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 about 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 regime.
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 holding. 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 Paul. 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 passed 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 we’ve had such a fine summer this year for a change. Where’s Sir George? I want to talk to him about car parking.’
‘His wife had a headache and has gone to lie down.’
‘She’ll be all right this afternoon,’ said Mrs. Masterton, confidently. ‘Likes functions, you know. She’ll enjoy getting ready and be as pleased about it as a child. Just fetch me a bundle of those pegs over there, will you? I want to mark the places for the clock golf numbers.’
Poirot, thus pressed into service, was worked by Mrs. Masterton relentlessly, as a useful apprentice. She condescended to talk to him in the intervals of hard labour.
‘Got to do everything yourself, I find. Only way … By the way, you’re a friend of the Eliots, I believe?’
Poirot, after his long sojourn in England, comprehended that this was an indication of social recognition. Mrs. Masterton was in fact saying: ‘Although a foreigner, I understand you are One of Us.’ She continued to chat in an intimate manner.
‘Nice to have Greenshore lived in again. We were all so afraid it was going to be a Hotel. You know what it is nowadays; one drives through the country and passes place after place with the board up “Guest House” or “Private Hotel” or “Hotel A.A. Fully Licensed.” All the houses one stayed in as a girl – or where one went to dances. Very sad. Yes, I’m glad about Greenshore and so is poor dear Amy Folliat, of course. She’s had such a hard life – but never complains, I will say. Sir George has done wonders for Greenshore – and not vulgarised it. Don’t know whether that’s the result of Amy Folliat’s influence – or whether it’s his own natural good taste. He has got quite good taste, you know. Very surprising in a man like that.’
‘He is not, I understand, one of the landed gentry?’ said Poirot cautiously.
‘He isn’t even really Sir George – was christened it, I understand. Took the idea from Lord George Sanger’s Circus, I suspect. Very amusing really. Of course we never let on. Rich men must be allowed their little snobberies, don’t you agree? The funny thing is that in spite of his origins George Stubbs would go down perfectly well anywhere. Pure type of the eighteenth-century country squire. Good blood in him, I’d say. Father a gent and mother a barmaid, very likely.’
Mrs. Masterton interrupted herself to yell to a gardener.
‘Not by that rhododendron. You must leave room for the skittles over to the right. Right – not left!’
She went on:
‘The Brewis woman is efficient. Doesn’t like poor Hattie, though. Looks at her sometimes as though she’d like to murder her. So many of these good secretaries are in love with their boss. Now where do you think Jim Warborough can have got to? Silly the way he sticks to “Captain”. Not a regular soldier and never within miles of a German. One has to put up, of course, with what one can get these days – and he’s a hard worker – but I feel there’s something rather fishy about him. Ah! Here are the Legges.’
Peggy Legge, dressed in slacks and a yellow pullover, said brightly:
‘We’ve come to help.’
‘Lots to do,’ boomed Mrs. Masterton. ‘Now, let me see –’
Poirot, profiting by her inattention, slipped away. As he came round the corner of the house on to the front terrace he became a spectator of a new drama.
Two young women, in shorts, with bright blouses, had come out from the wood and were standing uncertainly looking up at the house. From the window of Lady Stubbs’ bedroom Sir George leaned out and addressed them wrathfully.
‘You’re trespassing,’ he shouted.
‘Please?’ said the young woman with the green headscarf.
‘You can’t come through here. Private.’
The other young woman, who had a royal blue headscarf, said brightly:
‘Please? Greenshore Quay –’ she pronounced it carefully, �
�it is this way? Please.’
‘You’re trespassing,’ bellowed Sir George.
‘Please?’
‘Trespassing! No way through. You’ve got to go back. BACK! The way you came.’
They stared as he gesticulated. Then they consulted together in a flood of foreign speech. Finally, doubtfully, blue-scarf said, ‘Back? To Hostel?’
‘That’s right. And you take the road – road – round that way.’
They retreated unwillingly. Sir George mopped his brow and looked down at Poirot.
‘Spend my time turning people off,’ he said. ‘Used to come through the top gate. I’ve padlocked that. Now they come through the woods, over the fence. Think they can get down to the shore and the quay easily this way. Well, they can, of course, much quicker. But there’s no right of way – never has been. And they’re practically all foreigners – don’t understand what you say, and just jabber back at you in Dutch or something.’
