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Dead Man's Folly: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
Dead Man's Folly: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
Dead Man's Folly: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
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Dead Man's Folly: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

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When a mock murder game staged for charity threatens to turn into the real thing, the intrepid Hercule Poirot is called in to take part in this Dead Man’s Folly, a classic from the queen of suspense, Agatha Christie.

Sir George and Lady Stubbs, the hosts of a village fete, hit upon the novel idea of staging a mock murder mystery. In good faith, Ariadne Oliver, the well-known crime writer, agrees to organize their murder hunt.

Despite weeks of meticulous planning, at the last minute Ariadne calls her friend Hercule Poirot for his expert assistance. Instinctively, she senses that’s something sinister is about to happen….

LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateJul 5, 2005
ISBN9780061744631
Author

Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English with another billion in over 70 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. She is the author of 80 crime novels and short story collections, 20 plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.

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Reviews for Dead Man's Folly

Rating: 3.65323847835703 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

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  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Ariadne Oliver calls on Hercule Poirot when she suspects that an entertaining Murder Hunt may turn into the real thing.This was another fun mystery from the queen of detective fiction, but I find that I have little to say about it. It's an enjoyable read. Christie's semi-self-influenced portrayal of Mrs Oliver continues to delight me. Her twists and turns and clever phrasings are almost always a pleasure to read. The mystery is nicely plotted, though the denouement is perhaps a little complex given what came before.And that's really about it. This book adds nothing new to the mystery genre or to the two featured sleuths. It's simply a quick, entertaining book that I'd recommend to fans of Dame Agatha who are interested in some more of the same.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Ariadne Oliver’s intuition sets Poirot on a course for village murder.

    One of Christie’s few classics from her later years, “Dead Man’s Folly” is a book that she clearly enjoyed writing. Ariadne Oliver sparkles, Poirot is written with a mix of satire and genuine affection, and the murder mystery – as with many of the best Golden Age writers – turns the bucolic atmosphere of a country fete into a bloodbath. Good fun, and a welcome respite for readers during Christie’s patchy later years.

    Poirot ranking: 12th out of 38.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5


    The book began w/ Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the famous crime novelist, who is throwing a "Murder Fete" in which the original "victim" has been changed by circuitous request of an unknown person, calling M. Poirot asking for his help in preventing a murder.... Her intuition has told her that there will be a murder at the Fete she has planned, but she can't say whom or when or why.

    A young girl (who is playing the victim at the fete) is really murdered it is found that she knew something she should not have... there are in succession the disappearance of the estate owner's wife and the murder of the ferryman (who also knew too much).

    The former owner of the estate (who now lives in the front lodge), knows exactly what is going on, but feigns ignorance......

    Let's see..... I didn't like the characters, they were flat & uninteresting, one never got to know most of them.... I didn't/couldn't really follow the clues... but I did know immediately where the body was buried, although I didn't know whose body it was.

    I also didn't like was all the self-talk & supposition of theories by M. Poirot & the police, I found it (to use one of Christie's favorite words) dull, dry, and most assuredly boring.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Typical Christie fare. Dependable.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Hercule Poirot receives a frantic phone call from his friend Ariadne Oliver, a writer of murder mysteries. She has created a live murder game for a fête to be held in the grounds of Nasse House which is the home of Lord and Lady Stubbs but she believes there is real danger lurking at the House and she begs Poirot to come immediately. Oliver gives Poirot little to go on but her feelings and, perhaps because of this, he fails to prevent the murder of the young girl who was only supposed to be playing the role of victim in the murder game. He subsequently participates in a stop-start investigation before finally solving the crime.

    The person who recommended this to me highlighted the humour of the book and as that is an element of crime fiction I enjoy and hadn’t really associated with Christie before I thought it would be an interesting choice for me. I wasn’t disappointed. The Ariadne Oliver character really does make a nice contrast to the somewhat prissy and proper Poirot with her ability to laugh at herself and it does seem like Christie was having a bit of fun with her genre by using the ‘mystery within a mystery’ twist.

