Contents

Foreword

HerculePoirotandtheGreenshoreFollyChapterIChapterIIChapterIIIChapterIVChapterVChapterVIChapterVIIChapterVIIIChapterIX

AbouttheAuthorTheAgathaChristieCollectionCopyrightAboutthePublisher

Foreword

Although itwas published inNovember 1956, theHercule Poirot novelDeadMan’s Folly had a complicated two-year genesis. In November 1954 AgathaChristie’s agent Hughes Massie wrote to the Diocesan Board of Finance inExeterexplainingthathisclientwouldliketoseestainedglasswindowsinthechancelofChurstonFerrersChurch(Christie’slocalchurch)andwaswillingtopayforthembyassigningtherightsofastorytoafundsetupforthatpurpose.The Diocesan Board and the local church were both very happy with thearrangementandinaletterof3December1954HughesMassieconfirmed‘MrsMallowan’s intentions toassignthemagazinerightsofa longshortstorytobeentitled The Greenshore Folly’ to such a fund. The amount involved wasreckonedtobeintheregionof£1,000(£18,000intoday’svalue).

ByMarch1955theDiocesanBoardwasgettingrestiveandwonderingabouttheprogressof thesale.But for the first time in35years,much toeveryone’sembarrassment, it proved impossible to sell the story. The problem was itslength;itwasalongnovella,whichwasadifficultlength,neitheranovelnorashortstory,forthemagazinemarket.Bymid-July1955,thedecisionwasmadeto withdraw the story from sale, as ‘Agatha thinks [it] is packed with goodmaterialwhichshecanuseforhernextfulllengthnovel’.Asacompromise,itwasagreed thatshewouldwriteanothershort story for theChurch,also tobecalled, for legal reasons, ‘The Greenshore Folly’, ‘though it will probably bepublished under some other title’. So, the original and rejected novella ‘TheGreenshoreFolly’waselaboratedintothenovelDeadMan’sFollyandChristiewrotetheshorterandsimilarlytitledMissMarplestory‘Greenshaw’sFolly’toswell the coffers of the Church authorities. ‘Greenshaw’s Folly’ was firstpublishedin1956andwascollectedinTheAdventureoftheChristmasPuddingin1960.

Unpublishedfornearly60years,HerculePoirotandtheGreenshoreFollyisAgathaChristie’soriginalversionof the storybefore sheexpanded it.Thoughmany passages survived unchanged in Dead Man’s Folly, especially at thebeginning of the book, there are notable differences as the story develops andchangesdirection.

HerculePoirotandtheGreenshoreFolly

I

ItwasMissLemon,Poirot’sefficientsecretary,whotookthetelephonecall.Laying aside her shorthand notebook, she raised the receiver and said

withoutemphasis,‘Trafalgar8137.’Hercule Poirot leaned back in his upright chair and closed his eyes. His

fingers beat a meditative soft tattoo on the edge of the table. In his head hecontinuedtocomposethepolishedperiodoftheletterhehadbeendictating.

Placingherhandoverthereceiver,MissLemonaskedinalowvoice,‘WillyouacceptapersonalcallfromLapton,Devon?’

Poirotfrowned.Theplacemeantnothingtohim.‘Thenameofthecaller?’hedemandedcautiously.MissLemonspokeintothemouthpiece.‘Air-raid?’sheaskeddoubtingly.‘Oh,yes–whatwasthelastnameagain?’OncemoresheturnedtoHerculePoirot.‘Mrs.AriadneOliver.’Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows shot up. A memory rose up in his mind:

windsweptgreyhair…aneagleprofile…HeroseandreplacedMissLemonatthetelephone.‘HerculePoirotspeaks,’heannouncedgrandiloquently.‘IsthatMr.HerculesPorrotspeakingpersonally?’thesuspiciousvoiceofthe

telephoneoperatordemanded.Poirotassuredherthatthatwasthecase.‘You’rethroughtoMr.Porrot,’saidthevoice.Its thin reedy accents were replaced by a magnificent booming contralto

whichcausedPoirothastilytoshiftthereceiveracoupleofinchesfurtherfromhisear.

‘Mr.Poirot,isthatreallyyou?’demandedMrs.Oliver.‘Myselfinperson,Madame.’‘ThisisMrs.Oliver.Idon’tknowifyou’llrememberme–’‘ButofcourseIrememberyou,Madame.Whocouldforgetyou?’‘Well,peopledosometimes,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘Quiteoften, infact.Idon’t

think that I’ve got a very distinctive personality. Or perhaps it’s because I’m

alwaysdoingdifferent thingstomyhair.Butall that’sneitherherenorthere.IhopeI’mnotinterruptingyouwhenyou’refrightfullybusy?’

‘No,no,youdonotderangemeintheleast.’‘Goodgracious–I’msureIdon’twanttodriveyououtofyourmind.The

factis,Ineedyou.’‘Needme?’‘Yes,atonce.Canyoutakeanaeroplane?’‘Idonottakeaeroplanes.Theymakemesick.’‘Theydome,too.Anyway,I

don’tsupposeitwouldbeanyquickerthanthetrainreally,becauseI thinktheonlyairportnearhereisExeterwhichismilesaway.Socomebytrain.Twelveo’clockfromPaddington.YougetoutatLaptontoNassecombe.Youcandoitnicely.You’vegotthreequartersofanhourifmywatchisright–thoughitisn’tusually.’

‘Butwhereareyou,Madame?Whatisallthisabout?’‘Greenshore House, Lapton. A car or taxi will meet you at the station at

Lapton.’‘But why do you need me? What is all this about?’ Poirot repeated

frantically.‘Telephonesareinsuchawkwardplaces,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘Thisone’sinthe

hall … People passing through and talking … I can’t really hear. But I’mexpectingyou.Everybodywillbesothrilled.Goodbye.’

There was a sharp click as the receiver was replaced. The line hummedgently.

With a baffled air of bewilderment, Poirot put back the receiver andmurmuredsomethingunderhisbreath.MissLemonsatwithherpencilpoised,incurious.She repeated inmuted tones the final phraseofdictationbefore theinterruption.

‘– allow me to assure you, my dear sir, that the hypothesis you haveadvanced–’

Poirotwavedasidetheadvancementofthehypothesis.‘ThatwasMrs.Oliver,’hesaid.‘AriadneOliver,thedetectivenovelist.You

may have read –’ But he stopped, remembering that Miss Lemon only readimprovingbooksandregardedsuchfrivolitiesasfictionalcrimewithcontempt.‘ShewantsmetogodowntoDevonshiretoday,atonce,in–’heglancedattheclock‘–thirty-fiveminutes.’

MissLemonraiseddisapprovingeyebrows.‘Thatwillberunningitratherfine,’shesaid.‘Forwhatreason?’

‘Youmaywellask!Shedidnottellme.’‘Howverypeculiar.Whynot?’‘Because,’ said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, ‘she was afraid of being

overheard.Yes,shemadethatquiteclear.’‘Well, really,’ saidMiss Lemon, bristling in her employer’s defence. ‘The

things people expect! Fancy thinking that you’d go rushing off on somewildgoose chase like that!An importantman like you! I have always noticed thatthese artists andwriters are veryunbalanced– no sense of proportion.Shall Itelephonethroughatelegram:RegretunableleaveLondon?’

Herhandwentouttothetelephone.Poirot’svoicearrestedthegesture.‘Du tout!’ he said. ‘On the contrary. Be so kind as to summon a taxi

immediately.’He raised his voice. ‘Georges!A fewnecessities of toilet inmysmallvalise.Andquickly,veryquickly,Ihaveatraintocatch.’

II

Thetrain,havingdoneonehundredandeighty-oddmilesofitstwohundredandtwelvemilesjourneyattopspeed,puffedgentlyandapologeticallythroughthelast thirty and drew into Lapton station. Only one person alighted, HerculePoirot.Henegotiatedwithcareayawninggapbetweenthestepofthetrainandtheplatformandlookedroundhim.Atthefarendofthetrainaporterwasbusyinside a luggage compartment. Poirot picked up his valise and walked backalongtheplatformtotheexit.Hegaveuphisticketandwalkedoutthroughthebookingoffice.

A largeHumber saloonwas drawn up outside and a chauffeur in uniformcameforward.

‘Mr.HerculePoirot?’heinquiredrespectfully.HetookPoirot’scasefromhimandopenedthedoorofthecarforhim.They

droveawayfromthestation,over therailwaybridgeanddownacountryroadwhichpresentlydisclosedaverybeautifulriverview.

‘TheDart,sir,’saidthechauffeur.‘Magnifique!’saidPoirotobligingly.Theroadwasalongstragglingcountrylanerunningbetweengreenhedges,

dippingdownandthenup.Ontheupwardslopetwogirlsinshortswithbrightscarves over their heads and carrying heavy rucksacks on their backs weretoilingslowlyupwards.

‘There’saYouthHosteljustaboveus,sir,’explainedthechauffeur,whohadclearlyconstitutedhimselfPoirot’sguidetoDevon…‘UpperGreenshore,theycall it.Comeforacoupleofnightsata time, theydo,andverybusy theyaretherejustnow.Fortyorfiftyanight.’

‘Ah,yes,’saidPoirot.Hewasreflecting,andnotforthefirsttime,thatseenfromtheback,shortswerebecomingtoveryfewofthefemalesex.Heshuthiseyesinpain.

‘Theyseemheavilyladen,’hemurmured.‘Yes,sir,andit’salongpullfromthestationorthebusstop.Bestpartoftwo

miles.Ifyoudon’tobject,sir,’hehesitated,‘wecouldgivethemalift.’‘Byallmeans.Byallmeans,’saidPoirotbenignantly.

Thechauffeursloweddownandcametoapurringhaltbesidethetwogirls.Two flushedandperspiring faceswere raisedhopefully.Thedoorwasopenedandthegirlsclimbedin.

‘Itismostkind,please,’saidoneofthempolitelyinaforeignaccent.‘ItislongerwaythanIthink,yes.’TheothergirlwhoclearlyhadnotmuchEnglishmerely nodded her head several times gratefully and smiled, and murmured‘Grazie’

Brightdarkchestnutfuzzycurlsescapedfromherheadscarfandshehadonbigearnestlookingspectacles.

TheEnglishspeakinggirlcontinuedtalkingvivaciously.ShewasinEnglandfor a fortnight’s holiday. Her home was Rotterdam. She had already seenStratford on Avon, Clovelly, Exeter Cathedral, Torquay and, ‘after visitingbeauty spot here and historicDartmouth, I go toPlymouth, discovery ofNewWorldfromPlymouthHoe.’

TheItaliangirlmurmered‘Hoe?’andshookherhead,puzzled.‘ShedoesnotmuchEnglishspeak,’saidtheDutchgirl,butIunderstandshe

hasrelativenearheremarriedtogentlemanwhokeepsashopforgroceries,soshewillspendtimewiththem.MyfriendIcomefromRotterdamwithhaseatvealandhampienotgoodinshopatExeterandissick there. It isnotalwaysgoodinhotweather,thevealandhampie.’

Thechauffeursloweddownataforkin theroad.Thegirlsgotout,utteredthanksintwolanguagesandthechauffeurwithawaveofthehanddirectedthemtothelefthandroad.HealsolaidasideforamomenthisOlympianaloofness.

‘You want to be careful of Cornish Pasties too,’ he warned them. Putanythinginthem,theywill,holidaytime.’

Thecardroverapidlydowntherighthandroadintoathickbeltoftrees.‘Nice enough young women, some of them, though foreign,’ said the

chauffeur. ‘But absolutely shocking the way they trespass. Don’t seem tounderstandplacesareprivate.’

Theywent on, down a steep hill throughwoods, then through a gate andalongadrive,windingupfinallyinfrontofabigwhiteGeorgianhouselookingoutovertheriver.

The chauffeur opened the door of the car as a tall butler appeared on thesteps.

‘Mr.HerculePoirot?’‘Yes.’‘Mrs. Oliver is expecting you, sir. You will find her down at the Battery.

Allowmetoshowyoutheway.’Poirotwasdirectedtoawindingpaththatledalongthewoodwithglimpses

oftheriverbelow.Thepathdescendedgraduallyuntilitcameoutatlastonanopenspace,roundinshapewithalowbattlementedparapet.OntheparapetMrs.Oliverwassitting.

She rose tomeethimandseveralapples fell fromher lapand rolled inalldirections.ApplesseemedtobeaninescapablemotifofmeetingMrs.Oliver.

‘I can’t think why I always drop things,’ said Mrs. Oliver somewhatindistinctly,sincehermouthwasfullofapple.‘Howareyou,M.Poirot?’

‘Trèsbien,chèreMadame,’repliedPoirotpolitely.‘Andyou?’Mrs.OliverwaslookingsomewhatdifferentfromwhenPoirothadlastseen

her,andthereasonlay,asshehadalreadyhintedoverthetelephone,inthefactthatshehadoncemoreexperimentedwithhercoiffure.ThelasttimePoirothadseenher,shehadbeenadoptingawindswepteffect.Today,herhair,richlyblued,was piled upward in a multiplicity of rather artificial little curls in a pseudoMarquisestyle.TheMarquiseeffectendedatherneck;therestofhercouldhavebeendefinitely labelled ‘countrypractical,’ consistingof a violent yolkof eggroughtweedcoatandskirtandaratherbiliouslookingmustardcolouredjumper.

‘Iknewyou’dcome,’saidMrs.Olivercheerfully.‘Youcouldnotpossiblyhaveknown,’saidPoirotseverely.‘Oh,yesIdid.’‘IstillaskmyselfwhyIamhere.’‘Well,Iknowtheanswer.Curiosity.’Poirotlookedatherandhiseyestwinkledalittle.‘YourfamousWoman’sIntuition,’hesaid,‘hasperhapsforoncenotledyou

toofarastray.’‘Now, don’t laugh at mywoman’s intuition. Haven’t I always spotted the

murdererrightaway?’Poirot was gallantly silent. Otherwise hemight have replied, ‘At the fifth

attempt,perhaps,andnotalwaysthen!’Insteadhesaid,lookingroundhim,‘Itisindeedabeautifulpropertythatyou

havehere.’‘This?Butitdoesn’tbelongtome,M.Poirot.Didyouthinkitdid?Oh,no,it

belongstosomepeoplecalledStubbs.’‘Whoarethey?’‘Oh,nobodyreally,’saidMrs.Olivervaguely.‘Justrich.No,I’mdownhere

professionally,doingajob.’

‘Ah,youaregettinglocalcolourforoneofyourchefs-d’oeuvre?’‘No,no. Justwhat I said. I’mdoinga job. I’vebeenengaged to arrangea

murder.’Poirotstaredather.‘Oh,notarealone,’saidMrs.Oliverreassuringly.‘There’sabigFêtething

on tomorrow, and as a kind of novelty there’s going to be a Murder Hunt.Arranged byme.Like aTreasureHunt, you see; only they’ve had aTreasureHunt sooften that they thought thiswouldbeanovelty.So theyofferedmeaverysubstantial fee tocomedownand think itup.Quite fun, really– ratherachangefromtheusualgrimroutine.’

‘Howdoesitwork?’‘Well, there’llbeaVictim,ofcourse.AndClues.AndSuspects.All rather

conventional–youknow,theVampandtheBlackmailerandtheYoungLoversandtheSinisterButlerandsoon.HalfacrowntoenterandyougetshownthefirstClueandyou’vegottofindtheVictim,andtheWeaponandsayWhodunnitandtheMotive.AndtherearePrizes.’

‘Remarkable,’saidHerculePoirot.‘Actually,’ saidMrs. Oliver ruefully, ‘it’s all much harder to arrange than

you’dthink.Becauseyou’vegottoallowforrealpeoplebeingquiteintelligent,andinmybookstheyneedn’tbe.’

