'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 fete 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
