Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly

‘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.’