Free Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie

show. Where can Hattie be? Perhaps she's gone into the house.”
    He strode off rapidly.
    Poirot edged his way towards the roped-off space where teas were being served in a large marquee, but there was a long waiting queue and he decided against it.
    He inspected the Fancy Goods stall where a determined old lady very nearly managed to sell him a plastic collar box, and finally made his way round the outskirts to a place where he could contemplate the activity from a safe distance.
    He wondered where Mrs Oliver was.
    Footsteps behind him made him turn his head. A young 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 Georges Stubbs?”
    “It is indeed.” Poirot paused and then hazarded a guess. “Are you, perhaps, the cousin of Lady Stubbs?”
    “I am Etienne de Sousa -”
    “My name is Hercule Poirot.”
    They bowed to each other. Poirot explained the circumstances of the fкte. As he finished, Sir George came across the lawn towards them from the coconut shy.
    “De Sousa? Delighted to see you. Hattie got your letter this morning. Where's your yacht?”
    “It is moored at Helmmouth. 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.” De Sousa shrugged elegant shoulders.
    “Hattie will be delighted, I'm sure,” said Sir George politely. “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. De Sousa looked after him. Poirot looked at De Sousa.
    “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 inquiringly 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.
    “Oh, it is no secret. At fifteen Hattie was mentally undeveloped. Feeble minded, do you not call it? She is still the same?”
    “It would seem so - yes,” said Poirot cautiously.
    De Sousa shrugged his shoulders.
    “Ah, well! Why should one ask it of women - that they should be intelligent? It is not necessary.”
    Sir George was back, fuming. Miss Brewis was with him, speaking rather breathlessly.
    “I've no idea where she is, Sir George. I saw her over by the fortune teller's tent last. But that was at least twenty minutes or half an hour ago. She's not in the house.”
    “Is it not possible,” asked Poirot, “that she has gone to observe the progress of Mrs Oliver's murder hunt?”
    Sir George's brow cleared.
    “That's probably it. Look here, I can't leave the shows here. I'm in charge. And Amanda's got her hands full. Could you possibly have a look round, Poirot? You know the course.”
    But Poirot did not know the course. However, an inquiry of Miss Brewis gave him rough guidance. Miss Brewis took brisk charge of De Sousa and Poirot went off murmuring to himself, like an incantation:
    “Tennis Court, Camellia Garden, The Folly, Upper Nursery Garden, Boathouse...”
    As he passed the coconut shy he was amused to notice Sir George proffering wooden balls with a dazzling