Dead Man's Folly

by Agatha Christie

  “Look,” she said. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  He had been studying her carefully. She was wearing a big coolie-style hat of vivid magenta straw. Beneath it her face showed its pinky reflection on the dead-white surface of her skin. She was heavily made up in an exotic un-English style. Dead-white matt skin; vivid cyclamen lips, mascara applied lavishly to the eyes. Her hair showed beneath the hat, black and smooth, fitting like a velvet cap. There was a languorous un-English beauty about the face. She was a creature of the tropical sun, caught, as it were, by chance in an English drawing room. But it was the eyes that startled Poirot. They had a childlike, almost vacant, stare.

  She had asked her question in a confidential childish way, and it was as though to a child that Poirot answered.

  “It is a very lovely ring,” he said.

  She looked pleased.

  “George gave it to me yesterday,” she said, dropping her voice as though she were sharing a secret with him. “He gives me lots of things. He’s very kind.”

  Poirot looked down at the ring again and the hand outstretched on the side of the chair. The nails were very long and varnished a deep puce.

  Into his mind a quotation came: “They toil not, neither do they spin….”

  He certainly couldn’t imagine Lady Stubbs toiling or spinning. And yet he would hardly have described her as a lily of the field. She was a far more artificial product.

  “This is a beautiful room you have here, Madame,” he said, looking round appreciatively.

  “I suppose it is,” said Lady Stubbs vaguely.

  Her attention was still on her ring; her head on one side, she watched the green fire in its depths as her hand moved.

  She said in a confidential whisper, “D’you see? It’s winking at me.”

  She burst out laughing and Poirot had a sense of sudden shock. It was a loud uncontrolled laugh.

  From across the room Sir George said: “Hattie.”

  His voice was quite kind but held a faint admonition. Lady Stubbs stopped laughing.

  Poirot said in a conventional manner:

  “Devonshire is a very lovely county. Do you not think so?”

  “It’s nice in the daytime,” said Lady Stubbs. “When it doesn’t rain,” she added mournfully. “But there aren’t any nightclubs.”

  “Ah, I see. You like nightclubs?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Lady Stubbs fervently.

  “And why do you like nightclubs so much?”

  “There is music and you dance. And I wear my nicest clothes and bracelets and rings. And all the other women have nice clothes and jewels, but not as nice as mine.”

  She smiled with enormous satisfaction. Poirot felt a slight pang of pity.

  “And all that amuses you very much?”

  “Yes. I like the casino, too. Why are there not any casinos in England?”

  “I have often wondered,” said Poirot, with a sigh. “I do not think it would accord with the English character.”

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then she bent slightly towards him.

  “I won sixty thousand francs at Monte Carlo once. I put it on number twenty-seven and it came up.”

  “That must have been very exciting, Madame.”

  “Oh, it was. George gives me money to play with—but usually I lose it.”

  She looked disconsolate.

  “That is sad.”

  “Oh, it does not really matter. George is very rich. It is nice to be rich, don’t you think so?”

  “Very nice,” said Poirot gently.

  “Perhaps, if I was not rich, I should look like Amanda.” Her gaze went to Miss Brewis at the tea table and studied her dispassionately. “She is very ugly, don’t you think?”

  Miss Brewis looked up at that moment and across to where they were sitting. Lady Stubbs had not spoken loudly, but Poirot wondered whether Amanda Brewis had heard.

  As he withdrew his gaze, his eyes met those of Captain Warburton. The Captain’s glance was ironic and amused.

  Poirot endeavoured to change the subject.

  “Have you been very busy preparing for the fête?” he asked.

  Hattie Stubbs shook her head.

  “Oh, no, I think it is all very boring—very stupid. There are servants and gardeners. Why should not they make the preparations?”

  “Oh, my dear.” It was Mrs. Folliat who spoke. She had come to sit on the sofa nearby. “Those are the ideas you were brought up with on your island estates. But life isn’t like that in England these days. I wish it were.” She sighed. “Nowadays one has to do nearly everything oneself.”

