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  “You are right,” said Poirot. “I was called down here to assist.”

  “Called down to assist?” Bland looked puzzled. Poirot said quickly:

  “I mean, I was asked down here to give away the prizes of this murder hunt.”

  “So Mrs. Oliver told me.”

  “She told you nothing else?” Poirot said it with apparent carelessness. He was anxious to discover whether Mrs. Oliver had given the inspector any hint of the real motives which had led her to insist on Poirot’s journey to Devon.

  “Told me nothing else? She never stopped telling me things. Every possible and impossible motive for the girl’s murder. She set my head spinning. Phew! What an imagination!”

  “She earns her living by her imagination, mon ami,” said Poirot dryly.

  “She mentioned a man called de Sousa—did she imagine that?”

  “No, that is sober fact.”

  “There was something about a letter at breakfast and a yacht and coming up the river in a launch. I couldn’t make head or tail of it.”

  Poirot embarked upon an explanation. He told of the scene at the breakfast table, the letter, Lady Stubbs’ headache.

  “Mrs. Oliver said that Lady Stubbs was frightened. Did you think she was afraid, too?”

  “That was the impression she gave me.”

  “Afraid of this cousin of hers? Why?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “I have no idea. All she told me was that he was bad—a bad man. She is, you understand, a little simple. Subnormal.”

  “Yes, that seems to be pretty generally known round here. She didn’t say why she was afraid of this de Sousa?”

  “No.”

  “But you think her fear was real?”

  “If it was not, then she is a very clever actress,” said Poirot dryly.

  “I’m beginning to have some odd ideas about this case,” said Bland. He got up and walked restlessly to and fro. “It’s that cursed woman’s fault, I believe.”

  “Mrs. Oliver’s?”

  “Yes. She’s put a lot of melodramatic ideas into my head.”

  “And you think they may be true?”

  “Not all of them—naturally—but one or two of them mightn’t be as wild as they sounded. It all depends…” He broke off as the door opened to re-admit P.C. Hoskins.

  “Don’t seem able to find the lady, sir,” he said. “She’s not about anywhere.”

  “I know that already,” said Bland irritably. “I told you to find her.”

  “Sergeant Farrell and P.C. Lorimer are searching the grounds, sir,” said Hoskins. “She’s not in the house,” he added.

  “Find out from the man who’s taking admission tickets at the gate if she’s left the place. Either on foot or in a car.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hoskins departed.

  “And find out when she was last seen and where,” Bland shouted after him.

  “So that is the way your mind is working,” said Poirot.

  “It isn’t working anywhere yet,” said Bland, “but I’ve just woken up to the fact that a lady who ought to be on the premises isn’t on the premises! And I want to know why. Tell me what more you know about what’s-his-name de Sousa.”

  Poirot described his meeting with the young man who had come up the path from the quay.

  “He is probably still here at the fête,” he said. “Shall I tell Sir George that you want to see him?”

  “Not for a moment or two,” said Bland. “I’d like to find out a little more first. When did you yourself last see Lady Stubbs?”

  Poirot cast his mind back. He found it difficult to remember exactly. He recalled vague glimpses of her tall, cyclamen-clad figure with the drooping black hat moving about the lawn talking to people, hovering here and there; occasionally he would hear that strange laugh of hers, distinctive amongst the many other confused sounds.

  “I think,” he said doubtfully, “it must have been not long before four o’clock.”

  “And where was she then, and who was she with?”

  “She was in the middle of a group of people near the house.”

  “Was she there when de Sousa arrived?”

  “I don’t remember. I don’t think so, at least I did not see her. Sir George told de Sousa that his wife was somewhere about. He seemed surprised, I remember, that she was not judging the Children’s Fancy Dress, as she was supposed to do.”

  “What time was it when de Sousa arrived?”

  “It must have been about half past four, I should think. I did not look at my watch so I cannot tell you exactly.”

  “And Lady Stubbs had disappeared before he arrived?”

  “It seems so.”

  “Possibly she ran away so as not to meet him,” suggested the inspector.

  “Possibly,” Poirot agreed.

  “Well, she can’t have gone far,” said Bland. “We ought to be able to find her quite easily, and when we do…” He broke off.

  “And supposing you don’t?” Poirot put the question with a curious intonation in his voice.

  “That’s nonsense,” said the inspector vigorously. “Why? What d’you think’s happened to her?”

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  “What indeed! One does not know. All one does know is that she has—disappeared!”

  “Dash it all, M. Poirot, you’re making it sound quite sinister.”

  “Perhaps it is sinister.”

  “It’s the murder of Marlene Tucker that we’re investigating,” said the inspector severely.

  “But evidently. So—why this interest in de Sousa? Do you think he killed Marlene Tucker?”

  Inspector Bland replied irrelevantly:

  “It’s that woman!”

  Poirot smiled faintly.

  “Mrs. Oliver, you mean?”

  “Yes. You see, M. Poirot, the murder of Marlene Tucker doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense at all. Here’s a nondescript, rather moronic kid found strangled and not a hint of any possible motive.”

  “And Mrs. Oliver supplied you with a motive?”

