Dead Man's Folly - Agatha Christie [4]
Poirot nodded.
‘And that is what has been happening?’
‘Not quite…That sort of silly suggestion has been made, and then I’ve flared up, and they’ve given in, but have just slipped in some quite minor trivial suggestion and because I’ve made a stand over the other, I’ve accepted the triviality without noticing much.’
‘I see,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes – it is a method, that…Something rather crude and preposterous is put forward – but that is not really the point. The small minor alteration is really the objective. Is that what you mean?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘And, of course, I may be imagining it, but I don’t think I am – and none of the things seem to matter anyway. But it’s got me worried – that, and a sort of – well – atmosphere.’
‘Who has made these suggestions of alterations to you?’
‘Different people,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘If it was just one person I’d be more sure of my ground. But it’s not just one person – although I think it is really. I mean it’s one person working through other quite unsuspecting people.’
‘Have you an idea as to who that one person is?’
Mrs Oliver shook her head.
‘It’s somebody very clever and very careful,’ she said. ‘It might be anybody.’
‘Who is there?’ asked Poirot. ‘The cast of characters must be fairly limited?’
‘Well,’ began Mrs Oliver. ‘There’s Sir George Stubbs who owns this place. Rich and plebeian and frightfully stupid outside business, I should think, but probably dead sharp in it. And there’s Lady Stubbs – Hattie – about twenty years younger than he is, rather beautiful, but dumb as a fish – in fact, I think she’s definitely halfwitted. Married him for his money, of course, and doesn’t think about anything but clothes and jewels. Then there’s Michael Weyman – he’s an architect, quite young, and good-looking in a craggy kind of artistic way. He’s designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George and repairing the Folly.’
‘Folly? What is that – a masquerade?’
‘No, it’s architectural. One of those little sort of temple things, white, with columns. You’ve probably seen them at Kew. Then there’s Miss Brewis, she’s a sort of secretary housekeeper, who runs things and writes letters – very grim and efficient. And then there are the people round about who come in and help. A young married couple who have taken a cottage down by the river – Alec Legge and his wife Sally. And Captain Warburton, who’s the Mastertons’ agent. And the Mastertons, of course, and old Mrs Folliat who lives in what used to be the lodge. Her husband’s people owned Nasse originally. But they’ve died out, or been killed in wars, and there were lots of death duties so the last heir sold the place.’
Poirot considered this list of characters, but at the moment they were only names to him. He returned to the main issue.
‘Whose idea was the Murder Hunt?’
‘Mrs Masterton’s, I think. She’s the local M.P.’s wife, very good at organizing. It was she who persuaded Sir George to have the fête here. You see the place has been empty for so many years that she thinks people will be keen to pay and come in to see it.’
‘That all seems straightforward enough,’ said Poirot.
‘It all seems straightforward,’ said Mrs Oliver obstinately; ‘but it isn’t. I tell you, M. Poirot, there’s something wrong.’
Poirot looked at Mrs Oliver and Mrs Oliver looked back at Poirot.
‘How have you accounted for my presence here? For your summons to me?’ Poirot asked.
‘That was easy,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘You’re to give away the prizes for the Murder Hunt. Everybody’s awfully thrilled. I said I knew you, and could probably persuade you to come and that I was sure your name would be a terrific draw – as, of course, it will be,’ Mrs Oliver added tactfully.
‘And the suggestion was accepted – without demur?’
‘I tell you, everybody was thrilled.’
Mrs Oliver thought it unnecessary to mention that amongst the younger generation one or two had asked ‘Who is Hercule Poirot?’
‘Everybody? Nobody spoke