  Lady Stubbs shrugged her shoulders.

  “I think it is stupid. What is the good of being rich if one has to do everything oneself?”

  “Some people find it fun,” said Mrs. Folliat, smiling at her. “I do really. Not all things, but some. I like gardening myself and I like preparing for a festivity like this one tomorrow.”

  “It will be like a party?” asked Lady Stubbs hopefully.

  “Just like a party—with lots and lots of people.”

  “Will it be like Ascot? With big hats and everyone very chic?”

  “Well, not quite like Ascot,” said Mrs. Folliat. She added gently, “But you must try and enjoy country things, Hattie. You should have helped us this morning, instead of staying in bed and not getting up until teatime.”

  “I had a headache,” said Hattie sulkily. Then her mood changed and she smiled affectionately at Mrs. Folliat.

  “But I will be good tomorrow. I will do everything you tell me.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, dear.”

  “I’ve got a new dress to wear. It came this morning. Come upstairs with me and look at it.”

  Mrs. Folliat hesitated. Lady Stubbs rose to her feet and said insistently:

  “You must come. Please. It is a lovely dress. Come now!”

  “Oh, very well.” Mrs. Folliat gave a half laugh and rose.

  As she went out of the room, her small figure following Hattie’s tall one, Poirot saw her face and was quite startled at the weariness on it which had replaced her smiling composure. It was as though, relaxed and off her guard for a moment, she no longer bothered to keep up the social mask. And yet—it seemed more than that. Perhaps she was suffering from some disease about which, like many women, she never spoke. She was not a person, he thought, who would care to invite pity or sympathy.

  Captain Warburton dropped down in the chair Hattie Stubbs had just vacated. He, too, looked at the door through which the two women had just passed, but it was not of the older woman that he spoke. Instead he drawled, with a slight grin:

  “Beautiful creature, isn’t she?” He observed with the tail of his eye Sir George’s exit through a french window with Mrs. Masterton and Mrs. Oliver in tow. “Bowled over old George Stubbs all right. Nothing’s too good for her! Jewels, mink, all the rest of it. Whether he realizes she’s a bit wanting in the top storey, I’ve never discovered. Probably thinks it doesn’t matter. After all, these financial johnnies don’t ask for intellectual companionship.”

  “What nationality is she?” Poirot asked curiously.

  “Looks South American, I always think. But I believe she comes from the West Indies. One of those islands with sugar and rum and all that. One of the old families there—a creole, I don’t mean a half-caste. All very intermarried, I believe, on these islands. Accounts for the mental deficiency.”

  Young Mrs. Legge came over to join them.

  “Look here, Jim,” she said, “you’ve got to be on my side. That tent’s got to be where we all decided—on the far side of the lawn backing on the rhododendrons. It’s the only possible place.”

  “Ma Masterton doesn’t think so.”

  “Well, you’ve got to talk her out of it.”

  He gave her his foxy smile.

  “Mrs. Masterton’s my boss.”

  “Wilfred Masterton’s your boss. He’s the M.P.”

  “I dare say, but s
he should be. She’s the one who wears the pants—and don’t I know it.”

  Sir George reentered the window.

  “Oh, there you are, Sally,” he said. “We need you. You wouldn’t think everyone could get het up over who butters the buns and who raffles a cake, and why the garden produce stall is where the fancy woollens was promised it should be. Where’s Amy Folliat? She can deal with these people—about the only person who can.”

  “She went upstairs with Hattie.”

  “Oh, did she—?”

  Sir George looked round in a vaguely helpless manner and Miss Brewis jumped up from where she was writing tickets, and said, “I’ll fetch her for you, Sir George.”

  “Thank you, Amanda.”

  Miss Brewis went out of the room.

  “Must get hold of some more wire fencing,” murmured Sir George.

