‘I apologize, 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.

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

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 tone of Mrs Tucker’s voice from inside.