‘Ah, she’ve had a hard life, she have, what with this and that. Trouble with her husband, and trouble with the young gentlemen, tu. Not Mr Henry. He was as nice a young gentleman as yu could wish, took after his grandfather, fond of sailing and went into the Navy as a matter of course, but Mr James, he caused her a lot of trouble. Debts and women it were, and then, tu, he were real wild in his temper. Born one of they as can’t go straight. But the war suited him, as yu might say – give him his chance. Ah! There’s many who can’t go straight in peace who dies bravely in war.’

‘So now,’ said Poirot, ‘there are no more Folliats at Nasse.’

The old man’s flow of talk died abruptly.

‘Just as yu say, sir.’

Poirot looked curiously at the old man.

‘Instead you have Sir George Stubbs. What is thought locally of him?’

‘Us understands,’ said the old man, ‘that he be powerful rich.’

His tone sounded dry and almost amused.

‘And his wife?’

‘Ah, she’s a fine lady from London, she is. No use for gardens, not her. They du say, tu, as her du be wanting up here.’

He tapped his temple significantly.

‘Not as her isn’t always very nice spoken and friendly. Just over a year they’ve been here. Bought the place and had it all done up like new. I remember as though ’twere yesterday them arriving. Arrived in the evening, they did, day after the worst gale as I ever remember. Trees down right and left – one down across the drive and us had to get it sawn away in a hurry to get the drive clear for the car. And the big oak up along, that come down and brought a lot of others down with it, made a rare mess, it did.’

‘Ah, yes, where the Folly stands now?’

The old man turned aside and spat disgustedly.

‘Folly ’tis called and Folly ’tis – new-fangled nonsense. Never was no Folly in the old Folliats’ time. Her ladyship’s idea that Folly was. Put up not three weeks after they first come, and I’ve no doubt she talked Sir George into it. Rare silly it looks stuck up there among the trees, like a heathen temple. A nice summer-house now, made rustic like with stained glass. I’d have nothing against that.’

Poirot smiled faintly.

‘The London ladies,’ he said, ‘they must have their fancies. It is sad that the day of the Folliats is over.’

‘Don’t ee never believe that, sir.’ The old man gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘Always be Folliats at Nasse.’

‘But the house belongs to Sir George Stubbs.’

‘That’s as may be – but there’s still a Folliat here. Ah! Rare and cunning the Folliats are!’

‘What do you mean?’

The old man gave him a sly sideways glance.