AGATHA CHRISTIE
Hercule Poirot
and
the Greenshore Folly

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014

Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly © Mathew Prichard 2013

Foreword from Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks © John Curran 2009

AGATHA CHRISTIE® and POIROT® are registered trade marks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and/or elsewhere. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007546398

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007546404

Version: 2017-04-11

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction by Tom Adams

Preface by Mathew Prichard

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

‘Agatha Christie and The Greenshore Folly’ by John Curran

About the Author

Also by Agatha Christie

About the Publisher

Introduction by Tom Adams

MORE THAN half a century ago – 1962 to be precise – my impressively-named and enthusiastic agent, Virgil Pomfret, took me to meet the art director of Fontana Paperbacks, Patsy Cohen. On her desk was a copy of The Collector, John Fowles’ first published novel. It had been commissioned by Tony Colwell, art director at Jonathan Cape, and was my first serious attempt at trompe l’oeil painting for jacket art. It was a good time to be producing art for book covers. Good art was notably lacking in this field, particularly for paperbacks. In fact, the general standard was pretty dire, and the time was ripe for raising the bar. Up to then I had enjoyed doing serious paintings for hardback jackets, which included John Fowles’ The Magus, Patrick White’s Vivisector and David Storey’s Saville. Paperback covers were more often than not the poor second class products of publishers’ lists (with exceptions such as the original typographical Penguin covers), but virtually no serious attempt had been made to commission good art for paperbacks. However with the enthusiastic encouragement of Mark Collins, Virgil Pomfret and Patsy Cohen, I think we succeeded in doing just that.

From 1962 onwards, my relationship with Agatha Christie developed and prospered as I produced more than a hundred cover paintings for her books over twenty-five years. To begin with I simply enjoyed doing a good job. There were inevitably some failures and I know that I didn’t always please Agatha or her family. I am frequently asked if I met Agatha. I’m afraid the answer is no. Arrangements were made for various meetings; I did meet Rosalind Hicks, her daughter, Edmund Cork, her agent, and other members of her entourage, but Agatha’s legendary reticence and occasional illness prevented her from accepting invitations for us to meet. In retrospect I think it was just as well; it might have been embarrassing for both of us to discuss the likes and dislikes of various cover images. Nevertheless, for me it is a niggling regret. More recently, since my exhibition of Agatha Christie cover paintings at Torquay Museum in 2012, I have on several occasions met Mathew Prichard, a devoted and eloquent advocate of his grandmother’s achievements. Mathew and his wife Lucy have been a tower of strength and gratifyingly appreciative of my work. They helped and encouraged me in my recent endeavours on Agatha’s behalf, in particular while working on the cover painting for Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly, and they arranged with the National Trust to make Greenway House and garden available for my research. Once, after a delightful lunch with Mathew and Lucy at Ferry Cottage, and with my wife, the children’s writer Georgie Adams, we were taken on a memorable boat trip on the River Dart.

I was delighted when David Brawn, Publisher of Agatha Christie at HarperCollins, asked me to do this special cover painting for a so-far unpublished story. It is a shorter version of the excellent Dead Man’s Folly and a great excuse for me to revisit Greenway. Agatha’s second husband Max Mallowan described Greenway as ‘this little paradise’, and it was for Agatha ‘the loveliest place in the world’. And it is. The handsome, foursquare, no-nonsense Georgian house is in many ways an embodiment of its famous literary owner. But it is the garden that is the true paradise. In my painting I have tried, within the constrictions of being true to the story, to embody its extraordinary beauty and magic. It is without doubt one of the iconic places of the West Country – that West Country with its rain-soaked and occasionally sun-soaked landscape, haunted moors and secret bosky woodlands, fringed by sea and rocky shores.

Greenway has a flamboyant garden, almost tropical in places and bordered by the Dart, and is now owned by the National Trust. For Agatha it provided a safe retreat from an often intrusive outside world, a world she was fascinated by and acutely observed, but into which she had no wish to be integrated.

