Hercule Poirot's Christmas

‘There’s a place for coats and things behind the stairs. It’s dark there. I slipped back there, where I could see George come out from this room. But he didn’t come out, and then all the noise happened and Mr Lee screamed, and I ran upstairs.’

‘So your husband did not leave this room until the moment of the murder?’

‘No.’

The chief constable said:

‘And you yourself from nine o’clock to nine-fifteen were waiting in the recess behind the stairs?’ 

‘Yes, but I couldn’tsay so, you see! They’d want to know what I was doing there. It’s been very, very awkward for me, you do see that, don’t you?’

Johnson said dryly:

‘It was certainly awkward.’

She smiled at him sweetly.

‘I’m so relieved to have told you the truth. And you won’t tell my husband, will you? No, I’m sure you won’t! I can trust you, all of you.’

She included them all in her final pleading look, then she slipped quickly out of the room.

Colonel Johnson drew a deep breath.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘It might be like that! It’s a perfectly plausible story. On the other hand–’

‘It might not,’ finished Sugden. ‘That’s just it. We don’t know.’

III

Lydia Lee stood by the far window of the drawing-room looking out. Her figure was half hidden by the heavy window curtains. A sound in the room made her turn with a start to see Hercule Poirot standing by the door.

She said:

‘You startled me, M. Poirot.’ 

‘I apologize, madame. I walk softly.’

She said:

‘I thought it was Horbury.’

Hercule Poirot nodded.

‘It is true, he steps softly, that one – like a cat – or a thief.’

He paused a minute, watching her.

Her face showed nothing, but she made a slight grimace of distate as she said:

‘I have never cared for that man. I shall be glad to get rid of him.’

‘I think you will be wise to do so, madame.’

She looked at him quickly. She said:

‘What do you mean? Do you know anything against him?’

Poirot said:

‘He is a man who collects secrets – and uses them to his advantage.’

She said sharply:

‘Do you think he knows anything – about the murder?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He said:

‘He has quiet feet and long ears. He may have overheard something that he is keeping to himself.’

Lydia said clearly:

‘Do you mean that he may try to blackmail one of us?’ 

‘It is within the bounds of possibility. But that is not what I came here to say.’

‘What did you come to say?’

Poirot said slowly:

‘I have been talking with M. Alfred Lee. He has made me a proposition, and I wished to discuss it with you before accepting or declining it. But I was so struck by the picture you made – the charming pattern of your jumper against the deep red of the curtains, that I paused to admire.’

Lydia said sharply:

‘Really, M. Poirot, must we waste time in compliments?’

‘I beg your pardon, madame. So few English ladies understand la toilette. The dress you were wearing the first night I saw you, its bold but simple pattern, it had grace – distinction.’

Lydia said impatiently:

‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’

Poirot became grave.

‘Just this, madame. Your husband, he wishes me to take up the investigation very seriously. He demands that I stay here, in the house, and do my utmost to get to the bottom of the matter.’

Lydia said sharply:

‘Well?’

Poirot said slowly: 

‘I should not wish to accept an invitation that was not endorsed by the lady of the house.’

She said coldly:

‘Naturally I endorse my husband’s invitation.’

‘Yes, madame, but I need more than that. Do you really want me to come here?’

‘Why not?’

‘Let us be more frank. What I ask you is this: do you want the truth to come out, or not?’

‘Naturally.’

Poirot sighed.

‘Must you return me these conventional replies?’

Lydia said:

‘I am a conventional woman.’

Then she bit her lip, hesitated, and said:

‘Perhaps it is better to speak frankly. Of course I understand you! The position is not a pleasant one. My father-in-law has been brutally murdered, and unless a case can be made out against the most likely suspect – Horbury – for robbery and murder – and it seems that it cannot – then it comes to this – one of his own family killed him. To bring that person to justice will mean bringing shame and disgrace on us all… If I am to speak honestly I must say that I do not want this to happen.’

Poirot said:

‘You are content for the murderer to escape unpunished?’ 

‘There are probably several undiscovered murderers at large in the world.’

‘That, I grant you.’

‘Does one more matter, then?’

Poirot said:

‘And what about the other members of the family? The innocent?’

She stared.

‘What about them?’

‘Do you realize that if it turns out as you hope, no one will ever know. The shadow will remain on all alike…’

She said uncertainly:

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

Poirot said:

‘No one will ever know who the guilty person is…’

He added softly:

‘Unless you already know, madame?’

She cried out:

‘You have no business to say that! It’s not true! Oh! If only it could be a stranger – not a member of the family.’

Poirot said:

‘It might be both.’

She stared at him.

‘What do you mean?’