IV

Lydia said:

“Good morning, M. Poirot. Tressilian told me I should find you out here with Harry¹; but I amglad to find you alone. My husband has been speaking about you. I know he is very anxious to talkto 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 sleepingdraught. 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 verygreat.”

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 deliberately²:

“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 yew³. 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 seemsquite 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 meunspeakably!”

Poirot said:

“So I should imagine!”

He bent⁴ 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 thepenguins 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. Nowthis one is supposed to be Piana in Corsica. The rocks there, you know, are quite pink and toolovely 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 wristwatch.

“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 scooped⁵ up a few of the pebbles⁶ and let themrun 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?”

 

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