This great detective story writer, this skilled puzzle and plot maker, was the inspiration for my work on her books. My painting for this story is a tribute to her house and garden but, nevertheless, it had to fulfil its function as an illustration. I know that Agatha instinctively disliked visual depictions of actual incidents, scenes and human figures, and in particular insisted that Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple must not be shown on the covers. Though Collins tended to adhere to these rules, her American publishers demanded more literal imagery, as demonstrated by the US version of Dead Man’s Folly, reproduced on the endpapers of this book. I have largely obeyed this sensible injunction but it is right to break rules sometimes as I have for the cover of The Greenshore Folly, in which there is some pure illustration, for instance: the house, the boathouse, the ferry bell and Battery; the magnolia (one of Agatha’s favourite flowers), the face of Lady Stubbs, the fallen oak and folly; even a slightly fantasised portrait of Agatha herself in a cherished garden nook. And there is a suggestion of a convivial crowd on the front lawn. All this is woven into what I hope is a pictorial tribute to Greenway.

Readers may note that I thatched the boathouse, as described in the story. Today it has a slate roof, but Mathew Prichard remembers it was originally thatched. So I have unwittingly restored the building to its former glory!

I make no claims to be a great artist in the same league as Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud or Graham Sutherland. Nevertheless I consider myself to be a good painter and illustrator and worthy I hope of a place somewhere in the middle of the pantheon of British 20th/21st-century art. Incidentally Graham Sutherland became a friend and mentor in the mid-fifties when I was a close neighbour in the Kentish village of Trottiscliffe. My visits to his White House studio and his to my Oast House studio were highlights of my early life as an artist. That I have been lucky enough to have survived into the 21st century and still working in my eighties is largely due to the care and loving support of my family and dear friends, not to mention great and understanding publishers and patrons, including Jonathan Cape and HarperCollins. John Fowles generously placed me in ‘one of the pleasantest traditions in English art, which goes back essentially to the great woodcut school of the 1860s; and descends through Rackham, Dulac, the Detmold brothers to our own day. Tom stands honourably in that long line …’ This is all very fine but it is the stimulation of great writers like John Fowles and Agatha Christie that inspired me in my career as an illustrator and cover artist. And I have the temerity to compare myself as an artist to Agatha as a crime novelist. Patient research and dedicated craftsmanship are key to our success. I have always thought that an infinite capacity to take pains was a somewhat inadequate definition of genius, but it is a good part of that elusive quality. Undeniably Christie had that quality, that magic ingredient. Whether or not I do is for others to decide.

Over the years I have had a growing conviction that Agatha Christie was without doubt pre-eminent as a writer of crime fiction. She was a weaver of spells, someone who leads us up and down the garden path, round and round in circles, only to deposit us in an unexpected place. Oh good heavens, we say. We didn’t see that coming! From the first words of advice she received from her friend, Eden Philpotts, Agatha learned that writing was a craft as well as an art and that there are methods and tricks for overcoming stylistic and technical obstacles.

Agatha’s work is a gift to the visual artist. Characters, locations, and objects provide a rich choice of subjects, but the lack of specific detail in her descriptions allows the illustrator to imagine and manipulate. As for imagination, Agatha had it in spades. According to Janet Morgan in Agatha Christie – A Biography, she was deeply affected by two books: J.W. Dunne’s Experiment With Time and The Mysterious Universe by Sir James Jeans, inspiring her to write to Max in 1930:

‘I understand very little of it but it fills me with nebulous ideas. How queer it would be if God were in the future – something we never created or imagined but who is not yet – supposing him to be not Cause but Effect … It’s fun to play with ideas – that God has made the world as it is and is pleased with it seems certainly not so. Originally man starved to death and froze to death (on top of coal in the ground) and every plague and pestilence caused by Man’s stupidity was put down to “God’s Will”. If life on this planet is an accident, quite unforeseen, and against all the principles of the solar system – how amazingly interesting – and when may it end? In some complete and marvellous Consciousness …’

Janet Morgan’s excellent biography discusses how Agatha was a prolific and ingenious fantasist. She ‘dreamt vividly, remembered and talked of her dreams, relished them – dreams of flying …’ I have the same propensity to fantasise and dream, especially dreams of flying, and I’ve always thought this is one of the many reasons I empathise so well with Agatha in her books.

However, Agatha was also a very down-to-earth person. Her own autobiography shows something of her humanity and wit:

‘I don’t like crowds, being jammed up against people, loud voices, noise, protracted talking, parties, and especially cocktail parties, cigarette smoke and smoking generally, any kind of drink except in cooking, marmalade, oysters, lukewarm food, grey skies, the feet of birds, or indeed the feel of a bird altogether. Final and fiercest dislike: the taste and smell of hot milk.

‘I like sunshine, apples, almost any kind of music, railway trains, numerical puzzles and anything to do with numbers, going to the sea, bathing and swimming, silence, sleeping, dreaming, eating, the smell of coffee, lilies of the valley, most dogs, and going to the theatre.

‘I could make much better lists, much grander-sounding, much more important, but there again it wouldn’t be me, and I suppose I must resign myself to being me.’

Agatha worked by herself: ‘The most blessed thing about being an author is that you do it in private and in your own time’. I profoundly echo these sentiments! My working conditions are a studio stacked with stuff, books everywhere and everything extremely untidy. I get the feeling that on the much smaller scale of a writer’s workspace Agatha was not that much more concerned with order and tidiness than I am. When asked on BBC’s radio programme, Close-Up, about her process of working, Agatha admitted: ‘The disappointing truth is that I haven’t much method’. And in John Curran’s comprehensively perceptive book, Agatha Christie’s Murder in the Making, he points out: ‘She thrived mentally on chaos, it stimulated her more than neat order; rigidity stifled her creative process.’ This was her method and it works for me too. Out of my chaos, sketches and multiple reference notes, my finished painting emerges.

Archaeology is something else Agatha and I have in common. She was married to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan. My eldest son, Professor Jonathan Adams, is a marine archaeologist. He was Deputy Director of the excavation and raising of the Mary Rose and assembles and recreates a logical whole from an unlikely jumble of apparently unrelated bits and pieces – much as I do as an artist – and he is a fine painter. In our own ways we both share much in common with Agatha’s method of writing, and I think the processes and activities involved in archaeology are similar to the writing of detective stories: the assembly of pieces, finding facts, following clues, digging below the surface, and taking leaps of imagination …

As well as writing books, Agatha Christie was also a very accomplished playwright. My own passion for the theatre began with memories of my parents’ active life producing and acting in amateur dramatics. I was privileged to meet many of their theatrical friends such as Flora Robson and Sybil Thorndike, and I have many happy memories of being taken to theatres in London and Paris. My mother, Constance, was a pupil of Dame Carrie Tubbs at the Guildhall School of Music, though regrettably she gave up singing when she got married. Agatha trained as a singer, but she gave it up for writing.

With the painting of the new cover for Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly, my association with Agatha Christie as her cover artist now exceeds fifty years. I hope that I will have the opportunity to do more. My conviction about this remarkable author that has steadily grown over the many years of our association can be summed up no better than this quote from a News Chronicle reviewer which appears in John Curran’s Agatha Christie’s Murder in the Making: ‘Mrs Christie is the greatest genius at inventing detective plots that has ever lived or will ever live’. I couldn’t put it better myself.

Tom Adams

Cornwall

January 2014

Preface by Mathew Prichard

UNUSUALLY FOR Agatha Christie, Dead Man’s Folly – the book which evolved out of this novella – was written around a specific location, in this case Greenway House on the River Dart in South Devon. Greenway was where Nima (which is what I called my grandmother) used to spend her summer holidays almost from the time she bought it in 1938 until she died in 1976. It is now 15 years since Greenway was acquired by the National Trust and subsequently opened to the public.

Last year ITV’s series Agatha Christie’s Poirot starring David Suchet shot its final film there, Dead Man’s Folly, and so a series that had begun in 1989 with The Adventure of the Clapham Cook ended in a blaze of glory at Greenway itself. Neither Nima, nor my late mother Rosalind, who had a lot to do with setting up the TV series in the beginning, could have wished for anything better. It was as if Hercule Poirot had come home.

As luck would have it, we were blessed with wonderful summer weather, and the last day of shooting in front of the house – a scene that was not in itself dramatically very significant – was none the less poignant as it featured David Suchet, in full Poirot regalia, mincing up Greenway’s front steps in his own inimitable way and knocking on the door. Eventually, after three repeats of the same action, we heard the time-honoured words – ‘it’s a wrap’ – and there was not a dry eye in the house, or rather on the lawn, where a large crowd had come to celebrate the ending of one of the world’s best loved TV series, and the portrayal of one of our best loved literary characters, Hercule Poirot, by one of our best loved character actors, David Suchet. If anyone had told Nima (who sadly never met David Suchet) that a series of this magnitude and popularity would be made continuously over a period of 25 years, I am sure that she would not have believed it.

My particular affection for Dead Man’s Folly extends back to long before the filming of the TV series, though. The book was published in 1956, when I was 13, coinciding with both the time I was beginning to enjoy reading Nima’s books, and when as a schoolboy I spent my summer holidays at Greenway with my family including, of course, Nima. I cannot say that I ever remember a fête on the lawn, but I certainly remember smaller events there, as Greenway was host to an ever-growing selection of literary and theatrical friends (this was the heyday of Nima’s career as a West End playwright), with plenty of friends of my step-grandfather Max Mallowan from the world of archaeology added for good measure. Nima never based her characters entirely on real-life people, but I would be lying if I did not admit to recognising snippets of Sir George and Lady Stubbs, and particularly Mrs Folliatt, from actual people whom she knew. Nor was I surprised when I found out that Dead Man’s Folly featured hitch-hikers. We were familiar with the occasional hitch-hiker from the nearby youth hostel called Maypool.

But I suppose Dead Man’s Folly evokes two particular memories from my childhood that I find particularly poignant: one a person, one a place. The person is Ariadne Oliver, who, although rather more boisterous than Nima would ever be, did have something of her enthusiasm, her love of apples, and a writer’s curiosity that reminds me very much of Nima herself. She appeared in seven novels, six of them with Poirot, and Zoë Wanamaker gives an excellent performance in the film. The place is the boathouse, where the poor victim is found murdered. Nima and I used to walk down to Greenway’s boathouse in the afternoon, watch the pleasure cruisers sail by (the Kiloran, Pride of Paignton, Brixham Belle and those wonderful paddle streamers, one of which I am delighted to say is still in working order). The tour guides on these boats would always refer to Greenway, usually inaccurately, as the home of Agatha Christie (rather than, strictly speaking, her holiday home), and though we could hear their voices as they sailed past, never do I remember them actually recognising her as she sat inconspicuously in the boathouse with her grandson!

As I read the book again now, I do seem to remember reading it originally on publication as a young teenager and understanding perhaps for the first time a little more about the construction of a detective story in relation to real people and real places, because I was familiar with those in this particular book. This authenticity is of course one of the reasons why Nima’s books still seem so real and convincing today. Back then, the books based around archaeology and the Middle East were pure fiction to me, although Nima used exactly the same techniques, drawing on characteristics of real people and factual landmarks and adding a fictional dimension, just as she did with Dead Man’s Folly. I hope one day that I will be able to visit Nimrud, the Pyramids in Egypt, or some other locations which inspired Nima, so that I can see them as she did. I recently visited one specific place of inspiration in Tenerife in the Canary Islands, the setting for a Harley Quin story called ‘The Man from the Sea’ (in the book The Mysterious Mr Quin) – it is a brilliant short story, and all the better for having been there.

As you probably know, my family gave Greenway to the National Trust in 1999 and it is open to the public for most of the year. Everyone can now visit the boathouse where the murder took place, or relax on a chair near where Hattie Stubbs sat and be polite to the hikers who are now allowed to enter the grounds. You may also find that the National Trust shop has the finest collection of Agatha Christie books in the West of England. Though Dead Man’s Folly is unusual in being so closely based on a real place, it is not the only Agatha Christie book that has echoes of Greenway. If you enjoy it, you should certainly read Five Little Pigs as well, with a murder on Greenway’s Battery!

Finally, one of the words I have often chosen to describe Agatha Christie’s books and films is ‘welcoming’, and I do think that Robyn Brown and Gary Calland, the two General Managers the Trust has employed since 1999, and all their staff, have surpassed themselves in making Greenway as welcoming a place as Nima did when I was young. I hope that having read this book, and maybe watched the film with David Suchet, that you can visit the original location. What a treat you have in store!

Mathew Prichard

Monmouth

January 2014

Foreword

Although it was published in November 1956, the Hercule Poirot novel Dead Man’s Folly had a complicated two-year genesis. In November 1954 Agatha Christie’s agent Hughes Massie wrote to the Diocesan Board of Finance in Exeter explaining that his client would like to see stained glass windows in the chancel of Churston Ferrers Church (Christie’s local church) and was willing to pay for them by assigning the rights of a story to a fund set up for that purpose. The Diocesan Board and the local church were both very happy with the arrangement and in a letter of 3 December 1954 Hughes Massie confirmed ‘Mrs Mallowan’s intentions to assign the magazine rights of a long short story to be entitled The Greenshore Folly’ to such a fund. The amount involved was reckoned to be in the region of £1,000 (£18,000 in today’s value).

By March 1955 the Diocesan Board was getting restive and wondering about the progress of the sale. But for the first time in 35 years, much to everyone’s embarrassment, it proved impossible to sell the story. The problem was its length; it was a long novella, which was a difficult length, neither a novel nor a short story, for the magazine market. By mid-July 1955, the decision was made to withdraw the story from sale, as ‘Agatha thinks [it] is packed with good material which she can use for her next full length novel’. As a compromise, it was agreed that she would write another short story for the Church, also to be called, for legal reasons, ‘The Greenshore Folly’, ‘though it will probably be published under some other title’. So, the original and rejected novella ‘The Greenshore Folly’ was elaborated into the novel Dead Man’s Folly and Christie wrote the shorter and similarly titled Miss Marple story ‘Greenshaw’s Folly’ to swell the coffers of the Church authorities. ‘Greenshaw’s Folly’ was first published in 1956 and was collected in The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding in 1960.

Unpublished for nearly 60 years, Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly is Agatha Christie’s original version of the story before she expanded it. Though many passages survived unchanged in Dead Man’s Folly, especially at the beginning of the book, there are notable differences as the story develops and changes direction.

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS Miss Lemon, Poirot’s efficient secretary, who took the telephone call.

Laying aside her shorthand notebook, she raised the receiver and said without emphasis, ‘Trafalgar 8137.’

Hercule Poirot leaned back in his upright chair and closed his eyes. His fingers beat a meditative soft tattoo on the edge of the table. In his head he continued to compose the polished period of the letter he had been dictating.

Placing her hand over the receiver, Miss Lemon asked in a low voice, ‘Will you accept a personal call from Lapton, Devon?’

Poirot frowned. The place meant nothing to him.

‘The name of the caller?’ he demanded cautiously.

Miss Lemon spoke into the mouthpiece.

‘Air-raid?’ she asked doubtingly. ‘Oh, yes – what was the last name again?’

Once more she turned to Hercule Poirot.

‘Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.’

Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows shot up. A memory rose up in his mind: windswept grey hair … an eagle profile …

He rose and replaced Miss Lemon at the telephone.

‘Hercule Poirot speaks,’ he announced grandiloquently.

‘Is that Mr. Hercules Porrot speaking personally?’ the suspicious voice of the telephone operator demanded.

Poirot assured her that that was the case.

‘You’re through to Mr. Porrot,’ said the voice.

Its thin reedy accents were replaced by a magnificent booming contralto which caused Poirot hastily to shift the receiver a couple of inches further from his ear.

‘Mr. Poirot, is that really you?’ demanded Mrs. Oliver.

‘Myself in person, Madame.’

‘This is Mrs. Oliver. I don’t know if you’ll remember me –’

‘But of course I remember you, Madame. Who could forget you?’

‘Well, people do sometimes,’ said Mrs. Oliver. ‘Quite often, in fact. I don’t think that I’ve got a very distinctive personality. Or perhaps it’s because I’m always doing different things to my hair. But all that’s neither here nor there. I hope I’m not interrupting you when you’re frightfully busy?’

‘No, no, you do not derange me in the least.’

‘Good gracious – I’m sure I don’t want to drive you out of your mind. The fact is, I need you.’

‘Need me?’

‘Yes, at once. Can you take an aeroplane?’

