III

‘I wanted to find you, M. Poirot.’

Superintendent Sugden had excused himself and gone back into the house. Looking after him, Hilda said: ‘I didn’t know he was with you. I thought he was with Pilar. He seems a nice man, quite considerate.’

Her voice was pleasant, a low, soothing cadence to it.

Poirot asked: ‘You wanted to see me, you say?’

She inclined her head. ‘Yes. I think you can help me.’

‘I shall be delighted to do so, madame.’

She said: ‘You are a very intelligent man, M. Poi-rot. I saw that last night. There are things which you will, I think, find out quite easily. I want you to understand my husband.’

‘Yes, madame?’

‘I shouldn’t talk like this to Superintendent Sugden. He wouldn’t understand. But you will.’

Poirot bowed. ‘You honour me, madame.’

Hilda went calmly on: ‘My husband, for many years, ever since I married him, has been what I can only describe as a mental cripple.’

‘Ah!’

‘When one suffers some great hurt physically, it causes shock and pain, but slowly it mends, the flesh heals, the bone knits. There may be, perhaps, a little weakness, a slight scar, but nothing more. My husband, M. Poirot, suffered a great hurt mentally at his most susceptible age. He adored his mother and he saw her die. He believed that his father was morally responsible for that death. From that shock he has never quite recovered. His resentment against his father never died down. It was I who persuaded David to come here this Christmas, to be reconciled to his father. I wanted it – for his sake – I wanted that mental wound to heal. I realize now that coming here was a mistake. Simeon Lee amused himself by probing into that old wound. It was – a very dangerous thing to do…’

Poirot said: ‘Are you telling me, madame, that your husband killed his father?’

‘I am telling you, M. Poirot, that he easily might have done so… And I will also tell you this – that he did not! When Simeon Lee was killed, his son was playing the Dead March. The wish to kill was in his heart. It passed out through his fingers and died in waves of sound – that is the truth.’

Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said: ‘And you, madame, what is your verdict on that past drama?’

‘You mean the death of Simeon Lee’s wife?’

‘Yes.’

Hilda said slowly: ‘I know enough of life to know that you can never judge any case on its outside merits. To all seeming, Simeon Lee was entirely to blame and his wife was abominably treated. At the same time, I honestly believe that there is a kind of meekness, a predisposition to martyrdom which does arouse the worst instincts in men of a certain type. Simeon Lee would have admired, I think, spirit and force of character. He was merely irritated by patience and tears.’

Poirot nodded. He said: ‘Your husband said last night: “My mother never complained.” Is that true?’

Hilda Lee said impatiently: ‘Of course it isn’t! She complained the whole time to David! She laid the whole burden of her unhappiness on his shoulders. He was too young – far too young to bear all she gave him to bear!’

Poirot looked thoughtfully at her. She flushed under his gaze and bit her lip.

He said: ‘I see.’

She said sharply: ‘What do you see?’

He answered: ‘I see that you have had to be a mother to your husband when you would have preferred to be a wife.’

She turned away.

At that moment David Lee came out of the house and along the terrace towards them. He said, and his voice had a clear joyful note in it: ‘Hilda, isn’t it a glorious day? Almost like spring instead of winter.’

He came nearer. His head was thrown back, a lock of fair hair fell across his forehead, his blue eyes shone. He looked amazingly young and boyish. There was about him a youthful eagerness, a carefree radiance. Hercule Poirot caught his breath…

David said: ‘Let’s go down to the lake, Hilda.’

She smiled, put her arm through his, and they moved off together.

As Poirot watched them go, he saw her turn and give him a rapid glance. He caught a momentary glimpse of swift anxiety – or was it, he wondered, fear?

Slowly Hercule Poirot walked to the other end of the terrace. He murmured to himself: ‘As I have always said, me, I am the father confessor! And since women come to confession more frequently than men, it is women who have come to me this morning. Will there, I wonder, be another very shortly?’

As he turned at the end of the terrace and paced back again, he knew that his question was answered. Lydia Lee was coming towards him.

