Sugden said:

‘Some criminals think they can get away with anything!’

He went on:

‘Let’s take (2). Horbury pinched those diamonds. He took ’em out of the house tonight and has possibly passed them on to some accomplice. That’s quite easy going and highly probable. Now we’ve got to admit that somebody else chose this night to murder Mr Lee. That somebody being quite unaware of the diamond complication. It’s possible, of course, but it’s a bit of a coincidence.

‘Possibility (3) – Horbury’s innocent. Somebody else both took the diamonds and murdered the old gentleman. There it is; it’s up to us to get at the truth.’

Colonel Johnson yawned. He looked again at his watch and got up.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think we’ll call it a night, eh? Better just have a look in the safe before we go. Odd thing if those wretched diamonds were there all the time.’

But the diamonds were not in the safe. They found the combination where Alfred Lee had told them, in the small note-book taken from the dressing-gown pocket of the dead man. In the safe they found an empty chamois-leather bag. Among the papers the safe contained only one was of interest.

It was a will dated some fifteen years previously. After various legacies and bequests, the provisions were simple enough. Half Simeon Lee’s fortune went to Alfred Lee. The other half was to be divided in equal shares between his remaining children: Harry, George, David and Jennifer.

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, ça!’

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 senorita 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.

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 collegue, 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?’