Free Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie Page B

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.
    â€œYou will excuse me. Is this the house of Sir George Stubbs?”
    â€œIt is indeed.” Poirot paused and then hazarded a guess. “Are you, perhaps, the cousin of Lady Stubbs?”
    â€œI am Etienne de Sousa—”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œDe Sousa? Delighted to see you. Hattie got your letter this morning. Where’s your yacht?”
    â€œIt is moored at Helmmouth. I came up the river to the quay here in my launch.”
    â€œWe must find Hattie. She’s somewhere about…You’ll dine with us this evening, I hope?”
    â€œYou are most kind.”
    â€œCan we put you up?”
    â€œThat also is most kind, but I will sleep on my yacht. It is easier so.”
    â€œAre you staying here long?”
    â€œTwo or three days, perhaps. It depends.” De Sousa shrugged elegant shoulders.
    â€œHattie 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.
    â€œShe 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.
    â€œIt is some little time since you last saw your cousin?” he asked.
    The other shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œShe is a beautiful woman,” said Poirot.
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œOh, it is no secret. At fifteen Hattie was mentally undeveloped. Feebleminded, do you not call it? She is still the same?”
    â€œIt would seem so—yes,” said Poirot cautiously.
    De Sousa shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œAh, 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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œIs it not possible,” asked Poirot, “that she has gone to observe the progress of Mrs. Oliver’s murder hunt?”
    Sir George’s brow cleared.
    â€œThat’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 briskcharge 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 smile of welcome to the same young Italian woman whom he had driven off that morning and who was clearly puzzled at his change of attitude.
    He went on his way to the tennis court. But there was no one there but