‘Told me nothing else? She never stopped telling me things. Every possible and impossible motive for the girl’s murder. She set my head spinning. Phew! What an imagination!’

‘She earns her living by her imagination, mon ami,’ said Poirot dryly.

‘She mentioned a man called De Sousa – did she imagine that?’

‘No, that is sober fact.’

‘There was something about a letter at breakfast and a yacht and coming up the river in a launch. I couldn’t make head or tail of it.’

Poirot embarked upon an explanation. He told of the scene at the breakfast table, the letter, Lady Stubbs’ headache.

‘Mrs Oliver said that Lady Stubbs was frightened. Did you think she was afraid, too?’

‘That was the impression she gave me.’

‘Afraid of this cousin of hers? Why?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘I have no idea. All she told me was that he was bad – a bad man. She is, you understand, a little simple. Subnormal.’

‘Yes, that seems to be pretty generally known round here. She didn’t say why she was afraid of this De Sousa?’ ‘No.’

‘But you think her fear was real?’

‘If it was not, then she is a very clever actress,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘I’m beginning to have some odd ideas about this case,’ said Bland. He got up and walked restlessly to and fro. ‘It’s that cursed woman’s fault, I believe.’

‘Mrs Oliver’s?’

‘Yes. She’s put a lot of melodramatic ideas into my head.’

‘And you think they may be true?’

‘Not all of them – naturally – but one or two of them mightn’t be as wild as they sounded. It all depends…’ He broke off as the door opened to re-admit P.C. Hoskins.

‘Don’t seem able to find the lady, sir,’ he said. ‘She’s not about anywhere.’

‘I know that already,’ said Bland irritably. ‘I told you to find her.’

‘Sergeant Farrell and P.C. Lorimer are searching the grounds, sir,’ said Hoskins. ‘She’s not in the house,’ he added.

‘Find out from the man who’s taking admission tickets at the gate if she’s left the place. Either on foot or in a car.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Hoskins departed.

‘And find out when she was last seen and where,’ Bland shouted after him.

‘So that is the way your mind is working,’ said Poirot.

‘It isn’t working anywhere yet,’ said Bland, ‘but I’ve just woken up to the fact that a lady who ought to be on the premises isn’t on the premises! And I want to know why. Tell me what more you know about what’s-his-name De Sousa.’

Poirot described his meeting with the young man who had come up the path from the quay.

‘He is probably still here at the fête,’ he said. ‘Shall I tell Sir George that you want to see him?’