    This twist is also a perfect device for Christie’s favourite ploy: misdirection of her readers. Even though I know that her plots are always complex and that the obvious clues are red herrings to be ignored I still didn’t come close to picking up on the key hints that led to the solution. As almost always with Christie’s books, the uncovering of the murderer follows a wonderfully convoluted and unexpected journey. One of the things I liked about this book is that Poirot didn’t seem quite so cocky as he is in earlier stories. He doesn’t inveigle himself into every single interrogation and for some time it seems as if he might not even solve the mystery at all. I found this slightly more humble Poirot more likable than I have in the past.

    I notice that some people mention struggling to keep track of all the people who appear in this book and I think this is where listening to the audio book had me at an advantage. David Suchet is a superb narrator and manages to provide all the characters a distinctive voice which is very helpful in such a dialogue-rich story. I must admit I am becoming quite addicted to Suchet’s narrations of Christie’s works.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    The solution to this came after a period of weeks during which Poirot and the police were stumped, which somewhat destroyed the momentum. It was quite abrupt and while elements of the 'how' were in retrospect clued, there were other elements which could not possibly have been guessed by the reader, so I'm deducting a star for those.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A rather nice mystery is spoiled, for me, by a certain truly incredible circumstance as part of the solution.Mrs. Oliver asks Poirot’s help when she senses some terribly wrong at (where else?) a country house. Mrs. O has agreed to put together a Murder Hunt game for a fete, but thinks she’s being subtly directed by a person unknown.Of course there’s a murder, and the disappearance of someone. Police are baffled, etc. Christie’s usual plotting just falls off a cliff in this one.Skip unless you’re a Christie completist.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Detective novelist Ariadne Oliver is in Devon organizing a murder hunt for a fête at her host’s estate. Mrs. Oliver senses that something is very wrong, so she summons her old friend, Hercule Poirot, to get to the bottom of things. Mrs. Oliver’s host and the other guests believe that Poirot is there to present the prize to the winner of the murder hunt. The perceptive Mrs. Oliver’s fear is realized when a real body turns up where the corpse is supposed to be.Mrs. Oliver is one of my favorite supporting characters in the Poirot novels. This is at least the third time I’ve read or listened to this novel, so I remembered some of the clues but not the whole solution. It’s a clever plot, and Christie makes good use of her red herrings.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This was not one of my favourite Agatha Christie books. I found it difficult in the beginning to keep going and there were so many characters that really played a very small role in the plot, that it made it difficult at times to keep track of all of them.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Poirot is asked to present the prize to the winner of a Murder Hunt, but the young woman who was supposed to play the corpse turns out to be truly dead.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    More of my favorite eggheaded Belgian detective! Love the setup for this one. Hercule Poirot's old friend, mystery novelist Ariadne Oliver, is coordinating a murder mystery party at an estate. She suspects she is being manipulated to set up the mystery for a real murder, and calls in her pal Poirot to thwart the killer.