‘One is Dutch and the other Italian, – I saw them on their way from the station yesterday.’
‘Every kind of language they talk – Yes, Hattie? What did you say?’ He drew back into the room.
Poirot turned to find Mrs. Oliver and a well-developed girl of fourteen dressed in Guides’ uniform close beside him.
‘This is Marlene,’ said Mrs. Oliver.
Marlene acknowledged the introduction with a pronounced snuffle. Poirot bowed politely
‘She’s the Victim,’ said Mrs. Oliver.
Marlene giggled.
‘I’m the horrible Corpse,’ she said. ‘But I’m not going to have any blood on me.’ Her tone expressed disappointment.
‘No?’
‘No. Just strangled with a cord, that’s all. I’d of liked to be stabbed – and have lashings of red paint.’
‘Captain Warborough thought it might look too realistic,’ said Mrs. Oliver.
‘In a murder I think you ought to have blood,’ said Marlene sulkily. She looked at Poirot with hungry interest. ‘Seen lots of murders, haven’t you? So she says.’
‘One or two,’ said Poirot modestly.
He observed with alarm that Mrs. Oliver was leaving them.
‘Any sex maniacs?’ asked Marlene with avidity.
‘Certainly not.’
‘I like sex maniacs,’ said Marlene with relish. ‘Reading about them, I mean.’
‘You would probably not like meeting one.’
‘Oh, I dunno. D’you know what? I believe we’ve got a sex maniac round here. My granddad saw a body in the woods once. He was scared and ran away, and when he come back it was gone. It was a woman’s body. But of course he’s batty, my granddad is, so no one listens to what he says.’
Poirot managed to escape and, regaining the house by a circuitous route, took refuge in his bedroom.
Lunch was an early and quickly snatched affair of a cold buffet. At 2.30 a minor film star was to open the Fête. The weather, after looking ominously like rain, began to improve. By three o’clock the Fête was in full swing. People were paying the admission charge of half a crown in large numbers, and cars were lining one side of the long drive. Students from the Youth Hostel arrived in batches conversing loudly in foreign tongues. True to Mrs. Masterton’s forecast, Lady Stubbs had emerged from her bedroom just before half-past two, dressed in a cyclamen dress with an enormous coolie shaped hat of black straw. She wore large quantities of diamonds.
Miss Brewis murmured sardonically, ‘Thinks it’s the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, evidently!’
But Poirot complimented her gravely.
‘It is a beautiful creation that you have on, Madame.’
‘It is nice, isn’t it,’ said Hattie happily. ‘I wore it for Ascot.’
The minor film star was arriving and Hattie moved forward to greet her.
Poirot retreated into the background. He wandered around disconsolately – everything seemed to be proceeding in the normal fashion of Fêtes. There was a coconut shy, presided over by Sir George in his heartiest fashion. There were various ‘stalls’ displaying local produce of fruit, vegetables, jams and cakes – and others displaying ‘fancy objects.’ There were various ‘raffles’ going on, and a ‘lucky dip’ for children.
There was a good crowd of people by now and an exhibition of children’s dancing began. Poirot saw no sign of Mrs. Oliver, but Lady Stubbs’ cyclamen pink figure showed up amongst the crowd as she drifted rather vaguely about. The focus of attention, however, seemed to be Mrs. Folliat. She was quite transformed in appearance – wearing a hydrangea-blue foulard frock and a smart grey hat, she appeared to preside over the proceedings, greeting new arrivals, directing people to the various side shows, gracious and welcoming in manner, she was, very definitely, Mrs. Folliat of Greenshore House.
Poirot wondered whether she herself realised how completely she had slipped into the role of hostess or whether it was entirely unconscious.
He was standing by the tent labelled ‘Madame Esmeralda will tell your fortune for 2/6’. Teas had just begun to be served and there was no longer a queue for the Fortune Telling. Poirot bowed his head, entered the tent and paid over his half crown willingly for the privilege of sinking into a chair and resting his aching feet.
Madame Esmeralda was wearing flowing black robes, a scarf wound round her head and a veil across the lower half of her face which slightly muffled her remarks.
