‘And that is her husband? He seems what they call “a good fellow,” but not perhaps very polished? Still, for Hattie it might be perhaps a little difficult to find a suitable husband.’

Poirot remained with a politely inquiring expression on his face. The other laughed.

‘Oh, it is no secret. At fifteen Hattie was mentally undeveloped. Feeble minded, do you not call it? She is still the same?’

‘It would seem so – yes,’ said Poirot cautiously.

De Sousa shrugged his shoulders.

‘Ah, well! Why should one ask it of women – that they should be intelligent? It is not necessary.’

Sir George was back, fuming. Miss Brewis was with him, speaking rather breathlessly.

‘I’ve no idea where she is, Sir George. I saw her over by the fortune teller’s tent last. But that was at least twenty minutes or half an hour ago. She’s not in the house.’

‘Is it not possible,’ asked Poirot, ‘that she has gone to observe the progress of Mrs Oliver’s murder hunt?’

Sir George’s brow cleared.

‘That’s probably it. Look here, I can’t leave the shows here. I’m in charge. And Amanda’s got her hands full. Could you possibly have a look round, Poirot? You know the course.’

But Poirot did not know the course. However, an inquiry of Miss Brewis gave him rough guidance. Miss Brewis took brisk charge of De Sousa and Poirot went off murmuring to himself, like an incantation: ‘Tennis Court, Camellia Garden, The Folly, Upper Nursery Garden, Boathouse…’

As he passed the coconut shy he was amusedto notice Sir George proffering wooden balls with a dazzling smile of welcome to the same young Italian woman whom he had driven off that morning and who was clearly puzzled at his change of attitude.

He went on his way to the tennis court. But there was no one there but an old gentleman of military aspect who was fast asleep on a garden seat with his hat pulled over his eyes. Poirot retraced his steps to the house and went on down to the camellia garden.

In the camellia garden Poirot found Mrs Oliver dressed in purple splendour, sitting on a garden seat in a brooding attitude, and looking rather like Mrs Siddons. She beckoned him to the seat beside her.

‘This is only the second clue,’ she hissed. ‘I think I’ve made them too difficult. Nobody’s come yet.’

At this moment a young man in shorts, with a prominent Adam’s apple, entered the garden. With a cry of satisfaction he hurried to a tree in one corner and a further satisfied cry announced his discovery of the next clue. Passing them, he felt impelled to communicate his satisfaction.