‘These tycoons,’ said the latter bitterly, ‘can’t understand first principles.’ He delivered a final kick to the lopsided Folly. ‘If the foundations are rotten – everything’s 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 sécateurs 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 year – all 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 problem – it will be such a novelty.’

Poirot was faintly puzzled by the graciousness of the little lady’s 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 husband’s great-grandfather in 1790. There was an Elizabethan house previously. It fell into disrepair 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. 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 moment’s 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

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.