with a penny of it.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Magdalene.
Lydia said sharply:
‘If you like to stand out, that is your business. The rest of us will make up your share of the total.’
She looked round for assent and the others nodded.
Harry said: ‘Alfred’s got the lion’s share. He ought to stand most of the racket.’
Alfred said: ‘I see that your original disinterested suggestion will soon break down.’
Hilda said firmly:
‘Don’t let’s start again! Lydia shall tell Pilar what we’ve decided. We can settle details later.’ She added in the hope of making a diversion, ‘I wonder where Mr Farr is, and M. Poirot?’
Alfred said:
‘We dropped Poirot in the village on our way to the inquest. He said he had an important purchase to make.’
Harry said: ‘Why didn’t he go to the inquest? Surely he ought to have done!’
Lydia said:
‘Perhaps he knew it was not going to be important. Who’s that out there in the garden? Superintendent Sugden, or Mr Farr?’
The efforts of the two women were successful. The family conclave broke up.
Lydia said to Hilda privately:
‘Thank you, Hilda. It was nice of you to back me up. You know, you really have been a comfort in all this.’
Hilda said thoughtfully: ‘Queer how money upsets people.’
The others had all left the room. The two women were alone.
Lydia said:
‘Yes – even Harry – although it was his suggestion! And my poor Alfred – he is so British – he doesn’t really like Lee money going to a Spanish subject.’
Hilda said, smiling:
‘Do you think we women are more unworldly?’
Lydia said with a shrug of her graceful shoulders:
‘Well, you know, it isn’t really our money – not our own! That may make a difference.’
Hilda said thoughtfully:
‘She is a strange child – Pilar, I mean. I wonder what will become of her?’
Lydia sighed.
‘I’m glad that she will be independent. To live here, to be given a home and a dress allowance, would not, I think, be very satisfactory to her. She’s too proud and, I think, too – too alien.’
She added musingly:
‘I once brought some beautiful blue lapis home from Egypt. Out there, against the sun and the sand, it was a glorious colour – a brilliant warm blue. But when I got it home, the blue of it hardly showed any more. It was just a dull, darkish string of beads.’
Hilda said:
‘Yes, I see…’
Lydia said gently:
‘I am so glad to come to know you and David at last. I’m glad you both came here.’
Hilda sighed:
‘How often I’ve wished in the last few days that we hadn’t!’
‘I know. You must have done… But you know, Hilda, the shock hasn’t affected David nearly as badly as it might have done. I mean, he is so sensitive that it might have upset him completely. Actually, since the murder, he’s seemed ever so much better–’
Hilda looked slightly disturbed. She said:
‘So you’ve noticed that? It’s rather dreadful in a way… But oh! Lydia, it’s undoubtedly so!’
She was silent a minute recollecting words that her husband had spoken only the night before. He had said to her, eagerly, his fair hair tossed back from his forehead:
‘Hilda, you remember in Tosca – when Scarpia is dead and Tosca lights the candles at his head and feet? Do you remember what she says: ‘Now I can forgive him…’ That is what I feel – about Father. I see now that all these years I couldn’t forgive him, and yet I really wanted to… But no – now there’s no rancour any more. It’s all wiped away. And I feel – oh, I feel as though a great load had been lifted from my back.’
She had said, striving to fight back a sudden fear:
‘Because he’s dead?’
He had answered quickly, stammering in his eagerness:
‘No, no, you don’t understand. Not because he is dead, but because my childish stupid hate of him is dead…’
Hilda thought of those words now.
She would have liked to repeat them to the woman at her side, but she felt instinctively that it was wiser not.
She followed Lydia out of the drawing-room into the hall.
Magdalene was there, standing by the hall table with a little parcel in her hand. She jumped when she saw them. She said:
‘Oh, this must be M. Poirot’s important purchase. I saw him put it down here just now. I wonder what it is.’
She looked from one to the other of them, giggling a little, but her eyes were sharp and anxious, belying the affected gaiety of her words.
Lydia’s eyebrows rose. She said:
‘I must go and wash before lunch.’
Magdalene said, still with that affectation of childishness, but unable to keep the desperate note out of her voice:
‘I must just peep!’
She unrolled the piece of paper and gave a sharp exclamation. She stared at the thing in her hand.
Lydia stopped and Hilda too. Both women stared.
Magdalene said in a puzzled voice:
‘It’s a false moustache. But – but – why?’
Hilda said doubtfully:
‘Disguise? But–’
Lydia finished the sentence for her.
‘But M. Poirot has a very fine moustache of his own!’
Magdalene was wrapping the parcel up again. She said:
‘I don’t understand. It’s – it’s mad. Why does M. Poirot buy a false moustache?’
When Pilar left the drawing-room she walked slowly along the hall. Stephen Farr was coming in through the garden door. He said:
‘Well? Is the family conclave over? Has the will been read?’
Pilar said, her breath coming fast:
‘I have got nothing – nothing at all! It was a will made many years ago. My grandfather left money to my mother, but because she is dead it does not go to me but goes back to them.’
Stephen said:
‘That seems rather hard lines.’
Pilar said:
‘If that old man had lived, he would have made another will. He would have left money to me – a lot of
