Причуда мертвеца / Dead Man's Folly

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‘I suppose you wouldn’t remember him very well. But we must make him welcome, of course,’ said Sir George heartily. ‘Pity in a way it’s the fête today, but we’ll ask him to dinner. Perhaps we could put him up for a night or two—show him something of the country?’

Sir George was being the hearty country squire.

Lady Stubbs said nothing. She stared down into her coffee-cup.

Conversation on the inevitable subject of the fête became general. Only Poirot remained detached, watching the slim exotic figure at the head of the table. He wondered just what was going on 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 halfwitted, 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 regime.

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[79 - tuck smb up – (досл.) подоткнуть одеяло, поухаживать].’

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’ 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 such a fine summer this year for a change. Where’s Sir George? I want to talk to him about car parking.’

‘His wife had a headache and has gone to lie down.’

‘She’ll be all right this afternoon,’ said Mrs Masterton confidently. ‘Likes functions, you know. She’ll make a terrific toilet[80 - she’ll make a terrific toilet – она нарядится в потрясающее платье] and be as pleased about it as a child. Just fetch me a bundle of those pegs over there, will you? I want to mark the places for the clock golf numbers.’

Poirot, thus pressed into service, was worked by Mrs Masterton relentlessly, as a useful apprentice. She condescended to talk to him in the intervals of hard labour.

‘Got to do everything yourself, I find. Only way… By the way, you’re a friend of the Eliots, I believe?’

Poirot, after his long sojourn in England, comprehended that this was an indication of social recognition. Mrs Masterton was in fact saying: ‘Although a foreigner, I understand you are One of Us.’ She continued to chat in an intimate manner.

‘Nice to have Nasse lived in again. We were all so afraid it was going to be a hotel. You know what it is nowadays; one drives through the country and passes place after place with the board up “Guest House” or “Private Hotel” or “Hotel A.A. Fully Licensed.” All the houses one stayed in as a girl—or where one went to dances. Very sad. Yes, I’m glad about Nasse and so is poor dear Amy Folliat, of course. She’s had such a hard life—but never complains, I will say. Sir George has done wonders for Nasse—and not vulgarized it. Don’t know whether that’s the result of Amy Folliat’s influence—or whether it’s his own natural good taste. He has got quite good taste, you know. Very surprising in a man like that.’

‘He is not, I understand, one of the landed gentry[81 - landed gentry – джентри, владеющий землей (джентри – нетитулованное мелкопоместное дворянство в Англии)]