  “For the fête?”

  “No, no. To put up where we adjoin Hoodown Park in the woods. The old stuff’s rotted away, and that’s where they get through.”

  “Who get through?”

  “Trespassers!” ejaculated Sir George.

  Sally Legge said amusedly:

  “You sound like Betsy Trotwood campaigning against donkeys.”

  “Betsy Trotwood? Who’s she?” asked Sir George simply.

  “Dickens.”

  “Oh, Dickens. I read the Pickwick Papers once. Not bad. Not bad at all—surprised me. But, seriously, trespassers are a menace since they’ve started this Youth Hostel tomfoolery. They come out at you from everywhere wearing the most incredible shirts—boy this morning had one all covered with crawling turtles and things—made me think I’d been hitting the bottle or something. Half of them can’t speak English—just gibber at you…” He mimicked: “‘Oh, plees—yes, haf you—tell me—iss way to ferry?’ I say no, it isn’t, roar at them, and send them back where they’ve come from, but half the time they just blink and stare and don’t understand. And the girls giggle. All kinds of nationalities, Italian, Yugoslavian, Dutch, Finnish—Eskimos I shouldn’t be surprised! Half of them communists, I shouldn’t wonder,” he ended darkly.

  “Come now, George, don’t get started on communists,” said Mrs. Legge. “I’ll come and help you deal with the rabid women.”

  She led him out of the window and called over her shoulder: “Come on, Jim. Come and be torn to pieces in a good cause.”

  “All right, but I want to put M. Poirot in the picture about the Murder Hunt since he’s going to present the prizes.”

  “You can do that presently.”

  “I will await you here,” said Poirot agreeably.

  In the ensuing silence, Alec Legge stretched himself out in his chair and sighed.

  “Women!” he said. “Like a swarm of bees.”

  He turned his head to look out of the window.

  “And what’s it all about? Some silly garden fête that doesn’t matter to anyone.”

  “But obviously,” Poirot pointed out, “there are those to whom it does matter.”

  “Why can’t people have some sense? Why can’t they think? Think of the mess the whole world has got itself into. Don’t they realize that the inhabitants of the globe are busy committing suicide?”

  Poirot judged rightly that he was not intended to reply to this question. He merely shook his head doubtfully.

  “Unless we can do something before it’s too late…” Alec Legge broke off. An angry look swept over his face. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m nervy, neurotic—all the rest of it. Like those damned doctors. Advising rest and change and sea air. All right, Sally and I came down here and took the Mill Cottage for three months, and I’ve followed their prescription. I’ve fished and bathed and taken long walks and sunbathed—”

  “I noticed that you had sunbathed, yes,” said Poirot politely.

  “Oh, this?” Alec’s hand went to his sore face. “That’s the result of a fine English summer for once in a way. But what’s the good of it all? You can’t get away from facing truth just by running away from it.”

  “No, it is never any good running away.”

  “And being in a rural atmosphere like this just makes you realize things more keenly—that and the incredible apathy of the people of this country. Even Sally, who’s intelligent enough, is just the same. Why bother? That’s what she says. It makes me mad! Why bother?”

  “As a matter of interest, why do you?”

  “Good God, you too?”

  “No, it is not advice. It is just that I would like to know your answer.”

  “Don’t you see, somebody’s got to do something.”

  “And that somebody is you?”

  “No, no, not me personally. One can’t be personal in times like these.”

  “I do not see why not. Even in ‘these times’ as you call it, one is still a person.”

  “But one shouldn’t be! In times of stress, when it’s a matter of life or death, one can’t think of one’s own insignificant ills or preoccupations.”

  “I assure you, you are quite wrong. In the late war, during a severe air raid, I was much less preoccupied by the thought of death than of the pain from a corn on my little toe. It surprised me at the time that it should be so. ‘Think,’ I said to myself, ‘at any moment now, death may come.’ But I was still conscious of my corn—indeed, I felt injured that I should have that to suffer as well as the fear of death. It was because I might die that every small personal matter in my life acquired increased importance. I have seen a woman knocked down in a street accident, with a broken leg, and she has burst out crying because she sees that there is a ladder in her stocking.”

