framed in the doorway. He was startled to see how old and frail she looked. She stared at him incredulo
usly for a moment or two, then she said:
"M. Poirot? You!"
He thought for a moment that he had seen fear leap into her eyes, but perhaps that was sheer imagination on his part. He said politely:
"May I come in, Madame?"
"But of course."
She had recovered all her poise now, beckoned him in with a gesture and led the way into her small sitting-room. There were some delicate Chelsea figures on the mantelpiece, a couple of chairs covered in exquisite petit point, and a Derby tea service stood on the small table. Mrs Folliat said:
"I will fetch another cup."
Poirot raised a faintly protesting hand, but she pushed the protest aside.
"Of course you must have some tea."
She went out of the room. He looked round him once more. A piece of needlework, a petit point chair seat, lay on a table with a needle sticking in it. Against the wall was a bookcase with books. There was a little cluster of miniatures on the wall and a faded photograph in a silver frame of a man in uniform with a stiff moustache and a weak chin.
Mrs Folliat came back into the room with a cup and saucer in her hand.
Poirot said, "Your husband, Madame?"
"Yes."
Noticing that Poirot's eyes swept along the top of the bookcase as though in search of further photographs, she said brusquely:
"I'm not fond of photographs. They make one live in the past too much. One must learn to forget. One must cut away the dead wood."
Poirot remembered how the first time he had seen Mrs Folliat she had been clipping with secateurs at a shrub on the bank. She had said then, he remembered, something about dead wood. He looked at her thoughtfully, appraising her character. An enigmatical woman, he thought, and a woman who, in spite of the gentleness and fragility of her appearance, had a side to her that could be ruthless. A woman who could cut away dead wood not only from plants but from her own life…
She sat down and poured out a cup of tea, asking:
"Milk? Sugar?"
"Three lumps if you will be so good, Madame?"
She handed him his cup and said conversationally:
"I was surprised to see you. Somehow I did not imagine you would be passing through this part of the world again."
"I am not exactly passing through," said Poirot.
"No?" She queried him with slightly uplifted eyebrows.
"My visit to this part of the world is intentional."
She still looked at him in inquiry.
"I came here partly to see you, Madame."
"Really?"
"First of all – there has been no news of the young Lady Stubbs?"
Mrs Folliat shook her head.
"There was a body washed up the other day in Cornwall," she said. "George went there to see if he could identify it. But it was not her." She added: "I am very sorry for George. The strain has been very great."
"Does he still believe that his wife may be alive?"
Slowly Mrs Folliat shook her head.
"I think," she said, "that he has given up hope. After all, if Hattie were alive, she couldn't possibly conceal herself successfully with the whole of the Press and the Police looking for her. Even if something like loss of memory had happened to her – well, surely the police would have found her by now?"
"It would seem so, yes," said Poirot. "Do the police still search?"
"I suppose so. I do not really know."
"But Sir George has given up hope."
"He does not say so," said Mrs Folliat. "Of course I have not seen him lately. He has been mostly in London."
"And the murdered girl? There have been no developments there?"
"Not that I know of." She added, "It seems a senseless crime – absolutely pointless. Poor child -"
"It still upsets you, I see, to think of her, Madame."
Mrs Folliat did not reply for a moment or two. Then she said:
"I think when one is old, the death of anyone who is young upsets one out of due proportion. We old folks expect to die, but that child had her life before her."
"It might not have been a very interesting life."
"Not from our point of view, perhaps, but it might have been interesting to her."
"And although, as you say, we old folk must expect to die," said Poirot, "we do not really want to. At least I do not want to. I find life very interesting still."
"I don't think that I do."
She spoke more to herself than him, her shoulders drooped still more.
"I am very tired, M. Poirot. I shall be not only ready, but thankful, when my time comes."
He shot a quick glance at her. He wondered, as he had wondered before, whether it was a sick woman who sat talking to him, a woman who had perhaps the knowledge or even the certainty of approaching death. He could not otherwise account for the intense weariness and lassitude of her manner. That lassitude, he felt, was not really characteristic of the woman. Amy Folliat, he felt, was a woman of character, energy and determination. She had lived through many troubles, loss of her home, loss of wealth, the deaths of her sons. All these, he felt, she had survived. She had cut away the "dead wood," as she herself had expressed it. But there was something now in her life that she could not cut away, that no one could cut away for her. If it was not physical illness he did not see what it could be. She gave a sudden little smile as though she were reading his thoughts.