    This is classic Christie at her best--twists and turns, and just when you think you know who the killer is, she throws you another curve ball. All is resolved by the satisfying ending. Give it a read.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Poirot solves the mystery, of course, eventually, but he also gives some pretty sound marital advice. Good job Poirot.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    What a missed opportunity! There was so much to do with such a premise! Ariadne Oliver, easily one of my favourite female characters in the Poirot universe murder mystery party Girls Scouts, COME ON! God I wish she'd done more - something fun with lots of eccentric characters and an ingenuous, far-fetched conspiracy involving girls' guiding. *sigh* I'm giving it four stars for the promise of a wonderful book but the execution is bland and the finale far from amazing and really quite common. Damn you, Agatha.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This is an interesting novel because the solution to the murder eludes Hercule Poirot until he realises while doing a jigsaw puzzle that he has been looking at some information he has had all along the wrong way around.It is one of those stories where you keep thinking of the title because the obvious murder victim is female, so who or what is the "dead mans folly"? There is a folly, a building placed on the estate by Sir George Stubbs soon after he arrived, or is Lady Stubbs, supposedly a little intellectually wanting, the folly?Ariadne Oliver's mock murder mystery backfires when the Girl Guide who was to pose as the murder victim is actually strangled. Hercule Poirot is on the spot because Mrs Oliver was already uncomfortable with how things were going. She had the feeling of being manouvred and called her friend on the day before the fete to see what he thought.There is not a lot of social or historical comment in DEAD MAN'S FOLLY. We know it is set post World War Two, because the original owners of the house, the Folliats, lost both their sons in the war.Sir George Stubbs came along at the right time as the buyer of the house as old Mrs Folliat found herself unable to pay the death duties incurred by the death of her husband and two sons. The villagers had assumed it was destined to become a school or a hotel.Sir George Stubbs appears to have "new money" which he is spending extravagantly on ventures like the folly and a tennis pavilion.The house is next door to a back packer's hostel, with European young people staying there. And another of the characters is an "atom scientist".All of these items serve to place the novel in the early 1950s,I found the final explanation a bit extravagant but it worked well enough.There are certainly clues along the way that the reader tends to gloss over.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The ‘folly’ of the title is actually an architectural term defined as “an eccentric, generally non-functional structure erected to enhance a romantic landscape.” Of course, the play on words using the more commonly understood meaning of the word is intentional. In this classic Christie, Adriadne Oliver arranges a mock Murder Hunt for charity and calls in her friend Hercule Poirot when a real body is discovered. Although this was published in 1956, it has the feel of one of Christie’s slightly older stories: the classic country estate, the Lord & Lady, the house guests, and so on.In addition to the word play of the title, there is the gentle mockery of Christie herself, on whom Ariadne Oliver is said to be based. So she sets up a murder and doesn’t know who the murderer is. Very well-done, excellently clued but still perplexing mystery.Read this if: you’re looking for a classic English country whodunit set in the mid-twentieth century. 4 stars
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The setup is a beautiful old estate, where an assortment of characters have assembled to take part in a weekend mock murder/mystery game, only someone thinks things might actually turn deadly and they have invited Poirot in to help. The cast includes Sir George Stubbs, he of the newly rich class and owner of the mansion; his air-headed wife; the deposed daughter of the original owners of the estate; the successful crime writer, Ariadne Oliver; the womanizing architect; a couple falling out of love; and the simple teenager playing the "dead body." And, of course, Hercule Poirot.This is usual Christie fare. You just gotta love Poirot! A quick read, and I must admit, I was blindsided by the twist at the end. Recommended.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Intriguing idea: a murder takes place during a murder-mystery event. I didn't guess 'who dunnit' but did rather feel that Poirot was in the dark then knew everything rather suddenly and in a way the reader couldn't have reasoned.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Dead Man's Folly is another mystery featuring the infamous Hercule Poirot but what makes this book different is that a murder has not been committed...yet. Adriane Oliver, the crime novelist, has been asked to help create a murder mystery game and calls Poirot to come assist her as she believes that a real crime is about to be committed. She gives Poirot little to go on though as all of her suspicions are based on a "feeling" that something is off. And then a murder does happen and of course Poirot is there to investigate.This book had all of the elements that make up a classic Christie novel in my opinion. There were plenty of characters (or suspects if you like) which kept me looking at the list of characters in the front of the book from time to time. Of course there was the whodunnit element that kept me guessing throughout the novel. And the clues that don't seem to mean anything until the end of the novel when everything begins to add up. I found myself caught up as always in the mystery that Christie was creating even though this wasn't my favorite one that I've read. She just has a knack for keeping me in the dark until the end and I never am able to figure out the mystery on my own. That being said, this wasn't my favorite novel but I'm having a hard time figuring out why. I guess that it comes down to the fact that And Then There Were None still is my all time favorite novel by Agatha Christie (so far).All in all though, it was a good read and one that I would recommend :)
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    One of my own enjoyable later Poirots. All the clues are there but as usual we are taken for a ride. A good read and a good snapshot of a certain strata of changing, post-war English life.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A fun outing with Poirot. It’s much later in his career, 1950s, and we find him amongst the aristocracy clinging to their pre-war sensibilities like grim death. It feels like Christie was too. Poirot’s old-world fussiness is still front and center. He seems crabbier as well, questioning other people’s motives and having a short supply of patience. As far as the mystery itself goes, I knew from the outset that Lady Dimwit couldn’t possibly be as dimwitted as she was made out to be. Stank of ruse. But I didn’t really go much farther than that and had no idea of her real identity or status. Or that of her husband either. I knew something was up with the old dowager relegated to the gate house, but wasn’t sure what. As usual, Christie kept the solution a surprise. It wasn’t earth shattering in it’s cleverness, but it was satisfactory.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Mrs Oliver calls Poirot in when she feels something is not quite right on a murder hunt she is arranging for a local fete. When the girl playing the victim of the murder hunt is actually murdered Poirot uncovers a web of deceit and greed. An interesting plot and a good read.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    January 15, 2000Dead Man’s FollyAgatha ChristieI actually saw the t.v. version of this last weekend, and after watching it wanted to read the book, which I already had.It’s a Poirot mystery, in my favorite of Christie’s classic settings – an English country house. Anyway, this story also featured the writer Ariadne Oliver, who I remember from Halloween Party. Supposedly she’s something of a spoof on Christie herself, which is interesting. Ariadne is invited to organize a “Murder Hunt” game on the grounds of this mansion (Nasse House). The house is owned by George and Harriet Stubbs, who virtually snatched it out from beneath the feet of an aging widow who’s been left penniless by her formerly wealthy, gambling husband. It was a family estate going back generations , owned by the Folliats. Mrs. Folliat, the widow, now lives in a small cottage on the property, on the kindness of the Stubbs.Harriet Stubbs, despite the dumpy name, is young and gorgeous, but very odd. She has headaches all the time, and for some reason she won’t divulge, becomes very upset and fearful when a letter from her cousin arrives, which announces that he’ll be coming any day now for a visit.During the Murder Hunt, Harriet disappears, and her floppy hat is found drifting in the river. Then someone kills the poor girl who was slated to be the Hunt’s victim anyway – for real this time.I like this one. Christie is hit-or-miss with me at times, but this one held me. Not so complex that I couldn’t understand the solution, at least (unlike The Body in the Library!).
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This Poirot novel takes our mustachioed hero out of the city to officiate at a village fete, on the request of Ariadne Oliver. The old country house at which it's held has been lost to the family that has occupied it for centuries, and now it's home to a vulgar businessman and his vacant-eyed but gorgeous wife. Things fall apart when the murder mystery game Mrs Oliver has set up goes horribly wrong, with the sham victim becoming a real one. I was all ready to award this one with four stars or more, but the denouement was far too complicated and implausible to hold up the deal. Still, it's good fun, and recommended.

