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there was to be a real murder tomorrow instead of a fake one, I shouldn’t be surprised!’

      Poirot stared at her and she looked back at him defiantly.

      ‘Very interesting,’ said Poirot.

      ‘I suppose you think I’m a complete fool,’ said Mrs Oliver defensively.

      ‘I have never thought you a fool,’ said Poirot.

      ‘And I know what you always say—or look—about intuition.’

      ‘One calls things by different names,’ said Poirot. ‘I am quite ready to believe that you have noticed something, or heard something, that has definitely aroused in you anxiety. I think it is possible that you yourself may not even know just what it is that you have seen or noticed or heard. You are aware only of the result. If I may so put it, you do not know what it is that you know. You may label that intuition if you like.’

      ‘It makes one feel such a fool,’ said Mrs Oliver, ruefully, ‘not to be able to be definite.’

      ‘We shall arrive,’ said Poirot encouragingly. ‘You say that you have had the feeling of being—how did you put it—jockeyed along? Can you explain a little more clearly what you mean by that?’

      ‘Well, it’s rather difficult… You see, this is my murder, so to speak. I’ve thought it out and planned it and it all fits in—dovetails[19]. Well, if you know anything at all about writers, you’ll know that they can’t stand suggestions. People say “Splendid, but wouldn’t it be better if so and so did so and so?” or “Wouldn’t it be a wonderful idea if the victim was A instead of B? Or the murderer turned out to be D instead of E?” I mean, one wants to say: “All right then, write it yourself if you want it that way!”’

      Poirot nodded.

      ‘And that is what has been happening?’

      ‘Not quite… That sort of silly suggestion has been made, and then I’ve flared up, and they’ve given in, but have just slipped in some quite minor trivial suggestion and because I’ve made a stand over the other, I’ve accepted the triviality without noticing much.’

      ‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes—it is a method, that… Something rather crude and preposterous is put forward—but that is not really the point. The small minor alteration is really the objective. Is that what you mean?’

      ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘And, of course, I may be imagining it, but I don’t think I am—and none of the things seem to matter anyway. But it’s got me worried—that, and a sort of—well—atmosphere.’

      ‘Who has made these suggestions of alterations to you?’

      ‘Different people,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘If it was just one person I’d be more sure of my ground. But it’s not just one person—although I think it is really. I mean it’s one person working through other quite unsuspecting people.’

      ‘Have you an idea as to who that one person is?’

      Mrs Oliver shook her head.

      ‘It’s somebody very clever and very careful,’ she said. ‘It might be anybody.’

      ‘Who is there?’ asked Poirot. ‘The cast of characters must be fairly limited?’

      ‘Well,’ began Mrs Oliver. ‘There’s Sir George Stubbs who owns this place. Rich and plebeian[20] and frightfully stupid outside business, I should think, but probably dead sharp in it. And there’s Lady Stubbs—Hattie—about twenty years younger than he is, rather beautiful, but dumb as a fish—in fact, I think she’s definitely halfwitted. Married him for his money, of course, and doesn’t think about anything but clothes and jewels. Then there’s Michael Weyman—he’s an architect, quite young, and good-looking in a craggy kind of artistic way. He’s designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George and repairing the Folly.’

      ‘Folly? What is that—a masquerade?’

      ‘No, it’s architectural. One of those little sort of temple things, white, with columns. You’ve probably seen them at Kew. Then there’s Miss Brewis, she’s a sort of secretary housekeeper, who runs things and writes letters—very grim and efficient. And then there are the people round about who come in and help. A young married couple who have taken a cottage down by the river—Alec Legge and his wife Sally. And Captain Warburton, who’s the Mastertons’ agent. And the Mastertons, of course, and old Mrs Folliat who lives in what used to be the lodge. Her husband’s people owned Nasse originally. But they’ve died out, or been killed in wars, and there were lots of death duties[21] so the last heir sold the place.’

      Poirot considered this list of characters, but at the moment they were only names to him. He returned to the main issue.

      ‘Whose idea was the Murder Hunt?’

      ‘Mrs Masterton’s, I think. She’s the local M.P.’s wife, very good at organizing. It was she who persuaded Sir George to have the fête here. You see the place has been empty for so many years that she thinks people will be keen to pay and come in to see it.’

      ‘That all seems straightforward enough,’ said Poirot.

      ‘It all seems straightforward,’ said Mrs Oliver obstinately; ‘but it isn’t. I tell you, M. Poirot, there’s something wrong.’

      Poirot looked at Mrs Oliver and Mrs Oliver looked back at Poirot.

      ‘How have you accounted for my presence here? For your summons to me?’ Poirot asked.

      ‘That was easy,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘You’re to give away the prizes for the Murder Hunt. Everybody’s awfully thrilled. I said I knew you, and could probably persuade you to come and that I was sure your name would be a terrific draw—as, of course, it will be,’ Mrs Oliver added tactfully.

      ‘And the suggestion was accepted—without demur?’

      ‘I tell you, everybody was thrilled.’

      Mrs Oliver thought it unnecessary to mention that amongst the younger generation one or two had asked ‘Who is Hercule Poirot?’

      ‘Everybody? Nobody spoke against the idea?’

      Mrs Oliver shook her head.

      ‘That is a pity,’ said Hercule Poirot.

      ‘You mean it might have given us a line?’

      ‘A would-be criminal could hardly be expected to welcome my presence.’

      ‘I suppose you think I’ve imagined the whole thing,’ said Mrs Oliver ruefully. ‘I must admit that until I started talking to you I hadn’t realized how very little I’ve got to go upon.’

      ‘Calm yourself,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘I am intrigued and interested. Where do we begin?’

      Mrs Oliver glanced at her watch.

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

      She took a different path from the one by which Poirot had come. This one seemed to lead in the opposite direction.

      ‘We pass by the boathouse this way,’ Mrs Oliver explained.

      As she spoke the boathouse came into view. It jutted out on to the river and was a picturesque thatched affair.[22]

      ‘That’s where the Body’s going to be,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘The body for the Murder Hunt, I mean.’

      ‘And who is going to be killed?’

      ‘Oh, a girl hiker, who is really the Yugoslavian first wife of a young Atom Scientist,’ said Mrs Oliver glibly.

      Poirot blinked.

      ‘Of course it looks as though the Atom Scientist had killed

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