‘Anditistoassistyouinarrangingthisthatyouhavesentforme?’Poirotdidnottryveryhardtokeepanoutragedresentmentoutofhisvoice.‘Oh,no,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘Ofcoursenot!I’vedoneallthat.Everything’sall

setfortomorrow.No,Iwantedyouforquiteanotherreason.’‘Whatreason?’Mrs.Oliver’shandsstrayedupwardtoherhead.Shewasjustabouttosweep

them frenziedly through her hair in the old familiar gesture when sheremembered the intricacy of hercoiffure. Instead, she relieved her feelings bytuggingatherearlobes.

‘IdaresayI’mafool,’shesaid.‘ButIthinkthere’ssomethingwrong.’‘Somethingwrong?How?’‘Idon’tknow…That’swhatIwantyoutofindout.ButI’vefelt–moreand

more–thatIwasbeing–oh!–engineered…jockeyedalong…Callmeafoolif you like, but I canonly say that if therewas tobe a realmurder tomorrowinsteadofafakeone,Ishouldn’tbesurprised!’

Poirotstaredatherandshelookedbackathimdefiantly.‘Veryinteresting,’saidPoirot.

‘IsupposeyouthinkI’macompletefool,’saidMrs.Oliverdefensively.‘Ihaveneverthoughtyouafool,’saidPoirot.‘AndIknowwhatyoualwayssay–orlook–aboutIntuition.’‘One calls things by different names,’ said Poirot. ‘I am quite ready to

believethatyouhavenoticedsomethingorheardsomethingthathasdefinitelyarousedinyouanxiety.Ithinkitpossiblethatyouyourselfmaynotevenknowjustwhatitisthatyouhaveseenornoticedorheard.Youareawareonlyoftheresult. If Imaysoput it,youdonotknowwhat it is thatyouknow.Youmaylabelthatintuitionifyoulike.’

‘Itmakesonefeelsuchafool,’saidMrs.Oliver,ruefully,‘nottobeabletobedefinite.’

‘Weshallarrive,’saidPoirotencouragingly.‘Yousaythatyouhavehadthefeelingofbeing–howdidyouputit–jockeyedalong?Canyouexplainalittlemoreclearlywhatyoumeanbythat?’

‘Well, it’s rather difficult…You see, this ismymurder, so to speak. I’vethought it out and planned it and it all fits in – dovetails.Well, if you knowanything at all about writers, you’ll know that they can’t stand suggestions.Peoplesay,“Splendid,butwouldn’titbebetterifsoandsodidsoandso?”Or,“Wouldn’t it be a wonderful idea if the victim was A instead of B? Or themurdererturnedouttobeDinsteadofE?”Imean,onewantstosay:“Allrightthen,writeityourselfifyouwantitthatway”!’

Poirotnodded.‘Andthatiswhathasbeenhappening?’‘Not quite… That sort of silly suggestion has been made, and then I’ve

flaredup,andthey’vegivenin,buthavejustslippedinsomequiteminortrivialsuggestion and because I’ve made a stand over the other, I’ve accepted thetrivialitywithoutnoticingmuch.’

‘Isee,’saidPoirot.‘Yes–itisamethod,that…Somethingrathercrudeandpreposterous isput forward–but that isnot really thepoint.The smallminoralterationisreallytheobjective.Isthatwhatyoumean?’

‘That’s exactlywhat Imean,’ saidMrs.Oliver. ‘And, of course, Imay beimagining it, but I don’t think I am – and none of the things seem tomatteranyway.Butit’sgotmeworried–that,andasortof–well–atmosphere.’

‘Whohasmadethesesuggestionsofalterationstoyou?’‘Differentpeople,’ saidMrs.Oliver. ‘If itwas justone person I’dbemore

sureofmyground.Butit’snotjustoneperson–althoughIthinkit isreally.Imeanit’sonepersonworkingthroughotherquiteunsuspectingpeople.’

‘Haveyouanideaastowhothatonepersonis?’Mrs.Olivershookherhead.‘It’ssomebodyverycleverandverycareful,’shesaid.‘Itmightbeanybody.’‘Whoisthere?’askedPoirot.‘Thecastofcharactersmustbefairlylimited?’‘Well,’beganMrs.Oliver.‘There’sSirGeorgeStubbswhoownsthisplace.

Rich and plebeian and frightfully stupid outside business, I should think, butprobablydeadsharp in it.Andthere’sLadyStubbs,Hattie,about twentyyearsyounger thanhe is, ratherbeautiful,butdumbasa fish– in fact, I think she’sdefinitelyhalf-witted.Marriedhimforhismoney,ofcourse,anddoesn’t thinkaboutanythingbutclothesandjewels.Thenthere’sMichaelWeyman–he’sanarchitect,quiteyoung,andgood looking inacraggykindofartisticway.He’sdesigningatennispavilionforSirGeorgeandrepairingtheFolly.’

‘Folly?Whatisthat–amasquerade?’‘No, it’s architectural.Oneof those little sort of temple things,whitewith

columns.You’veprobablyseenthematKew.Thenthere’sMissBrewis,she’sasortofsecretaryhousekeeper,whorunsthingsandwritesletters–verygrimandefficient.And then thereare thepeople roundaboutwhocome inandhelp.Ayoungmarriedcouplewhohaveacottagedownbytheriver–AlecLeggeandhiswifePeggy.AndCaptainWarborough,who’stheMastertons’agent.AndtheMastertons, of course, and oldMrs. Folliat who lives in what used to be thelodge.Herhusband’speopleownedGreenshoreoriginally.Butthey’vediedoutorbeenkilledinwarsandtherewerelotsofdeathdutiessothelastheirsoldtheplace.’

‘WhoseideawastheMurderHunt?’‘Mrs. Masterton’s, I think. She’s the local Member of Parliament’s wife.

She’sverygoodatorganising.ShepersuadedSirGeorgetohavetheFêtehere.Youseetheplacehasbeenemptyforsomanyyearsthatshethinkspeoplewillbekeentopayandcomeintoseeit.’

‘Thatallseemsstraightforwardenough,’saidPoirot.‘Itallseemsstraightforward,’saidMrs.Oliverobstinately,‘butitisn’t.Itell

you,M.Poirot,there’ssomethingwrong.’PoirotlookedatMrs.OliverandMrs.OliverlookedbackatPoirot.‘Howhaveyouaccountedformypresencehere?Foryoursummonstome?’

Poirotasked.‘Thatwaseasy,’ saidMrs.Oliver. ‘You’re togiveaway theprizes.For the

Murder Hunt. Everybody’s awfully thrilled. I said I knew you, and couldprobablypersuadeyoutocomeandthatIwassureyournamewouldbeaterrific

draw–as,ofcourse,itwillbe,’Mrs.Oliveraddedtactfully.‘Andthesuggestionwasaccepted–withoutdemur?’‘Itellyou,everybodywasthrilled.’Mrs. Oliver thought it unnecessary to mention that amongst the younger

generationoneortwohadasked‘WhoisHerculePoirot?’‘Everybody?Nobodyspokeagainsttheidea?’Mrs.Olivershookherhead.‘Thatisapity,’saidHerculePoirot.‘Youmeanitmighthavegivenusaline?’‘Awould-becriminalcouldhardlybeexpectedtowelcomemypresence.’‘I suppose you think I’ve imagined the whole thing,’ said Mrs. Oliver

ruefully. ‘Imust admit thatuntil I started talking toyou Ihadn’t realisedhowverylittleI’vegottogoupon.’

‘Calmyourself,’saidPoirotkindly.‘Iamintriguedandinterested.Wheredowebegin?’

Mrs.Oliverglancedatherwatch.‘It’s just tea-time. We’ll go back to the house and then you can meet

everybody.’ShetookadifferentpathfromtheonebywhichPoirothadcome.Thisone

seemedtoleadintheoppositedirection.‘Wepassbytheboathousethisway,’Mrs.Oliverexplained.Asshespoketheboathousecameintoview.Itjuttedoutontotheriverand

wasapicturesquethatchedaffair.‘That’swhere theBody’sgoing tobe,’ saidMrs.Oliver. ‘Thebody for the

MurderHunt,Imean.’‘Andwhoisgoingtobekilled?’‘Oh,agirlhiker,whoisreally theYugoslavianfirstwifeofayoungAtom

Scientist,’saidMrs.Oliverglibly.Poirotblinked.‘Of course it looks as though the Atom Scientist had killed her – but

naturallyit’snotassimpleasthat.’‘Naturallynot–sinceyouareconcerned–’Mrs.Oliveracceptedthecomplimentwithawaveofthehand.‘Actually,’shesaid,‘she’skilledbytheCountrySquire–andthemotiveis

reallyratheringenious–Idon’tbelievemanypeoplewillgetit–thoughthere’saperfectlyclearpointerinthefifthclue.’

Poirot abandoned the subtleties of Mrs. Oliver’s plot to ask a practical

question.‘Buthowdoyouarrangeforasuitablebody?’‘GirlGuide,’ saidMrs.Oliver. ‘PeggyLeggewasgoing tobe it–butnow

they want her to do the fortune teller – so it’s a Girl Guide called MarleneTucker. Rather dumb and sniffs. It’s quite easy – just peasant scarves and arucksack–andallshehastodowhenshehearssomeonecomingistoflopdownonthefloorandarrangethecordroundherneck.Ratherdullforthepoorkid–juststickinginsidethatboathouseuntilshe’sfound,butI’vearrangedforhertohaveanicebundleofcomics–there’sacluetothemurdererscribbledononeofthemasamatteroffact–soitallworksin.’

‘Youringenuityleavesmespellbound!Thethingsyouthinkof!’‘It’sneverdifficulttothinkofthings,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘Thetroubleisthat

youthinkoftoomany,andthenitallbecomestoocomplicated,soyouhavetorelinquishsomeofthemandthatisratheragony.We’llgoupthiswaynow.’

Theystartedupasteepzig-zaggingpaththatledthembackalongtheriveratahigherlevel.Atatwistthroughthetreestheycameoutonaspacesurmountedbyasmallwhiteplasteredtemple.Standingbackandfrowningatitwasayoungmanwearingdilapidatedflanneltrousersandashirtofrathervirulentgreen.Hespunroundtowardsthem.

‘Mr.MichaelWeyman,M.HerculePoirot,’saidMrs.Oliver.Theyoungmanacknowledgedtheintroductionwithacarelessnod.‘Extraordinary,’ he said bitterly, ‘the places people put things! This thing

here,forinstance.Putuponlyaboutayearago–quiteniceofitskindandquiteinkeepingwiththeperiodofthehouse.Butwhyhere?Thesethingsweremeanttobeseen–“situatedonaneminence”–that’showtheyphrasedit–withanicegrassyapproachanddaffodils.Buthere’sthispoorlittledevil,stuckawayinthemidst of trees – not visible from anywhere – you’d have to cut down abouttwentytreesbeforeyou’devenseeitfromtheriver.’

‘Perhapstherewasn’tanyotherplace,’saidMrs.Oliver.MichaelWeymansnorted.‘Topofthatgrassybankbythehouse–perfectnaturalsetting.Butno,these

tycoonfellowsareallthesame–noartisticsense.Hasafancyfora“Folly,”ashecallsit,ordersone.Looksroundforsomewheretoputit.Then,Iunderstand,abigoak treecrashesdowninagale.Leavesanastyscar.“Oh,we’ll tidy theplaceupbyputtingaFolly there,”says thesillyass.That’sall theyever thinkabout, these rich city fellows, tidying up! Iwonder he hasn’t put beds of redgeraniums and calceolarias all round the house!Aman like that shouldn’t be

allowedtoownaplacelikethis!’Hesoundedheated.‘This youngman,’ Poirot observed to himself, ‘assuredly does not likeSir

GeorgeStubbs.’‘It’s bedded down in concrete,’ said Weyman. ‘And there’s loose soil

underneath–so it’ssubsided.Crackedalluphere– itwillbedangeroussoon.Betterpullthewholethingdownandre-erectitonthetopofthebanknearthehouse.That’smyadvice,buttheobstinateoldfoolwon’thearofit.’

‘Whataboutthetennispavilion?’askedMrs.Oliver.Gloomsettledevenmoredeeplyontheyoungman.‘HewantsakindofChinesepagoda,’hesaidwithagroan.‘Dragonsifyou

please!JustbecauseLadyStubbsfanciesherselfinChinesecooliehats.Who’dbeanarchitect?Anyonewhowantssomethingdecentbuilthasn’tgotthemoney,andthosewhohavethemoneywantsomethingtooutterlygoddamawful!’

‘Youhavemycommiserations,’saidPoirotgravely.Mrs. Oliver moved on towards the house and Poirot and the dispirited

architectpreparedtofollowher.‘Thesetycoons,’saidthelatter,bitterly,‘can’tunderstandfirstprinciples.’He

delivered a final kick to the lopsided Folly. ‘If the foundations are rotten –everything’srotten.’

‘Itisprofoundwhatyousaythere,’saidPoirot.‘Yes,itisprofound.’Thepaththeywerefollowingcameoutfromthetreesandthehouseshowed

whiteandbeautifulbeforetheminitssettingofdarktreesrisingupbehindit.‘Itisofaveritablebeauty,yes,’murmuredPoirot.‘Hewantstobuildabilliardroomon,’saidMr.Weymanvenomously.Onthebankbelowthemasmallelderlyladywasbusywithsecateursona

clumpofshrubs.Sheclimbeduptogreetthem,pantingslightly.‘Everythingneglectedforyears,’shesaid.‘Andsodifficultnowadaystoget

a man who understands shrubs. This hillside should be a blaze of colour inMarchandApril,butverydisappointingthisyear–allthisdeadwoodoughttohavebeencutawaylastautumn–’

‘M.HerculePoirot,Mrs.Folliat,’saidMrs.Oliver.Theelderlyladybeamed.‘So this is the great M. Poirot! It is kind of you to come and help us

tomorrow.This clever ladyherehas thoughtout amostpuzzlingproblem– itwillbesuchanovelty.’

Poirot was faintly puzzled by the graciousness of the little lady’smanner.

Shemight,hethought,havebeenhishostess.Hesaidpolitely,‘Mrs.Oliverisanoldfriendofmine.Iwasdelightedtobe

abletorespondtoherrequest.Thisisindeedabeautifulspot,andwhatasuperbandnoblemansion.’

Mrs.Folliatnoddedinamatter-of-factmanner.‘Yes.Itwasbuiltbymyhusband’sgreat-grandfatherin1790.Therewasan

Elizabethan house previously. It fell into disrepair and burned down in about1700.Ourfamilyhaslivedheresince1598.’

Her voice was calm and matter of fact. Poirot looked at her with closerattention. He saw a very small and compact little person, dressed in shabbytweeds.Themostnoticeablefeatureaboutherwasherclearchinablueeyes.Hergreyhairwas closely confinedby ahairnet.Thoughobviously carelessofherappearance,shehad that indefinableairofbeingsomeone,which issohard toexplain.

Astheywalkedtogethertowardsthehouse,Poirotsaiddiffidently,‘Itmustbehardforyoutohavestrangerslivinghere.’

Therewas amoment’s pause beforeMrs.Folliat answered.Her voicewasclearandpreciseandcuriouslydevoidofemotion.

‘Somanythingsarehard,M.Poirot,’shesaid.

