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