Book preview

Dead Man's Folly - Agatha Christie

One

I

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 periods 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 Nassecombe, 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 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 farther from his ear.

"M. 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 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?"

Nasse House, Nassecombe. A car or taxi will meet you at the station at Nassecombe.

"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."

II

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 Nassecombe 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. They drove away from the station over the railway bridge and turned down a country lane which wound between high hedges on either side. Presently the ground fell away on the right and disclosed a very beautiful river view with hills of a misty blue in the distance. The chauffeur drew into the hedge and stopped.

The River Helm, sir, he said. With Dartmoor in the distance.

It was clear that admiration was necessary. Poirot made the necessary noises, murmuring Magnifique! several times. Actually, Nature appealed to him very little. A well-cultivated neatly arranged kitchen garden was far more likely to bring a murmur of admiration to Poirot’s lips. Two girls passed the car, toiling slowly up the hill. They were carrying heavy rucksacks on their backs and wore shorts, with bright coloured scarves tied over their heads.

There is a Youth Hostel next door to us, sir, explained the chauffeur, who had clearly constituted himself Poirot’s guide to Devon. Hoodown Park. Mr. Fletcher’s place it used to be. The Youth Hostel Association bought it and it’s fairly crammed in summer time. Take in over a hundred a night, they do. They’re not allowed to stay longer than a couple of nights—then they’ve got to move on. Both sexes and mostly foreigners.

Poirot nodded absently. He was reflecting, 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. Why, oh why, must young women array themselves thus? Those scarlet thighs were singularly unattractive!

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 to Hoodown Park. He hesitated. If you don’t object, sir, we could give them a lift?

