In a mood of exploration Poirot went through the front gates and down the steeply twisting road that presently emerged on a small quay. A large bell with a chain had a notice upon it: ‘Ring for the Ferry.’ There were various boats moored by the side of the quay. A very old man with rheumy eyes, who had been leaning against a bollard, came shuffling towards Poirot.
‘Du ee want the ferry, sir?’
‘I thank you, no. I have just come down from Nasse House for a little walk.’
‘Ah, ’tis up at Nasse yu are? Worked there as a boy, I did, and my son, he were head gardener there. But I did use to look after the boats. Old Squire Folliat, he was fair mazed about boats. Sail in all weathers, he would. The Major, now, his son, he didn’t care for sailing. Horses, that’s all he cared about. And a pretty packet went on ’em. That and the bottle – had a hard time with him, his wife did. Yu’ve seen her, maybe – lives at the Lodge now, she du.’
‘Yes, I have just left her there now.’
‘Her be a Folliat, tu, second cousin from over Tiverton way. A great one for the garden, she is, all them there flowering shrubs she had put in. Even when it was took over during the war, and the two young gentlemen was gone to the war, she still looked after they shrubs and kept ’em from being over-run.’
‘It was hard on her, both her sons being killed.’
‘Ah, she’ve had a hard life, she have, what with this and that. Trouble with her husband, and trouble with the young gentlemen, tu. Not Mr Henry. He was as nice a young gentleman as yu could wish, took after his grandfather, fond of sailing and went into the Navy as a matter of course, but Mr James, he caused her a lot of trouble. Debts and women it were, and then, tu, he were real wild in his temper. Born one of they as can’t go straight. But the war suited him, as yu might say – give him his chance. Ah! There’s many who can’t go straight in peace who dies bravely in war.’
‘So now,’ said Poirot, ‘there are no more Folliats at Nasse.’
The old man’s flow of talk died abruptly.
‘Just as yu say, sir.’
Poirot looked curiously at the old man.
‘Instead you have Sir George Stubbs. What is thought locally of him?’
‘Us understands,’ said the old man, ‘that he be powerful rich.’
His tone sounded dry and almost amused.
‘And his wife?’
‘Ah, she’s a fine lady from London, she is. No use for gardens, not her. They du say, tu, as her du be wanting up here.’
He tapped his temple significantly.
‘Not as her isn’t always very nice spoken and friendly. Just over a year they’ve been here. Bought the place and had it all done up like new. I remember as though ’twere yesterday them arriving. Arrived in the evening, they did, day after the worst gale as I ever remember. Trees down right and left – one down across the drive and us had to get it sawn away in a hurry to get the drive clear for the car. And the big oak up along, that come down and brought a lot of others down with it, made a rare mess, it did.’
‘Ah, yes, where the Folly stands now?’
The old man turned aside and spat disgustedly.
‘Folly ’tis called and Folly ’tis – new-fangled nonsense. Never was no Folly in the old Folliats’ time. Her ladyship’s idea that Folly was. Put up not three weeks after they first come, and I’ve no doubt she talked Sir George into it. Rare silly it looks stuck up there among the trees, like a heathen temple. A nice summer-house now, made rustic like with stained glass. I’d have nothing against that.’
Poirot smiled faintly.
‘The London ladies,’ he said, ‘they must have their fancies. It is sad that the day of the Folliats is over.’
‘Don’t ee never believe that, sir.’ The old man gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘Always be Folliats at Nasse.’
‘But the house belongs to Sir George Stubbs.’
‘That’s as may be – but there’s still a Folliat here. Ah! Rare and cunning the Folliats are!’
‘What do you mean?’
The old man gave him a sly sideways glance.
‘Mrs Folliat be living up tu Lodge, bain’t she?’ he demanded.
‘Yes,’ said Poirot slowly. ‘Mrs Folliat is living at the Lodge and the world is very wicked, and all the people in it are very wicked.’
The old man stared at him.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yu’ve got something there, maybe.’
He shuffled away again.
‘But what have I got?’ Poirot asked himself with irritation as he slowly walked up the hill back to the house.
II
Hercule Poirot made a meticulous toilet, applying a scented pomade to his moustaches and twirling them to a ferocious couple of points. He stood back from the mirror and was satisfied with what he saw.
The sound of a gong resounded through the house, and he descended the stairs.
The butler, having finished a most artistic performance, crescendo, forte, diminuendo, rallentando, was just replacing the gong stick on its hook. His dark melancholy face showed pleasure.
Poirot thought to himself: ‘A blackmailing letter from the housekeeper – or it may be the butler…’ This butler looked as though blackmailing letters would be well within his scope. Poirot wondered if Mrs Oliver took her characters from life.
Miss Brewis crossed the hall in an unbecoming flowered chiffon dress and he caught up with her, asking as he did so:
‘You have a housekeeper here?’
‘Oh, no, M. Poirot. I’m afraid one doesn’t run to niceties of that kind nowadays, except in a really large establishment, of course. Oh, no, I’m the housekeeper – more housekeeper than secretary, sometimes, in this house.’
She gave a short acid laugh.
‘So you are the housekeeper?’ Poirot considered her thoughtfully.
He could not see Miss Brewis writing a blackmailing letter. Now, an anonymous letter – that would be a different thing. He had known anonymous letters written by women not unlike Miss Brewis – solid, dependable women, totally unsuspected by those around them.
‘What is your butler’s name?’ he asked.
‘Henden.’ Miss Brewis looked a little astonished.
Poirot recollected himself and explained quickly:
‘I ask because I had a fancy I had seen him somewhere before.’
‘Very
