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‘Biscuits’ by the bedside. ‘You seem, in this house, to have everything organized to perfection. Am I to congratulate you, or my charming hostess?’

      ‘Lady Stubbs’ time is fully taken up in being charming,’ said Miss Brewis, a slightly acid note in her voice.

      ‘A very decorative young woman,’ mused Poirot.

      ‘As you say.’

      ‘But in other respects is she not, perhaps…’ He broke off. ‘Pardon. I am indiscreet. I comment on something I ought not, perhaps, to mention.’

      Miss Brewis gave him a steady look. She said dryly:

      ‘Lady Stubbs knows perfectly well exactly what she is doing. Besides being, as you said, a very decorative young woman, she is also a very shrewd one.’

      She had turned away and left the room before Poirot’s eyebrows had fully risen in surprise. So that was what the efficient Miss Brewis thought, was it? Or had she merely said so for some reason of her own? And why had she made such a statement to him—to a newcomer? Because he was a newcomer, perhaps? And also because he was a foreigner. As Hercule Poirot had discovered by experience, there were many English people who considered that what one said to foreigners didn’t count!

      He frowned perplexedly, staring absentmindedly at the door out of which Miss Brewis had gone. Then he strolled over to the window and stood looking out. As he did so, he saw Lady Stubbs come out of the house with Mrs Folliat and they stood for a moment or two talking by the big magnolia tree. Then Mrs Folliat nodded a goodbye, picked up her gardening basket and gloves and trotted off down the drive. Lady Stubbs stood watching her for a moment, then absentmindedly pulled off a magnolia flower, smelt it and began slowly to walk down the path that led through the trees to the river. She looked just once over her shoulder before she disappeared from sight. From behind the magnolia tree Michael Weyman came quietly into view, paused a moment irresolutely and then followed the tall slim figure down into the trees.

      A good-looking and dynamic young man, Poirot thought. With a more attractive personality, no doubt, than that of Sir George Stubbs…

      But if so, what of it[55]? Such patterns formed themselves eternally through life. Rich middle-aged unattractive husband, young and beautiful wife with or without sufficient mental development, attractive and susceptible young man. What was there in that to make Mrs Oliver utter a peremptory summons through the telephone? Mrs Oliver, no doubt, had a vivid imagination, but…

      ‘But after all,’ murmured Hercule Poirot to himself, ‘I am not a consultant in adultery—or in incipient adultery.’

      Could there really be anything in this extraordinary notion of Mrs Oliver’s that something was wrong? Mrs Oliver was a singularly muddle-headed woman, and how she managed somehow or other to turn out coherent detective stories was beyond him, and yet, for all her muddle-headedness she often surprised him by her sudden perception of truth.

      ‘The time is short—short,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Is there something wrong here, as Mrs Oliver believes? I am inclined to think there is. But what? Who is there who could enlighten me? I need to know more, much more, about the people in this house. Who is there who could inform me?’

      After a moment’s reflection he seized his hat (Poirot never risked going out in the evening air with uncovered head), and hurried out of his room and down the stairs. He heard afar the dictatorial baying of Mrs Masterton’s deep voice. Nearer at hand, Sir George’s voice rose with an amorous intonation.

      ‘Damned becoming that yashmak[56] thing. Wish I had you in my harem[57], Sally. I shall come and have my fortune told a good deal tomorrow. What’ll you tell me, eh?’

      There was a slight scuffle and Sally Legge’s voice said breathlessly:

      ‘George, you mustn’t.’

      Poirot raised his eyebrows, and slipped out of a conveniently adjacent side door. He set off at top speed down a back drive which his sense of locality enabled him to predict would at some point join the front drive.

      His manoeuvre was successful and enabled him—panting very slightly—to come up beside Mrs Folliat and relieve her in a gallant manner of her gardening basket.

      ‘You permit, Madame?’

      ‘Oh, thank you, M. Poirot, that’s very kind of you. But it’s not heavy.’

      ‘Allow me to carry it for you to your home. You live near here?’

      ‘I actually live in the lodge by the front gate. Sir George very kindly rents it to me.’

      The lodge by the front gate of her former home… How did she really feel about that, Poirot wondered. Her composure was so absolute that he had no clue to her feelings. He changed the subject by observing:

      ‘Lady Stubbs is much younger than her husband, is she not?’

      ‘Twenty-three years younger.’

      ‘Physically she is very attractive.’

      Mrs Folliat said quietly:

      ‘Hattie is a dear good child.’

      It was not an answer he had expected. Mrs Folliat went on:

      ‘I know her very well, you see. For a short time she was under my care[58].’

      ‘I did not know that.’

      ‘How should you? It is in a way a sad story. Her people had estates, sugar estates[59], in the West Indies. As a result of an earthquake, the house there was burned down and her parents and brothers and sisters all lost their lives. Hattie herself was at a convent in Paris and was thus suddenly left without any near relatives. It was considered advisable by the executors that Hattie should be chaperoned and introduced into society after she had spent a certain time abroad. I accepted the charge of her.’ Mrs Folliat added with a dry smile: ‘I can smarten myself up on occasions and, naturally, I had the necessary connections—in fact, the late Governor had been a close friend of ours.’

      ‘Naturally, Madame, I understand all that.’

      ‘It suited me very well—I was going through a difficult time. My husband had died just before the outbreak of war. My elder son who was in the navy went down with his ship, my younger son, who had been out in Kenya, came back, joined the commandos and was killed in Italy. That meant three lots of death duties and this house had to be put up for sale. I myself was very badly off[60] and I was glad of the distraction of having someone young to look after and travel about with. I became very fond of Hattie, all the more so, perhaps, because I soon realized that she was—shall we say—not fully capable of fending for herself[61]? Understand me, M. Poirot, Hattie is not mentally deficient, but she is what country folk describe as “simple.” She is easily imposed upon, over docile, completely open to suggestion. I think myself that it was a blessing that there was practically no money. If she had been an heiress her position might have been one of much greater difficulty. She was attractive to men and being of an affectionate nature was easily attracted and influenced—she had definitely to be looked after. When, after the final winding up of her parents’ estate, it was discovered that the plantation was destroyed and there were more debts than assets, I could only be thankful that a man such as Sir George Stubbs had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her.’

      ‘Possibly—yes—it was a solution.’

      ‘Sir George,’ said Mrs Folliat, ‘though he is a self-made man and—let us face it—a complete vulgarian, is kindly and fundamentally decent, besides being extremely wealthy. I don’t think he would ever ask for mental companionship from a wife, which is just as well. Hattie is everything he wants. She displays clothes and jewels to perfection, is affectionate and willing, and is completely happy with him. I confess that I am very thankful

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