Seizing Poirot’s hand she gave him a rapid reading, full of money to come, success with a dark beauty and a miraculous escape from an accident.
‘It is very agreeable all that you tell me, Madame Legge. I only wish that it could come true.’
‘Oh!’ said Peggy. ‘So you know me, do you?’
‘I had advance information – Mrs. Oliver told me that you were originally to be the “Victim,” but that you had been snatched from her for the “Occult”.’
‘I wish I was being the “Body,”’ said Peggy. ‘Much more peaceful. All Jim Warborough’s fault. Is it four o’clock yet? I want my tea. I’m off duty from four to half-past.’
‘Ten minutes to go, still,’ said Poirot, consulting his large old-fashioned watch. ‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea here?’
‘No, no. I want the break – only ten minutes to go.’
Poirot emerged from the tent and was immediately challenged to guess the weight of a cake.
A Hoop-La stall presided over by a fat motherly woman urged him to try his luck and, much to his discomfiture, he immediately won a large Kewpie doll. Walking sheepishly along with this he encountered Michael Weyman who was standing gloomily on the outskirts near the top of a path that led down to the quay.
‘You seem to have been enjoying yourself, M. Poirot,’ he said, with a sardonic grin.
Poirot contemplated his prize.
‘It is truly horrible, is it not?’ he said sadly.
A small child near him suddenly burst out crying.
Poirot stooped swiftly and tucked the doll into the child’s arm.
‘Voilà, it is for you.’
The tears ceased abruptly.
‘There – Violet – isn’t the gentleman kind? Say, Ta, ever so –’
‘Children’s Fancy Dress,’ called out Captain Warborough through a megaphone. ‘First class – 3 to 5. Form up, please.’
He came towards them, looking from left to right.
‘Where’s Lady Stubbs? Anyone seen Lady Stubbs? She’s supposed to be judging this.’
‘I saw her about a quarter of an hour ago,’ said Poirot.
‘She was going in to the Fortune Teller when I saw her,’ said Weyman. ‘She may be still there.’
He strode across to the tent, pulled aside the flap, looked in and shook his head.
‘Curse the woman!’ said Warborough angrily. ‘Where can she have disappeared to? The children are waiting. Perhaps she’s in the house.’
He strode off rapidly.
Poirot watched him go, and then turned his head as he heard a movement behind him.
A y
oung man was coming up the path from the Quay, a very dark young man, faultlessly attired in yachting costume. He paused as though disconcerted by the scene before him.
Then he spoke hesitatingly to Poirot.
‘You will excuse me. Is this the house of Sir George Stubbs?’
‘It is indeed. Are you, perhaps, the cousin of Lady Stubbs?’
‘I am Paul Lopez.’
‘My name is Hercule Poirot.’
They bowed to each other. Poirot explained the circumstances of the Fête. As he finished, Sir George came across the lawn towards them from the coconut shy.
‘Paul Lopez? Delighted to see you. Hattie got your letter this morning. Where’s your yacht?’
‘It is moored at Dartmouth. I came up the river to the Quay here in my launch.’
‘We must find Hattie. She’s somewhere about … You’ll dine with us this evening, I hope?’
‘You are most kind.’
‘Can we put you up?’
‘That also is most kind, but I will sleep on my yacht. It is easier so.’
‘Are you staying here long?’
‘Two or three days, perhaps. It depends.’ Paul Lopez shrugged elegant shoulders.
‘Hattie will be delighted, I’m sure. Where is she? I saw her not long ago.’
He looked round in a perplexed manner.
‘She ought to be judging the children’s fancy dress. I can’t understand it. Excuse me a moment. I’ll ask Miss Brewis.’
He hurried off. Paul Lopez looked after him. Poirot looked at Paul Lopez.
‘It is some little time since you last saw your cousin?’ he asked.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
‘I have not seen her since she was fifteen years old. Soon after that she was sent abroad – to school at a convent in France. As a child she promised to have good looks.’
He looked enquiringly at Poirot.
‘She is a beautiful woman,’ said Poirot.
‘And that is her husband? He seems what they call “a good fellow”, but not perhaps very polished? Still, for Hattie it might be perhaps a little difficult to find a suitable husband.’
Poirot remained with a politely inquiring expression on his face. The other laughed.
Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly Page 4
