In the bright sun of Christmas noon, Poirot walked in the gardens of Gorston Hall. The Hall itself was a large solidly built house with no special architectural pretensions.

Here, on the south side, was a broad terrace flanked with a hedge of clipped yew. Little plants grew in the interstices of the stone flags and at intervals along the terrace there were stone sinks arranged as miniature gardens.

Poirot surveyed them with benign approval. He murmured to himself:

'C'est bien imaginé, c¸a!'

In the distance he caught sight of two figures going towards an ornamental sheet of water some three hundred yards away. Pilar was easily recognizable as one of the figures, and he thought at first the other was Stephen Farr, then he saw that the man with Pilar was Harry Lee. Harry seemed very attentive to his attractive niece. At intervals he flung his head back and laughed, then bent once more attentively towards her.

'Assuredly, there is one who does not mourn,' Poirot murmured to himself.

A soft sound behind him made him turn. Magdalene Lee was standing there. She, too, was looking at the retreating figures of the man and girl. She turned her head and smiled enchantingly at Poirot. She said:

'It's such a glorious sunny day! One can hardly believe in all the horrors of last night, can one, M. Poirot?'

'It is difficult, truly, madame.'

Magdalene sighed.

'I've never been mixed up in tragedy before. I've—I've really only just grown up. I stayed a child too long, I think—That's not a good thing to do.'

Again she sighed. She said:

'Pilar, now, seems so extraordinarily self-possessed—I suppose it's the Spanish blood. It's all very odd, isn't it?'

'What is odd, madame?'

'The way she turned up here, out of the blue!'

Poirot said:

'I have learned that Mr Lee had been searching for her for some time. He had been in correspondence with the Consulate in Madrid and with the vice-consul at Aliquara, where her mother died.'

'He was very secretive about it all,' said Magdalene. 'Alfred knew nothing about it. No more did Lydia.'

'Ah!' said Poirot.

Magdalene came a little nearer to him. He could smell the delicate perfume she used.

'You know, M. Poirot, there's some story connected with Jennifer's husband, Estravados. He died quite soon after the marriage, and there's some mystery about it. Alfred and Lydia know. I believe it was something—rather disgraceful...'

'That,' said Poirot, 'is indeed sad.'

Magdalene said:

'My husband feels—and I agree with him—that the family ought to have been told more about the girl's antecedents. After all, if her father was a criminal—'

She paused, but Hercule Poirot said nothing. He seemed to be admiring such beauties of nature as could be seen in the winter season in the grounds of Gorston Hall.

Magdalene said:

'I can't help feeling that the manner of my father-in-law's death was somehow significant. It—it was so very unEnglish.'

Hercule Poirot turned slowly. His grave eyes met hers in innocent inquiry.

'Ah,' he said. 'The Spanish touch, you think?'

'Well, they are cruel, aren't they?' Magdalene spoke with an effect of childish appeal. 'All those bull fights and things!'

Hercule Poirot said pleasantly:

'You are saying that in your opinion señorita Estravados cut her grandfather's throat?'

'Oh no, M. Poirot!' Magdalene was vehement. She was shocked. 'I never said anything of the kind! Indeed I didn't!'

'Well,' said Poirot. 'Perhaps you did not.'

'But I do think that she is—well, a suspicious person. The furtive way she picked up something from the floor of that room last night, for instance.'

A different note crept into Hercule Poirot's voice. He said sharply:

'She picked up something from the floor last night?'

Magdalene nodded. Her childish mouth curved spitefully.

'Yes, as soon as we got into the room. She gave a quick glance round to see if anyone was looking, and then pounced on it. But the superintendent man saw her, I'm glad to say, and made her give it up.'

'What was it that she picked up, do you know, madame?'

'No. I wasn't near enough to see.' Magdalene's voice held regret. 'It was something quite small.'

Poirot frowned to himself.

'It is interesting, that,' he murmured to himself.

Magdalene said quickly:

'Yes, I thought you ought to know about it. After all, we don't know anything about Pilar's upbringing and what her life has been like. Alfred is always so suspicious and dear Lydia is so casual.' Then she murmured: 'Perhaps I'd better go and see if I can help Lydia in any way. There may be letters to write.'

She left him with a smile of satisfied malice on her lips.

Poirot remained lost in thought on the terrace.

II

To him there came Superintendent Sugden. The police superintendent looked gloomy. He said:

'Good morning, Mr Poirot. Doesn't seem quite the right thing to say Merry Christmas, does it?'

'Mon cher collègue, I certainly do not observe any traces of merriment on your countenance. If you had said Merry Christmas I should not have replied "Many of them!" '

'I don't want another one like this one, and that's a fact,' said Sugden.

'You have made the progress, yes?'

'I've checked up on a good many points. Horbury's alibi is holding water all right. The commissionaire at the cinema saw him go in with the girl, and saw him come out with her at the end of the performance, and seems pretty positive he didn't leave, and couldn't have left and returned during the performance. The girl swears quite definitely he was with her in the cinema all the time.'

Poirot's eyebrows rose.

'I hardly see, then, what more there is to say.'

The cynical Sugden said:

'Well, one never knows with girls! Lie themselves black in the face for the sake of a man.'

'That does credit to their hearts,' said Hercule Poirot.

Sugden growled.

'That's a foreign way of looking at it. It's defeating the ends of justice.'

Hercule Poirot said:

'Justice is a very strange thing. Have you ever reflected on it?'

Sugden stared at him. He said:

'You're a queer one, Mr Poirot.'

'Not at all. I follow a logical train of thought. But we will not enter into a dispute on the question. It is your belief, then, that this demoiselle from the milk shop is not speaking the truth?'

Sugden shook his head.

'No,' he said, 'it's not like that at all. As a matter of fact, I think she is telling the truth. She's a simple kind of girl, and I think if she was telling me a pack of lies I'd spot it.'

Poirot said:

'You have the experience, yes?'

'That's just it, Mr Poirot. One does know, more or less, after a lifetime of taking down statements, when a person's lying and when they're not. No, I think the girl's evidence is genuine, and if so, Horbury couldn't have murdered old Mr Lee, and that brings us right back to the people in the house.'

He drew a deep breath.

'One of 'em did it, Mr Poirot. One of 'em did it. But which?'

'You have no new data?'

'Yes, I've had a certain amount of luck over the telephone calls. Mr George Lee put through a call to Westeringham at two minutes to nine. That call lasted under six minutes.'

'Aha!'

'As you say! Moreover, no other call was put through—to Westeringham or anywhere else.'

'Very interesting,' said Poirot, with approval. 'M. George Lee says he has just finished telephoning when he hears the noise overhead—but actually he had finished telephoning nearly ten minutes before that. Where was he in those ten minutes? Mrs George Lee says that she was telephoning—but actually she never put through a call at all. Where was she?'

Sugden said:

'I saw you talking to her, M. Poirot?'

His voice held a question, but Poirot replied:

'You are in error!'

'Eh?'

'I was not talking to her—she was talking to me!'

'Oh—' Sugden seemed to be about to brush the distinction aside impatiently; then, as its significance sank in, he said:

'She was talking to you, you say?'

'Most definitely. She came out here for that purpose.'

'What did she have to say?'

'She wished to stress certain points: the unEnglish character of the crime—the possibly undesirable antecedents of Miss Estravados on the paternal side—the fact that Miss Estravados had furtively picked up something from the floor last night.'

'She told you that, did she?' said Sugden with interest.

'Yes. What was it that the señorita picked up?'

Sugden sighed.

'I could give you three hundred guesses! I'll show it to you. It's the sort of thing that solves the whole mystery in detective stories! If you can make anything out of it, I'll retire from the police force!'

'Show it me.'

Sugden took an envelope from his pocket and tilted its contents on to the palm of his hand. A faint grin showed on his face.

'There you are. What do you make of it?'

On the superintendent's broad palm lay a little triangular piece of pink rubber and a small wooden peg.

His grin broadened as Poirot picked up the articles and frowned over them.

'Make anything of them, Mr Poirot?'

'This little piece of stuff might have been cut from a spongebag?'

'It was. It comes from a spongebag in Mr Lee's room. Somebody with sharp scissors just cut a small triangular piece out of it. Mr Lee may have done it himself, for all I know. But it beats me why he should do it. Horbury can't throw any light on the matter. As for the peg, it's about the size of a crib-bage peg, but they're usually made of ivory. This is just rough wood—whittled out of a bit of deal, I should say.'

'Most remarkable,' murmured Poirot.

'Keep 'em if you like,' said Sugden kindly. 'I don't want them.'

'Mon ami, I would not deprive you of them!'

'They don't mean anything at all to you?'

'I must confess—nothing whatever!'

'Splendid!' said Sugden with heavy sarcasm, returning them to his pocket. 'We are getting on!'

Poirot said:

'Mrs George Lee, she recounts that the young lady stooped and picked these bagatelles up in a furtive manner. Should you say that that was true?'

Sugden considered the point.

'N-o,' he said hesitatingly. 'I shouldn't quite go as far as that. She didn't look guilty—nothing of that kind—but she did set about it rather—well, quickly and quietly—if you know what I mean. And she didn't know I'd seen her do it! That I'm sure of. She jumped when I rounded on her.'

Poirot said thoughtfully:

'Then there was a reason? But what conceivable reason could there have been? That little piece of rubber is quite fresh. It has not been used for anything. It can have no meaning whatsoever; and yet—'

Sugden said impatiently:

'Well, you can worry about it if you like, Mr Poirot. I've got other things to think about.'

Poirot asked:

'The case stands—where, in your opinion?'

Sugden took out his note-book.

'Let's get down to facts. To begin with, there are the people who couldn't have done it. Let's get them out of the way first—'

'They are—?'

'Alfred and Harry Lee. They've got a definite alibi. Also Mrs Alfred Lee, since Tressilian saw her in the drawing-room only about a minute before the row started upstairs. Those three are clear. Now for the others. Here's a list. I've put it this way for clearness.'

He handed the book to Poirot.

At the time of the crime

George Lee?

Mrs George Lee?

David Lee playing piano in music-room

(confirmed by his wife)

Mrs David Lee in music-room (confirmed by husband)

Miss Estravados in her bedroom (no confirmation)

Stephen Farr in ballroom playing gramophone

(confirmed by three of staff

who could hear the music in

servants' hall).

Poirot said, handing back the list:

'And therefore?'

'And therefore,' said Sugden, 'George Lee could have killed the old man. Mrs George Lee could have killed him. Pilar Estravados could have killed him; and either Mr or Mrs David Lee could have killed him, but not both.'

'You do not, then, accept that alibi?'

Superintendent Sugden shook his head emphatically.

'Not on your life! Husband and wife—devoted to each other! They may be in it together, or if one of them did it, the other is ready to swear to an alibi. I look at it this way: Someone was in the music-room playing the piano. It may have been David Lee. It probably was, since he was an acknowledged musician, but there's nothing to say his wife was there too except her word and his. In the same way, it may have been Hilda who was playing that piano while David Lee crept upstairs and killed his father! No, it's an absolutely different case from the two brothers in the dining-room. Alfred Lee and Harry Lee don't love each other. Neither of them would perjure himself for the other's sake.'

'What about Stephen Farr?'

'He's a possible suspect because that gramophone alibi is a bit thin. On the other hand, it's the sort of alibi that's really sounder than a good cast-iron dyed-in-the-wool alibi which, ten to one, has been faked up beforehand!'

Poirot bowed his head thoughtfully.

'I know what you mean. It is the alibi of a man who did not know that he would be called upon to provide such a thing.'

'Exactly! And anyway, somehow, I don't believe a stranger was mixed up in this thing.'

Poirot said quickly:

'I agree with you. It is here a family affair. It is a poison that works in the blood—it is intimate—it is deep-seated. There is here, I think, hate and knowledge...'

He waved his hands.

'I do not know—it is difficult!'

Superintendent Sugden had waited respectfully, but without being much impressed. He said:

'Quite so, Mr Poirot. But we'll get at it, never fear, with elimination and logic. We've got the possibilities now—the people with opportunity. George Lee, Magdalene Lee, David Lee, Hilda Lee, Pilar Estravados, and I'll add, Stephen Farr. Now we come to motive. Who had a motive for putting old Mr Lee out of the way? There again we can wash out certain people. Miss Estravados, for one. I gather that as the will stands now, she doesn't get anything at all. If Simeon Lee had died before her mother, her mother's share would have come down to her (unless her mother willed it otherwise), but as Jennifer Estravados predeceased Simeon Lee, that particular legacy reverts to the other members of the family. So it was definitely to Miss Estravados' interests to keep the old man alive. He'd taken a fancy to her; it's pretty certain he'd have left her a good slice of money when he made a new will. She had everything to lose and nothing to gain by his murder. You agree to that?'

'Perfectly.'

'There remains, of course, the possibility that she cut his throat in the heat of a quarrel, but that seems extremely unlikely to me. To begin with, they were on the best of terms, and she hadn't been here long enough to bear him a grudge about anything. It therefore seems highly unlikely that Miss Estravados has anything to do with the crime—except that you might argue that to cut a man's throat is an unEnglish sort of thing to do, as your friend Mrs George put it?'