  “With a dozen at least! Amongst them she suggested that Marlene might have a knowledge of somebody’s secret love affair, or that Marlene might have witnessed somebody being murdered, or that she knew where a buried treasure was hidden, or that she might have seen from the window of the boathouse some action performed by de Sousa in his launch as he was going up the river.”

  “Ah. And which of those theories appeals to you, mon cher?”

  “I don’t know. But I can’t help thinking about them. Listen, M. Poirot. Think back carefully. Would you say from your impression of what Lady Stubbs said to you this morning that she was afraid of her cousin’s coming because he might, perhaps, know something about her which she did not want to come to the ears of her husband, or would you say that it was a direct personal fear of the man himself?”

  Poirot had no hesitation in his reply.

  “I should say it was a direct personal fear of the man himself.”

  “H’m,” said Inspector Bland. “Well, I’d better have a little talk with this young man if he’s still about the place.”

  Nine

  I

  Although he had none of Constable Hoskins’ ingrained prejudice against foreigners, Inspector Bland took an instant dislike to Etienne de Sousa. The polished elegance of the young man, his sartorial perfection, the rich flowery smell of his brilliantined hair, all combined to annoy the inspector.

  De Sousa was very sure of himself, very much at ease. He also displayed, decorously veiled, a certain aloof amusement.

  “One must admit,” he said, “that life is full of surprises. I arrive here on a holiday cruise, I admire the beautiful scenery, I come to spend an afternoon with a little cousin that I have not seen for years—and what happens? First I am engulfed in a kind of carnival with coconuts whizzing past my head, and immediately afterwards, passing from comedy to tragedy, I am embroiled in a murder.”


  He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and said:

  “Not that it concerns me in any way, this murder. Indeed, I am at a loss to know why you should want to interview me.”

  “You arrived here as a stranger, Mr. de Sousa—”

  De Sousa interrupted:

  “And strangers are necessarily suspicious, is that it?”

  “No, no, not at all, sir. No, you don’t take my meaning. Your yacht, I understand, is moored in Helmmouth?”

  “That is so, yes.”

  “And you came up the river this afternoon in a motor launch?”

  “Again—that is so.”

  “As you came up the river, did you notice on your right a small boathouse jutting out into the river with a thatched roof and a little mooring quay underneath it?”

  De Sousa threw back his handsome, dark head and frowned as he reflected.

  “Let me see, there was a creek and a small grey tiled house.”

  “Farther up the river than that, Mr. de Sousa. Set amongst trees.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember now. A very picturesque spot. I did not know it was the boathouse attached to this house. If I had done so, I would have moored my boat there and come ashore. When I asked for directions I had been told to come up to the ferry itself and go ashore at the quay there.”

  “Quite so. And that is what you did?”

  “That is what I did.”

  “You didn’t land at, or near, the boathouse?”

  De Sousa shook his head.

  “Did you see anyone at the boathouse as you passed?”

  “See anyone? No. Should I have seen anyone?”

  “It was just a possibility. You see, Mr. de Sousa, the murdered girl was in the boathouse this afternoon. She was killed there, and she must have been killed at a time not very distant from when you were passing.”

  Again de Sousa raised his eyebrows.

  “You think I might have been a witness to this murder?”

  “The murder took place inside the boathouse, but you might have seen the girl—she might have looked out from the window or come out on to the balcony. If you had seen her it would, at any rate, have narrowed the time of death for us. If, when you’d passed, she’d been still alive—”

  “Ah. I see. Yes, I see. But why ask me particularly? There are plenty of boats going up and down from Helmmouth. Pleasure steamers. They pass the whole time. Why not ask them?”

  “We shall ask them,” said the inspector. “Never fear, we shall ask them. I am to take it, then, that you saw nothing unusual at the boathouse?”

  “Nothing whatever. There was nothing to show there was anyone there. Of course I did not look at it with any special attention, and I did not pass very near. Somebody might have been looking out of the windows, as you suggest, but if so I should not have seen that person.” He added in a polite tone, “I am very sorry that I cannot assist you.”

  “Oh, well,” said Inspector Bland in a friendly manner, “we can’t hope for too much. There are just a few other things I would like to know, Mr. de Sousa.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you alone down here or have you friends with you on this cruise?”

  “I have had friends with me until quite recently, but for the last three days I have been on my own—with the crew, of course.”

  “And the name of your yacht, Mr. de Sousa?”

  “The Espérance.”

  “Lady Stubbs is, I understand, a cousin of yours?”

  De Sousa shrugged his shoulders.

  “A distant cousin. Not very near. In the islands, you must understand, there is much intermarrying. We are all cousins of one another. Hattie is a second or third cousin. I have not seen her since she was practically a little girl, fourteen—fifteen.”

  “And you thought you would pay her a surprise visit today?”

  “Hardly a surprise visit, Inspector. I had already written to her.”

  “I know that she received a letter from you this morning, but it was a surprise to her to know that you were in this country.”

  “Oh, but you are wrong there, Inspector. I wrote to my cousin—let me see, three weeks ago. I wrote to her from France just before I came across to this country.”

  The inspector was surprised.

  “You wrote to her from France telling her you proposed to visit her?”

