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.
Mrs Tucker, wisps of hair hanging over her somewhat hot face, came to the door.
'What is it?' she demanded sharply. 'We don't need…' She paused, a faint look of recognition came across her face. 'Why let me see, now, didn't I see you with the police that day?'
'Alas, Madame, that I have brought back painful memories,' said Poirot, stepping firmly inside the door. Mrs Tucker cast a swift agonised glance at his feet, but Poirot's pointed patent leather shoes had only trodden the high road. No mud was being deposited on Mrs Tucker's brightly polished linoleum.
'Come in, won't you, sir,' she said, backing before him, and throwing open the door of a room on her right hand.
Poirot was ushered into a devastatingly neat little parlour. It smelt of furniture polish and Brasso and contained a large Jacobean suite, a round table, two potted geraniums, an elaborate brass fender, and a large variety of china ornaments.
'Sit down, sir, do. I can't remember the name. Indeed, I don't think as I ever heard it.'
'My name is Hercule Poirot,' said Poirot rapidly. 'I found myself once more in this part of the world and I called here to offer you my condolences and to ask you if there had been any developments. I trust the murderer of your daughter has been discovered?'
'Not sight or sound of him,' said Mrs Tucker, speaking with some bitterness. 'And 'tis a downright wicked shame if you ask me. 'Tis my opinion the police don't disturb themselves when it's only the likes of us. What's the police anyway? If they'm all like Bob Hoskins I wonder the whole country isn't a mass of crime. All that Bob Hoskins does is spend his time looking into parked cars on the Common.'
At this point, Mr Tucker, his boots removed, appeared through the doorway, walking on his stockinged feet. He was a large, red-faced man with a pacific expression.
'Police be all right,' he said in a husky voice. 'Got their troubles just like anyone else. These here maniacs ar'n't so easy to find. Look the same as you or me, if you take my meaning,' he added, speaking directly to Poirot.
The little girl who had opened the door to Poirot appeared behind her father, and a boy of about eight poked his head round her shoulder. They all stared at Poirot with intense interest.
'This is your younger daughter, I suppose,' said Poirot.
'That's Marilyn, that is,' said Mrs Tucker. 'And that's Gary. Come and say how do you do, Gary, and mind your manners.'
Gary backed away.
'Shy-like, he is,' said his mother.
'Very civil of you, I'm sure, sir,' said Mr Tucker, 'to come and ask about Marlene. Ah, that was a terrible business, to be sure.'
'I have just called upon Mrs Folliat,' said M. Poirot. 'She, too, seems to feel this very deeply.'
'She's been poorly-like ever since,' said Mrs Tucker. 'She's an old lady and't was a shock to her, happening as it did at her own place.'
Poirot noted once more everybody's unconscious assumption that Nasse House still belonged to Mrs Folliat.
'Makes her feel responsible-like in a way,' said Mr Tucker, 'not that 'twere anything to do with her.'
'Who was it that actually suggested that Marlene should play the victim?' asked Poirot.
'The lady from London that writes the books,' said Mrs Tucker promptly.
Poirot said mildly:
'But she was a stranger down here. She did not even know Marlene.'
''Twas Mrs Masterton what rounded the girls up,' said Mrs Tucker, 'and I suppose 'twas Mrs Masterton said Marlene was to do it. And Marlene, I must say, was pleased enough at the idea.'
Once again, Poirot felt, he came up against a blank wall. But he knew now what Mrs Oliver had felt when she first sent for him. Someone had been working in the dark, someone who had pushed forward their own desires through other recognised personalities. Mrs Oliver, Mrs Masterton. Those were the figureheads. He said:
'I have been wondering, Mrs Tucker, whether Marlene was already acquainted with this – er – homicidal maniac.'
'She wouldn't know nobody like that,' said Mrs Tucker virtuously.
'Ah,' said Poirot, 'but as your husband has just observed, these maniacs are very difficult to spot. They look the same as – er – you and me. Someone may have spoken to Marlene at the fete, or even before it. Made friends with her in a perfectly harmless manner. Given her presents, perhaps.'
'Oh, no, sir, nothing of that kind. Marlene wouldn't take presents from a stranger. I brought her up better than that.'
'But she might see no harm in it,' said Poirot, persisting. 'Supposing it had been some nice lady who had offered her things.'
'Someone, you mean, like young Mrs Legge down to the Mill Cottage.'
'Yes,' said Poirot. 'Someone like that.'
'Give Marlene a lipstick once, she did,' said Mrs Tucker. 'Ever so mad, I was. I won't have you putting that muck on your face, Marlene, I said. Think what your father would say. Well, she says, perky as may be, 'tis the lady down at Lawder's Cottage as give it me. Said as how it would suit me, she did. Well, I said, don't you listen to what no London ladies say. 'Tis all very well for them, painting their faces and blacking their eyelashes and everything else. But you're a decent girl, I said, and you wash your face with soap and water until you're a good deal older than what you are now.'
'But she did not agree with you, I expect,' said Poirot, smiling.
'When I say a thing I mean it,' said Mrs Tucker.
The fat Marilyn suddenly gave an amused giggle. Poirot shot her a keen glance.
'Did Mrs Legge give Marlene anything else?' he asked.
'Believe she gave her a scarf or summat – one she hadn't no more use for. A showy sort of thing, but not much quality. I know quality when I see it,' said Mrs Tucker, nodding her head. 'Used to work at Nasse House as a girl, I did. Proper stuff the ladies wore in those days. No gaudy colours and all this nylon and rayon; real good silk. Why, some of their taffeta dresses would have stood up by themselves.'
'Girls like a bit of finery,' said Mr Tucker indulgently. 'I don't mind a few bright colours myself, but I won't have this 'ere mucky lipstick.'
'A bit sharp I was with her,' said Mrs Tucker, her eyes suddenly misty, 'and her gorn in that terrible way. Wished afterwards I hadn't spoken so sharp. Ah, nought but trouble and funerals lately, it seems. Troubles never come singly, so they say, and 'tis true enough.'
'You have had other losses?' inquired Poirot politely.
'The wife's father,' explained Mr Tucker. 'Come across the ferry in his boat from the Three Dogs late at night, and must have missed his footing getting on to the quay and fallen in the river. Of course he ought to have stayed quiet at home at his age. But there, yu can't do anything with the old 'uns. Always pottering about on the quay, he was.'
'Father was a great one for the boats always,' said Mrs Tucker. 'Used to look after them in the old days for Mr Folliat, years and years ago that was. Not,' she added brightly, 'as father's much loss, as you might say. Well over ninety, he was, and trying in many of his ways. Always babbling some nonsense or other. 'Twas time he went. But, of course, us had to bury him nice – and two funerals running costs a lot of money.'
These economic reflections passed Poirot by – a faint remembrance was stirring.
'An old man – on the quay? I remember talking to him. Was his name -?'
'Merdell, sir. That was my name before I married.'
'Your father, if I remember rightly, was head gardener at Nasse?'
'No, that was my eldest brother. I was the youngest of the family – eleven of us, there were.' She added with some pride. 'There's been Merdells at Nasse for years, but they're all scattered now. Father was the last of us.'
Poirot said softly:
