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‘Ah,’ said Sugden, nodding his head.

‘And if so,’ said Harry Lee, ‘then someone here in the house killed him…But who the devil could have done it? Can’t suspect the servants. Tressilian has been here since the year one. The half-witted footman? Not on your life. Horbury, now, he’s a cool customer, but Tressilian tells me he was out at the pictures. So what do you come to? Passing over Stephen Farr (and why the devil should Stephen Farr come all the way from South Africa and murder a total stranger?) there’s only the family. And for the life of me I can’t see one of us doing it. Alfred? He adored Father. George? He hasn’t got the guts. David? David’s always been a moon dreamer. He’d faint if he saw his own finger bleed. The wives? Women don’t go and slit a man’s throat in cold blood. So who did? Blessed if I know. But it’s damned disturbing.’

Colonel Johnson cleared his throat—an official habit of his—and said:

‘When did you last see your father this evening?’

‘After tea. He’d just had a row with Alfred—about your humble servant. The old man was no end bucked with himself. He always liked stirring up trouble. In my opinion, that’s why he kept my arrival dark from the others. Wanted to see the fur fly when I blew in unexpectedly! That’s why he talked about altering his will, too.’

Poirot stirred softly. He murmured:

‘So your father mentioned his will?’

‘Yes—in front of the whole lot of us, watching us like a cat to see how we reacted. Just told the lawyer chap to come over and see him about it after Christmas.’

Poirot asked:

‘What changes did he contemplate making?’

Harry Lee grinned:

‘He didn’t tell us that! Trust the old fox! I imagine—or shall we say I hoped—that the change was to the advantage of your humble servant! I should imagine I’d been cut out of any former wills. Now, I rather fancy, I was to go back. Nasty blow for the others. Pilar, too—he’d taken a fancy to her. She was in for something good, I should imagine. You haven’t seen her yet? My Spanish niece. She’s a beautiful creature, Pilar—with the lovely warmth of the South—and its cruelty. Wish I wasn’t a mere uncle!’

‘You say your father took to her?’

Harry nodded.

‘She knew how to get round the old man. Sat up there with him a good deal. I bet she knew just what she was after! Well, he’s dead now. No wills can be altered in Pilar’s favour—nor mine either, worse luck.’

He frowned, paused a minute, and then went on with a change of tone.

‘But I’m wandering from the point. You wanted to know what was the last time I saw my father? As I’ve told you, it was after tea—might have been a little past six. The old man was in good spirits then—a bit tired, perhaps. I went away and left him with Horbury. I never saw him again.’

‘Where were you at the time of his death?’

‘In the dining-room with brother Alfred. Not a very harmonious after-dinner session. We were in the middle of a pretty sharp argument when we heard the noise overhead. Sounded as though ten men were wrestling up there. And then poor old Father screamed. It was like killing a pig. The sound of it paralysed Alfred. He just sat there with his jaw dropping. I fairly shook him back to life, and we started off upstairs. The door was locked. Had to break it open. Took some doing, too. How the devil that door came to be locked, I can’t imagine! There was no one in the room but Father, and I’m damned if anyone could have got away through the windows.’

Superintendent Sugden said:

‘The door was locked from the outside.’

‘What?’ Harry stared. ‘But I’ll swear the key was on the inside.’

Poirot murmured:

‘So you noticed that?’

Harry Lee said sharply:

‘I do notice things. It’s a habit of mine.’

He looked sharply from one face to the other.

‘Is there anything more you want to know, gentlemen?’

Johnson shook his head.

‘Thank you, Mr Lee, not for the moment. Perhaps you will ask the next member of the family to come along?’