  “Yes. I told her I was going on a yachting cruise and that we should probably arrive at Torquay or Helmmouth round about this date, and that I would let her know later exactly when I should arrive.”

  Inspector Bland stared at him. This statement was at complete variance with what he had been told about the arrival of Etienne de Sousa’s letter at the breakfast table. More than one witness had testified to Lady Stubbs having been alarmed and upset and very clearly startled at the contents of the letter. De Sousa returned his stare calmly. With a little smile he flicked a fragment of dust from his knee.

  “Did Lady Stubbs reply to your first letter?” the inspector asked.

  De Sousa hesitated for a moment or two before he answered, then he said:

  “It is so difficult to remember…No, I do not think she did. But it was not necessary. I was travelling about, I had no fixed address. And besides, I do not think my cousin, Hattie, is very good at writing letters.” He added: “She is not, you know, very intelligent, though I understand that she has grown into a very beautiful woman.”

  “You have not yet seen her?” Bland put it in the form of a question and de Sousa showed his teeth in an agreeable smile.

  “She seems to be most unaccountably missing,” he said. “No doubt this espèce de gala bores her.”

  Choosing his words carefully, Inspector Bland said:

  “Have you any reason to believe, Mr. de Sousa, that your cousin might have some reason for wishing to avoid you?”

  “Hattie wish to avoid me? Really, I do not see why. What reason could she have?”

  “That is what I am asking you, Mr. de Sousa.”

  “You think that Hattie has absented herself from this fête in order to avoid me? What an absurd idea.”

  “She had no reason, as far as you know, to be—shall we say—afraid of you in any way?”

  “Afraid—of me?” De Sousa’s voice was sceptical and amused. “But if I may say so, Inspector, what a fantastic idea!”

  “Your relations with her have always been quite amicable?”

  “It is as I have told you. I have had no relations with her. I have not seen her since she was a child of fourteen.”

  “Yet you look her up when you come to England?”

  “Oh, as to that, I had seen a paragraph about her in one of your society papers. It mentions her maiden name and that she is married to this rich Englishman, and I think ‘I must see what the little Hattie has turned into. Whether her brains now work better than they used to do.’” He shrugged his shoulders again. “It was a mere cousinly politeness. A gentle curiosity—no more.”

  Again the inspector stared hard at de Sousa. What, he wondered, was going on behind the mocking, smooth façade? He adopted a more confidential manner.

  “I wonder if you can perhaps tell me a little more about your cousin? Her character, her reactions?”

  De Sousa appeared politely surprised.

  “Really—has this anything to do with the murder of the girl in the boathouse, which I understand is the real matter with which you occupy yourself?”

  “It might have a connection,” said Inspector Bland.

  De Sousa studied him for a moment or two in silence. Then he said with a slight shrug of the shoulders:

  “I never knew my cousin at all well. She was a unit in a large family and not particularly interesting to me. But in answer to your question I would say to you that although mentally weak, she was not, as far as I know, ever possessed by any homicidal tendencies.”

  “Really, Mr. de Sousa, I wasn’t suggesting that!”

  “Weren’t you? I wonder. I can see no other reason for your question. No, unle
ss Hattie has changed very much, she is not homicidal!” He rose. “I am sure that you cannot want to ask me anything further, Inspector. I can only wish you every possible success in tracking down the murderer.”

  “You are not thinking of leaving Helmmouth for a day or two, I hope, Mr. de Sousa?”

  “You speak very politely, Inspector. Is that an order?”

  “Just a request, sir.”

  “Thank you. I propose to stay in Helmmouth for two days. Sir George has very kindly asked me to come and stay in the house, but I prefer to remain on the Espérance. If you should want to ask me any further questions, that is where you will find me.”

  He bowed politely. P.C. Hoskins opened the door for him, and he went out.

  “Smarmy sort of fellow,” muttered the inspector to himself.

  “Aah,” said P.C. Hoskins in complete agreement.

  “Say she is homicidal if you like,” went on the inspector, to himself. “Why should she attack a nondescript girl? There’d be no sense in it.”

  “You never know with the barmy ones,” said Hoskins.

  “The question really is, how barmy is she?”

  Hoskins shook his head sapiently.

  “Got a low I.Q., I reckon,” he said.

  The inspector looked at him with annoyance.

  “Don’t bring out these newfangled terms like a parrot. I don’t care if she’s got a high I.Q. or a low I.Q. All I care about is, is she the sort of woman who’d think it funny, or desirable, or necessary, to put a cord round a girl’s neck and strangle her? And where the devil is the woman, anyway? Go out and see how Frank’s getting on.”

  Hoskins left obediently, and returned a moment or two later with Sergeant Cottrell, a brisk young man with a good opinion of himself, who always managed to annoy his superior officer. Inspector Bland much preferred the rural wisdom of Hoskins to the smart know-all attitude of Frank Cottrell.

  “Still searching the grounds, sir,” said Cottrell. “The lady hasn’t passed out through the gate, we’re quite sure of that. It’s the second gardener who’s there giving out the tickets and taking the admission money. He’ll swear she hasn’t left.”

  “There are other ways of leaving than by the main gate, I suppose?”