PART FOUR DECEMBER 25TH
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 bullfights and things!”
Hercule Poirot said pleasantly:
“You are saying that in your opinion Señorita 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.
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 bullfights and things!”
Hercule Poirot said pleasantly:
“You are saying that in your opinion Señorita 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.