  “Which just shows you what fools women are!”

  “It shows you what people are. It is, perhaps, that absorption in one’s personal life that has led the human race to survive.”

  Alec Legge gave a scornful laugh.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “I think it’s a pity they ever did.”

  “It is, you know,” Poirot persisted, “a form of humility. And humility is valuable. There was a slogan that was written up in your underground railways here, I remember, during the war. ‘It all depends on you.’ It was composed, I think, by some eminent divine—but in my opinion it was a dangerous and undesirable doctrine. For it is not true. Everything does not depend on, say, Mrs. Blank of Little-Blank-in-the-Marsh. And if she is led to think it does, it will not be good for her character. While she thinks of the part she can play in world affairs, the baby pulls over the kettle.”

  “You are rather old-fashioned in your views, I think. Let’s hear what your slogan would be.”

  “I do not need to formulate one of my own. There is an older one in this country which contents me very well.”

  “What is that?”

  “‘Put your trust in God, and keep your powder dry.’”

  “Well, well…” Alec Legge seemed amused. “Most unexpected coming from you. Do you know what I should like to see done in this country?”

  “Something, no doubt, forceful and unpleasant,” said Poirot, smiling.

  Alec Legge remained serious.

  “I should like to see every feeble-minded person put out—right out! Don’t let them breed. If, for one generation, only the intelligent were allowed to breed, think what the result would be.”

  “A very large increase of patients in the psychiatric wards, perhaps,” said Poirot dryly. “One needs roots as well as flowers on a plant, Mr. Legge. However large and beautiful the flowers, if the earthy roots are destroyed there will be no more flowers.” He added in a conversational tone: “Would you consider Lady Stubbs a candidate for the lethal chamber?”

  “Yes, indeed. What’s the good of a woman like that? What contribution has she ever made to society? Has she ever had an idea in her head that wasn’t of clothes or furs or jewels? As I say, what good is she?”

  “You and I,” said Poirot blandly, “are certainly much more intelligent than Lady Stubbs. But”—he shook his hea
d sadly—“it is true, I fear, that we are not nearly so ornamental.”

  “Ornamental…” Alec was beginning with a fierce snort, but he was interrupted by the reentry of Mrs. Oliver and Captain Warburton through the window.

  Four

  “You must come and see the clues and things for the Murder Hunt, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.

  Poirot rose and followed them obediently.

  The three of them went across the hall and into a small room furnished plainly as a business office.

  “Lethal weapons to your left,” observed Captain Warburton, waving his hand towards a small baize-covered card table. On it were laid out a small pistol, a piece of lead piping with a rusty sinister stain on it, a blue bottle labelled Poison, a length of clothesline and a hypodermic syringe.

  “Those are the Weapons,” explained Mrs. Oliver, “and these are the Suspects.”

  She handed him a printed card which he read with interest.

  Suspects

  Estelle Glynne

  —

  a beautiful and mysterious young woman, the guest of

  Colonel Blunt

  —

  the local Squire, whose daughter

  Joan

  —

  is married to

  Peter Gaye

  —

  a young Atom Scientist.

  Miss Willing

  —

  a housekeeper.

  Quiett

  —

  a butler.

  Maya Stavisky

  —

  a girl hiker.

  Esteban Loyola

  —

  an uninvited guest.

  Poirot blinked and looked towards Mrs. Oliver in mute incomprehension.

  “A magnificent Cast of Characters,” he said politely. “But permit me to ask, Madame, what does the Competitor do?”

  “Turn the card over,” said Captain Warburton.

  Poirot did so.

  On the other side was printed:

  Name and address……………………………

  Solution:

  Name of Murderer:…………………………..