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 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 an’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 recognized personalities. Mrs Oliver, Mrs Masterton. Those were the figureheads. He said:

‘I have been wondering, Mrs Tucker, whether Marlene was already acquainted with this – er – homicidal maniac.’

‘She wouldn’t know nobody like that,’ said Mrs Tucker virtuously.

‘Ah,’ said Poirot, ‘but as your husband has just observed, these maniacs are very difficult to spot. They look the same as – er – you and me. Someone may have spoken to Marlene at the fête, or even before it. Made friends with her in a perfectly harmless manner. Given her presents, perhaps.’

‘Oh, no, sir, nothing of that kind. Marlene wouldn’t take presents from a stranger. I brought her up better than that.’