‘Sir George Stubbs is confident that his wife is still alive.’

‘That’s what he says, man, because he wants to believe it. He was very devoted to her, you know.’ She added, rather unexpectedly, ‘I like George Stubbs in spite of his origins and his city background and all that, he goes down very well in the county. The worst that can be said about him is that he’s a bit of a snob. And after all, social snobbery’s harmless enough.’

Poirot said somewhat cynically:

‘In these days, Madame, surely money has become as acceptable as good birth.’

‘My dear man, I couldn’t agree with you more. There’s no need for him to be a snob – only got to buy the place and throw his money about, and we’d all come and call! But actually, the man’s liked. It’s not only his money. Of course Amy Folliat’s had something to do with that. She has sponsored them, and mind you, she’s got a lot of influence in this part of the world. Why, there have been Folliats here since Tudor times.’

‘There have always been Folliats at Nasse House,’ Poirot murmured to himself.

‘Yes.’ Mrs Masterton sighed. ‘It’s sad, the toll taken by the war. Young men killed in battle – death duties and all that. Then whoever comes into a place can’t afford to keep it up and has to sell –’

‘But Mrs Folliat, although she has lost her home, still lives on the estate.’

‘Yes. She’s made the Lodge quite charming too. Have you been inside it?’

‘No, we parted at the door.’

‘It wouldn’t be everybody’s cup of tea,’ said Mrs Masterton. ‘To live at the lodge of your old home and see strangers in possession. But to do Amy Folliat justice I don’t think she feels bitter about that. In fact, she engineered the whole thing. There’s no doubt she imbued Hattie with the idea of living down here, and got her to persuade George Stubbs into it. The thing, I think, that Amy Folliat couldn’t have borne was to see the place turned into a hostel or institution, or carved up for building.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Well, I must be getting along. I’m a busy woman.’

‘Of course. You have to talk to the Chief Constable about bloodhounds.’

Mrs Masterton gave a sudden deep bay of laughter. ‘Used to breed ’em at one time,’ she said. ‘People tell me I’m a bit like a bloodhound myself.’

Poirot was slightly taken aback and she was quick enough to see it.

‘I bet you’ve been thinking so, M. Poirot,’ she said.

Chapter 13

Chapter 13