Hercule Poirot's Christmas - Agatha Christie [61]
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?’
‘It might be a member of the family—and, at the same time, a stranger…You do not see what I mean? Eh bien, it is an idea that has occurred to the mind of Hercule Poirot.’
He looked at her.
‘Well, madame, what am I to say to Mr Lee?’
Lydia raised her hands and let them fall in a sudden helpless gesture.
She said:
‘Of course—you must accept.’
IV
Pilar stood in the centre of the music-room. She stood very straight, her eyes darting from side to side like an animal who fears an attack.
She said:
‘I want to get away from here!’
Stephen Farr said gently:
‘You’re not the only one who feels like that. But they won’t let us go, my dear.’
‘You mean—the police?’
‘Yes.’
Pilar said very seriously:
‘It is not nice to be mixed up with the police. It is a thing that should not happen to respectable people.’
Stephen said with a faint smile:
‘Meaning yourself?’
Pilar said:
‘No, I mean Alfred and Lydia and David and George and Hilda and—yes—Magdalene too.’
Stephen lit a cigarette. He puffed at it for a moment or two before saying:
‘Why the exception?’
‘What is that, please?’
Stephen said:
‘Why leave out brother Harry?’
Pilar laughed, her teeth showing white and even.
‘Oh, Harry is different! I think he knows very well what it is to be mixed up with the police.’
‘Perhaps you are right. He certainly is a little too picturesque to blend well into the domestic picture.’
He went on:
‘Do you like your English relations, Pilar?’
Pilar said doubtfully:
‘They are kind—they are all very kind. But they do not laugh much, they are not gay.’
‘My dear girl, there’s just been a murder in the house!’
‘Y-es,’ said Pilar doubtfully.
‘A murder,’ said Stephen instructively, ‘is not such an everyday occurrence as your nonchalance seems to imply. In England they