‘I do not take aeroplanes. They make me sick.’ ‘They do me, too. Anyway, I don’t suppose it would be any quicker than the train really, because I think the only airport near here is Exeter which is miles away. So come by train. Twelve o’clock from Paddington. You get out at Lapton to Nassecombe. You can do it nicely. You’ve got three quarters of an hour if my watch is right – though it isn’t usually.’

‘But where are you, Madame? What is all this about?’

‘Greenshore House, Lapton. A car or taxi will meet you at the station at Lapton.’

‘But why do you need me? What is all this about?’ Poirot repeated frantically.

‘Telephones are in such awkward places,’ said Mrs. Oliver. ‘This one’s in the hall … People passing through and talking … I can’t really hear. But I’m expecting you. Everybody will be so thrilled. Good bye.’

There was a sharp click as the receiver was replaced. The line hummed gently.

With a baffled air of bewilderment, Poirot put back the receiver and murmured something under his breath. Miss Lemon sat with her pencil poised, incurious. She repeated in muted tones the final phrase of dictation before the interruption.

‘– allow me to assure you, my dear sir, that the hypothesis you have advanced –’

Poirot waved aside the advancement of the hypothesis.

‘That was Mrs. Oliver,’ he said. ‘Ariadne Oliver, the detective novelist. You may have read –’ But he stopped, remembering that Miss Lemon only read improving books and regarded such frivolities as fictional crime with contempt. ‘She wants me to go down to Devonshire today, at once, in –’ he glanced at the clock ‘–thirty-five minutes.’

Miss Lemon raised disapproving eyebrows.

‘That will be running it rather fine,’ she said. ‘For what reason?’

‘You may well ask! She did not tell me.’

‘How very peculiar. Why not?’

‘Because,’ said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, ‘she was afraid of being overheard. Yes, she made that quite clear.’

‘Well, really,’ said Miss Lemon, bristling in her employer’s defence. ‘The things people expect! Fancy thinking that you’d go rushing off on some wild goose chase like that! An important man like you! I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalanced – no sense of proportion. Shall I telephone through a telegram: Regret unable leave London?’

Her hand went out to the telephone. Poirot’s voice arrested the gesture.

‘Du tout!’ he said. ‘On the contrary. Be so kind as to summon a taxi immediately.’ He raised his voice. ‘Georges! A few necessities of toilet in my small valise. And quickly, very quickly, I have a train to catch.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE TRAIN, having done one hundred and eighty-odd miles of its two hundred and twelve miles journey at top speed, puffed gently and apologetically through the last thirty and drew into Lapton station. Only one person alighted, Hercule Poirot. He negotiated with care a yawning gap between the step of the train and the platform and looked round him. At the far end of the train a porter was busy inside a luggage compartment. Poirot picked up his valise and walked back along the platform to the exit. He gave up his ticket and walked out through the booking office.

A large Humber saloon was drawn up outside and a chauffeur in uniform came forward.

‘Mr. Hercule Poirot?’ he inquired respectfully.

He took Poirot’s case from him and opened the door of the car for him. They drove away from the station, over the railway bridge and down a country road which presently disclosed a very beautiful river view.

‘The Dart, sir,’ said the chauffeur.

‘Magnifique!’ said Poirot obligingly.

The road was a long straggling country lane running between green hedges, dipping down and then up. On the upward slope two girls in shorts with bright scarves over their heads and carrying heavy rucksacks on their backs were toiling slowly upwards.

‘There’s a Youth Hostel just above us, sir,’ explained the chauffeur, who had clearly constituted himself Poirot’s guide to Devon … ‘Upper Greenshore, they call it. Come for a couple of nights at a time, they do, and very busy they are there just now. Forty or fifty a night.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Poirot. He was reflecting, and not for the first time, that seen from the back, shorts were becoming to very few of the female sex. He shut his eyes in pain.

‘They seem heavily laden,’ he murmured.

‘Yes, sir, and it’s a long pull from the station or the bus stop. Best part of two miles. If you don’t object, sir,’ he hesitated, ‘we could give them a lift.’

‘By all means. By all means,’ said Poirot benignantly.

The chauffeur slowed down and came to a purring halt beside the two girls. Two flushed and perspiring faces were raised hopefully. The door was opened and the girls climbed in.

