Perhaps there wasnt any other place, said Mrs Oliver.
Michael Weyman snorted.
Top of that grassy bank by the houseperfect natural setting. But no, these tycoon fellows are all the sameno artistic sense. Has a fancy for a Folly, as he calls it, orders one. Looks round for somewhere to put it. Then, I understand, a big oak tree crashes down in a gale. Leaves a nasty scar. Oh, well tidy the place up by putting a Folly there, says the silly ass. Thats all they ever think about, these rich city fellows, tidying up! I wonder he hasnt put beds of red geraniums and calceolarias all round the house! A man like that shouldnt be allowed to own a place like this!
He sounded heated.
This young man, Poirot observed to himself, assuredly does not like Sir George Stubbs.
Its bedded down in concrete, said Weyman. And theres loose soil underneathso its subsided. Cracked all up hereit will be dangerous soon Better pull the whole thing down and re-erect it on the top of the bank near the house. Thats my advice, but the obstinate old fool wont hear of it.
What about the tennis pavilion? asked Mrs Oliver.
Gloom settled even more deeply on the young man. He wants a kind of Chinese pagoda,[26] he said, with a groan. Dragons if you please! Just because Lady Stubbs fancies herself in Chinese coolie hats[27]. Whod be an architect? Anyone who wants something decent built hasnt got the money, and those who have the money want something too utterly goddam awful!
You have my commiserations, said Poirot gravely.
George Stubbs, said the architect scornfully. Who does he think he is? Dug himself into some cushy Admiralty job in the safe depths of Wales during the warand grows a beard to suggest he saw active naval service on convoy dutyor thats what they say. Stinking with moneyabsolutely stinking!
Well, you architects have got to have someone whos got money to spend, or youd never have a job, Mrs Oliver pointed out reasonably enough. She moved on towards the house and Poirot and the dispirited architect prepared to follow her.
These tycoons, said the latter bitterly, cant understand first principles. He delivered a final kick to the lopsided Folly. If the foundations are rotteneverythings rotten.
It is profound what you say there, said Poirot. Yes, it is profound.
The path they were following came out from the trees and the house showed white and beautiful before them in its setting of dark trees rising up behind it.
It is of a veritable beauty, yes, murmured Poirot.
He wants to build a billiard room on, said Mr Weyman venomously.
On the bank below them a small elderly lady was busy with secateurs on a clump of shrubs. She climbed up to greet them, panting slightly.
Everything neglected for years, she said. And so difficult nowadays to get a man who understands shrubs. This hillside should be a blaze of colour in March and April, but very disappointing this yearall this dead wood ought to have been cut away last autumn
M. Hercule Poirot, Mrs Folliat, said Mrs Oliver.
The elderly lady beamed.
So this is the great M. Poirot! It is kind of you to come and help us tomorrow. This clever lady here has thought out a most puzzling problemit will be such a novelty.
Poirot was faintly puzzled by the graciousness of the little ladys manner. She might, he thought, have been his hostess.
He said politely:
Mrs Oliver is an old friend of mine. I was delighted to be able to respond to her request. This is indeed a beautiful spot, and what a superb and noble mansion.
Mrs Folliat nodded in a matter-of-fact manner.
Yes. It was built by my husbands great-grandfather in 1790. There was an Elizabethan house[28] previously. It fell into disrepair[29] and burned down in about 1700. Our family has lived here since 1598.
Her voice was calm and matter of fact. Poirot looked at her with closer attention. He saw a very small and compact little person, dressed in shabby tweeds. The most noticeable feature about her was her clear china-blue eyes[30]. Her grey hair was closely confined by a hairnet. Though obviously careless of her appearance, she had that indefinable air of being someone which is so hard to explain.
As they walked together towards the house, Poirot said diffidently, It must be hard for you to have strangers living here.
There was a moments pause before Mrs Folliat answered. Her voice was clear and precise and curiously devoid of emotion.
So many things are hard, M. Poirot, she said.
CHAPTER 3
It was Mrs Folliat who led the way into the house and Poirot followed her. It was a gracious house, beautifully proportioned. Mrs Folliat went through a door on the left into a small daintily furnished sitting-room and on into the big drawing-room beyond, which was full of people who all seemed, at the moment, to be talking at once.
George, said Mrs Folliat, this is M. Poirot who is so kind as to come and help us. Sir George Stubbs.
Sir George, who had been talking in a loud voice, swung round. He was a big man with a rather florid red face and a slightly unexpected beard. It gave a rather disconcerting effect of an actor who had not quite made up his mind whether he was playing the part of a country squire, or of a rough diamond[31] from the Dominions[32]. It certainly did not suggest the navy, in spite of Michael Weymans remarks. His manner and voice were jovial, but his eyes were small and shrewd, of a particularly penetrating pale blue.
He greeted Poirot heartily.
Were so glad that your friend Mrs Oliver managed to persuade you to come, he said. Quite a brain-wave on her part[33]. Youll be an enormous attraction.
He looked round a little vaguely.
Hattie? He repeated the name in a slightly sharper tone. Hattie!
Lady Stubbs was reclining in a big arm-chair a little distance from the others. She seemed to be paying no attention to what was going on round her. Instead she was smiling down at her hand which was stretched out on the arm of the chair. She was turning it from left to right, so that a big solitaire emerald on her third finger caught the light in its green depths.
She looked up now in a slightly startled childlike way and said, How do you do?
Poirot bowed over her hand.
Sir George continued his introductions.
Mrs Masterton.
Mrs Masterton was a somewhat monumental woman who reminded Poirot faintly of a bloodhound. She had a full underhung jaw and large, mournful, slightly blood-shot eyes.
She bowed and resumed her discourse in a deep voice which again made Poirot think of a bloodhounds baying note.
This silly dispute about the tea tent has got to be settled, Jim, she said forcefully. Theyve got to see sense about it. We cant have the whole show a fiasco because of these idiotic womens local feuds.
Oh, quite, said the man addressed.
Captain Warburton, said Sir George.
Captain Warburton, who wore a check sports coat and had a vaguely horsy appearance, showed a lot of white teeth in a somewhat wolfish smile, then continued his conversation.
Dont you worry, Ill settle it, he said. Ill go and talk to them like a Dutch uncle[34]. What about the fortune-telling tent? In the space by the magnolia? Or at the far end of the lawn by the rhododendrons?
Sir George continued his introductions.
Mr and Mrs Legge.
A tall young man with his face peeling badly from sunburn grinned agreeably. His wife, an attractive freckled redhead, nodded in a friendly fashion, then plunged into controversy with Mrs Masterton, her agreeable high treble making a kind of duet with Mrs Mastertons deep bay.
not by the magnoliaa bottle-neck
one wants to disperse thingsbut if theres a queue
much cooler. I mean, with the sun full on the house