III

“I wanted to find you, M. Poirot.”

Superintendent¹ Sugden had excused himself and gone back into the house. Looking afterhim, Hilda said:

“I didn’t know he was with you. I thought he was with Pilar. He seems a nice man, quiteconsiderate.”

Her voice was pleasant, a low, soothing² cadence³ 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 youwill, 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 asa mental cripple.”

“Ah!”

“When one suffers some great hurt physically⁴, 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 nothingmore. My husband, M. Poirot, suffered a great hurt mentally at his most susceptible⁵ age. Headored his mother and he saw her die. He believed that his father was morally responsible for thatdeath. From that shock he has never quite recovered. His resentment⁶ against his father never dieddown. It was I who persuaded David to come here this Christmas, to be reconciled to his father. Iwanted it—for his sake—I wanted that mental wound to heal. I realize now that coming here was amistake. Simeon Lee amused himself by probing into that old wound. It was—a very dangerousthing 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 wishto kill was in his heart. It passed out through his fingers and died in waves of sound—that is thetruth.”

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 allseeming, Simeon Lee was entirely⁷ to blame and his wife was abominably⁸ treated. At the sametime, I honestly believe that there is a kind of meekness⁹, a predisposition to martyrdom which doesarouse the worst instincts in men of a certain type. Simeon Lee would have admired, I think, spiritand 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 ofher unhappiness on his shoulders. He was too young—far too young to bear all she gave him tobear!”

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 bea wife.”

She turned away.

At that moment David Lee came out of the house and along the terrace towards them. Hesaid, and his voice had a clear joyful¹⁰ 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, hisblue eyes shone. He looked amazingly young and boyish. There was about him a youthfuleagerness, 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 amomentary 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 confessionmore 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 wasanswered. Lydia Lee was coming towards him.

 

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