IV

Lydia said: ‘Good morning, M. Poirot. Tressilian told me I should find you out here with Harry; but I am glad to find you alone. My husband has been speaking about you. I know he is very anxious to talk to you.’

‘Ah! Yes? Shall I go and see him now?’

‘Not just yet. He got hardly any sleep last night. In the end I gave him a strong sleeping draught. He is still asleep, and I don’t want to disturb him.’

‘I quite understand. That was very wise. I could see last night that the shock had been very great.’

She said seriously: ‘You see, M. Poirot, he really cared – much more than the others.’

‘I understand.’

She asked: ‘Have you – has the superintendent – any idea of who can have done this awful thing?’

Poirot said deliberately: ‘We have certain ideas, madame, as to who did not do it.’

Lydia said, almost impatiently: ‘It’s like a nightmare – so fantastic – I can’t believe it’s real!’ She added: ‘What about Horbury? Was he really at the cinema, as he said?’

‘Yes, madame, his story has been checked. He was speaking the truth.’

Lydia stopped and plucked at a bit of yew. Her face went a little paler. She said: ‘But that’s awful! It only leaves – the family!’

‘Exactly.’

‘M. Poirot, I can’t believe it!’

‘Madame, you can and you do believe it!’

She seemed about to protest. Then suddenly she smiled ruefully.

She said: ‘What a hypocrite one is!’

He nodded. ‘If you were to be frank with me, madame,’ he said, ‘you would admit that to you it seems quite natural that one of his family should murder your father-in-law.’

Lydia said sharply: ‘That’s really a fantastic thing to say, M. Poirot!’

‘Yes, it is. But your father-in-law was a fantastic person!’

Lydia said: ‘Poor old man. I can feel sorry for him now. When he was alive, he just annoyed me unspeakably!’

Poirot said: ‘So I should imagine!’ He bent over one of the stone sinks. ‘They are very ingenious, these. Very pleasing.’

‘I’m glad you like them. It’s one of my hobbies. Do you like this Arctic one with the penguins and the ice?’

‘Charming. And this – what is this?’

‘Oh, that’s the Dead Sea – or going to be. It isn’t finished yet. You mustn’t look at it. Now this one is supposed to be Piana in Corsica. The rocks there, you know, are quite pink and too lovely where they go down into the blue sea. This desert scene is rather fun, don’t you think?’

She led him along. When they had reached the farther end she glanced at her wrist-watch.

‘I must go and see if Alfred is awake.’

When she had gone Poirot went slowly back again to the garden representing the Dead Sea. He looked at it with a good deal of interest. Then he scooped up a few of the pebbles and let them run through his fingers.

Suddenly his face changed. He held up the pebbles close to his face.

‘Sapristi!’ he said. ‘This is a surprise! Now what exactly does this mean?’

Part 5

December 26^th

I

The chief constable and Superintendent Sugden stared at Poirot incredulously. The latter returned a stream of small pebbles carefully into a small cardboard box and pushed it across to the chief constable.

‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘It is the diamonds all right.’

‘And you found them where, did you say? In the garden?’

‘In one of the small gardens constructed by Madame Alfred Lee.’

‘Mrs Alfred?’ Sugden shook his head. ‘Doesn’t seem likely.’

Poirot said: ‘You mean, I suppose, that you do not consider it likely that Mrs Alfred cut her father-n-law’s throat?’

Sugden said quickly: ‘We know she didn’t do that. I meant it seemed unlikely that she pinched these diamonds.’

Poirot said: ‘One would not easily believe her a thief – no.’

Sugden said: ‘Anybody could have hidden them there.’

‘That is true. It was convenient that in that particular garden – the Dead Sea as it represents – there happened to be pebbles very similar in shape and appearance.’

Sugden said: ‘You mean she fixed it like that beforehand? Ready?’

Colonel Johnson said warmly: ‘I don’t believe it for a moment. Not for a moment. Why should she take the diamonds in the first place?’

‘Well, as to that – ’ Sugden said slowly.