III

Teawasinfullswinginthedrawingroom.Mrs.Oliverperformedintroductionsto Sir George Stubbs, Miss Brewis, Lady Stubbs, Mrs. Masterton, CaptainWarborough,Mr.andMrs.Legge.SirGeorgewasabigred-facedbeardedmanofabout fiftywitha loud jovialvoiceandmanner, and shrewdpaleblueeyesthat did not look jovial at all. Miss Brewis who presided behind the teatray,pouringoutwithrapidefficiency,wasfortyataguess,plain,neatandasceticinappearance.BesideherMrs.Masterton,asomewhatmonumentalwoman,bayedlikeabloodhoundinadeepvoice.Poiroteventhoughtshelookedratherlikeabloodhound,withherfullratherunderhungjawandmournful,slightlybloodshoteyes.

‘You’vegottosettlethisdisputeabouttheteatent,Jim,’shewassaying.‘Wecan’thavethewholethingafiascobecauseofthesesillywomenandtheirlocalfeuds.’

CaptainWarborough,whoworeacheckcoatandhadahorseyappearance,showedalotofverywhiteteethinawolfishsmile.

‘We’llsettleit,’hesaidheartily.‘I’llgoandtalktothemlikeaDutchuncle.Nowaboutthefortuneteller’stent–doyouthinkoverbythemagnolia?Oratthefarendupagainsttherhododendrons?’

Shrillcontroversyarose–inwhichyoungMrs.Leggetookaprominentpart.Shewasaslimattractiveblonde–herhusband,Alec,hadabadlysunburntfaceand untidy red hair. He was obviously not a talker and only contributed anoccasionalmonosyllable.

Poirot,havingreceivedhiscupofteafromMissBrewis,foundaplacebyhishostessandsatdowncarefullybalancingacreamcakeontheedgeofhissaucer.

LadyStubbswassittingalittlewayawayfromtheothers.Shewasleaningback in an armchair, clearly uninterested in the conversation, gazing downappreciativelyatheroutspreadrighthandwhichlayonthearmofherchair.Thenailswereverylongandvarnishedadeeppuce.Onthethirdfingerwasaverybeautifully set emerald.Shewas turning thehanda little from left to right, sothatthestonecaughtthelight.

WhenPoirotspoke,shelookedupinastartled,almostchildlikemanner.

‘Thisisabeautifulroom,Madame,’hesaidappreciatively.‘Isupposeitis,’saidLadyStubbsvaguely.Yes,it’sverynice.’Shewaswearingabigcooliehatofvividmagentastraw.Beneathitherface

showedthepinkyreflectiononitsdeadwhitesurface.Shewasheavilymadeupin an exotic un-English style.Deadwhitematt skin, vivid almost purple lips,mascararoundtheeyes.Herblacksmoothhairfittedlikeablackvelvetcap.Itwasanun-Englishfacewithallthelanguorofthesunbehindit.ButitwastheeyesthatstartledPoirot.Theyseemedstrangelyvacant.

Shesaid,‘Doyoulikemyring?Georgegaveittomeyesterday.’‘Itisaverylovelyring,Madame.’Shesaid:‘Georgegivesmelotsofthings.He’sverykind.’Shespokewiththesatisfactionofachild.Almost as though to a child, Poirot replied, ‘That must make you very

happy.’‘Ohyes,I’mveryhappy,’saidLadyStubbs,warmly.‘YoulikeDevonshire?’‘Ithinkso.It’sniceinthedaytime.Buttherearen’tanynightclubs.’‘Ohyes.IliketheCasino,too.WhyaretherenotanyCasinosinEngland?’‘I have oftenwondered – I do not think itwould accordwith the English

character.’Shelookedathimvacantly,thenfrownedinapuzzledway.‘I won forty thousand francs atMonte Carlo once,’ she said. ‘I put it on

numberseven.Myownmoney.’‘Thatmusthavebeenagreatthrill.’‘Yes.’Shelookedathimsolemnly.‘Itwouldn’tmattersomuchnow.George

isveryrich.’‘Indeed,Madame?’‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘They never let me have enough money of my own. I

wanted somany things.’A smile curved up the paintedmouth. ‘George givesthemalltomenow.’

Then,onceagain,herheadonone side, shewatchedher ring flashonherhand,andsaidinaconfidentialwhisper,‘D’yousee?It’swinkingatme.’

SheburstoutlaughingandPoirotfeltaslightsenseofshock.Itwasalouduncontrolledlaugh.

‘Hattie!’ItwasSirGeorge’svoice.Itheldveryfaintadmonition.LadyStubbsstopped

laughing.Poirot,turninghisslightlyembarrassedgazeawayfromhishostess,metthe

eyesofCaptainWarborough.Theywereironicandamused.‘Ifyou’vefinishedyourtea,M.Poirot,’hesaid,‘perhapsyou’dliketocome

andvetthelittleshowwe’reputtingontomorrow.’Poirotroseobediently.AshefollowedCaptainWarboroughoutoftheroom,

hesawoutofthetailofhiseyeMrs.Folliatcrosstotakethevacantchairbyhishostess and saw Hattie turn eagerly towards her, with a child’s welcomingaffection.

‘Beautiful creature, isn’t she?’ drawled Warborough. ‘Bowled over oldGeorgeStubbsallright.Nothing’stoogoodforher!Loadsherwithjewelsandminkandalltherestofit.Whetherherealisesshe’sabitwantingintheupperstorey I’ve never discovered. I suppose with a woman as beautiful as that itdoesn’treallymatter.’

‘Whatnationalityisshe?’Poirotaskedcuriously.‘Comes from the West Indies or thereabouts I’ve always understood. A

creole–Idon’tmeanahalf-caste,butoneofthoseoldintermarriedfamiles…Ah,hereweare,it’sallsetoutinhere.’

Poirotfollowedhimintoaroomlinedwithbookshelves.Onatablebythewindowvariousimpedimentaweresetout.

Alargepileofprintedcardswasatoneside.Poirottookoneandread:

SuspectsEstelladaCosta–abeautifulandmysteriouswomanColonelBlunt–thelocalSquireSamuelFischer–ablackmailerJoanBlunt–ColonelBlunt’sdaughterPeterGaye–ayoungAtomScientistMissWilling–thehousekeeperQuiett–abutlerEstebanPerenna–anuninvitedguest

WeaponsAlengthofclotheslineTunisiandaggerWeedkillerBowandarrowArmyrifleBronzestatuette

CaptainWarboroughexplained:‘Everyonegetsanotebookandpenciltocopydownthecluesandthenonthe

backofyourentrycardyoufillinyoursolution–’

Solution:Bywhomcommitted?Forwhatmotive?Bywhatmethod?TimeandPlace.Reasonsforarrivingatyourconclusions.

‘Thefirstclue’saphotograph.Everystartergetsone.’Poirottookthesmallsnapshotfromhimandstudieditwithafrown.Thenhe

turneditupsidedown.Warboroughlaughed.‘Ingeniousbitoftrickphotography,’hesaid.‘Quitesimplewhenyouknow

whatitis.’‘Somekindofabarredwindow?’Warboroughlaughed.‘Looksabitlikeit.No,it’sasectionofatennisnet.’‘Ah!Yes–Iseeitcouldbethatnow.’‘Somuchdependsonhowyoulookatit,eh?laughedWarborough.‘Asyousay.’Poirotrepeatedthewordsmeditatively.‘Thewayyoulookata

thing…’HelistenedwithonlyhalfhisattentiontoWarborough’sexpositionofMrs.

Oliver’ssubtleties.Whenheleftthelibrary,MissBrewisaccostedhim.‘Ah,thereyouare,M.Poirot.Iwanttoshowyouyourroom.’Sheledhimupthestaircaseandalongapassagetoabigairyroomlooking

outovertheriver.‘There is a bathroom just opposite. Sir George talks of adding more

bathrooms,buttodosowouldsadlyimpairtheproportionsoftherooms.Ihopeyou’llfindeverythingcomfortable.’

‘Yes,indeed.’Poirotsweptanappreciativeeyeoverthesmallbookstand,thereading lamp and the box labelledBiscuits by the bedside. ‘You seem, in thishouse,tohaveeverythingorganisedtoperfection.AmItocongratulateyou,ormycharminghostess?’

‘LadyStubbs’stimeisfullytakenupinbeingcharming,’saidMissBrewis,aslightlyacidnoteinhervoice.

‘Averydecorativeyoungwoman,’musedPoirot.‘Asyousay.’‘But in other respects is she not, perhaps –’ he broke off. ‘Pardon. I am

indiscreet.IcommentonsomethingIoughtnot,perhaps,tomention.’Miss Brewis gave him a steady look. She said drily, ‘Lady Stubbs knows

perfectly well exactly what she is doing. Besides being, as you said, a verydecorativeyoungwoman,sheisalsoaveryshrewdone.’

Shehad turned awayand left the roombeforePoirot’s eyebrowshad fullyriseninsurprise.SothatwaswhattheefficientMissBrewisthought,wasit?Orhadshemerelysaidsoforsomereasonofherown?Andwhyhadshemadesuchastatementtohim–toanewcomer?Becausehewasanewcomer,perhaps,andalso because he was a foreigner? As Hercule Poirot had discovered byexperience,thereweremanyEnglishpeoplewhoconsideredthatwhatonesaidtoforeignersdidn’tcount!

Hefrownedperplexedly,staringabsentmindedlyoutofthewindowashedidso.LadyStubbs cameout of thehousewithMrs.Folliat and they stood for amomentortwobythebigmagnoliatree.ThenMrs.Folliatnoddedagoodbye,andtrottedoffdownthedrive.LadyStubbsstoodwatchingherforamoment,thenabsent-mindedlypulledoffamagnoliaflower,smeltitandbeganslowlytowalkdownthepaththatledthroughthetreestotheriver.Shelookedjustonceoverhershoulderbeforeshedisappearedfromsight.Frombehindthemagnoliatree Michael Weyman came quietly into view, paused a moment and thenfollowedthetallslimfiguredownintothetrees.

A good-looking and dynamic young man, Poirot thought, with a moreattractivepersonality,nodoubt,thanthatofSirGeorgeStubbs…

Butifso,whatofit?Suchpatternsformedthemselveseternallythroughlife.Rich middle-aged unattractive husband, young and beautiful wife with orwithout sufficient mental development, attractive and susceptible young man.WhatwasthereinthattomakeMrs.Oliverutteraperemptorysummonsthroughthetelephone?Mrs.Oliver,nodoubt,hadavividimagination,but–

‘Butafterall,’murmuredHerculePoirottohimself,‘Iamnotaconsultantinadultery–orinincipientadultery.’

Itoccurred tohim thatheshould,perhaps,havepaidmoreattention to thedetailsofMrs.Oliver’sMurderHunt.

‘Thetimeisshort–short,’hemurmuredtohimself.AsyetIknownothing–Is theresomethingwronghere,asMrs.Oliverbelieves?Iaminclined to thinkthereis.Butwhat?Whoistherewhocouldenlightenme?’

Afteramoment’sreflectionheseizedhishat(Poirotneverriskedgoingoutintheeveningairwithuncoveredhead),andhurriedoutofhisroomanddownthestairs.Heheardafar thedictatorialbayingofMrs.Masterton’sdeepvoice.Nearerathand,SirGeorge’svoicerosewithanamorousintonation.

‘Damnedbecomingthatyashmakthing.WishIhadyouinmyharem,Peggy.I shallcomeandhavemyfortune toldagooddeal tomorrow.What’llyou tellme,eh?’

There was a slight scuffle and Peggy Legge’s voice said breathlessly,‘George,youmustn’t.’

Poirot raisedhiseyebrows,andslippedoutofaconvenientlyadjacentsidedoor. He set off at top speed down a back drive which his sense of localityenabledhimtopredictwouldatsomepointjointhefrontdrive.

Hismanoeuvrewassuccessfulandenabledhim–pantingveryslightly–tocomeupbesideMrs.Folliatandrelieveherinagallantmannerofhergardeningbasket.

‘Youpermit,Madame?’‘Oh,thankyou,M.Poirot,that’sverykindofyou.Butit’snotheavy.’‘Allowmetocarryitforyoutoyourhome.Youlivenearhere?’‘Iactuallyliveinthelodgebythefrontgate.SirGeorgeverykindlyrentsit

tome.’The lodge by the front gate of her former home. How did she really feel

aboutthat,Poirotwondered.Her composure was so absolute that he had no clue to her feelings. He

changedthesubjectbyobserving:‘LadyStubbsismuchyoungerthanherhusband.’‘Twenty-threeyearsyounger,tobeexact.’‘Physicallysheisveryattractive.’Mrs.Folliatsaidquietly,‘Hattieisadeargoodchild.’Itwasnotananswerhehadexpected.Mrs.Folliatwenton:‘Iknowherverywell,yousee.Forashorttimeshewasundermycare.’‘Ididnotknowthat.’‘Howshouldyou?It is inawayasadstory.Herpeoplehadestates, sugar

estates, in theWest Indies.As a result of an earthquake, the house therewasburneddownandherparentsandbrothersandsistersall losttheirlives.Hattieherselfwas at a convent inParis andwas thus suddenly leftwithout anynearrelatives. It was considered advisable by the executors that Hattie should betaken out in London society for a season. I accepted the charge of her.’Mrs.

Folliat added with a dry smile, ‘I can smarten myself up on occasions andnaturallyIhadthenecessaryconnections.’

‘Naturally,Madame,Iunderstandthat.’‘I was going through a difficult time. My husband died just before the

outbreakofwar.MyeldestsonwhowasintheNavywentdownwithhisship,myyoungersonintheArmywaskilledinItaly.Ihadnotverymuchtooccupymymind.Iwasleftbadlyoff.Thehousewasputupforsale.Iwasgladofthedistractionofhavingsomeoneyoungtolookafterandtakeabout.IbecameveryfondofHattie,allthemoreso,perhaps,becauseIsoonrealisedthatshewas–shall we say – not fully capable of fending for herself? Understand me, M.Poirot,Hattieisnotmentallydeficient,butsheiswhatcountryfolkdescribeas“simple”. She is easily imposed upon, over docile, completely open tosuggestion. Fortunately there was practically no money – if she had been anheiress the positionmight have been one ofmuch greater difficulty. She wasattractive tomen and being of an affectionate naturewas easily attracted andinfluenced–shehadtobelookedafter.When,afterthefinalwindingupofherparents’ estate, it was discovered that the plantation was destroyed and thereweremore debts than assets, I could only be thankful that aman such as SirGeorgeStubbshadfalleninlovewithherandwantedtomarryher.’

‘Possibly–yes–itwasasolution.’‘SirGeorge,’ saidMrs.Folliat, ‘thoughhe isa selfmademanand– letus

face it – a complete vulgarian, is both kindly and decent, besides beingextremelywealthy. I don’t thinkhewould ever ask formental companionshipfromawife.Hattie is everythinghewants.Shedisplaysclothesand jewels toperfection,isaffectionateandwilling,andiscompletelyhappy.IconfessthatIamverythankfulthatthatisso,forIadmitthatIdeliberatelyinfluencedhertoaccepthim.Ifithadturnedoutbadly–’hervoicefalteredalittle,‘itwouldhavebeenmyfaultforurginghertomarryamanyearsolderthanherself.Yousee,asItoldyou,Hattieiscompletelysuggestible.Anyonesheiswithatthetimecandominateher.’

‘It seems to me,’ said Poirot approvingly, ‘that you made there a mostprudentarrangementforher.Iamnot, liketheEnglish,romantic.Toarrangeagoodmarriage,onemusttakemorethanromanceintoconsideration.’

Headded:‘Andasfor thisplacehere, it isamostbeautifulspot.Quite,as thesaying

goes,outofthisworld.’‘Sinceithadtobesold,’saidMrs.Folliat,‘IamgladthatSirGeorgebought

it.Itwasrequisitionedduringthewarandafterwardsitmighthavebeenboughtand made into a guest house or a school, the rooms cut up and partitioned,distortedoutoftheirnaturalbeauty.Ourneighbours,theSandbournes,atUpperGreenshore,hadtoselltheirplaceanditisnowaYouthHostel.Oneisgladthatyoung people should enjoy themselves – and fortunately the house was lateVictorian, and of no great architectural merit, so that the alterations do notmatter. I’mafraidsomeof theyoungpeople trespassonourgrounds. ItmakesSirGeorgeveryangry,andit’struethattheyhaveoccasionallydamagedtherareshrubsbyhackingthemabout–theycomethroughheretryingtogetashortcuttotheFerryacrosstheriver.’

