Dead Man's Folly hp-31 Page 12

  Poirot was always willing to let people talk. The more people who talked to him, and the more they said, the better. There was nearly always a grain of wheat among the chaff.

  "You think it has been an unfortunate marriage?" he demanded,

  "Disastrous – quite disastrous."

  "You mean – that they were not happy together?"

  "She'd a thoroughly bad influence over him in every way."

  "Now I find that very interesting. What kind of a bad influence?"

  "Making him run to and fro at her beck and call, getting expensive presents out of him – far more jewels than one woman could wear. And furs. She's got two mink coats and a Russian ermine. What could any woman want with two mink coats, I'd like to know?"

  Poirot shook his head.

  "That I would not know," he said.

  "Sly," continued Miss Brewis. "Deceitful! Always playing the simpleton – especially when people were here. I suppose because she thought he liked her that way!"

  "And did he like her that way?"

  "Oh, men!" said Miss Brewis, her voice trembling on the edge of hysteria. "They don't appreciate efficiency or unselfishness, or loyalty or any of those qualities! Now with a clever, capable wife Sir George would have got somewhere."

  "Got where?" asked Poirot.

  "Well, he could take a prominent part in local affairs. Or stand for Parliament. He's a much more able man than poor Mr Masterton. I don't know if you've ever heard Mr Masterton on a platform – a most halting and uninspired speaker. He owes his position entirely to his wife. It's Mrs Masterton who's the power behind the throne. She's got all the drive and the initiative and the political acumen."

  Poirot shuddered inwardly at the thought of being married to Mrs Masterton, but he agreed quite truthfully with Miss Brewis's words.

  "Yes," he said, "she is all that you say. A femme formidable," he murmured to himself.

  "Sir George doesn't seem ambitious," went on Miss Brewis; "he seems quite content to live here and potter about and play the country squire, and just go to London occasionally to attend to all his city directorships and all that, but he could make far more of himself than that with his abilities. He's really a very remarkable man, M. Poirot. That woman never understood him. She just regards him as a kind of machine for tipping out fur coats and jewels and expensive clothes. If he were married to someone who really appreciated his abilities…" She broke off, her voice wavering uncertainly.

  Poirot looked at her with a real compassion. Miss Brewis was in love with her employer. She gave him a faithful, loyal and passionate devotion of which he was probably quite unaware and in which he would certainly not be interested. To Sir George, Amanda Brewis was an efficient machine who took the drudgery of daily life off his shoulders, who answered telephone calls, wrote letters, engaged servants, ordered meals and generally made life smooth for him. Poirot doubted if he had ever once thought of her as a woman. And that, he reflected, had its dangers. Women could work themselves up, they could reach an alarming pitch of hysteria unnoticed by the oblivious male who was the object of their devotion.

  "A sly, scheming, clever cat, that's what she is," said Miss Brewis tearfully.

  "You say is, not was, I observe," said Poirot.

  "Of course she isn't dead!" said Miss Brewis, scornfully. "Gone off with a man, that's what she's done! That's her type."

  "It is possible. It is always possible," said Poirot. He took another piece of toast, inspected the marmalade pot gloomily and looked down the table to see if there were any kind of jam. There was none, so he resigned himself to butter.

  "It's the only explanation," said Miss Brewis. "Of course he wouldn't think of it."

  "Has there – been any – trouble with men?" asked Poirot, delicately.

  "Oh, she's been very clever," said Miss Brewis.

  "You mean you have not observed anything of the kind?"

  "She'd be careful that I shouldn't," said Miss Brewis.

  "But you think that there may have been – what shall I say? – surreptitious episodes?"

  "She's done her best to make a fool of Michael Weyman," said Miss Brewis. "Taking him down to see the camellia gardens at this time of year! Pretending she's so interested in the tennis pavilion."

  "After all, that is his business for being here and I understand Sir George is having it built principally to please his wife."

  "She's no good at tennis," said Miss Brewis. "She's no good at any games. Just wants an attractive setting to sit in, while other people run about and get hot. Oh, yes, she's done her best to make a fool of Michael Weyman. She'd probably have done it too, it he hadn't had other fish to fry."

  "Ah," said Poirot, helping himself to a very little marmalade, placing it on the corner of a piece of toast and taking a mouthful dubiously. "So he has other fish to fry, M. Weyman?"

  "It was Mrs Legge who recommended him to Sir George," said Miss Brewis. "She knew him before she was married. Chelsea, I understand, and all that. She used to paint, you know."

  "She seems a very attractive and intelligent young woman," said Poirot tentatively.

  "Oh, yes, she's very intelligent," said Miss Brewis. "She's had a university education and I dare say could have made a career for herself if she hadn't married."

  "Has she been married long?"

  "About three years, I believe. I don't think the marriage has turned out very well."

  "There is – the incompatibility?"

  "He's a queer young man, very moody. Wanders off a lot by himself and I've heard him very bad-tempered with her sometimes."

  "Ah, well," said Poirot, "the quarrels, the reconciliations, they are a part of early married life. Without them it is possible that life would be drab."

  "She's spent a good deal of time with Michael Weyman since he's been down here," said Miss Brewis. "I think he was in love with her before she married Alec Legge. I dare say it's only a flirtation on her side."

  "But Mr Legge was not pleased about it, perhaps?"

  "One never knows with him, he's so vague, but I think he's been even moodier than usual, lately."

  "Did he admire Lady Stubbs, perhaps?"

  "I dare say she thought he did. She thinks she only has to hold up a finger for any man to fall in love with her!"

  "In any case, if she has gone off with a man, as you suggest, it is not Mr Weyman, for Mr Weyman is still here."

  "It's somebody she's been meeting on the sly, I've no doubt," said Miss Brewis. "She often slips out of the house on the quiet and goes off into the woods by herself. She was out the night before last. Yawning and saying she was going up to bed. I caught sight of her not half an hour later slipping out by the side door with a shawl over her head."

  Poirot looked thoughtfully at the woman opposite him. He wondered if any reliance at all was to be placed in Miss Brewis's statements where Lady Stubbs was concerned, or whether it was entirely wishful thinking on her part. Mrs Folliat, he was sure, did not share Miss Brewis's ideas and Mrs Folliat knew Hattie much better than Miss Brewis could do. If Lady Stubbs had run away with a lover it would clearly suit Miss Brewis's look very well. She would be left to console the bereaved husband and to arrange for him efficiently the details of divorce. But that did not make it true, or probable, or even likely. If Hattie Stubbs had left with a lover, she had chosen a very curious time to do so, Poirot thought. For his own part he did not believe she had.

  Miss Brewis sniffed through her nose and gathered together various scattered correspondence.

  "If Sir George really wants those advertisements put in, I suppose I'd better see about it," she said. "Complete nonsense and waste of time. Oh, good morning, Mrs Masterton," she added, as the door opened with authority and Mrs Masterton walked in.

  "Inquest is set for Thursday, I hear," she boomed. "'Morning, M. Poirot."

  Miss Brewis paused, her hand full of letters.

  "Anything I can do for you, Mrs Masterton?" she asked.

  "No, thank you, Miss Brewis. I e
xpect you've plenty on your hands this morning, but I do want to thank you for all the excellent work you put in yesterday. You're such a good organiser and such a hard worker. We're all very grateful."

  "Thank you, Mrs Masterton."

  "Now don't let me keep you. I'll just sit down and have a word with M. Poirot."

  "Enchanted, Madame," said Poirot. He had risen to his feet and he bowed.

  Mrs Masterton pulled out a chair and sat down.

  Miss Brewis left the room, quite restored to her usual efficient self.

  "Marvellous woman, that," said Mrs Masterton. "Don't know what the Stubbses would do without her. Running a house takes some doing nowadays. Poor Hattie couldn't have coped with it. Extraordinary business, this, M. Poirot. I came to ask you what you thought about it."

  "What do you yourself think, Madame?"

