Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

tree Michael Weyman came quietly into view, paused a moment irresolutely and then followed the tall slim figure down into the trees.
    A good-looking and dynamic young man, Poirot thought.With a more attractive personality, no doubt, than that of Sir George Stubbs….
    But if so, what of it? Such patterns formed themselves eternally through life. Rich middle-aged unattractive husband, young and beautiful wife with or without sufficient mental development, attractive and susceptible young man. What was there in that to make Mrs. Oliver utter a peremptory summons through the telephone? Mrs. Oliver, no doubt, had a vivid imagination, but….
    â€œBut after all,” murmured Hercule Poirot to himself, “I am not a consultant in adultery—or in incipient adultery.”
    Could there really be anything in this extraordinary notion of Mrs. Oliver’s that something was wrong? Mrs. Oliver was a singularly muddle-headed woman, and how she managed somehow or other to turn out coherent detective stories was beyond him, and yet, for all her muddle-headedness she often surprised him by her sudden perception of truth.
    â€œThe time is short—short,” he murmured to himself. “ Is there something wrong here, as Mrs. Oliver believes? I am inclined to think there is. But what? Who is there who could enlighten me? I need to know more, much more, about the people in this house. Who is there who could inform me?”
    After a moment’s reflection he seized his hat (Poirot never risked going out in the evening air with uncovered head), and hurried out of his room and down the stairs. He heard afar the dictatorial baying of Mrs. Masterton’s deep voice. Nearer at hand, Sir George’s voice rose with an amorous intonation.
    â€œDamned becoming that yashmak thing. Wish I had you in my harem, Sally. I shall come and have my fortune told a good deal tomorrow. What’ll you tell me, eh?”
    There was a slight scuffle and Sally Legge’s voice said breathlessly:
    â€œGeorge, you mustn’t.”
    Poirot raised his eyebrows, and slipped out of a conveniently adjacent side door. He set off at top speed down a back drive which his sense of locality enabled him to predict would at some point join the front drive.
    His manoeuvre was successful and enabled him—panting very slightly—to come up beside Mrs. Folliat and relieve her in a gallant manner of her gardening basket.
    â€œYou permit, Madame?”
    â€œOh, thank you, M. Poirot, that’s very kind of you. But it’s not heavy.”
    â€œAllow me to carry it for you to your home. You live near here?”
    â€œI actually live in the lodge by the front gate. Sir George very kindly rents it to me.”
    The lodge by the front gate of her former home…How did she really feel about that, Poirot wondered. Her composure was so absolute that he had no clue to her feelings. He changed the subject by observing:
    â€œLady Stubbs is much younger than her husband, is she not?”
    â€œTwenty-three years younger.”
    â€œPhysically she is very attractive.”
    Mrs. Folliat said quietly:
    â€œHattie is a dear good child.”
    It was not an answer he had expected. Mrs. Folliat went on:
    â€œI know her very well, you see. For a short time she was under my care.”
    â€œI did not know that.”
    â€œHow should you? It is in a way a sad story. Her people had estates, sugar estates, in the West Indies. As a result of an earthquake, the house there was burned down and her parents and brothers and sisters all lost their lives. Hattie herself was at a convent in Paris and was thus suddenly left without any near relatives. It was considered advisable by the executors that Hattie should be chaperoned and introduced into society after she had spent a certain time abroad. I accepted the charge of her.” Mrs. Folliat added with a dry smile: “I can smarten myself up on occasions and, naturally, I had the