Theywere standing now by the front gate. The lodge, a smallwhite one-storeyed building, lay a little back from the drive with a small railed gardenroundit.

Mrs.FolliattookbackherbasketfromPoirotwithawordofthanks.‘Iwasalwaysveryfondofthelodge,’shesaid.‘DearoldMeldrum,ourhead

gardenerforthirtyyears,usedtolivethere.Imuchpreferit tothetopcottage,thoughthathasbeenenlargedandmodernisedbySirGeorge.Ithadtobe;we’vegotquiteayoungmanasheadgardenerwithayoungwife–andtheymusthaveelectricironsandmoderncookersandallthat.Onemustgowiththetimes’shesighed.‘Thereishardlyapersonleftontheestatefromtheolddays–allnewfaces.’

‘Iamglad,Madame,’saidPoirot,‘thatyouatleasthavefoundahaven.’‘You know those lines of Spenser’s? “Sleep after toyle, port after stormie

seas,easeafterwar,deathafterlife,dothgreatlyplease…”’Shepausedandsaidwithoutanychangeoftone,‘It’saverywickedworld,

M.Poirot.Andthereareverywickedpeopleintheworld.YouprobablyknowthataswellasIdo.Idon’tsaysobeforetheyoungerpeople,itmightdiscouragethem,butit’strue…Yes,it’saverywickedworld…’

Shegavehimalittlenod,thenturnedandwentintotheLodge.Poirotstoodstill,staringattheshutdoor.

IV

InamoodofexplorationPoirotwentthroughthefrontgateanddownthesteeptwistyroadthatpresentlyemergedonasmallquay.Alargebellwithachainhadanoticeuponitto‘RingfortheFerry.’Therewerevariousboatsmooredbytheside of the quay. A very old man with rheumy eyes, who had been leaningagainstabollard,cameshufflingtowardsPoirot.

‘Dueewanttheferry,sir?’‘Ithankyou,no.IhavejustcomedownfromGreenshoreHouseforalittle

walk.’‘Ah,’tisupatGreenshoreyuare?Workedthereasaboy,Idid,andmyson,

hewasheadgardnerthere.ButIdidusetolookaftertheboats.OldMr.Folliat,hewasfairmazedaboutboats.Sailinallweathers,hewould.TheMajor,now,hisson,hedidn’tcareforsailing.Horses,that’sallhecaredabout.Andaprettypacketwenton’em.Thatandthebottle–hadahardtimewithhim,hiswifedid.Yu’veseenher,maybe–livesattheLodgenow,shedu.’

‘Yes,Ihavejustlefthertherenow.’‘HerbeaFolliat,tu,secondcousinfromoverTivertonway.Agreatonefor

thegarden,shewas,allthemtherefloweringshrubsshehadputin.Evenwhenitwastookoverduringthewar,andthetwoyounggentlemenwasgonetothewar,shestilllookedaftertheyshrubsandkept’emfrombeingover-run.’

‘Itwashardonher,bothhersonsbeingkilled.’‘Ah,she’vehadahardlife,shehave,whatwiththisandthat.Troublewith

herhusband,andtroublewiththeyounggentlemen,tu.NotMr.Henry.Hewasasniceayounggentlemanasyucouldwish,tookafterhisgrandfather,fondofsailingandwentintotheNavyasamatterofcourse,butMr.James,hecausedheralotoftrouble.Debtsandwomenitwere,andthen,too,hewererealwildinhistemper.Bornoneoftheyascan’tgostraight.Butthewarsuitedhim,asyumight say – give him his chance.Ah! There’smanywho can’t go straight inpeacewhodiesbravelyinwar.’

‘Sonow,’saidPoirot,‘therearenomoreFolliatsatGreenshore.’Theoldman’sflowoftalkdiedabruptly.‘Justasyusay,sir.’

Poirotlookedcuriouslyattheoldman.‘InsteadyouhaveSirGeorgeStubbs.Whatisthoughtlocallyofhim?’‘Usunderstands,’saidtheoldman,‘thathebepowerfulrich.’Histonesoundeddryandalmostamused.‘Andhiswife?’‘Ah,she’safineladyfromLondon,sheis.Nouseforgardens,nother.They

dusay,too,asherdubewantinguphere.’Hetappedhistemplesignificantly.‘Not as her isn’t always very nice spoken and friendly.Come here over a

yearago,theydid.Boughttheplaceandhaditalldoneuplikenew.Irememberasthough’twereyesterdaythemarriving.Arrivedintheevening,theydid,dayafter theworstgaleasIeverremember.Treesdownrightandleft–onedownacrossthedriveandushadtogetitsawnawayinahurrytogetthedriveclear.Andthebigoakupalong,thatcomedownandbroughtalotofothersdownwithit,madeararemess,itdid.’

‘Ah,yes,wheretheFollystandsnow?’Theoldmanturnedasideandspatdisgustedly.‘Folly’tiscalledandFolly’tis–new-fanglednonsense.NeverwasnoFolly

in the old Folliats’ time. Her ladyship’s idea that Follywas. Put up not threeweeksaftertheyfirstcome,andI’venodoubtshetalkedSirGeorgeintoit.Raresilly it looks stuck up there among the trees, like a heathen temple. A nicesummerhousenow,maderusticlikewithstainedglass–I’dhavenothingagainstthat.’

Poirotsmiledfaintly.‘TheLondonladies,’hesaid,‘theymusthavetheirfancies.Itissadthatthe

dayoftheFolliatsisover.’‘Don’t ee never believe that, sir.’ The old man gave a wheezy chuckle.

‘AlwaysbeFolliatsatGreenshore.’‘ButthehousebelongstoSirGeorgeStubbs.’‘That’s as may be – but there’s still a Folliat here. Rare and cunning the

Folliatsare!’‘Whatdoyoumean?’Theoldmangavehimaslysidewaysglance.‘Mrs.FolliatbelivinguptuLodge,bain’tshe?’hedemanded.‘Yes,’saidPoirotslowly.‘Mrs.FolliatislivingattheLodgeandtheworldis

verywicked,andallthepeopleinitareverywicked.’Theoldmanstaredathim.

‘Ah,’hesaid.‘Yu’vegotsomethingthere,maybe.’Heshuffledawayagain.‘But what have I got?’ Poirot asked himself with irritation as he slowly

walkedupthehillbacktothehouse.

V

Poirotcamedowntobreakfastonthefollowingmorningatnine-thirty.Breakfastwas served in pre-war fashion. A row of hot dishes on an electric heater. SirGeorgewaseatingafull-sizedEnglishman’sbreakfastofscrambledeggs,baconandkidneys.Mrs.OliverandMissBrewishadamodifiedversionofthesame.Michael Weyman was eating a plateful of cold ham. Only Lady Stubbs wasunheedfulofthefleshpotsandwasnibblingthintoastandsippingblackcoffee.

The post had just arrived.MissBrewis had an enormous pile of letters infrontofherwhichshewasrapidlysortingintopiles.AnyofSirGeorge’smarkedPersonal she passed over to him. The others she opened and sorted intocategories.

LadyStubbshadthreeletters.Sheopenedwhatwereclearlyacoupleofbillsand tossed themaside.Thensheopened the third letterandsaid suddenlyandclearly,‘Oh!’

Theexclamationwassostartledthatallheadsturnedtowardsher.‘It’sfromPaul,’shesaid.‘MycousinPaul.He’scominghereinayacht.’‘Let’ssee,Hattie.’SirGeorgeheldouthishand.Shepassedtheletterdown

thetable.Hesmoothedoutthesheetandread.‘Who’sthisPaulLopez?Acousin,yousay?’‘Ithinkso.Asecondcousin.Idonotrememberhimverywell–hardlyatall.

Hewas–’‘Yes,mydear?’Sheshruggedhershoulders.‘Itdoesnotmatter.Itisallalongtimeago.Iwasalittlegirl.’‘I supposeyouwouldn’t rememberhimverywell.Butwemustmakehim

welcome,ofcourse,’saidSirGeorgeheartily.‘Pityinawayit’stheFêtetoday,butwe’llaskhimtodinner.Perhapswecouldputhimupforanightor two–showhimsomethingofthecountry?’

SirGeorgewasbeingtheheartycountrysquire.LadyStubbssaidnothing.Shestareddownintohercoffeecup.Conversation on the inevitable subject of the Fête became general. Only

Poirot remained detached, watching the slim exotic figure at the head of the

table.Hewonderedjustwhatwasgoingoninhermind.Atthatverymomenthereyescameupandcasta swiftglancealong the table towherehesat. Itwasalooksoshrewdandappraisingthathewasstartled.Astheireyesmet,theshrewdexpression vanished – emptiness returned.But that other look had been there,cold,calculating,watchful…

Or had he imagined it? In any case, wasn’t it true that people who wereslightly mentally deficient very often had a kind of sly native cunning thatsometimessurprisedeventhepeoplewhoknewthembest?

He thought to himself that Lady Stubbs was certainly an enigma. Peopleseemed to hold diametrically opposite ideas about her. Miss Brewis hadintimatedthatLadyStubbsknewverywellwhatshewasdoing.YetMrs.Oliverdefinitelythoughtherhalfwitted,andMrs.Folliatwhohadknownherlongandintimatelyhadspokenofherassomeonenotquitenormal,whoneededcareandwatchfulness.

Miss Brewis was probably prejudiced. She disliked Lady Stubbs for herindolence and her aloofness. Poirot wondered if Miss Brewis had been SirGeorge’s secretary prior to his marriage. If so, she might easily resent thecomingofthenewregime.

PoirothimselfwouldhaveagreedwholeheartedlywithMrs.FolliatandMrs.Oliver–untilthismorning.And,afterall,couldhereallyrelyonwhathadbeenonlyafleetingimpression?

LadyStubbsgotupabruptlyfromthetable.‘Ihaveaheadache,’shesaid.‘Ishallgoandliedowninmyroom.’SirGeorgesprangupanxiously.‘Mydeargirl.You’reallright,aren’tyou?’‘It’sjustaheadache.’‘You’llbefitenoughforthisafternoon,won’tyou?’‘Yes–Ithinkso.’‘Takesomeaspirin,LadyStubbs,’saidMissBrewisbriskly. ‘Haveyougot

someorshallIbringittoyou?’‘I’vegotsome.’Shemovedtowardsthedoor.Asshewentshedroppedthehandkerchiefshe

hadbeenholding.Poirot,movingquietlyforward,pickeditupunobtrusively.SirGeorge,abouttofollowhiswife,wasstoppedbyMissBrewis.‘Abouttheparkingofcarsthisafternoon,SirGeorge.I’mjustgoingtogive

Mitchellinstructions.Doyouthinkthatthebestplanwouldbe,asyousaid–?’Poirot,goingoutoftheroom,heardnomore.

Hecaughtuphishostessonthestairs.‘Madame,youdroppedthis.’Heprofferedthehandkerchiefwithabow.Shetookitunheedingly.‘DidI?Thankyou.’‘I ammost distressed,Madame, that you should be suffering. Particularly

whenyourcousiniscoming.’Sheansweredquickly,almostviolently.‘Idon’twanttoseePaul.Idon’tlikehim.He’sbad.Hewasalwaysbad.I’m

afraidofhim.Hedoesbadthings.’Thedoorofthedining-roomopenedandSirGeorgecameacrossthehalland

upthestairs.‘Hattie,mypoordarling.Letmecomeandtuckyouup.’Theywentupthestairstogether,hisarmroundhertenderly,hisfaceworried

andabsorbed.Poirot lookedupafter them, then turned toencounterMissBrewismoving

fast,andclaspingpapers.‘LadyStubbs’headache–’hebegan.‘Nomoreheadachethanmyfoot,’saidMissBrewiscrossly,anddisappeared

intoheroffice,closingthedoorbehindher.Poirot sighed and passed through the front door on to the terrace. Mrs.

Mastertonhadjustdrivenupinasmallcarandwasdirectingtheelevationofateamarquee,bayingoutordersinrichfull-bloodedtones.

SheturnedtogreetPoirot.‘Such a nuisance, these affairs,’ she observed. ‘And they will always put

everythinginthewrongplace.No–Rogers!Moretotheleft–left–notright!Whatdoyou thinkof theweather,M.Poirot?Looksdoubtful tome.Rain, ofcourse,wouldspoileverything.Andwe’vehadsuchafinesummerthisyearforachange.Where’sSirGeorge?Iwanttotalktohimaboutcarparking.’

‘Hiswifehadaheadacheandhasgonetoliedown.’‘She’llbeall right thisafternoon,’ saidMrs.Masterton,confidently. ‘Likes

functions,youknow.She’llenjoygettingreadyandbeaspleasedaboutitasachild.Justfetchmeabundleofthosepegsoverthere,willyou?Iwanttomarktheplacesfortheclockgolfnumbers.’

Poirot,thuspressedintoservice,wasworkedbyMrs.Mastertonrelentlessly,asausefulapprentice.Shecondescendedtotalktohimintheintervalsofhardlabour.

‘Got to do everything yourself, I find.Onlyway…By theway, you’re afriendoftheEliots,Ibelieve?’

Poirot, after his long sojourn in England, comprehended that this was anindicationofsocialrecognition.Mrs.Mastertonwasinfactsaying:‘Althoughaforeigner,IunderstandyouareOneofUs.’Shecontinuedtochatinanintimatemanner.

‘NicetohaveGreenshorelivedinagain.WewereallsoafraiditwasgoingtobeaHotel.Youknowwhatitisnowadays;onedrivesthroughthecountryandpassesplaceafterplacewiththeboardup“GuestHouse”or“PrivateHotel”or“HotelA.A.FullyLicensed.”Allthehousesonestayedinasagirl–orwhereonewent to dances.Very sad.Yes, I’mglad aboutGreenshore and so is poordearAmyFolliat,ofcourse.She’shadsuchahardlife–butnevercomplains,Iwill say.SirGeorgehasdonewonders forGreenshore–andnot vulgarised it.Don’tknowwhetherthat’stheresultofAmyFolliat’sinfluence–orwhetherit’shis own natural good taste. He has got quite good taste, you know. Verysurprisinginamanlikethat.’

‘Heisnot,Iunderstand,oneofthelandedgentry?’saidPoirotcautiously.‘Heisn’tevenreallySirGeorge–waschristenedit,Iunderstand.Tookthe

idea from Lord George Sanger’s Circus, I suspect. Very amusing really. Ofcourseweneverleton.Richmenmustbeallowedtheirlittlesnobberies,don’tyouagree?ThefunnythingisthatinspiteofhisoriginsGeorgeStubbswouldgodownperfectlywell anywhere.Pure typeof the eighteenth-century countrysquire.Goodblood in him, I’d say. Father a gent andmother a barmaid, verylikely.’

Mrs.Mastertoninterruptedherselftoyelltoagardener.‘Notbythatrhododendron.Youmustleaveroomfortheskittlesovertothe

right.Right–notleft!’Shewenton:‘TheBrewiswomanisefficient.Doesn’tlikepoorHattie,though.Looksat

her sometimes as though she’d like to murder her. So many of these goodsecretariesareinlovewiththeirboss.NowwheredoyouthinkJimWarboroughcanhavegotto?Sillythewayhesticksto“Captain”.NotaregularsoldierandneverwithinmilesofaGerman.Onehastoputup,ofcourse,withwhatonecangetthesedays–andhe’sahardworker–butIfeelthere’ssomethingratherfishyabouthim.Ah!HerearetheLegges.’