  "Well, it's an unpleasant thing to face, but I should say we've got some pathological character in this part of the world. Not a native, I hope. Perhaps been let out of an asylum – they're always letting 'em out half-cured nowadays. What I mean is, no one would ever want to strangle that Tucker girl. There couldn't be any motive, I mean, except some abnormal one. And if this man, whoever he is, is abnormal I should say he's probably strangled that poor girl, Hattie Stubbs, as well. She hasn't very much sense you know, poor child. If she met an ordinary-looking man and he asked her to come and look at something in the woods she'd probably go like a lamb, quite unsuspecting and docile."

  "You think her body is somewhere on the estate?"

  "Yes, M. Poirot, I do. They'll find it once they search around. Mind you, with about sixty-five acres of woodland here, it'll take some finding, if it's been dragged into the bushes or tumbled down a slope into the trees. What they need is bloodhounds," said Mrs Masterton, looking, as she spoke, exactly like a bloodhound herself. "Bloodhounds! I shall ring up the Chief Constable myself and say so."

  "It is very possible that you are right, Madame," said Poirot. It was clearly the only thing one could say to Mrs Masterton.

  "Of course I'm right," said Mrs Masterton; "but I must say, you know, it makes me very uneasy because the fellow is somewhere about. I'm calling in at the village when I leave here, telling the mothers to be very careful about their daughters – not let 'em go about alone. It's not a nice thought, M. Poirot, to have a killer in our midst."

  "A little point, Madame. How could a strange man have obtained admission to the boathouse? That would need a key."

  "Oh, that," said Mrs Masterton,"that's easy enough. She came out, of course."

  "Came out of the boathouse?"

  "Yes. I expect she got bored, like girls do. Probably wandered out and looked about her. The most likely thing, I think, is that she actually saw Hattie Stubbs murdered. Heard a struggle or something, went to see and the man having disposed of Lady Stubbs, naturally had to kill her too. Easy enough for him to take her back to the boathouse, dump her there and come out, pulling the door behind him. It was a Yale lock. It would pull to, and lock."

  Poirot nodded gently. It was not his purpose to argue with Mrs Masterton or to point out to her the interesting fact which she had completely overlooked, that if Marlene Tucker had been killed away from the boathouse, somebody must have known enough about the murder game to put her back in the exact place and position which the victim was supposed to assume. Instead, he said gently:

  "Sir George Stubbs is confident that his wife is still alive."

  "That's what he says, man, because he wants to believe it. He was very devoted to her, you know." She added, rather unexpectedly, "I like George Stubbs in spite of his origins and his city background and all that, he goes down very well in the county. The worst that can be said about him is that he's a bit of a snob. And after all, social snobbery's harmless enough."

  Poirot said somewhat cynically:

  "In these days, Madame, surely money has become as acceptable as good birth."

  "My dear man, I couldn't agree with you more. There's no need for him to be a snob – only got to buy the place and throw his money about, and we'd all come and call! But actually, the man's liked. It's not only his money. Of course Amy Folliat's had something to do with that. She has sponsored them, and mind you, she's got a lot of influence in this part of the world. Why there have been Folliats here since Tudor times."

  "There have always been Folliats at Nasse House," Poirot murmured to himself.

  "Yes." Mrs Masterson sighed. "It's sad, the toll taken by the war. Young men killed in battle – death duties and all that. Then whoever comes into a place can't afford to keep it up and has to sell -"

  "But Mrs Folliat, although she has lost her home, still lives on the estate."

  "Yes. She's made the Lodge quite charming too. Have you been inside it?"

  "No, we parted at the door."

  "It wouldn't be every's cup of tea," said Mrs Masterton. "To live at the lodge of your old home and see strangers in possession. But to do Amy Folliat justice I don't think she feels bitter about that. In fact, she engineered the whole thing. There's no doubt she imbued Hattie with the idea of living down here, and got her to persuade George Stubbs into it. The thing, I think, that Amy Folliat couldn't have borne was to see the place turned into a hostel or institution, or carved up for building." She rose to her feet. "Well, I must be getting along. I'm a busy woman."

  "Of course. You have to talk to the Chief Constable about bloodhounds."

  Mrs Masterton gave a sudden deep bay of laughter.

  "Used to breed 'em at one time," she said. "People tell me I'm a bit like a bloodhound myself."

