Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery by Agatha Christie
‘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
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?’
Part 5
Decembe
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-in-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.’