Dead Man’s Folly. Агата Кристи
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turned her head as Sir George came out of the dining-room.
‘I’m tired, George. I’m going to bed. You don’t mind?’
He came up to her and patted her on the shoulder affectionately.
‘You go and get your beauty sleep, Hattie. Be fresh for tomorrow.’
He kissed her lightly and she went up the stairs, waving her hand and calling out:
‘Goodnight, all.’
Sir George smiled up at her. Miss Brewis drew in her breath sharply and turned brusquely away.
‘Come along, everybody,’ she said, with a forced cheerfulness that did not ring true. ‘We’ve got to work.’
Presently everyone was set to their tasks. Since Miss Brewis could not be everywhere at once, there were soon some defaulters. Michael Weyman ornamented a placard with a ferociously magnificent serpent and the words, Madame Zuleika will tell your Fortune, and then vanished unobtrusively. Alec Legge did a few nondescript chores and then went out avowedly to measure for the hoop-la and did not reappear. The women, as women do, worked energetically and conscientiously. Hercule Poirot followed his hostess’s example and went early to bed.
III
Poirot came down to breakfast on the following morning at nine-thirty. Breakfast was served in pre-war fashion. A row of hot dishes on an electric heater. Sir George was eating a full-sized Englishman’s breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and kidneys. Mrs Oliver and Miss Brewis had a modified version of the same. Michael Weyman was eating a plateful of cold ham. Only Lady Stubbs was unheedful of the fleshpots and was nibbling thin toast and sipping black coffee. She was wearing a large pale-pink hat which looked odd at the breakfast table.
The post had just arrived. Miss Brewis had an enormous pile of letters in front of her which she was rapidly sorting into piles. Any of Sir George’s marked ‘Personal’ she passed over to him. The others she opened herself and sorted into categories.
Lady Stubbs had three letters. She opened what were clearly a couple of bills and tossed them aside. Then she opened the third letter and said suddenly and clearly:
‘Oh!’
The exclamation was so startled that all heads turned towards her.
‘It’s from Etienne,’ she said. ‘My cousin Etienne. He’s coming here in a yacht.’
‘Let’s see, Hattie.’ Sir George held out his hand. She passed the letter down the table. He smoothed out the sheet and read.
‘Who’s this Etienne de Sousa? A cousin, you say?’
‘I think so. A second cousin. I do not remember him very well – hardly at all. He was –’
‘Yes, my dear?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘It does not matter. It is all a long time ago. I was a little girl.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t remember him very well. But we must make him welcome, of course,’ said Sir George heartily. ‘Pity in a way it’s the fête today, but we’ll ask him to dinner. Perhaps we could put him up for a night or two – show him something of the country?’
Sir George was being the hearty country squire.
Lady Stubbs said nothing. She stared down into her coffee-cup.
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. He wondered just what was going on in her mind. At that very moment her eyes came up and cast a swift glance along the table to where he sat. It was a look so shrewd and appraising that he was startled. As their eyes met, the shrewd expression 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 were slightly mentally deficient very often had a kind of sly native cunning that sometimes surprised even the people who knew them best?
He thought to himself that Lady Stubbs was certainly an enigma. People seemed to hold diametrically opposite ideas concerning her. Miss Brewis had intimated that Lady Stubbs knew very well what she was doing. Yet Mrs Oliver definitely thought her halfwitted, and Mrs Folliat who had known her long and intimately had spoken of her as someone not quite normal, who needed care and watchfulness.
Miss Brewis was probably prejudiced. She disliked Lady Stubbs for her indolence and her aloofness. Poirot wondered if Miss Brewis had been Sir George’s secretary prior to his marriage. If so, she might easily resent the coming of the new régime.
Poirot himself would have agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs Folliat and Mrs Oliver – until this morning. And, after all, could he really rely on what had been only a fleeting impression?
Lady Stubbs got up abruptly from the table.
‘I have a headache,’ she said. ‘I shall go and lie down in my room.’
Sir George sprang up anxiously.
‘My dear girl. You’re all right, aren’t you?’
‘It’s just a headache.’
‘You’ll be fit enough for this afternoon, won’t you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Take some aspirin, Lady Stubbs,’ said Miss Brewis briskly. ‘Have you got some or shall I bring it to you?’
‘I’ve got some.’
She moved towards the door. As she went she dropped the handkerchief she had been squeezing between her fingers. Poirot, moving quietly forward, picked it up unobtrusively.
Sir George, about to follow his wife, was stopped by Miss Brewis.
‘About the parking of cars this afternoon, Sir George. I’m just going to give Mitchell instructions. Do you think that the best plan would be, as you said –?’
Poirot, going out of the room, heard no more.
He caught up his hostess on the stairs.
‘Madame, you dropped this.’
He proffered the handkerchief with a bow.
She took it unheedingly.
‘Did I? Thank you.’
‘I am most distressed, Madame, that you should be suffering. Particularly when your cousin is coming.’
She answered quickly, almost violently.
‘I don’t want to see Etienne. I don’t like him. He’s bad. He was always bad. I’m afraid of him. He does bad things.’
The door of the dining-room opened and Sir George came across the hall and up the stairs.
‘Hattie, my poor darling. Let me come and tuck you up.’
They went up the stairs together, his arm round her tenderly, his face worried and absorbed.
Poirot looked up after them, then turned to encounter Miss Brewis moving fast, and clasping papers.
‘Lady Stubbs’ headache –’ he began.
‘No more headache than my foot,’ said Miss Brewis crossly, and disappeared into her office, closing the door behind her.
Poirot sighed and went out through the front door on to the terrace. Mrs Masterton had just driven up in a small car and was directing the elevation of a tea marquee, baying out orders in rich full-blooded tones.
She turned to greet Poirot.
‘Such a nuisance, these affairs,’ she observed. ‘And they will always put everything in the wrong place. No, Rogers! More to the left – left – not right! What do you think of the weather, M. Poirot? Looks doubtful to me. Rain, of course, would spoil everything. And