By all means, by all means, said Poirot benignantly. There was he in luxury in an almost empty car and here were these two panting and perspiring young women weighed down with heavy rucksacks and without the least idea how to dress themselves so as to appear attractive to the other sex. The chauffeur started the car and came to a slow purring halt beside the two girls. Their flushed and perspiring faces were raised hopefully.

Poirot opened the door and the girls climbed in.

It is most kind, please, said one of them, a fair girl with a foreign accent. It is longer way than I think, yes.

The other girl, who had a sunburnt and deeply flushed face with bronzed chestnut curls peeping out beneath her headscarf, merely nodded her head several times, flashed her teeth, and murmured, Grazie. The fair girl continued to talk vivaciously.

I to England come for two week holiday. I come from Holland. I like England very much. I have been Stratford Avon, Shakespeare Theatre and Warwick Castle. Then I have been Clovelly, now I have seen Exeter Cathedral and Torquay—very nice—I come to famous beauty spot here and tomorrow I cross river, go to Plymouth where discovery of New World was made from Plymouth Hoe.

And you, signorina? Poirot turned to the other girl. But she only smiled and shook her curls.

She does not much English speak, said the Dutch girl kindly. We both a little French speak—so we talk in train. She is coming from near Milan and has relative in England married to gentleman who keeps shop for much groceries. She has come with friend to Exeter yesterday, but friend has eat veal ham pie not good from shop in Exeter and has to stay there sick. It is not good in hot weather, the veal ham pie.

At this point the chauffeur slowed down where the road forked. The girls got out, uttered thanks in two languages and proceeded up the left-hand road. The chauffeur laid aside for a moment his Olympian aloofness and said feelingly to Poirot:

"It’s not only veal and ham pie—you want to be careful of Cornish pasties too. Put anything in a pasty they will, holiday time!"

He restarted the car and drove down the right-hand road which shortly afterwards passed into thick woods. He proceeded to give a final verdict on the occupants of Hoodown Park Youth Hostel.

Nice enough young women, some of ’em, at that hostel, he said; "but it’s hard to get them to understand about trespassing. Absolutely shocking the way they trespass. Don’t seem to understand that a gentleman’s place is private here. Always coming through our woods, they are, and pretending that they don’t understand what you say to them." He shook his head darkly.

They went on, down a steep hill through woods, then through big iron gates, 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 black-haired butler appeared on the steps.

Mr. Hercule Poirot? murmured the latter.

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."

Poirot stared at her.

Oh, not a real one, said Mrs. Oliver reassuringly. There’s a big fête thing on tomorrow, and as a kind of novelty there’s going to be a Murder Hunt. Arranged by me. Like a Treasure Hunt, you see; only they’ve had a Treasure Hunt so often that they thought this would be a novelty. So they offered me a very substantial fee to come down and think it up. Quite fun, really—rather a change from the usual grim routine.

How does it work?

Well, there’ll be a Victim, of course. And Clues. And Suspects. All rather conventional—you know, the Vamp and the Blackmailer and the Young Lovers and the Sinister Butler and so on. Half a crown to enter and you get shown the first Clue and you’ve got to find the Victim, and the Weapon and say Whodunnit and the Motive. And there are Prizes.

Remarkable! said Hercule Poirot.

Actually, said Mrs. Oliver ruefully, it’s all much harder to arrange than you’d think. Because you’ve got to allow for real people being quite intelligent, and in my books they needn’t be.

And it is to assist you in arranging this that you have sent for me?

Poirot did not try very hard to keep an outraged resentment out of his voice.

"Oh, no, said Mrs. Oliver. Of course not! I’ve done all that. Everything’s all set for tomorrow. No, I wanted you for quite another reason."

What reason?

Mrs. Oliver’s hands strayed upward to her head. She was just about to sweep them frenziedly through her hair in the old familiar gesture when she remembered the intricacy of her hairdo. Instead, she relieved her feelings by tugging at her ear lobes.

I dare say I’m a fool, she said. But I think there’s something wrong.

Two

There was a moment’s silence as Poirot stared at her. Then he asked sharply: "Something wrong? How?"

