Dead Man's Folly Read Free

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.
    â€œVery interesting,” said Poirot.
    â€œI suppose you think I’m a complete fool,” said Mrs. Oliver defensively.
    â€œI have never thought you a fool,” said Poirot.
    â€œAnd I know what you always say—or look—about intuition.”
    â€œOne 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.”
    â€œIt makes one feel such a fool,” said Mrs. Oliver, ruefully, “not to be able to be definite. ”
    â€œWe 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?”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œAnd that is what has been happening?”
    â€œNot 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.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I mean,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And, ofcourse, 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. ”
    â€œWho has made these suggestions of alterations to you?”
    â€œDifferent 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.”
    â€œHave you an idea as to who that one person is?”
    Mrs. Oliver shook her head.
    â€œIt’s somebody very clever and very careful,” she said. “It might be anybody.”
    â€œWho is there?” asked Poirot. “The cast of characters must be fairly limited?”
    â€œWell,” 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