having disposed of Lady Stubbs, naturally had to kill her too. Easy enough for him to take her back to the boathouse, dump her there and come out, pulling the door behind him. It was a Yale lock. It would pull to, and lock.'
Poirot nodded gently. It was not his purpose to argue with Mrs Masterton or to point out to her the interesting fact which she had completely overlooked, that if Marlene Tucker had been killed away from the boathouse, somebody must have known enough about the murder game to put her back in the exact place and position which the victim was supposed to assume. Instead, he said gently:
'Sir George Stubbs is confident that his wife is still alive.'
'That's what he says, man, because he wants to believe it. He was very devoted to her, you know.' She added, rather unexpectedly, 'I like George Stubbs in spite of his origins and his city background and all that, he goes down very well in the county. The worst that can be said about him is that he's a bit of a snob. And after all, social snobbery's harmless enough.'
Poirot said somewhat cynically:
'In these days, Madame, surely money has become as acceptable as good birth.'
'My dear man, I couldn't agree with you more. There's no need for him to be a snob – only got to buy the place and throw his money about, and we'd all come and call! But actually, the man's liked. It's not only his money. Of course Amy Folliat's had something to do with that. She has sponsored them, and mind you, she's got a lot of influence in this part of the world. Why there have been Folliats here since Tudor times.'
'There have always been Folliats at Nasse House,' Poirot murmured to himself.
'Yes.' Mrs Masterson sighed. 'It's sad, the toll taken by the war. Young men killed in battle – death duties and all that. Then whoever comes into a place can't afford to keep it up and has to sell -'
'But Mrs Folliat, although she has lost her home, still lives on the estate.'
'Yes. She's made the Lodge quite charming too. Have you been inside it?'
'No, we parted at the door.'
'It wouldn't be every's cup of tea,' said Mrs Masterton. 'To live at the lodge of your old home and see strangers in possession. But to do Amy Folliat justice I don't think she feels bitter about that. In fact, she engineered the whole thing. There's no doubt she imbued Hattie with the idea of living down here, and got her to persuade George Stubbs into it. The thing, I think, that Amy Folliat couldn't have borne was to see the place turned into a hostel or institution, or carved up for building.' She rose to her feet. 'Well, I must be getting along. I'm a busy woman.'
'Of course. You have to talk to the Chief Constable about bloodhounds.'
Mrs Masterton gave a sudden deep bay of laughter.
'Used to breed 'em at one time,' she said. 'People tell me I'm a bit like a bloodhound myself.'
Poirot was slightly taken aback and she was quick enough to see it.
'I bet you've been thinking so, M. Poirot,' she said.
Chapter 13
After Mrs Masterton had left, Poirot went out and strolled through the woods. His nerves were not quite what they should be. He felt an irresistible desire to look behind every bush and to consider every thicket of rhododendron as a possible hiding-place for a body. He came at last to the Folly and going inside it, he sat down on the stone bench there, to rest his feet which were, as was his custom, enclosed in tight, pointed patent-leather shoes.
Through the trees he could catch faint glimmers of the river and of the wooded banks on the opposite side. He found himself agreeing with the young architect that this was no place to put an architectural fantasy of this kind. Gaps could be cut in the trees, of course, but even then there would be no proper view. Whereas, as Michael Weyman had said, on the grassy bank near the house a Folly could have been erected with a delightful vista right down the river to Helmmouth. Poirot's thoughts flew off at a tangent. Helmmouth, the yacht Esperance, and Etienne De Sousa. The whole thing must tie up in some kind of pattern, but what the pattern was he could not visualise. Tempting strands of it showed here and there but that was all.
Something that glittered caught his eye and he bent to pick it up. It had come to rest in a small crack of the concrete base to the temple. He held it in the palm of his hand and looked at it with a faint stirring of recognition. It was a little gold aeroplane charm. As he frowned at it, a picture came into his mind. A bracelet. A gold bracelet hung over with dangling charms. He was sitting once more in the tent and the voice of Madame Zuleika, alias Sally Legge, was talking of dark women and journeys across the sea and good fortune in a letter. Yes, she had had on a bracelet from which depended a multiplicity of small gold objects. One of these modern fashions which repeated the fashions of Poirot's early days. Probably that was why it had made an impression on him. Some time or other, presumably, Mrs Legge had sat here in the Folly, and one of the charms had fallen from her bracelet. Perhaps she had not even noticed it. It might have been some days ago – weeks perhaps. Or, it might have been yesterday afternoon.
Poirot considered that latter point. Then he heard footsteps outside and looked up sharply. A figure came round to the front of the Folly and stopped, startled, at the sight of Poirot. Poirot looked with a considering eye on the slim, fair young man wearing a shirt on which a variety of tortoise and turtle was depicted. The shirt was unmistakable. He had observed it closely yesterday when its wearer was throwing coconuts.
He noticed that the young man was almost unusually perturbed. He said quickly in a foreign accent:
'I beg your pardon – I did not know -'
Poirot smiled gently at him but with a reproving air.
'I am afraid,' he said, 'that you are trespassing.'
'Yes, I am sorry.'
'You come from the hostel?'
'Yes. Yes, I do. I thought perhaps one could get through the woods this way and so to the quay.'
'I am afraid,' said Poirot gently,' that you will have to go back the way you came. There is no through road.'
The young man said again, showing all his teeth in a would-be agreeable smile:
'I am sorry. I am very sorry.'
He bowed and turned away.
Poirot came out of the Folly and back on to the path, watching the boy retreat. When he got to the ending of the path, he looked over his shoulder. Then, seeing Poirot watching him, he quickened his pace and disappeared round the bend.
'Eh bien,' said Poirot to himself, 'is this a murderer I have seen, or is it not?'
The young man had certainly been at the fete yesterday and had scowled when he had collided with Poirot, and just as certainly therefore he must know quite well that there was no through path by way of the woods to the ferry. If, indeed, he had been looking for a path to the ferry he would not have taken this path by the Folly, but would have kept on the lower level near the river. Moreover, he had arrived at the Folly with the air of one who has reached his rendezvous, and who is badly startled at finding the wrong person at the meeting place.
'So it is like this,' said Poirot to himself. 'He came here to meet someone. Who did he come to meet?' He added as an afterthought, 'And why?'
He strolled down to the bend of the path and looked at it where it wound away into the trees. There was no sign of the young man in the turtle shirt now. Presumably he had deemed it prudent to retreat as rapidly as possible. Poirot retraced his steps, shaking his head.
Lost in thought, he came quietly round the side of the Folly, and stopped on the threshold, startled in his turn. Sally Legge was there on her knees, her head bent down to the cracks in the flooring. She jumped up, startled.
'Oh, M. Poirot, you gave me such a shock. I didn't hear you coming.'
'You were looking for something, Madame?'
'I – no, not exactly.'
'You had lost something, perhaps,' said Poirot. 'Dropped something. Or perhaps…' He adopted a roguish, gallant air, 'Or perhaps, Madame, it is a rendezvous. I am, most unfortunately, not the person you came to meet?'
She had recovered her aplomb by now.
