On the day Etienne de Sousa had come to Nasse House one person certainly had been killed, possibly two people. Mrs Folliat had said that one should pay no attention to these melodramatic remarks of Hattie’s. She had said so very insistently. Mrs Folliat…

Hercule Poirot frowned, then brought his hand down with a bang on the arm of his chair.

‘Always, always – I return to Mrs Folliat. She is the key to the whole business. If I knew what she knows…I can no longer sit in an armchair and just think. No, I must take a train and go again to Devon and visit Mrs Folliat.’

II

Hercule Poirot paused for a moment outside the big wrought-iron gates of Nasse House. He looked ahead of him along the curving drive. It was no longer summer. Golden-brown leaves fluttered gently down from the trees. Near at hand the grassy banks were coloured with small mauve cyclamen. Poirot sighed. The beauty of Nasse House appealed to him in spite of himself. He was not a great admirer of nature in the wild, he liked things trim and neat, yet he could not but appreciate the soft wild beauty of massed shrubs and trees.

At his left was the small white porticoed lodge. It was a fine afternoon. Probably Mrs Folliat would not be at home. She would be out somewhere with her gardening basket or else visiting some friends in the neighbourhood. She had many friends. This was her home, and had been her home for many long years. What was it the old man on the quay had said? ‘There’ll always be Folliats at Nasse House.’

Poirot rapped gently upon the door of the Lodge. After a few moments’ delay he heard footsteps inside. They sounded to his ear slow and almost hesitant. Then the door was opened and Mrs Folliat stood framed in the doorway. He was startled to see how old and frail she looked. She stared at him incredulously for a moment or two, then she said:

‘M. Poirot? You!’

He thought for a moment that he had seen fear leap into her eyes, but perhaps that was sheer imagination on his part. He said politely:

‘May I come in, Madame?’

‘But of course.’

She had recovered all her poise now, beckoned him in with a gesture and led the way into her small sitting-room. There were some delicate Chelsea figures on the mantelpiece, a couple of chairs covered in exquisite petit point, and a Derby tea service stood on the small table. Mrs Folliat said:

‘I will fetch another cup.’

Poirot raised a faintly protesting hand, but she pushed the protest aside.

‘Of course you must have some tea.’