‘Father was a great one for the boats always,’ said Mrs Tucker. ‘Used to look after them in the old days for Mr Folliat, years and years ago that was. Not,’ she added brightly, ‘as Father’s much loss, as you might say. Well over ninety, he was, and trying in many of his ways. Always babbling some nonsense or other. ’Twas time he went. But, of course, us had to bury him nice – and two funerals running costs a lot of money.’

These economic reflections passed Poirot by – a faint remembrance was stirring.

‘An old man – on the quay? I remember talking to him. Was his name –?’

‘Merdell, sir. That was my name before I married.’

‘Your father, if I remember rightly, was head gardener at Nasse?’

‘No, that was my eldest brother. I was the youngest of the family – eleven of us, there were.’ She added with some pride, ‘There’s been Merdells at Nasse for years, but they’re all scattered now. Father was the last of us.’

Poirot said softly:

‘There’ll always be Folliats at Nasse House.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘I am repeating what your old father said to me on the quay.’

‘Ah, talked a lot of nonsense, Father did. I had to shut him up pretty sharp now and then.’

‘So Marlene was Merdell’s granddaughter,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes, I begin to see.’ He was silent for a moment, an immense excitement was surging within him. ‘Your father was drowned, you say, in the river?’

‘Yes, sir. Took a drop too much, he did. And where he got the money from, I don’t know. Of course he used to get tips now and again on the quay helping people with boats or with parking their cars. Very cunning he was at hiding his money from me. Yes, I’m afraid as he’d had a drop too much. Missed his footing, I’d say, getting off his boat on to the quay. So he fell in and was drowned. His body was washed up down at Helmmouth the next day. ’Tis a wonder, as you might say, that it never happened before, him being ninety-two and half blinded anyway.’

‘The fact remains that it did not happen before –’

‘Ah, well, accidents happen, sooner or later –’

‘Accident,’ mused Poirot. ‘I wonder.’

He got up. He murmured:

‘I should have guessed. Guessed long ago. The child practically told me –’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘It is nothing,’ said Poirot. ‘Once more I tender you my condolences both on the death of your daughter and on that of your father.’

He shook hands with them both and left the cottage. He said to himself:

‘I have been foolish – very foolish. I have looked at everything the wrong way round.’

‘Hi – mister.’

It was a cautious whisper. Poirot looked round. The fat child Marilyn was standing in the shadow of the cottage wall. She beckoned him to her and spoke in a whisper.