"I don’t know…That’s what I want you to find out. But I’ve felt—more and more—that I was being—oh!—engineered…jockeyed along…Call me a fool if you like, but I can only say that if there was to be a real murder tomorrow instead of a fake one, I shouldn’t be surprised!"

Poirot stared at her and she looked back at him defiantly.

Very interesting, said Poirot.

I suppose you think I’m a complete fool, said Mrs. Oliver defensively.

I have never thought you a fool, said Poirot.

And I know what you always say—or look—about intuition.

One calls things by different names, said Poirot. "I am quite ready to believe that you have noticed something, or heard something, that has definitely aroused in you anxiety. I think it is possible that you yourself may not even know just what it is that you have seen or noticed or heard. You are aware only of the result. If I may so put it, you do not know what it is that you know. You may label that intuition if you like."

It makes one feel such a fool, said Mrs. Oliver, ruefully, "not to be able to be definite."

We shall arrive, said Poirot encouragingly. You say that you have had the feeling of being—how did you put it—jockeyed along? Can you explain a little more clearly what you mean by that?

"Well, it’s rather difficult…You see, this is my murder, so to speak. I’ve thought it out and planned it and it all fits in—dovetails. Well, if you know anything at all about writers, you’ll know that they can’t stand suggestions. People say ‘Splendid, but wouldn’t it be better if so and so did so and so?’ or ‘Wouldn’t it be a wonderful idea if the victim was A instead of B? Or the murderer turned out to be D instead of E?’ I mean, one wants to say: ‘All right then, write it yourself if you want it that way!’"

Poirot nodded.

And that is what has been happening?

Not quite…That sort of silly suggestion has been made, and then I’ve flared up, and they’ve given in, but have just slipped in some quite minor trivial suggestion and because I’ve made a stand over the other, I’ve accepted the triviality without noticing much.

I see, said Poirot. Yes—it is a method, that…Something rather crude and preposterous is put forward—but that is not really the point. The small minor alteration is really the objective. Is that what you mean?

That’s exactly what I mean, said Mrs. Oliver. "And, of course, I may be imagining it, but I don’t think I am—and none of the things seem to matter anyway. But it’s got me worried—that, and a sort of—well—atmosphere."

Who has made these suggestions of alterations to you?

Different people, said Mrs. Oliver. "If it was just one person I’d be more sure of my ground. But it’s not just one person—although I think it is really. I mean it’s one person working through other quite unsuspecting people."

Have you an idea as to who that one person is?

Mrs. Oliver shook her head.

It’s somebody very clever and very careful, she said. It might be anybody.

Who is there? asked Poirot. The cast of characters must be fairly limited?

Well, began Mrs. Oliver. "There’s Sir George Stubbs who owns this place. Rich and plebeian and frightfully stupid outside business, I should think, but probably dead sharp in it. And there’s Lady Stubbs—Hattie—about twenty years younger than he is, rather beautiful, but dumb as a fish—in fact, I think she’s definitely half-witted. Married him for his money, of course, and doesn’t think about anything but clothes and jewels. Then there’s Michael Weyman—he’s an architect, quite young, and good-looking in a craggy kind of artistic way. He’s designing a tennis pavilion for Sir George and repairing the Folly."

Folly? What is that—a masquerade?

No, it’s architectural. One of those little sort of temple things, white, with columns. You’ve probably seen them at Kew. Then there’s Miss Brewis, she’s a sort of secretary housekeeper, who runs things and writes letters—very grim and efficient. And then there are the people round about who come in and help. A young married couple who have taken a cottage down by the river—Alec Legge and his wife Sally. And Captain Warburton, who’s the Mastertons’ agent. And the Mastertons, of course, and old Mrs. Folliat who lives in what used to be the lodge. Her husband’s people owned Nasse originally. But they’ve died out, or been killed in wars, and there were lots of death duties so the last heir sold the place.

Poirot considered this list of characters, but at the moment they were only names to him. He returned to the main issue.

Whose idea was the Murder Hunt?

"Mrs. Masterton’s, I think. She’s the local M.P.’s wife, very good at organizing. It was

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