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.
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 26th