‘It is most kind, please,’ said one of them politely in a foreign accent. ‘It is longer way than I think, yes.’ The other girl who clearly had not much English merely nodded her head several times gratefully and smiled, and murmured ‘Grazie’

Bright dark chestnut fuzzy curls escaped from her head scarf and she had on big earnest looking spectacles.

The English speaking girl continued talking vivaciously. She was in England for a fortnight’s holiday. Her home was Rotterdam. She had already seen Stratford on Avon, Clovelly, Exeter Cathedral, Torquay and, ‘after visiting beauty spot here and historic Dartmouth, I go to Plymouth, discovery of New World from Plymouth Hoe.’

The Italian girl murmered ‘Hoe?’ and shook her head, puzzled.

‘She does not much English speak,’ said the Dutch girl, but I understand she has relative near here married to gentleman who keeps a shop for groceries, so she will spend time with them. My friend I come from Rotterdam with has eat veal and ham pie not good in shop at Exeter and is sick there. It is not always good in hot weather, the veal and ham pie.’

The chauffeur slowed down at a fork in the road. The girls got out, uttered thanks in two languages and the chauffeur with a wave of the hand directed them to the left hand road. He also laid aside for a moment his Olympian aloofness.

‘You want to be careful of Cornish Pasties too,’ he warned them. Put anything in them, they will, holiday time.’

The car drove rapidly down the right hand road into a thick belt of trees.

‘Nice enough young women, some of them, though foreign,’ said the chauffeur. ‘But absolutely shocking the way they trespass. Don’t seem to understand places are private.’

They went on, down a steep hill through woods, then through a gate and along a drive, winding up finally in front of a big white Georgian house looking out over the river.

The chauffeur opened the door of the car as a tall butler appeared on the steps.

‘Mr. Hercule Poirot?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mrs. Oliver is expecting you, sir. You will find her down at the Battery. Allow me to show you the way.’

Poirot was directed to a winding path that led along the wood with glimpses of the river below. The path descended gradually until it came out at last on an open space, round in shape with a low battlemented parapet. On the parapet Mrs. Oliver was sitting.

She rose to meet him and several apples fell from her lap and rolled in all directions. Apples seemed to be an inescapable motif of meeting Mrs. Oliver.

‘I can’t think why I always drop things,’ said Mrs. Oliver somewhat indistinctly, since her mouth was full of apple. ‘How are you, M. Poirot?’

‘Très bien, chère Madame,’ replied Poirot politely. ‘And you?’

Mrs. Oliver was looking somewhat different from when Poirot had last seen her, and the reason lay, as she had already hinted over the telephone, in the fact that she had once more experimented with her coiffure. The last time Poirot had seen her, she had been adopting a windswept effect. Today, her hair, richly blued, was piled upward in a multiplicity of rather artificial little curls in a pseudo Marquise style. The Marquise effect ended at her neck; the rest of her could have been definitely labelled ‘country practical,’ consisting of a violent yolk of egg rough tweed coat and skirt and a rather bilious looking mustard coloured jumper.

‘I knew you’d come,’ said Mrs. Oliver cheerfully.

‘You could not possibly have known,’ said Poirot severely.

‘Oh, yes I did.’

‘I still ask myself why I am here.’

‘Well, I know the answer. Curiosity.’

Poirot looked at her and his eyes twinkled a little.

‘Your famous Woman’s Intuition,’ he said, ‘has perhaps for once not led you too far astray.’

‘Now, don’t laugh at my woman’s intuition. Haven’t I always spotted the murderer right away?’

Poirot was gallantly silent. Otherwise he might have replied, ‘At the fifth attempt, perhaps, and not always then!’

Instead he said, looking round him, ‘It is indeed a beautiful property that you have here.’

‘This? But it doesn’t belong to me, M. Poirot. Did you think it did? Oh, no, it belongs to some people called Stubbs.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Oh, nobody really,’ said Mrs. Oliver vaguely. ‘Just rich. No, I’m down here professionally, doing a job.’

‘Ah, you are getting local colour for one of your chefs-d’oeuvre?’

‘No, no. Just what I said. I’m doing a job. I’ve been engaged to arrange a murder.’

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