‘I think, mon ami, that Lady Stubbs is dead. And I will tell you why I think that. It is because Mrs Folliat thinks she is dead. Yes, whatever she may say now, or pretend to think, Mrs Folliat believes that Hattie Stubbs is dead. Mrs Folliat,’ he added, ‘knows a great deal that we do not.’

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Hercule Poirot came down to the breakfast table on the following morning to a depleted table. Mrs Oliver, still suffering from the shock of yesterday’s occurrence, was having her breakfast in bed. Michael Weyman had had a cup of coffee and gone out early. Only Sir George and the faithful Miss Brewis were at the breakfast table. Sir George was giving indubitable proof of his mental condition by being unable to eat any breakfast. His plate lay almost untasted before him. He pushed aside the small pile of letters which, after opening them, Miss Brewis had placed before him. He drank coffee with an air of not knowing what he was doing. He said:

‘Morning, M. Poirot,’ perfunctorily, and then relapsed into his state of preoccupation. At times a few ejaculatory murmurs came from him.

‘So incredible, the whole damn’ thing. Where can she be?’

‘The inquest will be held at the Institute on Thursday,’ said Miss Brewis. ‘They rang up to tell us.’

Her employer looked at her as if he did not understand.

‘Inquest?’ he said. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ He sounded dazed and uninterested. After another sip or two of coffee he said, ‘Women are incalculable. What does she think she’s doing?’

Miss Brewis pursed her lips. Poirot observed acutely enough that she was in a state of taut nervous tension.

‘Hodgson’s coming to see you this morning,’ she remarked, ‘about the electrification of the milking sheds on the farm. And at twelve o’clock there’s the –’

Sir George interrupted.

‘I can’t see anyone. Put ’em all off ! How the devil d’you think a man can attend to business when he’s worried half out of his mind about his wife?’

‘If you say so, Sir George.’ Miss Brewis gave the domestic equivalent of a barrister saying ‘as your lordship pleases.’ Her dissatisfaction was obvious.

‘Never know,’ said Sir George, ‘what women get into their heads, or what fool things they’re likely to do! You agree, eh?’ he shot the last question at Poirot.

‘Les femmes? They are incalculable,’ said Poirot, raising his eyebrows and his hands with Gallic fervour. Miss Brewis blew her nose in an annoyed fashion.

‘She seemed all right,’ said Sir George. ‘Damn’ pleased about her new ring, dressed herself up to enjoy the fête. All just the same as usual. Not as though we’d had words or a quarrel of any kind. Going off without a word.’

‘About those letters, Sir George,’ began Miss Brewis.

‘Damn the bloody letters to hell,’ said Sir George, and pushed aside his coffee-cup.