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.

‘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 voice was pleasant, a low, soothing cadence 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 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.

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.’