‘Of course I feel up to it.’ Mrs Folliat rose to her feet. She followed Hoskins out of the room. Poirot, having risen politely, sat down again and stared up at the ceiling with a puzzled frown.

The inspector rose when Mrs Folliat entered and the constable held the chair for her to sit down.

‘I’m sorry to worry you, Mrs Folliat,’ said Bland. ‘But I imagine that you know all the people in the neighbourhood and I think you may be able to help us.’

Mrs Folliat smiled faintly. ‘I expect,’ she said, ‘that I know everyone round here as well as anyone could do. What do you want to know, Inspector?’

‘You knew the Tuckers? The family and the girl?’

‘Oh, yes, of course, they’ve always been tenants on the estate. Mrs Tucker was the youngest of a large family. Her eldest brother was our head gardener. She married Alfred Tucker, who is a farm labourer – a stupid man but very nice. Mrs Tucker is a bit of a shrew. A good housewife, you know, and very clean in the house, but Tucker is never allowed to come anywhere farther than the scullery with his muddy boots on. All that sort of thing. She nags the children rather. Most of them have married and gone into jobs now. There was just this poor child, Marlene, left and three younger children. Two boys and a girl still at school.’

‘Now, knowing the family as you do, Mrs Folliat, can you think of any reason why Marlene should have been killed today?’

‘No, indeed I can’t. It’s quite, quite unbelievable, if you know what I mean, Inspector. There was no boyfriend or anything of that kind, or I shouldn’t think so. Not that I’ve ever heard of, anyway.’

‘Now what about the people who’ve been taking part in this Murder Hunt? Can you tell me anything about them?’

‘Well, Mrs Oliver I’d never met before. She is quite unlike my idea of what a crime novelist would be. She’s very upset, poor dear, by what has happened – naturally.’

‘And what about the other helpers – Captain Warburton, for instance?’

‘I don’t see any reason why he should murder Marlene Tucker, if that’s what you’re asking me,’ said Mrs Folliat composedly. ‘I don’t like him very much. He’s what I call a foxy sort of man, but I suppose one has to be up to all the political tricks and all that kind of thing, if one is a political agent. He’s certainly energetic and has worked very hard over this fête. I don’t think he could have killed the girl, anyway, because he was on the lawn the whole time this afternoon.’

The inspector nodded.

‘And the Legges? What do you know about the Legges?’