Poirot nipped in quickly: ‘There is a possible answer to that. She took the diamonds to suggest a motive for the murder. That is to say she knew that murder was going to be done though she herself took no active part in it.’

Johnson frowned. ‘That won’t hold water for a minute. You’re making her out to be an accomplice – but whose accomplice would she be likely to be? Only her husband’s. But as we know that he, too, had nothing to do with the murder, the whole theory falls to the ground.’

Sugden stroked his jaw reflectively. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s so. No, if Mrs Lee took the diamonds – and it’s a big if – it was just plain robbery, and it’s true she might have prepared that garden specially as a hiding-place for them till the hue and cry had died down. Another possibility is that of coincidence. That garden, with its similarity of pebbles, struck the thief, whoever he or she was, as an ideal hiding-place.’

Poirot said: ‘That is quite possible. I am always prepared to admit one coincidence.’

Superintendent Sugden shook his head dubiously.

Poirot said: ‘What is your opinion, Superintendent?’

The superintendent said cautiously: ‘Mrs Lee’s a very nice lady. Doesn’t seem likely that she’d be mixed up in any business that was fishy. But, of course, one never knows.’

Colonel Johnson said testily: ‘In any case, whatever the truth is about the diamonds, her being mixed up in the murder is out of the question. The butler saw her in the drawing-room at the actual time of the crime. You remember that, Poirot?’

Poirot said: ‘I had not forgotten that.’

The chief constable turned to his subordinate. ‘We’d better get on. What have you to report? Anything fresh?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve got hold of some new information. To start with – Horbury. There’s a reason why he might be scared of the police.’

‘Robbery? Eh?’

‘No, sir. Extorting money under threats. Modified blackmail. The case couldn’t be proved so he got off, but I rather fancy he’s got away with a thing or two in that line. Having a guilty conscience, he probably thought we were on to something of that kind when Tressilian mentioned a police officer last night and it made him get the wind up.’

The chief constable said: ‘H’m! So much for Horbury. What else?’

The superintendent coughed. ‘Er – Mrs George Lee, sir. We’ve got a line on her before her marriage. Was living with a Commander Jones. Passed as his daughter – but she wasn’t his daughter… I think from what we’ve been told, that old Mr Lee summed her up pretty correctly – he was smart where women were concerned, knew a bad lot when he saw one – and was just amusing himself by taking a shot in the dark. And he got her on the raw!’

Colonel Johnson said thoughtfully: ‘That gives her another possible motive – apart from the money angle. She may have thought he knew something definite and was going to give her away to her husband. That telephone story of hers is pretty fishy. She didn’t telephone.’

Sugden suggested: ‘Why not have them in together, sir, and get at that telephone business straight? See what we get.’

Colonel Johnson said: ‘Good idea.’

He rang the bell. Tressilian answered it.

‘Ask Mr and Mrs George Lee to come here.’

‘Very good, sir.’

As the old man turned away, Poirot said: ‘The date on that wall calendar, has it remained like it is since the murder?’

Tressilian turned back. ‘Which calendar, sir?’

‘The one on the wall over there.’

The three men were sitting once more in Alfred Lee’s small sitting-room. The calendar in question was a large one with tear-off leaves, a bold date on each leaf.

Tressilian peered across the room, then shuffled slowly across till he was a foot or two away. He said: ‘Excuse me, sir, it has been torn off. It’s the twenty-sixth today.’

‘Ah, pardon. Who would have been the person to tear it off?’

‘Mr Lee does, sir, every morning. Mr Alfred, he’s a very methodical gentleman.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

Tressilian went out. Sugden said, puzzled: ‘Is there anything fishy about that calendar, Mr Poirot? Have I missed something there?’

With a shrug of his shoulders Poirot said: ‘The calendar is of no importance. It was just a little experiment I was making.’

Colonel Johnson said: ‘Inquest tomorrow. There’ll be an adjournment, of course.’

Sugden said: ‘Yes, sir, I’ve seen the Coroner and it’s all arranged for.’