‘Mrs Folliat be living up tu Lodge, bain’t she?’ he demanded.

‘Yes,’ said Poirot slowly. ‘Mrs Folliat is living at the Lodge and the world is very wicked, and all the people in it are very wicked.’

The old man stared at him.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yu’ve got something there, maybe.’

He shuffled away again.

‘But what have I got?’ Poirot asked himself with irritation as he slowly walked up the hill back to the house.

II

Hercule Poirot made a meticulous toilet, applying a scented pomade to his moustaches and twirling them to a ferocious couple of points. He stood back from the mirror and was satisfied with what he saw.

The sound of a gong resounded through the house, and he descended the stairs.

The butler, having finished a most artistic performance, crescendo, forte, diminuendo, rallentando, was just replacing the gong stick on its hook. His dark melancholy face showed pleasure.

Poirot thought to himself: ‘A blackmailing letter from the housekeeper – or it may be the butler…’ This butler looked as though blackmailing letters would be well within his scope. Poirot wondered if Mrs Oliver took her characters from life.

Miss Brewis crossed the hall in an unbecoming flowered chiffon dress and he caught up with her, asking as he did so:

‘You have a housekeeper here?’

‘Oh, no, M. Poirot. I’m afraid one doesn’t run to niceties of that kind nowadays, except in a really large establishment, of course. Oh, no, I’m the housekeeper – more housekeeper than secretary, sometimes, in this house.’

She gave a short acid laugh.

‘So you are the housekeeper?’ Poirot considered her thoughtfully.

He could not see Miss Brewis writing a blackmailing letter. Now, an anonymous letter – that would be a different thing. He had known anonymous letters written by women not unlike Miss Brewis – solid, dependable women, totally unsuspected by those around them.

‘What is your butler’s name?’ he asked.

‘Henden.’ Miss Brewis looked a little astonished.

Poirot recollected himself and explained quickly:

‘I ask because I had a fancy I had seen him somewhere before.’

‘Very likely,’ said Miss Brewis. ‘None of these people ever seem to stay in any place more than four months. They must soon have done the round of all the available situations in England. After all, it’s not many people who can afford butlers and cooks nowadays.’

They came into the drawing-room, where Sir George, looking somehow rather unnatural in a dinner-jacket, was proffering sherry. Mrs Oliver, in iron-grey satin, was looking like an obsolete battleship, and Lady Stubbs’ smooth black head was bent down as she studied the fashions in Vogue.

Alec and Sally Legge were dining and also Jim Warburton.