PeggyLegge,dressedinslacksandayellowpullover,saidbrightly:‘We’vecometohelp.’

‘Lotstodo,’boomedMrs.Masterton.‘Now,letmesee–’Poirot, profiting by her inattention, slipped away. As he came round the

cornerofthehouseontothefrontterracehebecameaspectatorofanewdrama.Two youngwomen, in shorts,with bright blouses, had come out from the

woodandwerestandinguncertainlylookingupatthehouse.FromthewindowofLadyStubbs’bedroomSirGeorgeleanedoutandaddressedthemwrathfully.

‘You’retrespassing,’heshouted.‘Please?’saidtheyoungwomanwiththegreenheadscarf.‘Youcan’tcomethroughhere.Private.’Theotheryoungwoman,whohadaroyalblueheadscarf,saidbrightly:‘Please? Greenshore Quay –’ she pronounced it carefully, ‘it is this way?

Please.’‘You’retrespassing,’bellowedSirGeorge.‘Please?’‘Trespassing!Nowaythrough.You’vegottogoback.BACK!Thewayyou

came.’They stared as he gesticulated. Then they consulted together in a flood of

foreignspeech.Finally,doubtfully,blue-scarfsaid,‘Back?ToHostel?’‘That’sright.Andyoutaketheroad–road–roundthatway.’Theyretreatedunwillingly.SirGeorgemoppedhisbrowandlookeddownat

Poirot.‘Spendmytimeturningpeopleoff,’hesaid.‘Usedtocomethroughthetop

gate. I’ve padlocked that.Now they come through thewoods, over the fence.Think theycangetdown to theshoreand thequayeasily thisway.Well, theycan,ofcourse,muchquicker.Butthere’snorightofway–neverhasbeen.Andthey’repracticallyallforeigners–don’tunderstandwhatyousay,andjustjabberbackatyouinDutchorsomething.’

‘One is Dutch and the other Italian, – I saw them on their way from thestationyesterday.’

‘Everykindoflanguagetheytalk–Yes,Hattie?Whatdidyousay?’Hedrewbackintotheroom.

Poirot turned to find Mrs. Oliver and a well-developed girl of fourteendressedinGuides’uniformclosebesidehim.

‘ThisisMarlene,’saidMrs.Oliver.Marlene acknowledged the introduction with a pronounced snuffle. Poirot

bowedpolitely‘She’stheVictim,’saidMrs.Oliver.

Marlenegiggled.‘I’mthehorribleCorpse,’shesaid.‘ButI’mnotgoingtohaveanybloodon

me.’Hertoneexpresseddisappointment.‘No?’‘No. Just strangledwith a cord, that’s all. I’d of liked to be stabbed – and

havelashingsofredpaint.’‘CaptainWarboroughthoughtitmightlooktoorealistic,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘In a murder I think you ought to have blood,’ saidMarlene sulkily. She

lookedatPoirotwithhungryinterest.‘Seenlotsofmurders,haven’tyou?Soshesays.’

‘Oneortwo,’saidPoirotmodestly.HeobservedwithalarmthatMrs.Oliverwasleavingthem.‘Anysexmaniacs?’askedMarlenewithavidity.‘Certainlynot.’‘Ilikesexmaniacs,’saidMarlenewithrelish.‘Readingaboutthem,Imean.’‘Youwouldprobablynotlikemeetingone.’‘Oh, I dunno.D’you knowwhat? I believewe’ve got a sexmaniac round

here.Mygranddadsawabodyinthewoodsonce.Hewasscaredandranaway,andwhenhecomebackitwasgone.Itwasawoman’sbody.Butofcoursehe’sbatty,mygranddadis,sonoonelistenstowhathesays.’

Poirotmanagedtoescapeand,regainingthehousebyacircuitousroute,tookrefugeinhisbedroom.

Lunchwasanearlyandquickly snatchedaffairofacoldbuffet.At2.30aminorfilmstarwastoopentheFête.Theweather,afterlookingominouslylikerain,begantoimprove.Bythreeo’clocktheFêtewasinfullswing.Peoplewerepaying the admission charge of half a crown in large numbers, and carswerelining one side of the long drive. Students from the Youth Hostel arrived inbatchesconversingloudlyinforeigntongues.TruetoMrs.Masterton’sforecast,LadyStubbshademergedfromherbedroomjustbeforehalf-pasttwo,dressedinacyclamendresswithanenormouscoolieshapedhatofblackstraw.Sheworelargequantitiesofdiamonds.

Miss Brewis murmured sardonically, ‘Thinks it’s the Royal Enclosure atAscot,evidently!’

ButPoirotcomplimentedhergravely.‘Itisabeautifulcreationthatyouhaveon,Madame.’‘Itisnice,isn’tit,’saidHattiehappily.‘IworeitforAscot.’TheminorfilmstarwasarrivingandHattiemovedforwardtogreether.

Poirot retreated into thebackground.Hewanderedarounddisconsolately–everythingseemedtobeproceedinginthenormalfashionofFêtes.Therewasacoconut shy, presided over by SirGeorge in his heartiest fashion. Therewerevarious ‘stalls’ displaying local produce of fruit, vegetables, jams and cakes –andothersdisplaying‘fancyobjects.’Therewerevarious‘raffles’goingon,anda‘luckydip’forchildren.

Therewasagoodcrowdofpeoplebynowandanexhibitionofchildren’sdancingbegan.Poirot sawno signofMrs.Oliver,butLadyStubbs’ cyclamenpink figure showedupamongst thecrowdas shedrifted rathervaguelyabout.The focus of attention, however, seemed to be Mrs. Folliat. She was quitetransformedinappearance–wearingahydrangea-bluefoulardfrockandasmartgrey hat, she appeared to preside over the proceedings, greeting new arrivals,directingpeopletothevarioussideshows,graciousandwelcominginmanner,shewas,verydefinitely,Mrs.FolliatofGreenshoreHouse.

Poirot wondered whether she herself realised how completely she hadslippedintotheroleofhostessorwhetheritwasentirelyunconscious.

He was standing by the tent labelled ‘Madame Esmeralda will tell yourfortune for 2/6’. Teas had just begun to be served and therewas no longer aqueuefortheFortuneTelling.Poirotbowedhishead,enteredthetentandpaidoverhishalfcrownwillinglyfortheprivilegeofsinkingintoachairandrestinghisachingfeet.

MadameEsmeraldawaswearingflowingblackrobes,ascarfwoundroundherheadandaveilacrossthelowerhalfofherfacewhichslightlymuffledherremarks.

SeizingPoirot’shandshegavehimarapidreading,fullofmoneytocome,successwithadarkbeautyandamiraculousescapefromanaccident.

‘Itisveryagreeableallthatyoutellme,MadameLegge.Ionlywishthatitcouldcometrue.’

‘Oh!’saidPeggy.‘Soyouknowme,doyou?’‘Ihadadvanceinformation–Mrs.Olivertoldmethatyouwereoriginallyto

bethe“Victim,”butthatyouhadbeensnatchedfromherforthe“Occult”.’‘IwishIwasbeingthe“Body,”’saidPeggy.‘Muchmorepeaceful.AllJim

Warborough’sfault.Isitfouro’clockyet?Iwantmytea.I’moffdutyfromfourtohalf-past.’

‘Ten minutes to go, still,’ said Poirot, consulting his large old-fashionedwatch.‘ShallIbringyouacupofteahere?’

‘No,no.Iwantthebreak–onlytenminutestogo.’

Poirotemerged fromthe tentandwas immediatelychallenged toguess theweightofacake.

AHoop-Lastallpresidedoverbyafatmotherlywomanurgedhimtotryhisluck and,much to his discomfiture, he immediatelywon a largeKewpie doll.Walkingsheepishlyalongwith thisheencounteredMichaelWeymanwhowasstandinggloomily on the outskirts near the topof a path that led down to thequay.

‘You seem to have been enjoying yourself, M. Poirot,’ he said, with asardonicgrin.

Poirotcontemplatedhisprize.‘Itistrulyhorrible,isitnot?’hesaidsadly.Asmallchildnearhimsuddenlyburstoutcrying.Poirotstoopedswiftlyandtuckedthedollintothechild’sarm.‘Voilà,itisforyou.’Thetearsceasedabruptly.‘There–Violet–isn’tthegentlemankind?Say,Ta,everso–’‘Children’s Fancy Dress,’ called out Captain Warborough through a

megaphone.‘Firstclass–3to5.Formup,please.’Hecametowardsthem,lookingfromlefttoright.‘Where’s Lady Stubbs? Anyone seen Lady Stubbs? She’s supposed to be

judgingthis.’‘Isawheraboutaquarterofanhourago,’saidPoirot.‘ShewasgoingintotheFortuneTellerwhenIsawher,’saidWeyman.‘She

maybestillthere.’Hestrodeacross to the tent,pulledaside the flap, looked inandshookhis

head.‘Curse the woman!’ said Warborough angrily. ‘Where can she have

disappearedto?Thechildrenarewaiting.Perhapsshe’sinthehouse.’Hestrodeoffrapidly.Poirotwatched himgo, and then turned his head as he heard amovement

behindhim.A youngmanwas coming up the path from theQuay, a very dark young

man,faultlesslyattired inyachtingcostume.Hepausedas thoughdisconcertedbythescenebeforehim.

ThenhespokehesitatinglytoPoirot.‘Youwillexcuseme.IsthisthehouseofSirGeorgeStubbs?’‘Itisindeed.Areyou,perhaps,thecousinofLadyStubbs?’

‘IamPaulLopez.’‘MynameisHerculePoirot.’Theybowedtoeachother.PoirotexplainedthecircumstancesoftheFête.As

he finished, SirGeorge came across the lawn towards them from the coconutshy.

‘Paul Lopez? Delighted to see you. Hattie got your letter this morning.Where’syouryacht?’

‘It is moored at Dartmouth. I came up the river to the Quay here in mylaunch.’

‘Wemust findHattie. She’s somewhere about…You’ll dinewith us thisevening,Ihope?’

‘Youaremostkind.’‘Canweputyouup?’‘Thatalsoismostkind,butIwillsleeponmyyacht.Itiseasierso.’‘Areyoustayingherelong?’‘Two or three days, perhaps. It depends.’ Paul Lopez shrugged elegant

shoulders.‘Hattiewillbedelighted,I’msure.Whereisshe?Isawhernotlongago.’Helookedroundinaperplexedmanner.‘She ought to be judging the children’s fancy dress. I can’t understand it.

Excusemeamoment.I’llaskMissBrewis.’Hehurriedoff.PaulLopezlookedafterhim.PoirotlookedatPaulLopez.‘Itissomelittletimesinceyoulastsawyourcousin?’heasked.Theothershruggedhisshoulders.‘Ihavenotseenhersinceshewasfifteenyearsold.Soonafterthatshewas

sentabroad–toschoolataconventinFrance.Asachildshepromisedtohavegoodlooks.’

HelookedenquiringlyatPoirot.‘Sheisabeautifulwoman,’saidPoirot.‘Andthatisherhusband?Heseemswhattheycall“agoodfellow”,butnot

perhaps very polished? Still, forHattie itmight be perhaps a little difficult tofindasuitablehusband.’

Poirot remainedwithapolitely inquiringexpressiononhis face.Theotherlaughed.

‘Oh, it is no secret. At fifteen Hattie was mentally undeveloped. Feeble-minded,doyounotcallit?Sheisstillthesame?’

‘Itwouldseemso–yes,’saidPoirotcautiously.

Lopezshruggedhisshoulders.‘Ahwell!Whyshouldoneaskitofwomen–thattheyshouldbeintelligent?

Itisnotnecessary.’Sir George was back, fuming, Miss Brewis with him, speaking rather

breathlessly.‘I’venoideawheresheis,SirGeorge.Isawheroverbythefortuneteller’s

tentlast.Butthatwasatleasttwentyminutesago.She’snotinthehouse.’‘Isitnotpossible,’askedPoirot,‘thatshehasgonetoobservetheprogressof

Mrs.Oliver’sMurderHunt?’SirGeorge’sbrowcleared.‘That’sprobably it.Lookhere, Ican’t leave theshowshere. I’mincharge.

Couldyoupossiblyhavealookround,Poirot?Youknowthecourse.’But Poirot did not know the course. However, an inquiry ofMiss Brewis

gave him rough guidance.MissBrewis took charge of PaulLopez andPoirotwent off murmuring to himself, ‘Tennis Court, Camellia Garden, The Folly,UpperNurseryGarden,Boathouse…’

As he passed the Coconut Shy he was amused to notice Sir Georgeproffering wooden balls with a dazzling smile of welcome to the same twoyoung women whom he had driven off that morning and who were clearlypuzzled at his change of attitude. The fact that this morning they had beentrespassers and that this afternoon theywereby reasonof thepaymentof twoshillings and sixpence legally entitled to the full enjoyment of the grounds ofGreenshoreHousewasquitebeyondthem.TheyresistedthecoconutsandwentontotheBranTub.

TheDutch girl recognised Poirot and greeted him politely. Both girls hadtheirrucksacksstrappedontheirshouldersandwereperspiringheavily.

‘My friend she goes by the 5 o’clock bus from the gate here toTorquay,’explained the Dutch girl, ‘and I go across the Ferry and take the bus toDartmouthat6o’clock.’

‘Youleadastrenuouslife,’saidPoirot.‘Thereismuchtoseeandourtimeisshorthere.’PoirotbowedgratefullyandwentonhiswaytotheTennisCourt.Therehe

drewablank.HewentontotheCamelliaGarden.In the Camellia Garden Poirot found Mrs. Oliver dressed in purple

splendour,sittingonagardenseatinabroodingattitude,lookingratherlikeMrs.Siddons.Shebeckonedhimtotheseatbesideher.

‘This is only the second Clue,’ she hissed. ‘I think I’ve made them too

difficult.Nobody’scomeyet.’At this moment a young man in shorts, with a prominent Adam’s apple,

enteredthegarden.Withacryofsatisfactionhehurriedtoatreeinonecornerand a further satisfied cry announced his discovery of the next clue. Passingthem,hefeltimpelledtocommunicatehissatisfaction.

‘Lots of people don’t knowabout cork trees,’ he said, holdingout a smallcork.‘There’sawholeboxofthemunderthetennisnet.Cleverphotograph,butIspottedwhatitwas.Thiscluewillmake’emgolookingforabottleofsomekind.Verydelicate,corktrees,onlyhardyinthispartoftheworld.I’minterestedinrareshrubsandtrees.Nowwheredoesonego,Iwonder?’

Hefrownedovertheentryinthenotebookhecarried.‘I’vecopiedthenextcluebutitdoesn’tseemtomakesense.’Heeyedthem

suspiciously.‘Youcompeting?’‘Oh,no,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘We’rejust–lookingon.’‘Righty-ho… “When lovely woman stoops to folly”… I’ve an idea I’ve

heardthatsomewhere.’‘Itisawell-knownquotation,’saidPoirot.‘AFollycanalsobeabuilding,’saidMrs.Oliver,helpfully. ‘White–with

pillars,’sheadded.‘That’s an idea!Thanks a lot.They sayMrs.AriadneOliver is downhere

herself somewhere about. I’d like to get her autograph. You haven’t seen herabout,haveyou?’