'Do not call her my friend,' said Poirot hastily. 'Or I shall speak of your friend Miss Estravados, who finds you such a handsome man!'

He had the pleasure of seeing the superintendent's official poise upset again. The police officer turned crimson. Poirot looked at him with malicious amusement.

He said, and there was a wistful note in his voice:

'It is true that your moustache is superb...Tell me, do you use for it a special pomade?'

'Pomade? Good lord, no!'

'What do you use?'

'Use? Nothing at all. It—it just grows.'

Poirot sighed.

'You are favoured by nature.' He caressed his own luxuriant black moustache, then sighed. 'However expensive the preparation,' he murmured, 'to restore the natural colour does somewhat impoverish the quality of the hair.'

Superintendent Sugden, uninterested in hair-dressing problems, was continuing in a stolid manner:

'Considering the motive for the crime, I should say that we can probably wash out Mr Stephen Farr. It's just possible that there was some hanky-panky between his father and Mr Lee and the former suffered, but I doubt it. Farr's manner was too easy and assured when he mentioned that subject. He was quite confident—and I don't think he was acting. No, I don't think we'll find anything there.'

'I do not think you will,' said Poirot.

'And there's one other person with a motive for keeping old Mr Lee alive—his son Harry. It's true that he benefits under the will, but I don't believe he was aware of the fact. Certainly couldn't have been sure of it! The general impression seemed to be that Harry had been definitely cut out of his share of the inheritance at the time he cut loose. But now he was on the point of coming back into favour! It was all to his advantage that his father should make a new will. He wouldn't be such a fool as to kill him now. Actually, as we know, he couldn't have done it. You see, we're getting on; we're clearing quite a lot of people out of the way.'

'How true. Very soon there will be nobody left!'

Sugden grinned.

'We're not going as fast as that! We've got George Lee and his wife, and David Lee and Mrs David. They all benefit by the death, and George Lee, from all I can make out, is grasping about money. Moreover, his father was threatening to cut down supplies. So we've got George Lee with motive and opportunity!'

'Continue,' said Poirot.

'And we've got Mrs George! As fond of money as a cat is fond of cream; and I'd be prepared to bet she's heavily in debt at the minute! She was jealous of the Spanish girl. She was quick to spot that the other was gaining an ascendancy over the old man. She'd heard him say that he was sending for the lawyer. So she struck quickly. You could make out a case.'

'Possibly.'

'Then there's David Lee and his wife. They inherit under the present will, but I don't believe, somehow, that the money motive would be particularly strong in their case.'

'No?'

'No. David Lee seems to be a bit of a dreamer—not a mercenary type. But he's—well, he's odd. As I see it, there are three possible motives for this murder: There's the diamond complication, there's the will, and there's—well—just plain hate.'

'Ah, you see that, do you?'

Sugden said:

'Naturally. It's been present in my mind all along. If David Lee killed his father, I don't think it was for money. And if he was the criminal it might explain the—well, the blood-letting!'

Poirot looked at him appreciatively.

'Yes, I wondered when you would take that into consideration. So much blood—that is what Mrs Alfred said. It takes one back to ancient rituals—to blood sacrifice, to the anointing with the blood of the sacrifice...'

Sugden said, frowning:

'You mean whoever did it was mad?'

'Mon cher—there are all sorts of deep instincts in man of which he himself is unaware. The craving for blood—the demand for sacrifice!'

Sugden said doubtfully:

'David Lee looks a quiet, harmless fellow.'

Poirot said:

'You do not understand the psychology. David Lee is a man who lives in the past—a man in whom the memory of his mother is still very much alive. He kept away from his father for many years because he could not forgive his father's treatment of his mother. He came here, let us suppose, to forgive. But he may not have been able to forgive...We do know one thing—that when David Lee stood by his father's dead body, some part of him was appeased and satisfied. "The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small." Retribution! Payment! The wrong wiped out by expiation!'

Sugden gave a sudden shudder. He said:

'Don't talk like that, Mr Poirot. You give me quite a turn. It may be that it's as you say. If so, Mrs David knows—and means to shield him all she knows how. I can imagine her doing that. On the other hand, I can't imagine her being a murderess. She's such a comfortable commonplace sort of woman.'

Poirot looked at him curiously.

'So she strikes you like that?' he murmured.

'Well, yes—a homely body, if you know what I mean!'

