Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie

and friendly. Just overa year they’ve been here. Bought the place and had it all done up like new. I remember as though ’twere yesterday them arriving. Arrived in the evening, they did, day after the worst gale as I ever remember. Trees down right and left—one down across the drive and us had to get it sawn away in a hurry to get the drive clear for the car. And the big oak up along, that come down and brought a lot of others down with it, made a rare mess, it did.”
    â€œAh, yes, where the Folly stands now?”
    The old man turned aside and spat disgustedly.
    â€œFolly ’tis called and Folly ’tis—newfangled nonsense. Never was no Folly in the old Folliats’ time. Her ladyship’s idea that Folly was. Put up not three weeks after they first come, and I’ve no doubt she talked Sir George into it. Rare silly it looks stuck up there among the trees, like a heathen temple. A nice summerhouse now, made rustic like with stained glass. I’d have nothing against that. ”
    Poirot smiled faintly.
    â€œThe London ladies,” he said, “they must have their fancies. It is sad that the day of the Folliats is over.”
    â€œDon’t ee never believe that, sir.” The old man gave a wheezy chuckle. “Always be Folliats at Nasse.”
    â€œBut the house belongs to Sir George Stubbs.”
    â€œThat’s as may be—but there’s still a Folliat here. Ah! Rare and cunning the Folliats are!”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    The old man gave him a sly sideways glance.
    â€œMrs. Folliat be living up tu Lodge, bain’t she?” he demanded.
    â€œYes,” said Poirot slowly. “Mrs. Folliat is living at the Lodge and the world is very wicked, and all the people in it are very wicked.”
    The old man stared at him.
    â€œAh,” he said. “Yu’ve got something there, maybe.”
    He shuffled away again.
    â€œBut what have I got?” Poirot asked himself with irritation as he slowly walked up the hill back to the house.
    II
    Hercule Poirot made a meticulous toilet, applying a scented pomade to his moustaches and twirling them to a ferocious couple of points. He stood back from the mirror and was satisfied with what he saw.
    The sound of a gong resounded through the house, and he descended the stairs.
    The butler, having finished a most artistic performance, crescendo, forte, diminuendo, rallentando, was just replacing the gong stick on its hook. His dark melancholy face showed pleasure.
    Poirot thought to himself: “ A blackmailing letter from the housekeeper—or it may be the butler …” This butler looked as though blackmailing letters would be well within his scope. Poirot wondered if Mrs. Oliver took her characters from life.
    Miss Brewis crossed the hall in an unbecoming flowered chiffon dress and he caught up with her, asking as he did so:
    â€œYou have a housekeeper here?”
    â€œOh, no, M. Poirot. I’m afraid one doesn’t run to niceties of that kind nowadays, except in a really large establishment, of course. Oh, no, I’m the housekeeper—more housekeeper than secretary, sometimes, in this house.”
    She gave a short acid laugh.
    â€œSo you are the housekeeper?” Poirot considered her thoughtfully.
    He could not see Miss Brewis writing a blackmailing letter. Now, an anonymous letter—that would be a different thing. He had known anonymous letters written by women not unlike Miss Brewis—solid, dependable women, totally unsuspected by those around them.
    â€œWhat is your butler’s name?” he asked.
    â€œHenden.” Miss Brewis looked a little astonished.
    Poirot recollected himself and explained quickly:
    â€œI ask because I had a fancy I had seen him somewhere before.”
    â€œVery likely,” said Miss Brewis. “None of these people ever seem to stay in any place more than four months. They must soon have done the round of all the