‘No,’saidMrs.Oliverfirmly.‘I’dliketomeether.Goodyarnsshewrites.’Heloweredhisvoice.‘Butthey

sayshedrinkslikeafish.’HehurriedoffandMrs.Oliversaidindignantly,‘Really!That’smostunfair

whenIonlylikelemonade!’‘And have you not just perpetrated the greatest unfairness in helping that

youngmantowardsthenextclue?’‘Consideringhe’stheonlyonewho’sgotheresofar,Ithoughtheoughttobe

encouraged.’‘Butyouwouldn’tgivehimyourautograph.’‘That’sdifferent,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘Sh!Herecomesomemore.’Butthesewerenotcluehunters.Theyweretwowomenwhohavingpaidfor

admittanceweredetermined toget theirmoney’sworthby seeing thegroundsthoroughly.

Theywerehotanddissatisfied.

‘You’d think they’d have some nice flower beds,’ said one to the other.‘Nothingbuttreesandmoretrees.It’snotwhatIcallagarden.’

Mrs.OlivernudgedPoirot,andtheyslippedquietlyaway.‘Supposing,’saidMrs.Oliverdistractedly,‘thatnobodyeverfindsmybody?’‘Patience,Madame,andcourage,’saidPoirot.‘Theafternoonisstillyoung.’‘That’s true,’ saidMrs. Oliver, brightening. ‘And it’s half price admission

after four-thirty,soprobably lotsofpeoplewill flock in.Let’sgoandseehowthatMarlenechildisgettingon.Idon’treallytrustthatgirl,youknow.Nosenseof responsibility. I wouldn’t put it past her to sneak away quietly, instead ofbeingacorpse,andgoandhavetea.Youknowwhatpeoplearelikeabouttheirteas.’

TheyproceededamicablyalongthewoodlandpathandPoirotcommentedonthegeographyoftheproperty.

‘I find it very confusing,’ he said. ‘Somany paths, and one is never surewheretheylead.Andtrees,treeseverywhere.’

‘Yousoundlikethatdisgruntledwomanwe’vejustleft.’TheypassedtheFollyandzigzaggeddownthepathtotheriver.Theoutlines

oftheboathouseshowedbeneaththem.Poirot remarked that itwouldbeawkward if theMurder searcherswere to

lightupontheboathouseandfindthebodybyaccident.‘Asortofshortcut?Ithoughtofthat.That’swhythelastclueisjustakey.

Youcan’tunlockthedoorwithoutit.It’saYale.Youcanonlyopenitfromtheinside.’

Ashort steepslope leddown to thedoorof theboathousewhichwasbuiltout over the storage space for boats. Mrs. Oliver took a key from a pocketconcealedamongstherpurplefoldsandunlockedthedoor.

‘We’vejustcometocheeryouup,Marlene,’shesaidbrightlyassheentered.ShefeltslightlyremorsefulatherunjustsuspicionsofMarlene’sloyalty,for

Marlene,artisticallyarrangedas‘thebody,’wasplayingherpartnobly,sprawledonthefloorbythewindow.

Marlene made no response. She lay quite motionless. The wind blowinggently through the openwindow rustled a pile of ‘Comics’ spread out on thetable.

‘It’s all right,’ said Mrs. Oliver impatiently. ‘It’s only me and M. Poirot.Nobody’sgotanydistancewiththecluesyet.’

Poirotwasfrowning.VerygentlyhepushedMrs.Oliverasideandwentandbentoverthegirlonthefloor.Asuppressedexclamationcamefromhislips.He

lookedupatMrs.Oliver.‘So–’hesaid.‘Thatwhichyouexpectedhashappened.’‘Youdon’tmean–’Mrs.Oliver’seyeswidenedinhorror.Shegraspedfor

oneofthebasketchairsandsatdown.‘Youcan’tmean–Sheisn’tdead?’Poirotnodded.‘Oh,yes,’hesaid.‘Sheisdead.Thoughnotverylongdead.’‘Buthow–?’Heliftedthecornerofthegayscarfboundroundthegirl’shead,sothatMrs.

Olivercouldseetheendsoftheclothesline.‘Justlikemymurder,’saidMrs.Oliverunsteadily.‘Butwho?Andwhy?’‘Thatisthequestion,’saidPoirot.Heforeboretoaddthatthosehadalsobeenherquestions.Andthattheanswerstothemcouldnotbeheranswers,sincethevictimwas

not the Yugoslavian first wife of an Atom Scientist, but Marlene Tucker, afourteen-year-oldvillagegirlwho,asfaraswasknown,hadnotanenemyintheworld.

VI

‘Icanhardlybeartothinkofit,M.Poirot,’saidMrs.Folliat.Shewas sittingwith him in the smallmorning roomatGreenshoreHouse

somethreehourslater.SirGeorgewaswithacoupleofdetectiveofficersinthelibrary.‘A girl whom I’m sure had never done any harm to anybody,’ said Mrs.

Folliat.‘Butwhy–that’swhatIcan’tunderstand.Why?’Her nice smiling elderly face seemed to have aged ten years. Her fingers

claspedandunclaspedasmalllacehandkerchief.Poirothadbeenstruckbyherappearanceandauthorityearlier thatday.He

wasstrucknowbythesuddencollapseofthispoise,byherveryrealandalmostexaggerateddistress.HewonderedwhatitwasthatMrs.Folliatknewandhedidnot.

‘Asyousaidtomeonlyyesterday,Madame,itisaverywickedworld.’‘DidIsaythat?It’strue–I’monlyjustbeginningtoknowhowtrueitis…

Butbelieveme,M.Poirot,Ineverdreamedthatthiswouldhappen…’Helookedathercuriously.‘LadyStubbs,thismorning–’Sheinterruptedhimvehemently.‘Don’tspeakofhertome.Don’tspeakofher,Idon’twanttothinkofher.’‘Shetoospokeofwickedness.’Mrs.Folliatseemedstartled.‘Whatdidshesay?’‘ShesaidofhercousinPaulLopezthathewaswicked–thathewasabad

manandthatshewasafraidofhim.’‘PaulLopez?Youmeanthatratherhandsomedarkyoungmanwhowashere

thisafternoon?’‘Yes.’Mrs.Folliatsaidimpatiently:‘Paynoattention.Hattieis–likeachild.Wickedandgood–sheusesthose

terms likeachilddoes.Wherecanshebe?Whatcanhavehappened toher? Ihope–oh!HowIhopethatshewillnevercomeback!’

Poirotwasstartledbyhervehemence.Theeventsoftheafternoonmadenosensewhateverasfarashecouldsee.Fromfouro’clocknoonehadseteyesonLadyStubbs.Sinceaboutthen,thehouseandthegroundshadbeenthoroughlysearched.Thepolicewerenowsearching farther afield.Wordhadgoneout tothe railway stations, to the police cars patrolling the district to neighbouringtowns,tohotelsandguesthousesinthevicinity–

Mrs.Folliatinadryvoiceputthequestionthatnobodyhadasyetaskedinwords.

‘Dotheythink,’shesaid,‘thatHattiedidit?Killedthatchild?Andthenranaway?’

‘Onedoesnotknowwhattheythink.’‘Doyouthinkso?’‘Madame,inallthingstheremustbeapattern.AsyetIcannotseeapattern.

Whatdoyouthinkyourself?Youknowherverywell–’Asshedidnotanswer,headded:‘Youarefondofher.’‘IwasveryfondofHattie–veryfondindeed.’‘Youusethepasttense,Inotice.’‘Youdon’tunderstand.’‘Youbelieve,perhaps,thatLadyStubbsisdead?’Mrs.Folliatstaredstraightinfrontofher.Thenshesaidinavoicethatwas

littlemorethanawhisper.‘Itwouldbebetterifsheweredead–somuchbetter.’‘IthinkperhapsIunderstandyou.Shewasmentallysubnormal.Hercousin

mentioneditcasuallythisafternoon.Suchpeoplearenotalwaysaccountablefortheiractions.Asuddenfitofrage–’

ButMrs.Folliatturnedonhimangrily.‘Hattiewasneverlikethat.Shewasagentlewarm-heartedgirl.Shewould

neverhavekilledanyone.’Poirot looked at her in some perplexity. He patched together certain

fragmentsinhismind.Hadn’ttherebeensomethingalittletheatricalaboutthesudden arrival of Lopez today? And Hattie’s reaction to it – the calculatingglance, the strongly expressed words of fear and dislike. He thought that hewouldliketoknowalittlemoreaboutPaulLopez.WhatpartdidLopezplayinallthis?IfHattieStubbswasdead–ifshehadbeenkilled–andifinsomewayMarleneTuckerhadbeenawitness to thekilling…ThenMarlene toowouldhavebeensilenced…

SirGeorgeStubbscameintotheroom.‘DetectiveInspectorBlandwouldliketoseeyouinthelibrary,M.Poirot,’he

said.Poirotgotupandwentacrosstothelibrary.ConstableHoskinswhohadbeenfirstonthescene,satatatablebythewall.

HehadnowbeenjoinedbyInspectorBland.Thelatter,speakinginsoftpleasantDevon voice, greeted Poirot with a mention of mutual friend SuperintendentScott.

‘He’sanoldbuddyofmine,M.Poirot,andhe’softenspoken tomeaboutyou.IfeelIknowyouquitewell.’

TheyspokeforamomentoftheSuperintendentandthenBlandwenton.‘Ihopeyoucangiveussomehelpoverthisbusiness,M.Poirot.We’revery

muchin thedark.You’restayingin thehouse,Iunderstand?Is there–forgivemeforasking–anyspecialreasonforthat?’

‘Notofthekindyoumean.Iamnothere,thatistosayprofessionally.Mrs.Ariadne Oliver, the detective novelist, was commissioned to devise aMurderHunt for theFête today, andbeinganold friendofmine, she suggested that Ishouldbeaskedtopresenttheprizeforthebestsolution.’

‘I see. But since you’ve been staying in this house you’ve had theopportunityofobservingpeople.’

‘Foraveryshorttime,’Poirotpointedout.‘Nevertheless you can perhaps tell us certain things we would be glad to

know.Tobeginwith,whatweretherelationsbetweenSirGeorgeStubbsandhiswife?’

‘Excellent,Ishouldsay.’‘Nodisagreements,quarrels?Signsofnervousstrain?’‘Ishouldn’tsayso.SirGeorgeappearedtobedevotedtohiswifeandsheto

him.’‘Noreason,therefore,forhertowalkoutonhim?’‘Ishouldhavesaid,noreasonwhatever.’‘Infact,youthinkitunlikely?’theInspectorpressedhim.‘I would never say that anything a woman does is unlikely, said Poirot

cautiously.‘Womenhavecuriousreasonsforthethingstheydowhichcannotbeappreciated by us. I will admit that it seems an odd time to choose – in themiddleofaFête.LadyStubbswaswearingAscotclothesandveryhighheels.’

‘There’sbeennoindicationof–anotherman?’Poirothesitatedforamomentbeforehespoke.

‘Thereisayoungmanhere,MichaelWeyman,anarchitect.Hewasattractedtoher–definitely,Ishouldsay.Andsheknewit.’

‘Wassheattractedbyhim?’‘Shemayhavebeen.Idonotreallythinkso.’‘He’sstillhere,atanyrate,’saidBland.‘Andworriedtodeathaboutwhat’s

happened to her – unless he’s a better actor than I think.As far as that goes,they’reallworried–notunnaturally.Let’shaveitfrankly–wasshehomicidal,M.Poirot?’

‘I shouldnot have said so–AndMrs.Folliatwhoknowsherwell stoutlydeniesit.’

ConstableHoskinsspokeunexpectedly.‘Tiswellknownhereaboutsasshe’squeerinthehead–Notallthere,isthe

wayI’dputit.Funnykindoflaughshehad.’Blandrubbedhisforeheadinaworriedmanner.‘Thesefeeble-mindedpeople,’hesaid.‘Theyseemallright–perfectlygood

natured–butsomelittlethingmaysetthemoff.Supposingthatshethoughtshesawthedevil inMarleneTucker’seyes–oh!Iknowthatsoundsfantastic,butthere was a case like that in North Devon not very long ago. A woman wasconvincedthatitwasherdutytodestroyevil!LadyStubbsmayhavekilledthisgirlforsomebalmyreasonofherown.Thenwhenshecametoherself,shemayhaverealisedwhatshe’ddoneandgonedowntotheriveranddrownedherself.’

Poirotwassilent.HismindhadwanderedawayfromtheInspector’swords.HewashearingagainthevoiceinwhichMrs.Folliathadsaidyesterdaythatitwasawickedworldandthattherewereverywickedpeopleinit.SupposingthatitwasMrs.FolliatwhohadseenevilinMarleneTucker…supposingthatitwasMrs.FolliatwhohadfeltdivinelyinspiredtotightenacordandchokethedevilinMarleneTucker…AndHattieStubbs,seekingtoavoidherunwantedcousin,came to the boathouse and found Mrs. Folliat with Marlene’s dead body.However fondHattiehadbeenofMrs.Folliat,nobodywithHattie’smentalitycouldbereliedupontokeepsilence.Sowhatthen?HadMrs.FolliatmanagedtosilenceHattie too?But if so,wherewasHattie’sbody?Frail littleMrs.Folliatcouldhardlyhavedisposedofitwithouthelp.

Itcamebacktothesamefinding:WherewasHattieStubbs?InspectorBlandsaidfrowning:‘Itseemsas though the two thingshavegot to tieup– themurderand the

disappearance.Theycan’tbe twoentirelyunrelatedhappenings–especiallyas

thereseemsnoreasonforLadyStubbssuddenlygoingofflikethat–’The lady might have just wandered away, seeing as she’s balmy,’ the

Constableoffered.‘Therewouldhavetobesomereason,’saidBlandobstinately.HelookedinquiringlyatPoirot.‘Youcan’tsuggestanything,M.Poirot?’‘Shewas startled and upset at breakfast thismorningwhen she received a

lettersayingMr.Lopezwascomingheretoday.’Blandraisedhiseyebrows.‘Buthe’dwrittentoherbeforehelefttheWestIndies–sayingthathewas

comingtoEngland.’‘Isthatwhathetoldyou?’‘That’swhathesaid,yes.’Poirotshookhishead.‘Eitherheislying–orelsethatletterofhiswassuppressed.LadyStubbsdid

not receive it.BothsheandSirGeorgeappearedcompletely takenbysurprisethismorning.’

‘Andwassheupset?’‘Shewasveryupset.Shetoldmethathercousinwasabadmananddidbad

things,andthatshewasafraidofhim.’‘Shewasafraidofhim–eh?’Blandconsideredthepoint.‘Lopez has been thoroughly co-operative,’ he said. ‘He’s what I call the

smarmy type – one doesn’t knowwhat he’s really thinking, but hewasmostpolite.Wecalleduponhimonhisyachtandhewentoutofhiswaytoinsistwelookedoverit.HeassuredusthatLadyStubbshadnotcometotheyacht,andthathehadn’tseenheratall.’

‘AsfarasIknow,thatisthetruth,’saidPoirot.‘WhenLopezarrivedattheFête,LadyStubbshadalreadydisappeared.’‘Ifshedidn’twanttomeethim,shecouldhaveeasilygonetoherroom,and

pleadedaheadache.’‘Easily.’‘Soitwasmorethannotjustwantingtomeethim…Torunaway,shemust

reallyhavefearedhimverymuch.’‘Yes.’‘AndthatputsLopezinamoresinisterlight…Still–ifshe’sonlyrunaway,

we’re bound to pick her up before long. I can’t understand why we haven’t

alreadydoneso…’Unspoken, there hovered between them an implication of a more sinister

possibility…‘To go back to the murdered girl,’ said Poirot. ‘You have questioned her

family?Theycansuggestnoreasonforthecrime?’‘Nothingwhatever.’‘Shehadnotbeen–’Poirotpauseddelicately.‘No,no,nothingofthatkind.’‘Iamglad.’PoirotwasrememberingMarlene’sremarksaboutsexmaniacs.‘Hadn’tevengotaboyfriend,’saidtheInspector.‘Or so her people say. Probably true enough – the things she scribbled on

thoseComicsshowabitofwishfulthinking.’He gestured towards the pile of Comics that Poirot had last seen in the

boathouseandwhichwerenowreposingattheInspector’selbow.Poirotasked:‘Youpermit?’andBlandnodded.Poirotranrapidlythroughthesheets.Inastragglingchildishhand,Marlene

hadscrawledhercommentsonlife.‘JackieBlakegoeswithSusanBarnes.’‘Peterpinchesgirlsatthepictures.’

