Dead Man’s Folly

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 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 make a terrific toilet 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 Nasse 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 Nasse 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 Nasse – and not vulgarized 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. He’s a throwback. Pure type of the eighteenth-century country squire. Good blood in him, I’d say. Father a gent and mother a barmaid, is my guess.’