squire.
Lady Stubbs said nothing. She stared down into her coffee-cup.
Conversation on the inevitable subject of the fкte became general. Only Poirot remained detached, watching the slim exotic figure at the head of the table. He wondered just what was going oft in her mind. At that very moment her eyes came up and cast a swift glance along the table to where he sat. It was a look so shrewd and appraising that he was startled. As their eyes met, the shrewd expression vanished - emptiness returned. But that other look had been there, cold, calculating, watchful...
Or had he imagined it? In any case, wasn't it true that people who were slightly mentally deficient very often had a kind of sly native cunning that sometimes surprised even the people who knew them best.
He thought to himself that Lady Stubbs was certainly an enigma. People seemed to hold diametrically opposite ideas concerning her. Miss Brewis had intimated that Lady Stubbs knew very well what she was doing. Yet Mrs Oliver definitely thought her half-witted, and Mrs Folliat who had known her long and intimately had spoken of her as someone not quite normal, who needed care and watchfulness.
Miss Brewis was probably prejudiced. She disliked Lady Stubbs for her indolence and her aloofness. Poirot wondered if Miss Brewis had been Sir George's secretary prior to his marriage. If so, she might easily resent the coming of the new régime.
Poirot himself would have agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs Folliat and Mrs Oliver - until this morning. And, after all, could he really rely on what had been only a fleeting impression?
Lady Stubbs got up abruptly from the table.
“I have a headache,” she said. “I shall go and lie down in my room.”
Sir George sprang up anxiously.
“My dear girl. You're all right, aren't you?”
“It's just a headache.”
“You'll be fit enough for this afternoon, won't you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Take some aspirin, Lady Stubbs,” said Miss Brewis briskly. “Have you got some or shall I bring it to you?”
“I've got some.”
She moved towards the door. As she went she dropped the handkerchief she had been squeezing between her fingers. Poirot, moving quietly forward, picked it up unobtrusively.
Sir George, about to follow his wife, was stopped by Miss Brewis.
“About the parking of cars this afternoon, Sir George. I'm just going to give Mitchell instructions. Do you think that the best plan would be, as you said -?”
Poirot, going out of the room, heard no more.
He caught up his hostess on the stairs.
“Madame, you dropped this.”
He proffered the handkerchief with a bow.
She took it unheedingly.
“Did I? Thank you.”
“I am most distressed, Madame, that you should be suffering. Particularly when your cousin is coming.”
She answered quickly, almost violently.
“I don't want to see Etienne. I don't like him. He's bad. He was always bad. I'm afraid of him. He does bad things.”
The door of the dining-room opened and Sir George came across the hall and up the stairs.
“Hattie, my poor darling. Let me come and tuck you up.”
They went up the stairs together, his arm round her tenderly, his face worried and absorbed.
Poirot looked up after them, then turned to encounter Miss Brewis moving fast, and clasping papers.
“Lady Stubbs's headache -” he began.
“No more headache than my foot,” said Miss Brewis crossly, and disappeared into her office, closing the door behind her.
Poirot sighed and went out through the front door on to the terrace. Mrs Masterton had just driven up in a small car and was directing the elevation of a tea marquee, baying out orders in rich full-blooded tones.
She turned to greet Poirot.
“Such a nuisance, these affairs,” she observed. “And they will always put everything in the wrong place. No, Rogers! More to the left - left - not right! What do you think of the weather, M. Poirot? Looks doubtful to me. Rain, of course, would spoil everything. And we've had
Lady Stubbs said nothing. She stared down into her coffee-cup.
Conversation on the inevitable subject of the fкte became general. Only Poirot remained detached, watching the slim exotic figure at the head of the table. He wondered just what was going oft in her mind. At that very moment her eyes came up and cast a swift glance along the table to where he sat. It was a look so shrewd and appraising that he was startled. As their eyes met, the shrewd expression vanished - emptiness returned. But that other look had been there, cold, calculating, watchful...
Or had he imagined it? In any case, wasn't it true that people who were slightly mentally deficient very often had a kind of sly native cunning that sometimes surprised even the people who knew them best.
He thought to himself that Lady Stubbs was certainly an enigma. People seemed to hold diametrically opposite ideas concerning her. Miss Brewis had intimated that Lady Stubbs knew very well what she was doing. Yet Mrs Oliver definitely thought her half-witted, and Mrs Folliat who had known her long and intimately had spoken of her as someone not quite normal, who needed care and watchfulness.
Miss Brewis was probably prejudiced. She disliked Lady Stubbs for her indolence and her aloofness. Poirot wondered if Miss Brewis had been Sir George's secretary prior to his marriage. If so, she might easily resent the coming of the new régime.
Poirot himself would have agreed wholeheartedly with Mrs Folliat and Mrs Oliver - until this morning. And, after all, could he really rely on what had been only a fleeting impression?
Lady Stubbs got up abruptly from the table.
“I have a headache,” she said. “I shall go and lie down in my room.”
Sir George sprang up anxiously.
“My dear girl. You're all right, aren't you?”
“It's just a headache.”
“You'll be fit enough for this afternoon, won't you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Take some aspirin, Lady Stubbs,” said Miss Brewis briskly. “Have you got some or shall I bring it to you?”
“I've got some.”
She moved towards the door. As she went she dropped the handkerchief she had been squeezing between her fingers. Poirot, moving quietly forward, picked it up unobtrusively.
Sir George, about to follow his wife, was stopped by Miss Brewis.
“About the parking of cars this afternoon, Sir George. I'm just going to give Mitchell instructions. Do you think that the best plan would be, as you said -?”
Poirot, going out of the room, heard no more.
He caught up his hostess on the stairs.
“Madame, you dropped this.”
He proffered the handkerchief with a bow.
She took it unheedingly.
“Did I? Thank you.”
“I am most distressed, Madame, that you should be suffering. Particularly when your cousin is coming.”
She answered quickly, almost violently.
“I don't want to see Etienne. I don't like him. He's bad. He was always bad. I'm afraid of him. He does bad things.”
The door of the dining-room opened and Sir George came across the hall and up the stairs.
“Hattie, my poor darling. Let me come and tuck you up.”
They went up the stairs together, his arm round her tenderly, his face worried and absorbed.
Poirot looked up after them, then turned to encounter Miss Brewis moving fast, and clasping papers.
“Lady Stubbs's headache -” he began.
“No more headache than my foot,” said Miss Brewis crossly, and disappeared into her office, closing the door behind her.
Poirot sighed and went out through the front door on to the terrace. Mrs Masterton had just driven up in a small car and was directing the elevation of a tea marquee, baying out orders in rich full-blooded tones.
She turned to greet Poirot.
“Such a nuisance, these affairs,” she observed. “And they will always put everything in the wrong place. No, Rogers! More to the left - left - not right! What do you think of the weather, M. Poirot? Looks doubtful to me. Rain, of course, would spoil everything. And we've had
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