‘Georgie Porgie kisses hikers in thewoods.’ ‘Betty Fox like boys…’ ‘AlbertgoeswithDoreen.’

Hefoundtheremarkspatheticintheiryoungcrudity.Hereplacedthepileofpapersonthe table,andashedidso,hewassuddenlyassailedwithfeelingofsomethingmissing.Something–therewassomethingthatought–

TheelusiveimpressionfadedasBlandspoke.‘Therewasnostruggletospeakof.Looksasthoughshejustletsomeoneput

thatcordaroundherneckwithoutsuspectingitwasanythingbutajoke.’Poirotsaid:‘Thatiseasilyaccountedfor–ifsheknewtheperson.Inaway,itwaswhat

she expected. Shewas to be themurder victim, you see. Shewould have letherselfbe“arranged”forthepartbyanyofthepeopleconnectedwiththeFête.’

‘ByLadyStubbs,forinstance?’‘Yes.’Poirotwenton:‘OrbyMrs.Oliver,orMrs.Legge,orMissBrewisorMrs.

Masterton.Or for thatmatter, bySirGeorge, orCaptainWarborough,orAlecLegge,orevenMichaelWeyman.’

‘Yes,’saidBland,‘it’sawidefield.Onlytwopeoplehaveanabsolutealibi,SirGeorgewasondutyattheShowsallafternoon,neverleftthefrontlawn,and

the same goes forCaptainWarborough.MissBrewismight just have done it.Shewentbetweenthehouseandthegarden,andshecouldhavebeenabsentforas long as tenminuteswithout being noticed.Mrs. Legge could have left theFortuneTelling tent, though it is unlikely; therewas a fairly steady stream ofclientsthere.Mrs.OliverandMichaelWeymanandAlecLeggewerewanderingaboutallovertheplace–noalibisofanykind.HoweverIsupposeyou’llinsistthatweabsolveyourladynovelistofthecrime.’

‘Onecanmakenoexceptions,’saidPoirot. ‘Mrs.Oliver,afterall,arrangedthisMurderHunt.Shearrangedfor thegirl tobeisolatedintheboathouse,farawayfromthecrowdsbythehouse.’

‘GoodLord,M.Poirot,doyoumean–’‘No, I do not mean. I am trying to get at something which is still very

nebulous…whichsofarhasbaffledme.Thereisanotherpoint,thekey.WhenMrs.OliverandIdiscoveredthebody,Mrs.Oliverunlockedthedoorwithakey.Therewasanotherkeywhichwastobethelast“clue”.Wasthatinplace?’

Blandnodded.‘Yes. It was in a small Chinese pottery theatre in the hydrangea walk.

Nobodyhadgottothatclueyet.Therewasathirdkeyinthehouse–drawerinthefronthall.’

‘Whereeveryonecouldgetit!Andinanycase,ifsomeonesheknewtappedon the door and asked her to open it, Marlene would have done so. If Mrs.Masterton,say,orMrs.Folliat–’

‘Mrs.MastertonwasverymuchinevidenceattheFête.SowasMrs.Folliat.’‘InoticedthatMrs.Folliatwas–howshallIsay–playingthehostess.’‘Tis her house by rights,’ said Constable Hoskins severely. ‘Always been

FolliatsatGreenshore.’Poirot staredathim.Hemissedwhat InspectorBlandhadbeensayingand

onlyheardtheendofhisspeech.‘–noearthlyreasonwhythatgirlshouldhavebeenkilled.We’llknowbetter

wherewearewhenwe’verunLadyStubbstotheground.’‘Ifyoudo,’saidPoirot.Blandlaughedconfidently.‘Aliveordead–we’llfindherallright,’hesaid.‘Dashitall,awomancan’t

justdisappearintospace.’‘Iwonder,’saidPoirot.‘Iverymuchwonder…’

VII

Theweekswent by, and it seemed that Inspector Bland’s confident statementwas provedwrong.Awoman could disappear into space!Nowherewas thereanysignofLadyStubbs,aliveordead.InhercyclamenclingingAscotfrockandher high heels and her great black shady hat, she had strolled away from thecrowdedlawnofherhouse–andnohumaneyehadseenheragain.Herfrantichusband besieged police headquarters, ScotlandYardwas asked for assistancebytheChiefConstable,butHattieStubbswasnotfound.Inthepublicitygivento the disappearance of Lady Stubbs the unsolvedmurder ofMarlene Tuckerfadedintothebackground.Occasionallytherewasaparagraphtotheeffectthatthepolicewereanxious to intervieworhad interviewedsomeone,butnoneoftheinterviewsledtoanything.

Littlebylittle,thepubliclostinterestinboththemurderofMarleneandthedisappearanceofLadyStubbs.

ItwasonanOctoberafternoon, twomonthsafter thedayof theFête, thatDetective Inspector Bland rang up Hercule Poirot. He explained that he waspassingthroughLondon,andaskedifhecoulddropinandseeM.Poirot.

Poirotrepliedmostcordially.Hereplacedthereceiver,hesitated,thenrangMrs.Oliver’snumber.‘Butdonot,’hehastenedtoaddwhenhehadmadehisdemandtospeakto

her,‘disturbherifsheisatwork.’He remembered how bitterly Mrs. Oliver had once reproached him for

interruptingatrainofcreativethoughtandhowtheworld,inconsequence,hadbeendeprivedof an intriguingmystery, centring round anold fashioned long-sleevedwoollenvest.

Mrs.Oliver’svoice,however,spokealmostimmediately.‘It’ssplendidthatyou’verungmeup,’shesaid.‘Iwasjustgoingtogivea

Talkon“HowIwritemyBooks”andnowIshallgetmysecretarytoringupandsayI’munavoidablydetained.’

‘But,Madame,youmustnotletmeprevent–’‘It’s not a case of preventing. I should havemade themost awful fool of

myself. I mean, what can you say about how you write books? I mean, first

you’vegottothinkofsomethingandthenwhenyou’vethoughtofit,you’vegottoforceyourselftositandwriteit.That’sall!Itwouldhavetakenmejustthreeminutestoexplainthat,andtheTalkwouldhaveended–andeverybodywouldhavebeenveryfedup.Ican’timaginewhyeverybodyissokeenforauthorstotalkaboutwriting–Ishouldhavethoughtitwasanauthor’sbusinesstowrite,nottalk.”

‘AndyetitisabouthowyouwritethatIwanttoaskyounow–’‘You can ask, but I probably shan’t know the answers. I mean one just

writes.Justaminute–I’vegotafrightfullysillyhaton,fortheTalk,andImusttakeitoff.Itscratchesmyforehead!’

Therewas amomentary pause and the voice ofMrs.Oliver resumed in arelievedvoice.

‘Hats are really a symbolnowadays, aren’t they? Imeanonedoesn’twearthem for sensible reasons anymore– to keepone’s headwarm,or shieldonefromthesun,orhideone’sfacefrompeopleonedoesn’twant tomeet–Ibegyourpardon,M.Poirot,didyousaysomething?’

‘Itwasanejaculationonly.Itisextraordinary,’saidPoirotandhisvoicewasawed.‘Always–always–yougivemeideas…Soalso,didmyfriendHastingswhoIhavenotseenformanyyears…Butnomoreofallthat.Letmeaskyouinsteadaquestion.DoyouknowanAtomScientist,Madame?’

‘Do I know an Atom Scientist?’ saidMrs. Oliver in a surprised voice. ‘Idon’tknow.IsupposeImay.ImeanIknowsomeProfessorsandthings–I’mneverquitesurewhattheyactuallydo.’

‘YetyoumadeanAtomScientistoneofthesuspectsatyourMurderHunt?’‘Oh, that.Well, thatwas just tobeup todate. Imean,whenIwent tobuy

presents formy nephews last Christmas therewas nothing but science fictionandthestratosphere,andsupersonictoys!AndsoIthought:betterhaveanatomscientistasthechiefsuspect.Afterall,ifIhadwantedalittletechnicaljargonIcouldhavealwaysgotitfromAlecLegge.’

‘Alec Legge? That is the husband of Peggy Legge – is he an Atomicscientist?’

‘Yes,he is.NotHarwell–Walessomewhere,orBristol. It’s justaholidaycottage theyhaveon theDart.SoofcourseIdoknowanAtomScientistafterall.’

‘And it was meeting him at Greenshore that probably put the idea of anAtomicScientistintoyourhead.ButhiswifeisnotYugoslavian?’

‘Ohno!Peggy’sasEnglishasEnglish.’

‘ThenwhatputtheideaofaYugoslavianwifeintoyourhead?’‘Ireallydon’tknow…refugeesperhaps…orall thoseforeigngirlsat the

Hostelnextdoor–always trespassing through thewoodsandspeakingbrokenEnglish.’

‘Isee–yes,Isee…Iseenowalotofthings.Thereissomethingelse–therewas a clue, you said, written on one of the Comics you had provided forMarlene.’

‘Yes.’‘Wasthatcluesomethinglike–’heforcedhismemoryback–‘“Johnnygoes

withDoreen–GeorgiePorgiekissesahiker–BettyissweetonTom”?’‘Goodgracious,no,no–nothingsillylikethat.Minewasaperfectlystraight

clue.Lookinthehikersrucksack!’‘Epatant!’saidPoirot–‘Naturallythathadtobesuppressed!Nowonemore

thing.Youhavesaidthatvariouschangesweresuggestedinyourscenario,someyouresistedandsomeyouaccepted.Wasitoriginallyyourideatohavethebodydiscoveredintheboathouse?Thinkcarefully.’

‘Noitwasn’t,’saidMrs.Oliver.‘IarrangedfortheBodytobeinthatlittleoldfashionedsummerhousequitenearthehouse,behindtherhododendrons.Buttheyallsaidthat itwouldbebetter tohavethelastcluefarawayandisolated,andasI’djustmadeagreatfussabouttheFollyClue,anditdidn’tseemtometomatter,Igavein.’

‘TheFolly,’saidPoirotsoftly.‘OnecomesbackalwaystotheFolly.YoungMichaelWeyman standing there the day I arrived, saying that it should neverhavebeenputwhereitwasput…SirGeorge’sFolly…’

‘He had it put there because the trees had blown down.MichaelWeymantoldusso.’

‘Healsotoldusthatthefoundationswererotten–Ithink,Madame,thatthatiswhatyoufeltinthathouse–Itisthereasonyousentforme–Itisnotwhatyou could see that was rotten – it was that which was concealed below thesurface–Youfeltit–andyouwereright.”

‘Idon’treallyknowwhatyouaretalkingabout,MonsieurPoirot.’‘Haveyoueverreflected,Madame,ontheenormouspartthatHearsayplays

in life.“Mr.Asaid,”“Mrs.B. toldus.”“MissC.explainedwhy–”andsoon.Andiftheknownfactsseemtofitwithwhatwehavebeentold,thenweneverquestionthem.Therearesomany things thatdonotconcernus,andsowedonotbothertouncovertheactualfacts.’

‘M. Poirot,’ Mrs. Oliver spoke excitedly. ‘You sound like you knew

something.’‘IthinkreallyIhaveknownitforsometime,’saidPoirotdreamily.‘Somany

smallunrelatedfacts–butallpointingthesameway.Excuseme,Madame,myfrontdoorbellrings.ItisInspectorBlandwhoarrivestoseeme.’

Hereplacedthereceiverandwenttolethisguestin.

VIII

‘Twomonthsnow,’saidBland,leaningbackinhischairandsippinggingerlyatthecupofChinateawithwhichPoirothadprovidedhim.

‘Two months – and there hasn’t been a trace of her. It’s not so easy todisappearinthiscountryasallthat.Notifwecangetonthetrailstraightaway.Andwewereonthetrail.It’snogoodsayingthatshewentoffonthatfellow’syacht.Shedidn’t.Wesearched thatboatverycarefully,andshewasn’ton it–aliveordead.’

‘Whatkindofayachtwasit?’askedPoirot.Blandlookedathimsuspiciously.‘Itwasn’triggedupforsmuggling,ifthat’swhatyoumean.Nofancyhidden

partitionsorsecretcubbyholes.’‘ThatisnotwhatImean.Ionlyaskedwhatkindifyacht–bigorsmall?’‘Oh itwas a terrific affair –must have cost the earth.All very smart and

newlypainted–andluxuryfittings.’‘Exactly,’saidPoirot.Hesoundedpleased.‘Whatareyougettingat,M.Poirot?’‘PaulLopezisarichman.Thatisverysignificant.’‘Perhaps. But I don’t see why.What do you think has happened to Lady

Stubbs,M.Poirot?’‘Ihavenodoubtwhatever–LadyStubbsisdead.’Blandnoddedhisheadslowly.‘Yes,I thinksotoo.Wefoundthathatofhers.Fisheditoutof theriver.It

was straw and it floated. As for the body, tide was running out hard thatafternoon. It will have been carried out to sea. It will wash up somewheresomeday–thoughitmayn’tbeeasytoidentifyafterallthistime.Yes,I’mclearonthat.ShewentintotheDart–butwasitsuicideormurder?’

‘Again,thereisnodoubt–itwasmurder,’saidHerculePoirot.‘Whomurderedher?’‘Haveyounoideasastothat?’‘I’veaverygood idea,butnoevidence. I thinkshewasmurderedbyPaul

Lopez.He came up toGreenshore in a small launch by himself, remember. I

thinkhecameashorebytheboathouseandthatsheslippeddowntheretomeethim.Itseemsfantasticthathecouldconkherontheheadorstabherandpushherbodyintothewaterandnotbeseendoingit–whenyouconsiderhowmanycraftthereareontheriverinthesummer–butIsupposethetruthisifyou’renotexpecting to see anyonemurdered you don’t see it! Plenty of horse play andshrieksandpeopleshovingeachotheroffboats,andit’salltakentobeholidayfun!TheonepersonwhodidseeithappenwasMarleneTucker.Shesawitfromthewindowoftheboathouse,andso–shehadtobekilledtoo.’

HepausedandlookedenquiringlyatPoirot.‘But we’ve no evidence,’ he said. ‘And Lopez has gone home. We had

nothingtoholdhimon.Wedon’tevenknowwhyhekilledHattieStubbs.Therewasnomonetarygain.Shedidn’townanypropertyoutthereandshehadn’tanymoney of her own – only a settlement that Sir George had made about sixmonthsaftertheirmarriage.Wewentintoallthefinances.SirGeorgeisaveryrichman–hiswifewaspracticallypenniless.’

Hegaveanexasperatedsigh.‘Sowhere’sthemotive,MonsieurPoirot?WhatdidLopezstandtogain?’‘Poirotleanedbackinhischair,joinedthetipsofhisfingersandspokeina

softmonotone.‘Let us take certain facts in chronological order. Greenshore House is for

sale.ItisbroughtbySirGeorgeStubbswhohasrecentlymarriedagirlfromtheWestIndies;anorphaneducatedinParisandchaperonedafterthedeathofherparentsbyMrs.Folliat,thewidowofaformerownerofGreenshoreHouse.SirGeorgeisprobablyinducedtobuythehouseundertheinfluenceofMrs.FolliatwhomhepermitstoliveintheLodge.AccordingtoaveryoldmanformerlyinservicewiththeFolliats,therewillalwaysbeFolliatsatGreenshoreHouse.’

‘YoumeanoldMerdle?Livedinthecottagedownbythequay?’‘Lived?Ishedead?’‘Tookadrop toomuchonenight, they think, comingback fromDartsway

opposite;hemissedhisfootinggettingoutofhisboatandwasdrowned.’Poirotremarked,‘Anaccident?Iwonder…’‘Youthinkitwasn’tanaccident?Didheknowsomething,perhaps,abouthis

granddaughter’sdeath?’‘His granddaughter?’ Poirot sat bolt upright. His eyes shone green with

excitement.WasMarleneTuckerhisgranddaughter?‘Yes.Hisonlydaughter’schild.’‘Ofcourse,’saidPoirot.‘Ofcourse…Ishouldhaveguessedthat…’

Blandmovedrestively.‘Lookhere,M.Poirot,Idon’tunderstand…’Poirotraisedanauthoritativehand.‘Letmecontinue.SirGeorgebringshisyoungwifetoGreenshore.Theday

before their arrival there had been a terrible gale. Trees down everywhere. Amonthor two laterSirGeorgeerectedwhat is sometimescalledaFolly– justwhere a very big oak tree had come out bodily by the roots. It was a veryunsuitableplace,accordingtoanarchitect,forsuchathingtobeput.’

‘DaresayGeorgeStubbsdidn’tknowanybetter.’‘And yet somebody told me that he was a man of quite good taste,

surprisinglyso…’‘M.Poirot,whatisallthisgettingat?’‘Iamtryingtoreconstructastory–thestoryasitmustbe.’‘Butlookhere,M.Poirot–aren’twegettingalongwayfrommurder.’‘Itisthestoryofamurder.Butwehavetobeginatthebeginning…’

IX

HerculePoirotpausedamomentatthebigwroughtirongates.Helookedaheadof him along the curving drive.Golden-brown leaves fluttered down from thetrees.Nearathandthegrassybankwascoveredwithlittlemauvecyclamen.

Poirot sighed. The beauty ofGreenshore appealed to him. Then he turnedasideandrappedgentlyonthedoorofthelittlewhiteplasteredLodge.

After a few moments’ delay he heard footsteps inside, slow hesitantfootsteps.ThedoorwasopenedbyMrs.Folliat.Hewasnotstartledthistimetoseehowoldandfrailshelooked.

Shesaid,‘M.Poirot?You?’anddrewback.‘MayIcomein?’‘Ofcourse.’She led thewayandhefollowedher intoasmallsittingroom.Therewere

somedelicateChelseafiguresonthemantelpiece,acoupleofchairscoveredinexquisitepetitpoint,andaDerbyteaservicewason thesmall table.Achosenfewofthetreasuresofthepastwereherewiththeoldladywhohadoutlivedherkindred.

SheofferedPoirotteawhichherefused.Thensheaskedinaquietvoice:‘Whyhaveyoucome?’‘Ithinkyoucanguess,Madame.’Heranswerwasoblique.‘Iamverytired,’shesaid.‘Iknow.Therehavenowbeenthreedeaths,HattieStubbs,MarleneTucker,

oldMerdle.’Shesaidsharply:‘Merdle?Thatwasanaccident.Hefellfromthequay.Hewasveryold,half

blind,andhe’dbeendrinkinginthepub.’‘Idonotthinkitwasanaccident.Merdleknewtoomuch.’‘Whatdidheknow?’‘Herecognisedaface,orawayofwalking,oramanner.Italkedtohimone

daywhen Iwasherebefore.He toldme something about theFolliat family–aboutyourfather-in-lawandyourhusband,andyoursonswhowerekilledinthe

war.Onlytheywerenotbothkilled,werethey?YoursonHenrywentdownwithhis ship, but your second son, James, was not killed. He deserted. He wasreported at first, perhaps,Missingbelieved killed, and later you told everyonethathewas killed. Itwasnobody’sbusiness todisbelieve that statement.Whyshouldthey?’

Poirotpausedandthenwenton:‘Donot imagineIhavenosympathyforyou,Madame.Lifehasbeenhard

foryou,Iknow.Youcanhavenorealillusionsaboutyouryoungerson,buthewasstillyourson,andyoulovedhim.Youdidallyoucouldtogivehimanewlife.Youhadthechargeofayounggirl,asubnormalbutveryrichgirl.Ohyes,shewas rich.Butyougaveout that shewaspoor, thatyouhadadvisedher tomarryarichmanmanyyearsolderthanherself.Whyshouldanybodydisbelieveyourstory?Again,itwasnobody’sbusiness.Herparentsandnearrelativeshadbeenkilled.ShewasataconventinParisandafirmofFrenchlawyersactedasinstructedby lawyers inSanMiguel.Onhermarriage, sheassumedcontrolofherownfortune.Shewas,asyouhavetoldme,docile,affectionate,suggestible.Everythingherhusbandaskedhertosign,shesigned.Securitieswereprobablychangedandre-soldmanytimes,butintheendthedesiredfinancialresultwasreached.SirGeorgeStubbs,thenewpersonalityassumedbyyourson,wasarichmanandhiswifewasapauper.Itisnolegaloffencetocallyourself“Sir”.Atitlecreatesconfidence–itsuggests,ifnotbirth,thencertainlyriches.AndrichSirGeorge Stubbs, older and changed in appearance and having grown a beard,bought Greenshore House and came to live where he belonged. There wasnobodyleftafterthedevastationofwarwhowaslikelytohaverecognisedhim,butoldMerdledid.Hekepttheknowledgetohimself,butwhenhesaidtomeslyly that there would always be Folliats at Greenshore House, that was hisprivatejoke.

‘Soall turnedoutwell,orsoyou thought.Yourplan,as Ibelieve,stoppedthere.Youhadprovidedyour sonwithwealth,hisancestralhome,and thoughhiswifewassubnormal shewasabeautifulanddocilegirl, andyouhopedhewouldbekindtoherandthatshewouldbehappy.’

Mrs.Folliatsaidinalowvoice:‘That’showI thought itwouldbe– Iwould lookafterHattieandcare for

her.Ineverdreamed–’‘Youneverdreamed–andyoursoncarefullydidnottellyou,thatatthetime

ofthemarriagehewasalreadymarried.‘Oh,yes–wehavesearchedtherecordsforwhatweknewmustexist.Your

sonhadmarriedagirlinTrieste,halfItalian,halfYogoslavian,andshehadnomind tobeparted fromhim,nor for thatmatterhadheany intentionofbeingpartedfromher.HeacceptedthemarriagewithHattieasameanstowealth,butinhisownmindheknewfromthebeginningwhatheintendedtodo.’

‘No,no,Idonotbelievethat!Icannotbelieveit…Itwasthatwoman–thatwickedcreature.’

Poirotwentoninexorably:‘Hemeantmurder.Hattiehadnorelations,fewfriends.Immediatelyontheir

returntoEngland,hebroughtherhere.AndthatwaswhenHattieStubbsdied.OnthedayoftheFêtetherealLadyStubbshadbeendeadeighteenmonths–hekilledher theactualeveningof their arrivalhere.The servantshardly sawherthatfirstevening,andthewomantheysawthenextmorningwasnotHattie,buthisItalianwifemadeupasHattieandbehavingroughlymuchasHattiebehaved.Thereagainitmighthaveended.ThefalseHattiewouldhavelivedoutherlifesuccessfullyasLadyStubbs–graduallyallowinghermentalpowerstoimproveowing towhatwould vaguely be called “new treatment.” The secretary,MissBrewis, already realised that there was very little wrong with Lady Stubbs’mentalprocessesandthatalotofherhalf-wittednesswasputon.

‘But then a totally unforeseen thing happened. A cousin ofHattie’swrotethathewascomingtoEnglandonayachtingtrip,andalthoughthatcousinhadnot seen her for many years, he would not be likely to be deceived by animpostor.

‘There might have been several different ways of meeting the situation,though ifPaulLopezremained long inEngland itwouldbealmost impossiblefor “Hattie” to avoid meeting him. But another complication occurred. OldMerdle, growing garrulous, used to chatter to his granddaughter. She wasprobablytheonlypersonwholistenedtohim,andevenshethoughthim“batty”and paid very little serious attention when he talked about having seen awoman’s body long ago in the wood, and aboutMr. James being Sir GeorgeStubbs. She was slightly subnormal herself, but she had perhaps sufficientcuriositytohintatvariousthingsto“SirGeorge”.Indoingthat,shesignedherown death warrant. The husband and wife worked out a scheme wherebyMarlene should be killed and “Lady Stubbs” disappear in conditions whichshouldthrowvaguesuspiciononPaulLopez.

‘Todothis,“Hattie”assumedasecondpersonality,orratherrevertedtoherownpersonality.WithSirGeorge’sconnivance,itwaseasytodoubletheparts.She arrived at theYouthHostel in the roleof an Italiangirl student,wentout

aloneforawalk–and–becameLadyStubbs.Afterdinner,LadyStubbswenttobedearly,slippedoutandreturnedtotheHostel,spentthenightthere,roseearly,went out, andwas oncemoreLadyStubbs at the breakfast table!Back to herbedroomwithaheadacheuntiltheafternoon,but,againwithSirGeorge’shelp,shestagedatrespassingactincompanywithagirlwhowasalsoattheHostel.Thechangesofcostumewerenotdifficult–shortsandashirtunderoneoftheelaborate dresses Lady Stubbs wore. Heavy white make-up for Hattie, a bigCooliehat that shieldedher face;agaypeasantscarf,bigspectaclesandsomebronze-redhairfor theItaliangirlhiker.Isawthemboth–andneverdreamedtheywere the sameperson. Itwas “LadyStubbs”who slipped away from theFête,wenttotheisolatedboathouseandstrangledtheunsuspectingMarlene.Shethrewherhatintotheriver,packedupherAscotfrockandhighheeledshoesinarucksackshehadconcealedearlierneartheboathouse.Then,backtotheFêteastheItaliangirl,joiningupwithhercasualacquaintance,theDutchgirl,doingafew shows together, then, as shehadpreviously announced toher companion,she leaves by the local bus, an inconspicuous figure.There are forty and fiftyvisitors each day at theYouthHostel. They arouse no interest or speculation.ThenbacktoLondon,toawaitquietlyasuitabletimeto“meet”SirGeorge,andeventuallytomarryhimwhenhecanatlastpresumehiswife’sdeath.’

Therewasalongpause.ThenMrs.Folliatdrewherselfupinherchair.Hervoicehadthecoldnessofice.

‘Whataveryfantasticstory,M.Poirot,’shesaid.‘Icanassureyoutherehasnever beenmore than one Lady Stubbs. Poor Hattie has always been – poorHattie.’

Poirotrosetohisfeetandgoingtothewindow,openedit.‘Listen,Madame.Whatdoyouhear?’‘Iamalittledeaf.WhatshouldIhear?’‘Theblowsofapickaxe…Theyarebreakinguptheconcretefoundationof

theFolly.Whatagoodplace toburyabody–wherea treehasbeenuprootedandtheearthisalreadydisturbed.Then,alittlelater,tomakeallsafe,concreteoverthegroundwherethebodylies,andontheconcrete,erectaFolly…’Headdedgently,‘SirGeorge’sFolly…’

AlongshudderingsighescapedMrs.Folliat.‘Suchabeautifulplace,’saidPoirot.‘Onlyonethingevil…Themanwho

ownsit…’‘Iknow.’Herwordscamehoarsely.‘Ihavealwaysknown.Evenasachild

hefrightenedme…Ruthless…Withoutpity…Andwithoutconscience…But

hewasmysonandIlovedhim…IshouldhavespokenoutafterHattie’sdeath…Buthewasmyson–howcouldIbetheonetogivehimup?Andso,becauseof my silence – that poor silly child was killed… And after her death, oldMerdle…Wherewouldithaveended?’

‘Withamurdereritdoesnotend,’saidPoirot.Shebowedherhead.Foramomentortwoshestayedso,herhandscovering

hereyes.ThenMrs.Folliat ofGreenshore, daughter of a long lineof soldiers, drew

herselferect.ShelookedstraightatPoirotandhervoicewasformalandremote.‘Thankyou,M.Poirot,’shesaid,‘forcomingtotellmeyourselfofallthis.

Willyouleavemenow?Therearesomethingsthatonehastofacequitealone…’

AbouttheAuthor

AGATHACHRISTIEisthemostwidelypublishedauthorofalltime,outsoldonly by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have soldmore than a billioncopiesinEnglishandanotherbillioninahundredforeignlanguages.Shediedin1976.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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TheAgathaChristieCollection

TheManintheBrownSuitTheSecretofChimneysTheSevenDialsMysteryTheMysteriousMr.QuinTheSittafordMysteryParkerPyneInvestigatesWhyDidn’tTheyAskEvans?MurderIsEasyTheRegattaMysteryandOtherStoriesAndThenThereWereNoneTowardsZeroDeathComesastheEndSparklingCyanideTheWitnessfortheProsecutionandOtherStoriesCrookedHouseThreeBlindMiceandOtherStoriesTheyCametoBaghdadDestinationUnknownOrdealbyInnocenceDoubleSinandOtherStoriesThePaleHorseStarOverBethlehem:PoemsandHolidayStoriesEndlessNightPassengertoFrankfurtTheGoldenBallandOtherStoriesTheMousetrapandOtherPlaysTheHarlequinTeaSetandOtherStories

TheHerculePoirotMysteriesTheMysteriousAffairatStyles

TheMurderontheLinksPoirotInvestigatesTheMurderofRogerAckroydTheBigFourTheMysteryoftheBlueTrainPerilatEndHouseLordEdgwareDiesMurderontheOrientExpressThreeActTragedyDeathintheCloudsTheA.B.C.MurdersMurderinMesopotamiaCardsontheTableMurderintheMewsDumbWitnessDeathontheNileAppointmentwithDeathHerculePoirot’sChristmasSadCypressOne,Two,BuckleMyShoeEvilUndertheSunFiveLittlePigsTheHollowTheLaborsofHerculesTakenattheFloodTheUnderDogandOtherStoriesMrs.McGinty’sDeadAftertheFuneralHickoryDickoryDockDeadMan’sFollyCatAmongthePigeonsTheClocksThirdGirlHallowe’enPartyElephantsCanRememberCurtain:Poirot’sLastCase

TheMissMarpleMysteriesTheMurderattheVicarageTheBodyintheLibraryTheMovingFingerAMurderIsAnnouncedTheyDoItwithMirrorsAPocketFullofRye4:50fromPaddingtonTheMirrorCrack’dfromSidetoSideACaribbeanMysteryAtBertram’sHotelNemesisSleepingMurderMissMarple:TheCompleteShortStories

TheTommyandTuppenceMysteriesTheSecretAdversaryPartnersinCrimeNorM?BythePrickingofMyThumbsPosternofFate

MemoirsAnAutobiographyCome,TellMeHowYouLive

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’simaginationandarenottobeconstruedasreal.Anyresemblancetoactualeventsorpersons,livingordead,isentirelycoincidental.

HerculePoirotandtheGreenshoreFolly©MathewPrichard2013ForewordfromAgathaChristie’sSecretNotebooks©JohnCurran2009AGATHACHRISTIE®andPOIROT®areregisteredtrademarksofAgathaChristieLimitedintheUKandelsewhere.Allrightsreserved.

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainbyHarperCollinsPublishersLtd2014EbookEdition©November2013

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of therequiredfees,youhavebeengrantedthenonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookonscreen.Nopartofthistextmaybereproduced,transmitted,decompiled,reverse-engineered,orstoredinorintroducedintoanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express writtenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.

EPubEditionNOVEMBER2013ISBN:9780062334466

10987654321

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