Dead Man's Folly - Agatha Christie [74]
‘He might be persuaded.’
‘Persuaded? There’s not sufficient evidence to warrant an extradition order, then?’
‘It is not a question of an extradition order. If the facts are put to him –’
‘But what facts, M. Poirot?’ The chief constable spoke with some irritation. ‘What are these facts you talk about so glibly?’
‘The fact that Etienne de Sousa came here in a lavishly appointed luxury yacht showing that his family is rich, the fact that old Merdell was Marlene Tucker’s grandfather (which I did not know until today), the fact that Lady Stubbs was fond of wearing the coolie type of hat, the fact that Mrs Oliver, in spite of an unbridled and unreliable imagination, is, unrealized by herself, a very shrewd judge of character, the fact that Marlene Tucker had lipsticks and bottles of perfume hidden at the back of her bureau drawer, the fact that Miss Brewis maintains that it was Lady Stubbs who asked her to take a refreshment tray down to Marlene at the boathouse.’
‘Facts?’ The chief constable stared. ‘You call those facts? But there’s nothing new there.’
‘You prefer evidence – definite evidence – such as – Lady Stubbs’ body?’
Now it was Bland who stared.
‘You have found Lady Stubbs’ body?’
‘Not actually found it – but I know where it is hidden. You shall go to the spot, and when you have found it, then – then you will have evidence – all the evidence you need. For only one person could have hidden it there.’
‘And who’s that?’
Hercule Poirot smiled – the contented smile of a cat who has lapped up a saucer of cream.
‘The person it so often is,’ he said softly; ‘the husband. Sir George Stubbs killed his wife.’
‘But that’s impossible, M. Poirot. We know it’s impossible.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Poirot, ‘it is not impossible at all! Listen, and I will tell you.’
Chapter 20
Hercule Poirot paused a moment at the big wrought-iron gates. He looked ahead of him along the curving drive. The last of the golden-brown leaves fluttered down from the trees. The cyclamen were over.
Poirot sighed. He turned aside and rapped gently on the door of the little white pilastered lodge.
After a few moments’ delay he heard footsteps inside, those slow hesitant footsteps. The door was opened by Mrs Folliat. He was not startled this time to see how old and frail she looked.
She said, ‘M. Poirot? You again?’
‘May I come in?’
‘Of course.’
He followed her in.
She offered him tea which he refused. Then she asked in a quiet voice:
‘Why have you come?’
‘I think you can guess, Madame.’
Her answer was oblique.
‘I am very tired,’ she said.
‘I know.’ He went on, ‘There have now been three deaths, Hattie Stubbs, Marlene Tucker, old Merdell.’
She said sharply:
‘Merdell? That was an accident. He fell from the quay. He was very old, half-blind, and he’d been drinking in the pub.’
‘It was not an accident. Merdell knew too much.’
‘What did he know?’
‘He recognized a face, or a way of walking, or a voice – something like that. I talked to him the day I first came down here. He told me then all about the Folliat family – about your father-in-law and your husband, and your sons who were killed in the war. Only – they were not both killed, were they? Your son Henry went down with his ship, but your second son, James, was not killed. He deserted. He was reported at first, perhaps, Missing believed killed, and later you told everyone that he was killed. It was nobody’s business to disbelieve that statement. Why should they?’
Poirot paused and then went on:
‘Do not imagine I have no sympathy for you, Madame. Life has been hard for you, I know. You can have had no real illusions about your younger son, but he was your son, and you loved him. You did all you could to give him a new life. You had the charge of a young girl, a subnormal but very rich girl. Oh yes, she was rich. You gave out that her parents had lost all their money, that she was poor, and that you had advised her to marry a rich man many years older than herself. Why should anybody disbelieve your story? Again, it was