PART FOUR

DECEMBER 25TH

In the bright sun of Christmas noon, Poirot walked in the gardens of Gorston Hall. The Hall itselfwas a large solidly built house with no special architectural pretensions¹.

Here, on the south side, was a broad terrace flanked with a hedge of clipped yew². Little plantsgrew in the interstices of the stone flags and at intervals³ along the terrace there were stone sinksarranged as miniature gardens.

Poirot surveyed them with benign⁴ approval. He murmured to himself:

“C’est bien imaginé, ?a!”

In the distance he caught sight of two figures going towards an ornamental⁵ sheet of watersome three hundred yards away. Pilar was easily recognizable as one of the figures, and he thoughtat first the other was Stephen Farr, then he saw that the man with Pilar was Harry⁶ Lee. Harryseemed very attentive⁷ to his attractive niece. At intervals he flung his head back and laughed, thenbent once more attentively⁸ 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 standing⁹ there. She, too, waslooking at the retreating figures of the man and girl. She turned her head and smiled enchantinglyat Poirot. She said:

“It’s such a glorious sunny day! One can hardly believe in all the horrors of last night, canone, 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 achild too long, I think—That’s not a good thing to do.”

Again she sighed. She said:

“Pilar, now, seems so extraordinarily¹⁰ self-possessed—I suppose it’s the Spanish blood. It’sall 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 incorrespondence with the Consulate¹¹ in Madrid and with the vice-consul at Aliquara, where hermother died.”

“He was very secretive about it all,” said Magdalene. “Alfred knew nothing about it. No moredid 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. Hedied quite soon after the marriage, and there’s some mystery about it. Alfred and Lydia know. Ibelieve 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 moreabout 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 ofnature 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 inquiry¹².

“Ah,” he said. “The Spanish touch, you think?”

“Well, they are cruel, aren’t they?” Magdalene spoke¹³ with an effect of childish appeal. “Allthose bullfights and things!”

Hercule Poirot said pleasantly:

“You are saying that in your opinion Se?orita Estravados cut her grandfather’s throat?”

“Oh no, M. Poirot!” Magdalene was vehement¹⁴. She was shocked. “I never said anything ofthe kind! Indeed I didn’t!”

“Well,” said Poirot. “Perhaps you did not.”

“But I do think that she is — well, a suspicious person. The furtive¹⁵ way she picked upsomething 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 waslooking, and then pounced¹⁶ on it. But the superintendent¹⁷ man saw her, I’m glad to say, and madeher 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 quitesmall.”

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’supbringing and what her life has been like. Alfred is always so suspicious and dear Lydia is socasual.” Then she murmured: “Perhaps I’d better go and see if I can help Lydia in any way. Theremay be letters to write.”

She left him with a smile of satisfied malice¹⁸ on her lips.

Poirot remained lost in thought on the terrace.

 

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