'Oh, I know what you mean perfectly!'

Sugden looked at him.

'Come, now, Mr Poirot, you've got ideas about the case. Let's have them.'

Poirot said slowly: 'I have ideas, yes, but they are rather nebulous. Let me first hear your summing-up of the case.'

'Well, it's as I said—three possible motives: hate, gain, and this diamond complication. Take the facts chronologically.

'3.30. Family gathering. Telephone conversation to lawyer overheard by all the family. Then the old man lets loose on his family, tells them where they all get off. They slink out like a lot of scared rabbits.'

'Hilda Lee remained behind,' said Poirot.

'So she did. But not for long. Then about six Alfred has an interview with his father—unpleasant interview. Harry is to be reinstated. Alfred isn't pleased. Alfred, of course, ought to be our principal suspect. He had by far the strongest motive. However, to get on, Harry comes along next. Is in boisterous spirits. Has got the old man just where he wants him. But before those two interviews Simeon Lee has discovered the loss of the diamonds and has telephoned to me. He doesn't mention his loss to either of his two sons. Why? In my opinion because he was quite sure neither of them had anything to do with it. Neither of them were under suspicion. I believe, as I've said all along, that the old man suspected Horbury and one other person. And I'm pretty sure of what he meant to do. Remember, he said definitely he didn't want anyone to come and sit with him that evening. Why? Because he was preparing the way for two things: First, my visit; and second, the visit of that other suspected person. He did ask someone to come and see him immediately after dinner. Now who was that person likely to be? Might have been George Lee. Much more likely to have been his wife. And there's another person who comes back into the picture here—Pilar Estravados. He's shown her the diamonds. He'd told her their value. How do we know that girl isn't a thief? Remember these mysterious hints about the disgraceful behaviour of her father. Perhaps he was a professional thief and finally went to prison for it.'

Poirot said slowly:

'And so, as you say, Pilar Estravados comes back into the picture...'

'Yes—as a thief. No other way. She may have lost her head when she was found out. She may have flown at her grandfather and attacked him.'

Poirot said slowly:

'It is possible—yes...'

Superintendent Sugden looked at him keenly.

'But that's not your idea? Come, Mr Poirot, what is your idea?'

Poirot said:

'I go back always to the same thing: the character of the dead man. What manner of a man was Simeon Lee?'

'There isn't much mystery about that,' said Sugden, staring.

'Tell me, then. That is to say, tell me from the local point of view what was known of the man.'

Superintendent Sugden drew a doubtful finger along his jawbone. He looked perplexed. He said:

'I'm not a local man myself. I come from Reeveshire, over the border—next county. But of course old Mr Lee was a well-known figure in these parts. I know all about him by hearsay.'

'Yes? And that hearsay was—what?'

Sugden said:

'Well, he was a sharp customer; there weren't many who could get the better of him. But he was generous with his money. Openhanded as they make 'em. Beats me how Mr George Lee can be the exact opposite, and be his father's son.'

'Ah! But there are two distinct strains in the family. Alfred, George, and David resemble—superficially at least—their mother's side of the family. I have been looking at some portraits in the gallery this morning.'

'He was hot-tempered,' continued Superintendent Sugden, 'and of course he had a bad reputation with women—that was in his younger days. He's been an invalid for many years now. But even there he always behaved generously. If there was trouble, he always paid up handsomely and got the girl married off as often as not. He may have been a bad lot, but he wasn't mean. He treated his wife badly, ran after other women, and neglected her. She died of a broken heart, so they say. It's a convenient term, but I believe she was really very unhappy, poor lady. She was always sickly and never went about much. There's no doubt that Mr Lee was an odd character. Had a revengeful streak in him, too. If anyone did him a nasty turn he always paid it back, so they say, and didn't mind how long he had to wait to do it.'

'The mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small,' murmured Poirot.

Superintendent Sugden said heavily:

'Mills of the devil, more likely! Nothing saintly about Simeon Lee. The kind of man you might say had sold his soul to the devil and enjoyed the bargain! And he was proud, too, proud as Lucifer.'

'Proud as Lucifer!' said Poirot. 'It is suggestive, what you say there.'

Superintendent Sugden said, looking puzzled:

'You don't mean that he was murdered because he was proud?'

'I mean,' said Poirot, 'that there is such a thing as inheritance. Simeon Lee transmitted that pride to his sons—'

He broke off. Hilda Lee had come out of the house and was standing looking along the terrace.

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. Poirot. 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?'