‘Amy, dear, such ages. This looks the greatest success! Do tell me what you’ve done about the rose garden. Muriel told me that you’re restocking it with all the new floribundas.’

The beefy man chipped in.

‘Where’s Marylin Gale –?’

‘Reggie’s just dying to meet her. He saw her last picture.’

‘That her in the big hat? My word, that’s some get-up.’

‘Don’t be stupid, darling. That’s Hattie Stubbs. You know, Amy, you really shouldn’t let her go round quite so like a mannequin.’

‘Amy?’ Another friend claimed attention. ‘This is Roger, Edward’s boy. My dear, so nice to have you back at Nasse.’

Poirot moved slowly away and absent-mindedly invested a shilling on a ticket that might win him the pig.

He heard faintly still, the ‘So good of you to come’ refrain from behind him. He wondered whether Mrs Folliat realized how completely she had slipped into the role of hostess or whether it was entirely unconscious. She was, very definitely this afternoon, Mrs Folliat of Nasse House.

He was standing by the tent labelled ‘Madame Zuleika will tell your Fortune for 2s. 6d.’ Teas had just begun to be served and there was no longer a queue for the fortune telling. Poirot bowed his head, entered the tent and paid over his half-crown willingly for the privilege of sinking into a chair and resting his aching feet.

Madame Zuleika was wearing flowing black robes, a gold tinsel scarf wound round her head and a veil across the lower half of her face which slightly muffled her remarks. A gold bracelet hung with lucky charms tinkled as she took Poirot’s hand and gave him a rapid reading, agreeably full of money to come, success with a dark beauty and a miraculous escape from an accident.

‘It is very agreeable all that you tell me, Madame Legge. I only wish that it could come true.’

‘Oh!’ said Sally. ‘So you know me, do you?’

‘I had advance information – Mrs Oliver told me that you were originally to be the “victim,” but that you had been snatched from her for the Occult.’

‘I wish I was being the “body,”’ said Sally. ‘Much more peaceful. All Jim Warburton’s fault. Is it four o’clock yet? I want my tea. I’m off duty from four to half-past.’

‘Ten minutes to go, still,’ said Poirot, consulting his large old-fashioned watch. ‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea here?’

‘No, no. I want the break. This tent is stifling. Are there a lot of people waiting still?’

‘No. I think they are lining up for tea.’

‘Good.’

Poirot emerged from the tent and was immediately challenged by a determined woman and made to pay sixpence and guess the weight of a cake.