"Really, you know, I have not very much to live for, M. Poirot," she said. "I have many friends but no near relations, no family."
"You have your home," said Poirot on an impulse.
"You mean Nasse? Yes -"
"It is your home, isn't it? Although technically it is the property of Sir George Stubbs? Now Sir George Stubbs has gone to London you rule in his stead."
Again he saw the sharp look of fear in her eyes. When she spoke her voice held an icy edge to it.
"I don't quite know what you mean, M. Poirot. I am grateful to Sir George for renting me this lodge, but I do rent it. I pay him a yearly sum for it with the right to walk in the grounds."
Poirot spread out his hands.
"I apologise, Madame. I did not mean to offend you."
"No doubt I misunderstood you," said Mrs Folliat coldly.
"It is a beautiful place," said Poirot. "A beautiful house, beautiful grounds. It has about it a great peace, great serenity."
"Yes." Her face lightened. "We have always felt that. I felt it as a child when I first came here."
"But is there the same peace and serenity now, Madame?"
"Why not?"
"Murder unavenged," said Poirot. "The spilling of innocent blood. Until that shadow lifts, there will not be peace." He added," I think you know that, Madame, as well as I do."
Mrs Folliat did not answer. She neither moved nor spoke. She sat quite still and Poirot had no idea what she was thinking. He leaned forward a little and spoke again.
"Madame, you know a good deal – perhaps everything – about this murder. You know who killed that girl, you know why. You know who killed Hattie Stubbs, you know, perhaps, where her body lies now."
Mrs Folliat spoke then. Her voice was loud, almost harsh.
"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing."
"Perhaps I have used the wrong word. You do not know, but I think you guess, Madame. I'm quite sure that you guess."
"Now you are being – excuse me – absurd!"
"It is not absurd – it is something quite different – it is dangerous"
"Dangerous? To whom?"
"To you, Madame. So long as you keep your knowledge to yourself you are in danger. I know murderers better than you do, Madame."
"I have told you already, I have no knowledge."
"Suspicions, then -"
"I have no suspicions."
"That, excuse me, is not true, Madame."
"To speak out of mere suspicion would be wrong – indeed, wicked."
Poirot leaned forward. "As wicked as what was done here just over a month ago?
"
She shrank back into her chair, huddled into herself. She half whispered:
"Don't talk to me of it." And then added, with a long shuddering sigh. "Anyway, it's over now. Done – finished with."
"How can you tell that, Madame? I tell you of my own knowledge that it is never finished with a murderer."
She shook her head.
"No. No, it's the end. And, anyway, there is nothing I can do. Nothing."
He got up and stood looking down at her. She said almost fretfully:
"Why, even the police have given up."
Poirot shook his head.
"Oh, no, Madame, you are wrong there. The police do not give up. And I," he added, "do not give up either. Remember that, Madame. I, Hercule Poirot, do not give up."
It was a very typical exit line.
Chapter 17
After leaving Nasse, Poirot went to the village where, by inquiry, he found the cottage occupied by the Tuckers. His knock at the door went unanswered for some moments, as it was drowned by the high-pitched tones of Mrs Tucker's voice from inside,
"- And what be yu thinking of, Jim Tucker, bringing them boots of yours on to my nice linoleum? If I've tell ee once I've tell ee a thousand times. Been polishing it all the morning, I have, and now look at it."
A faint rumbling denoted Mr Tucker's reaction to these remarks. It was on the whole a placatory rumble.
"Yu've no cause to go forgetting. 'Tis all this eagerness to get the sports news on the wireless. Why, it wouldn't have took ee to minutes to be off with them boots. And yu, Gary, do ee mind what yu'm doing with that lollipop. Sticky fingers I will not have on my best silver teapot. Marilyn, that be someone at the door, that be. Du ee go and see who 'tis."
The door was opened gingerly and a child of about eleven or twelve years old peered out suspiciously at Poirot. One cheek was bulged with a sweet. She was a fat child with small blue eyes and a rather piggy kind of prettiness.
"'Tis a gentleman, mum," she shouted.
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