‘Oh, Dickens. I read the Pickwick Papers once. Not bad. Not bad at all – surprised me. But, seriously, trespassers are a menace since they’ve started this Youth Hostel tomfoolery. They come out at you from everywhere wearing the most incredible shirts – boy this morning had one all covered with crawling turtles and things – made me think I’d been hitting the bottle or something. Half of them can’t speak English – just gibber at you…’ He mimicked: ‘“Oh, plees – yes, haf you – tell me – iss way to ferry?” I say no, it isn’t, roar at them, and send them back where they’ve come from, but half the time they just blink and stare and don’t understand. And the girls giggle. All kinds of nationalities, Italian, Yugoslavian, Dutch, Finnish – Eskimos I shouldn’t be surprised! Half of them communists, I shouldn’t wonder,’ he ended darkly.

‘Come now, George, don’t get started on communists,’ said Mrs Legge. ‘I’ll come and help you deal with the rabid women.’

She led him out of the window and called over her shoulder: ‘Come on, Jim. Come and be torn to pieces in a good cause.’

‘All right, but I want to put M. Poirot in the picture about the Murder Hunt since he’s going to present the prizes.’

‘You can do that presently.’

‘I will await you here,’ said Poirot agreeably.

In the ensuing silence, Alec Legge stretched himself out in his chair and sighed.

‘Women!’ he said. ‘Like a swarm of bees.’

He turned his head to look out of the window.

‘And what’s it all about? Some silly garden fête that doesn’t matter to anyone.’

‘But obviously,’ Poirot pointed out, ‘there are those to whom it does matter.’

‘Why can’t people have some sense? Why can’t they think? Think of the mess the whole world has got itself into. Don’t they realize that the inhabitants of the globe are busy committing suicide?’

Poirot judged rightly that he was not intended to reply to this question. He merely shook his head doubtfully.

‘Unless we can do something before it’s too late…’ Alec Legge broke off. An angry look swept over his face. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. That I’m nervy, neurotic – all the rest of it. Like those damned doctors. Advising rest and change and sea air. All right, Sally and I came down here and took the Mill Cottage for three months, and I’ve followed their prescription. I’ve fished and bathed and taken long walks and sun-bathed –’

‘I noticed that you had sunbathed, yes,’ said Poirot politely.

‘Oh, this?’ Alec’s hand went to his sore face. ‘That’s the result of a fine English summer for once in a way. But what’s the good of it all? You can’t get away from facing truth just by running away from it.’