‘Not in the least,’ said Poirot. ‘That is to say,’ he added politely, ‘I should be enchanted to hear, of course, but –’

Mrs Oliver swept over the ‘but.’

‘Very ingenious, I think,’ she said, the pride of authorship in her voice. ‘You see, in Marlene’s haversack, which was supposed to be the Yugoslavian wife’s haversack, if you understand what I mean –’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Poirot, preparing himself to be lost in fog once more.

‘Well, in it was the bottle of medicine containing poison with which the country squire poisoned his wife. You see, the Yugoslavian girl had been over here training as a nurse and she’d been in the house when Colonel Blunt poisoned his first wife for her money. And she, the nurse, had got hold of the bottle and taken it away, and then come back to blackmail him. That, of course, is why he killed her. Does that fit in, M. Poirot?’

‘Fit in with what?’

‘With your ideas,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘Not at all,’ said Poirot, but added hastily, ‘All the same, my felicitations, Madame. I am sure your Murder Hunt was so ingenious that nobody won the prize.’

‘But they did,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Quite late, about seven o’clock. A very dogged old lady supposed to be quite gaga. She got through all the clues and arrived at the boathouse triumphantly, but of course the police were there. So then she heard about the murder, and she was the last person at the whole fête to hear about it, I should imagine. Anyway, they gave her the prize.’ She added with satisfaction, ‘That horrid young man with the freckles who said I drank like a fish never got farther than the camellia garden.’

‘Some day, Madame,’ said Poirot, ‘you shall tell me this story of yours.’

‘Actually,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I’m thinking of turning it into a book. It would be a pity to waste it.’

And it may here be mentioned that some three years later Hercule Poirot read The Woman in the Wood, by Ariadne Oliver, and wondered whilst he read it why some of the persons and incidents seemed to him vaguely familiar.

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The sun was setting when Poirot came to what was called officially Mill Cottage, and known locally as the Pink Cottage down by Lawder’s Creek. He knocked on the door and it was flung open with such suddenness that he started back. The angry-looking young man in the doorway stared at him for a moment without recognizing him. Then he gave a short laugh.

‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘it’s the sleuth. Come in, M. Poirot. I’m packing up.’

Poirot accepted the invitation and stepped into the cottage. It was plainly, rather badly furnished. And Alec Legge’s personal possessions were at the moment taking up a disproportionate amount of room. Books, papers and articles of stray clothing were strewn all around, an open suitcase stood on the floor.