She smiled with enormous satisfaction. Poirot felt a slight pang of pity[39].
‘And all that amuses you very much?’
‘Yes. I like the casino, too. Why are there not any casinos in England?’
‘I have often wondered,’ said Poirot, with a sigh. ‘I do not think it would accord with the English character.’
She looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then she bent slightly towards him.
‘I won sixty thousand francs at Monte Carlo once. I put it on number twenty-seven and it came up.’
‘That must have been very exciting, Madame.’
‘Oh, it was. George gives me money to play with—but usually I lose it.’
She looked disconsolate.
‘That is sad.’
‘Oh, it does not really matter. George is very rich. It is nice to be rich, don’t you think so?’
‘Very nice,’ said Poirot gently.
‘Perhaps, if I was not rich, I should look like Amanda.’ Her gaze went to Miss Brewis at the tea table and studied her dispassionately. ‘She is very ugly, don’t you think?’
Miss Brewis looked up at that moment and across to where they were sitting. Lady Stubbs had not spoken loudly, but Poirot wondered whether Amanda Brewis had heard.
As he withdrew his gaze, his eyes met those of Captain Warburton. The Captain’s glance was ironic and amused.
Poirot endeavoured to change the subject.
‘Have you been very busy preparing for the fête?’ he asked.
Hattie Stubbs shook her head.
‘Oh, no, I think it is all very boring—very stupid. There are servants and gardeners. Why should not they make the preparations?’
‘Oh, my dear.’ It was Mrs Folliat who spoke. She had come to sit on the sofa nearby. ‘Those are the ideas you were brought up with on your island estates. But life isn’t like that in England these days. I wish it were.’ She sighed. ‘Nowadays one has to do nearly everything oneself.’
Lady Stubbs shrugged her shoulders.
‘I think it is stupid. What is the good of being rich if one has to do everything oneself?’
‘Some people find it fun,’ said Mrs Folliat, smiling at her. ‘I do really. Not all things, but some. I like gardening myself and I like preparing for a festivity like this one tomorrow.’
‘It will be like a party?’ asked Lady Stubbs hopefully.
‘Just like a party—with lots and lots of people.’
‘Will it be like Ascot[40]? With big hats and everyone very chic?’
‘Well, not quite like Ascot,’ said Mrs Folliat. She added gently, ‘But you must try and enjoy country things, Hattie. You should have helped us this morning, instead of staying in bed and not getting up until teatime.’
‘I had a headache,’ said Hattie sulkily. Then her mood changed and she smiled affectionately at Mrs Folliat.
‘But I will be good tomorrow. I will do everything you tell me.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, dear.’
‘I’ve got a new dress to wear. It came this morning. Come upstairs with me and look at it.’
Mrs Folliat hesitated. Lady Stubbs rose to her feet and said insistently:
‘You must come. Please. It is a lovely dress. Come now!’
‘Oh, very well.’ Mrs Folliat gave a half-laugh and rose. As she went out of the room, her small figure following Hattie’s tall one, Poirot saw her face and was quite startled at the weariness on it which had replaced her smiling composure. It was as though, relaxed and off her guard for a moment, she no longer bothered to keep up the social mask. And yet—it seemed more than that. Perhaps she was suffering from some disease about which, like many women, she never spoke. She was not a person, he thought, who would care to invite pity or sympathy.
Captain Warburton dropped down in the chair Hattie Stubbs had just vacated. He, too, looked at the door through which the two women had just passed, but it was not of the older woman that he spoke. Instead he drawled, with a slight grin:
‘Beautiful creature, isn’t she?’ He observed with the tail of his eye Sir George’s exit through a French window with Mrs Masterton and Mrs Oliver in tow. ‘Bowled over old George Stubbs all right. Nothing’s too good for her! Jewels, mink, all the rest of it. Whether he realizes she’s a bit wanting in the top storey[41], I’ve never discovered. Probably thinks it doesn’t matter. After all, these financial johnnies don’t ask for intellectual companionship.’
‘What nationality is she?’ Poirot asked curiously.
‘Looks South American, I always think. But I believe she comes from the West Indies[42]. One of those islands with sugar and rum and all that. One of the old families there—a creole[43], I don’t mean a half-caste. All very intermarried, I believe, on these islands. Accounts for the mental deficiency.’
Young Mrs Legge came over to join them.
‘Look here, Jim,’ she said, ‘you’ve got to be on my side. That tent’s got to be where we all decided—on the far side of the lawn backing on the rhododendrons. It’s the only possible place.’
‘Ma Masterton[44] doesn’t think so.’
‘Well, you’ve got to talk her out of it.’
He gave her his foxy smile.
‘Mrs Masterton’s my boss.’
‘Wilfred Masterton’s your boss. He’s the M.P.[45]’
‘I dare say, but she should be. She’s the one who wears the pants[46]—and don’t I know it.’
Sir George re-entered the window.
‘Oh, there you are, Sally,’ he said. ‘We need you. You wouldn’t think everyone could get het up over who butters the buns and who raffles a cake, and why the garden produce stall is where the fancy woollens was promised it should be. Where’s Amy Folliat? She can deal with these people—about the only person who can.’
‘She went upstairs with Hattie.’
‘Oh, did she—?’
Sir George looked round in a vaguely helpless manner and Miss Brewis jumped up from where she was writing tickets, and said, ‘I’ll fetch her for you, Sir George.’
‘Thank you, Amanda.’
Miss Brewis went out of the room.
‘Must get hold of some more wire fencing,’ murmured Sir George.
‘For the fête?’
‘No, no. To put up where we adjoin Hoodown Park in the woods. The old stuff’s rotted away, and that’s where they get through.’
‘Who get through?’
‘Trespassers!’ ejaculated Sir George.
Sally Legge said amusedly:
‘You sound like Betsy Trotwood[47] campaigning against donkeys.’
‘Betsy Trotwood? Who’s she?’ asked Sir George simply.
‘Dickens.’
‘Oh,