Agatha Christie - Dead Man's Folly

"Are you still there, Madame?"

"I'm still here," said Mrs Oliver. "Don't let's waste any more money asking each other if we're there. What is it?"

"It is something very important. You remember your Murder Hunt?"

"Well, of course I remember it. It's practically what we've just been talking about, isn't it?"

"I made one grave mistake," said Poirot. "I never read your synopsis for competitors. In the gravity of discovering a murder it did not seem to matter. I was wrong. It did matter. You are a sensitive person, Madame. You are affected by your atmosphere, by the personalities of the people you meet. And these are translated into your work. Not recognisably so, but they are the inspiration from which your fertile brain draws its creations."

"That's very nice flowery language," said Mrs Oliver. "But what exactly do you mean?"

"That you have always known more about this crime than you have realised yourself. Now for the question I want to ask you – two questions actually; but the first is very important. Did you, when you first began to plan your Murder Hunt, mean the body to be discovered in the boathouse?"

"No, I didn't."

"Where did you intend it to be?"

"In that funny little summer-house tucked away in the rhododendrons near the house. I thought it was just the place. But then someone, I can't remember who exactly, began insisting that it should be found in the Folly. Well, that, of course, was an absurd idea! I mean, anyone could have strolled in there quite casually and come across it without having followed a single clue. People are so stupid. Of course I couldn't agree to that."

"So, instead, you accepted the boathouse?"

"Yes, that's just how it happened. There was really nothing against the boathouse though I still thought the little summer-house would have been better."

"Yes, that is the technique you outlined to me that first day. There is one thing more. Do you remember telling me that there was a final clue written on one of the 'comics' that Marlene was given to amuse her?"

"Yes, of course."

"Tell me, was it something like -" (he forced his memory back to a moment when he had stood reading various scrawled phrases): "Albert goes with Doreen; George Porgie kisses hikers in the wood; Peter pinches girls in the Cinema?"

"Good gracious me, no," said Mrs Oliver in a slightly shocked voice. "It wasn't anything silly like that. No, mine was a perfectly straightforward clue." She lowered her voice and spoke in mysterious tones. "Look in the hiker's rucksack."

"Épatant!" cried Poirot. "Épatant! Of course, the 'comic' with that on it would have to be taken away. It might have given someone ideas!"

"The rucksack, of course, was on the floor by the body and -"

"Ah, but it is another rucksack of which I am thinking."

"You're confusing me with all these rucksacks," Mrs Oliver complained. "There was only one in my murder story. Don't you want to know what was in it?"

"Not in the least," said Poirot. "That is to say," he added politely, "I should be enchanted to hear, of course, but -"

Mrs Oliver swept over the "but."

"Very ingenious, I think," she said, the pride of authorship in her voice. "You see, in Marlene's haversack, which was supposed to be the Yugoslavian's wife's haversack, if you understand what I mean -"

"Yes, yes," said Poirot, preparing himself to be lost in fog once more.

"Well, in it was the bottle of medicine containing poison with which the country squire poisoned his wife. You see, the Yugoslavian girl had been over here training as a nurse and she'd been in the house when Colonel Blunt poisoned his first wife for her money. And she, the nurse, had got hold of the bottle and taken it away, and then come back to blackmail him. That, of course, is why he killed her. Does that fit in, M. Poirot?"

"Fit in with what?"

"With your ideas," said Mrs Oliver.

"Not at all," said Poirot, but added hastily, "All the same, my felicitations, Madame. I am sure your Murder Hunt was so ingenious that nobody won the prize."

"But they did," said Mrs Oliver. "Quite late, about seven o'clock. A very dogged old lady supposed to be quite gaga. She got through all the clues and arrived at the boathouse triumphantly, but of course the police were there. So then she heard about the murder, and she was the last person at the whole fête to hear about it, I should imagine. Anyway, they gave her the prize." She added with satisfaction, "That horrid young man with the freckles who said I drank like a fish never got farther than the camellia garden."

"Some day, Madame," said Poirot, "you shall tell me this story of yours."

"Actually," said Mrs Oliver, "I'm thinking of turning it into a book. It would be a pity to waste it."

And it may here be mentioned that some three years later Hercule Poirot read The Woman in the Wood, by Ariadne Oliver, and wondered whilst he read it why some of the persons and incidents seemed to him vaguely familiar.

The sun was setting when Poirot came to what was called officially Mill Cottage, and known locally as the Pink Cottage down by Lawder's Creek. He knocked on the door and it was flung open with such suddenness that he started back. The angry-looking young man in the doorway stared at him for a moment without recognising him. Then he gave a short laugh.

"Hallo," he said," it's the sleuth. Come in, M. Poirot. I'm packing up."

Poirot accepted the invitation and stepped into the cottage. It was plainly, rather badly furnished. And Alec Legge's personal possessions were at the moment taking up a disproportionate amount of room. Books, papers and articles of stray clothing were strewn all around, an open suitcase stood on the floor.

"The final break up of the ménage," said Alec Legge. "Sally has cleared out. I expect you know that."

"I did not know it, no."

Alec Legge gave a short laugh.

"I'm glad there's something you don't know. Yes, she's had enough of married life. Going to link up her life with that tame architect."

"I am sorry to hear it," said Poirot.

"I don't see why you should be sorry."

"I am sorry," said Poirot, clearing off two books and a shirt and sitting down on the corner of the sofa, "because I do not think she will be as happy with him as she would be with you."

"She hasn't been particularly happy with me this last six months."

"Six months is not a lifetime," said Poirot, "it is a very short space out of what might be a long happy married life."

"Talking rather like a parson, aren't you?"

"Possibly. May I say, Mr Legge, that if your wife has not been happy with you it is probably more your fault than hers."

"She certainly thinks so. Everything's my fault, I suppose."

"Not everything, but some things."

"Oh, blame everything on me. I might as well drown myself in the damn river and have done with it."

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

"I am glad to observe," he remarked, "that you are now more perturbed with your own troubles than with those of the world."

"The world can go hang," said Mr- Legge. He added bitterly, "I seem to have made the most complete fool of myself all along the line."

"Yes," said Poirot, "I would say that you have been more unfortunate than reprehensible in your conduct."

Alec Legge stared at him.

"Who hired you to sleuth me?" he demanded. "Was it Sally?"

"Why should you think that?"

"Well, nothing's happened officially. So I concluded that you must have come down after me on a private job."

"You are in error," replied Poirot. "I have not at any time been sleuthing you. When I came down here I had no idea that you existed."

"Then how do you know whether I've been unfortunate or made a fool of myself or what?"

"From the result of observation and reflection," said Poirot. "Shall I make a little guess and will you tell me if I am right?"