  Poirot was slightly taken aback and she was quick enough to see it.

  "I bet you've been thinking so, M. Poirot," she said.

  Chapter 13

  After Mrs Masterton had left, Poirot went out and strolled through the woods. His nerves were not quite what they should be. He felt an irresistible desire to look behind every bush and to consider every thicket of rhododendron as a possible hiding-place for a body. He came at last to the Folly and going inside it, he sat down on the stone bench there, to rest his feet which were, as was his custom, enclosed in tight, pointed patent-leather shoes.

  Through the trees he could catch faint glimmers of the river and of the wooded banks on the opposite side. He found himself agreeing with the young architect that this was no place to put an architectural fantasy of this kind. Gaps could be cut in the trees, of course, but even then there would be no proper view. Whereas, as Michael Weyman had said, on the grassy bank near the house a Folly could have been erected with a delightful vista right down the river to Helmmouth. Poirot's thoughts flew off at a tangent. Helmmouth, the yacht Espérance, and Etienne De Sousa. The whole thing must tie up in some kind of pattern, but what the pattern was he could not visualise. Tempting strands of it showed here and there but that was all.

  Something that glittered caught his eye and he bent to pick it up. It had come to rest in a small crack of the concrete base to the temple. He held it in the palm of his hand and looked at it with a faint stirring of recognition. It was a little gold aeroplane charm. As he frowned at it, a picture came into his mind. A bracelet. A gold bracelet hung over with dangling charms. He was sitting once more in the tent and the voice of Madame Zuleika, alias Sally Legge, was talking of dark women and journeys across the sea and good fortune in a letter. Yes, she had had on a bracelet from which depended a multiplicity of small gold objects. One of these modern fashions which repeated the fashions of Poirot's early days. Probably that was why it had made an impression on him. Some time or other, presumably, Mrs Legge had sat here in the Folly, and one of the charms had fallen from her bracelet. Perhaps she had not even noticed it. It might have been some days ago – weeks perhaps. Or, it might have been yesterday afternoon.

  Poirot considered that latter point. Then he heard footsteps outside and looked up sharply. A figure came round to the front of the Folly and stopped, startled, at the sight of Poirot. Poirot looked with a considerin
g eye on the slim, fair young man wearing a shirt on which a variety of tortoise and turtle was depicted. The shirt was unmistakable. He had observed it closely yesterday when its wearer was throwing coconuts.

  He noticed that the young man was almost unusually perturbed. He said quickly in a foreign accent:

  "I beg your pardon – I did not know -"

  Poirot smiled gently at him but with a reproving air.

  "I am afraid," he said, "that you are trespassing."

  "Yes, I am sorry."

  "You come from the hostel?"

  "Yes. Yes, I do. I thought perhaps one could get through the woods this way and so to the quay."

  "I am afraid," said Poirot gently," that you will have to go back the way you came. There is no through road."

  The young man said again, showing all his teeth in a would-be agreeable smile:

  "I am sorry. I am very sorry."

  He bowed and turned away.

  Poirot came out of the Folly and back on to the path, watching the boy retreat. When he got to the ending of the path, he looked over his shoulder. Then, seeing Poirot watching him, he quickened his pace and disappeared round the bend.

  "Eh bien," said Poirot to himself, "is this a murderer I have seen, or is it not?"

  The young man had certainly been at the fête yesterday and had scowled when he had collided with Poirot, and just as certainly therefore he must know quite well that there was no through path by way of the woods to the ferry. If, indeed, he had been looking for a path to the ferry he would not have taken this path by the Folly, but would have kept on the lower level near the river. Moreover, he had arrived at the Folly with the air of one who has reached his rendezvous, and who is badly startled at finding the wrong person at the meeting place.

  "So it is like this," said Poirot to himself. "He came here to meet someone. Who did he come to meet?" He added as an afterthought, "And why?"

  He strolled down to the bend of the path and looked at it where it wound away into the trees. There was no sign of the young man in the turtle shirt now. Presumably he had deemed it prudent to retreat as rapidly as possible. Poirot retraced his steps, shaking his head.