Agatha Christie - Dead Man's Folly

Again he saw the sharp look of fear in her eyes. When she spoke her voice held an icy edge to it.

"I don't quite know what you mean, M. Poirot. I am grateful to Sir George for renting me this lodge, but I do rent it. I pay him a yearly sum for it with the right to walk in the grounds."

Poirot spread out his hands.

"I apologise, Madame. I did not mean to offend you."

"No doubt I misunderstood you," said Mrs Folliat coldly.

"It is a beautiful place," said Poirot. "A beautiful house, beautiful grounds. It has about it a great peace, great serenity."

"Yes." Her face lightened. "We have always felt that. I felt it as a child when I first came here."

"But is there the same peace and serenity now, Madame?"

"Why not?"

"Murder unavenged," said Poirot. "The spilling of innocent blood. Until that shadow lifts, there will not be peace." He added," I think you know that, Madame, as well as I do."

Mrs Folliat did not answer. She neither moved nor spoke. She sat quite still and Poirot had no idea what she was thinking. He leaned forward a little and spoke again.

"Madame, you know a good deal – perhaps everything – about this murder. You know who killed that girl, you know why. You know who killed Hattie Stubbs, you know, perhaps, where her body lies now."

Mrs Folliat spoke then. Her voice was loud, almost harsh.

"I know nothing," she said. "Nothing."

"Perhaps I have used the wrong word. You do not know, but I think you guess, Madame. I'm quite sure that you guess."

"Now you are being – excuse me – absurd!"

"It is not absurd – it is something quite different – it is dangerous"

"Dangerous? To whom?"

"To you, Madame. So long as you keep your knowledge to yourself you are in danger. I know murderers better than you do, Madame."

"I have told you already, I have no knowledge."

"Suspicions, then -"

"I have no suspicions."

"That, excuse me, is not true, Madame."

"To speak out of mere suspicion would be wrong – indeed, wicked."

Poirot leaned forward. "As wicked as what was done here just over a month ago?"

She shrank back into her chair, huddled into herself. She half whispered:

"Don't talk to me of it." And then added, with a long shuddering sigh. "Anyway, it's over now. Done – finished with."

"How can you tell that, Madame? I tell you of my own knowledge that it is never finished with a murderer."

She shook her head.

"No. No, it's the end. And, anyway, there is nothing I can do. Nothing."

He got up and stood looking down at her. She said almost fretfully:

"Why, even the police have given up."

Poirot shook his head.

"Oh, no, Madame, you are wrong there. The police do not give up. And I," he added, "do not give up either. Remember that, Madame. I, Hercule Poirot, do not give up."

It was a very typical exit line.

After leaving Nasse, Poirot went to the village where, by inquiry, he found the cottage occupied by the Tuckers. His knock at the door went unanswered for some moments, as it was drowned by the high-pitched tones of Mrs Tucker's voice from inside,

"- And what be yu thinking of, Jim Tucker, bringing them boots of yours on to my nice linoleum? If I've tell ee once I've tell ee a thousand times. Been polishing it all the morning, I have, and now look at it."

A faint rumbling denoted Mr Tucker's reaction to these remarks. It was on the whole a placatory rumble.

"Yu've no cause to go forgetting. 'Tis all this eagerness to get the sports news on the wireless. Why, it wouldn't have took ee to minutes to be off with them boots. And yu, Gary, do ee mind what yu'm doing with that lollipop. Sticky fingers I will not have on my best silver teapot. Marilyn, that be someone at the door, that be. Du ee go and see who 'tis."

The door was opened gingerly and a child of about eleven or twelve years old peered out suspiciously at Poirot. One cheek was bulged with a sweet. She was a fat child with small blue eyes and a rather piggy kind of prettiness.

"'Tis a gentleman, mum," she shouted.

Mrs Tucker, wisps of hair hanging over her somewhat hot face, came to the door.

"What is it?" she demanded sharply. "We don't need…" She paused, a faint look of recognition came across her face. "Why let me see, now, didn't I see you with the police that day?"

"Alas, Madame, that I have brought back painful memories," said Poirot, stepping firmly inside the door. Mrs Tucker cast a swift agonised glance at his feet, but Poirot's pointed patent leather shoes had only trodden the high road. No mud was being deposited on Mrs Tucker's brightly polished linoleum.

"Come in, won't you, sir," she said, backing before him, and throwing open the door of a room on her right hand.

Poirot was ushered into a devastatingly neat little parlour. It smelt of furniture polish and Brasso and contained a large Jacobean suite, a round table, two potted geraniums, an elaborate brass fender, and a large variety of china ornaments.

"Sit down, sir, do. I can't remember the name. Indeed, I don't think as I ever heard it."

"My name is Hercule Poirot," said Poirot rapidly. "I found myself once more in this part of the world and I called here to offer you my condolences and to ask you if there had been any developments. I trust the murderer of your daughter has been discovered?"

"Not sight or sound of him," said Mrs Tucker, speaking with some bitterness. "And 'tis a downright wicked shame if you ask me. 'Tis my opinion the police don't disturb themselves when it's only the likes of us. What's the police anyway? If they'm all like Bob Hoskins I wonder the whole country isn't a mass of crime. All that Bob Hoskins does is spend his time looking into parked cars on the Common."

At this point, Mr Tucker, his boots removed, appeared through the doorway, walking on his stockinged feet. He was a large, red-faced man with a pacific expression.

"Police be all right," he said in a husky voice. "Got their troubles just like anyone else. These here maniacs ar'n't so easy to find. Look the same as you or me, if you take my meaning," he added, speaking directly to Poirot.

The little girl who had opened the door to Poirot appeared behind her father, and a boy of about eight poked his head round her shoulder. They all stared at Poirot with intense interest.

"This is your younger daughter, I suppose," said Poirot.

"That's Marilyn, that is," said Mrs Tucker. "And that's Gary. Come and say how do you do, Gary, and mind your manners."

Gary backed away.

"Shy-like, he is," said his mother.

"Very civil of you, I'm sure, sir," said Mr Tucker, "to come and ask about Marlene. Ah, that was a terrible business, to be sure."

"I have just called upon Mrs Folliat," said M. Poirot. "She, too, seems to feel this very deeply."

"She's been poorly-like ever since," said Mrs Tucker. "She's an old lady and't was a shock to her, happening as it did at her own place."

Poirot noted once more everybody's unconscious assumption that Nasse House still belonged to Mrs Folliat.

"Makes her feel responsible-like in a way," said Mr Tucker, "not that 'twere anything to do with her."

"Who was it that actually suggested that Marlene should play the victim?" asked Poirot.

"The lady from London that writes the books," said Mrs Tucker promptly.

Poirot said mildly:

"But she was a stranger down here. She did not even know Marlene."

"'Twas Mrs Masterton what rounded the girls up," said Mrs Tucker, "and I suppose 'twas Mrs Masterton said Marlene was to do it. And Marlene, I must say, was pleased enough at the idea."

Once again, Poirot felt, he came up against a blank wall. But he knew now what Mrs Oliver had felt when she first sent for him. Someone had been working in the dark, someone who had pushed forward their own desires through other recognised personalities. Mrs Oliver, Mrs Masterton. Those were the figureheads. He said: