PART SIX DECEMBER 27TH VI
There was a momentary pause. Strangely enough, all indignation and all rancour had died down.
Hercule Poirot held his audience under the spell of his personality. They watched him, fascinated
as he began slowly to speak.
It is all there, you see. The dead man is the focus and centre of the mystery! We must probe
deep into the heart and mind of Simeon Lee and see what we find there. For a man does not live
and die to himself alone. That which he has, he hands on—to those who come after him. . . .
What had Simeon Lee to bequeath to his sons and daughter? Pride, to begin with—a pride
which, in the old man, was frustrated in his disappointment over his children. Then there was the
quality of patience. We have been told that Simeon Lee waited patiently for years in order to
revenge himself upon someone who had done him an injury. We see that that aspect of his
temperament was inherited by the son who resembled him least in face. David Lee also could
remember and continue to harbour resentment through long years. In face, Harry Lee was the only
one of his children who closely resembled him. That resemblance is quite striking when we
examine the portrait of Simeon Lee as a young man. There is the same high-bridged aquiline nose
the long sharp line of the jaw, the backward poise of the head. I think, too, that Harry inherited
many of his father’s mannerisms — that habit, for instance, of throwing back his head and
laughing, and another habit of drawing his finger along the line of his jaw.
Bearing all these things in mind, and being convinced that the murder was committed by a
person closely connected with the dead man, I studied the family from the psychological
standpoint. That is, I tried to decide which of them were psychologically possible criminals. And
in my judgment, only two persons qualified in that respect. They were Alfred Lee and Hilda Lee
David’s wife. David himself I rejected as a possible murderer. I do not think a person of his
delicate susceptibilities could have faced the actual bloodshed of a cut throat. George Lee and his
wife I likewise rejected. Whatever their desires, I did not think they had the temperament to take a
risk. They were both essentially cautious. Mrs. Alfred Lee I felt sure was quite incapable of an act
of violence. She has too much irony in her nature. About Harry Lee I hesitated. He had a certain
coarse truculence of aspect, but I was nearly sure that Harry Lee, in spite of his bluff and his
bluster, was essentially a weakling. That, I now know, was also his father’s opinion. Harry, he
said, was worth no more than the rest. That left me with two people I have already mentioned.
Alfred Lee was a person capable of a great deal of selfless devotion. He was a man who had
controlled and subordinated himself to the will of another for many years. It was always possible
under these conditions for something to snap. Moreover, he might quite possibly have harboured a
secret grudge against his father which might gradually have grown in force through never being
expressed in any way. It is the quietest and meekest people who are often capable of the most
sudden and unexpected violence for the reason that when their control does snap, it does so
entirely! The other person I considered was capable of the crime was Hilda Lee. She is the kind of
individual who is capable, on occasions, of taking the law into her own hands—though never
through selfish motives. Such people judge and also execute. Many Old Testament characters are
of this type. Jael and Judith, for example.
And now having got so far I examined the circumstances of the crime itself. And the first
thing that arises—that strikes one in the face, as it were—is the extraordinary conditions under
which that crime took place! Take your minds back to that room where Simeon Lee lay dead. If
you remember, there was both a heavy table and a heavy chair overturned, a lamp, crockery
glasses, etc. But the chair and the table were especially surprising. They were of solid mahogany.
It was hard to see how any struggle between that frail old man and his opponent could result in so
much solid furniture being overturned and knocked down. The whole thing seemed unreal. And
yet surely no one in their senses would stage such an effect if it had not really occurred—unless
possibly Simeon Lee had been killed by a powerful man and the idea was to suggest that the
assailant was a woman or somebody of weak physique.
But such an idea was unconvincing in the extreme, since the noise of the furniture would
give the alarm and the murderer would thereby have very little time to make his exit. It would
surely be to anyone’s advantage to cut Simeon Lee’s throat as quietly as possible.
Another extraordinary point was the turning of the key in the lock from the outside. Again
there seemed no reason for such a proceeding. It could not suggest suicide, since nothing in the
death itself accorded with suicide. It was not to suggest escape through the windows—for those
windows were so arranged that escape that way was impossible! Moreover, once again, it involved
time. Time which must be precious to the murderer
There was one other incomprehensible thing—a piece of rubber cut from Simeon Lee’s
spongebag and a small wooden peg shown to me by Superintendent Sugden. These had been
picked up from the floor by one of the persons who first entered the room. There again—these
things did not make sense! They meant exactly nothing at all! Yet they had been there.
The crime, you perceive, is becoming increasingly incomprehensible. It has no order, no
method—enfin, it is not reasonable.
And now we come to a further difficulty. Superintendent Sugden was sent for by the dead
man; a robbery was reported to him, and he was asked to return an hour and a half later. Why? If it
is because Simeon Lee suspected his granddaughter or some other member of the family, why
does he not ask Superintendent Sugden to wait downstairs while he has his interview straight away
with the suspected party? With the superintendent actually in the house, his lever over the guilty
person would have been much stronger.
So now we arrive at the point where not only the behaviour of the murderer is extraordinary
but the behaviour of Simeon Lee also is extraordinary
And I say to myself: ‘This thing is all wrong!’ Why? Because we are looking at it from the
wrong angle. We are looking at it from the angle that the murderer wants us to look at it. . . .
We have three things that do not make sense: the struggle, the turned key, and the snip of
rubber. But there must be some way of looking at those three things which would make sense
And I empty my mind blank and forget the circumstances of the crime and take these things on
their own merits. I say—a struggle. What does that suggest? Violence—breakage—noise . . . The
key? Why does one turn a key? So that no one shall enter? But the key did not prevent that, since
the door was broken down almost immediately. To keep someone in? To keep someone out? A
snip of rubber? I say to myself: ‘A little piece of a spongebag is a little piece of a spongebag, and
that is all
So you would say there is nothing there — and yet that is not strictly true, for three
impressions remain: noise—seclusion—blankness. . . .
Do they fit with either of my two possibles? No, they do not. To both Alfred Lee and Hilda
Lee a quiet murder would have been infinitely preferable, to have wasted time in locking the door
from the outside is absurd, and the little piece of spongebag means yet once more—nothing at all
And yet I have very strongly the feeling that there is nothing absurd about this crime—that it
is on the contrary, very well planned and admirably executed. That is has, in fact, succeeded
Therefore that everything that has happened was meant . . .
And then, going over it again, I got my first glimmer of light. . . .
Blood — so much blood — blood everywhere . . . An insistence on blood — fresh, wet
gleaming blood . . . So much blood—too much blood . . .
And a second thought comes with that. This is a crime of blood—it is in the blood. It is
Simeon Lee’s own blood that rises up against him. . . .
Hercule Poirot leaned forward.
The two most valuable clues in this case were uttered quite unconsciously by two different
people. The first was when Mrs. Alfred Lee quoted a line from Macbeth: ‘Who would have
thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?’ The other was a phrase uttered by
Tressilian, the butler. He described how he felt dazed and things seemed to be happening that had
happened before. It was a very simple occurrence that gave him that strange feeling. He heard a
ring at the bell and went to open the door to Harry Lee, and the next day he did the same thing to
Stephen Farr.
Now why did he have that feeling? Look at Harry Lee and Stephen Farr and you will see
why. They are astoundingly alike! That was why opening the door to Stephen Farr was just like
opening the door to Harry Lee. It might almost have been the same man standing there. And then
only today, Tressilian mentioned that he was always getting muddled between people. No wonder
Stephen Farr has a high-bridged nose, a habit of throwing his head back when he laughs, and a
trick of stroking his jaw with his forefinger. Look long and earnestly at the portrait of Simeon Lee
as a young man and you see not only Harry Lee, but Stephen Farr. . . .
Stephen moved. His chair creaked. Poirot said
Remember that outburst of Simeon Lee, his tirade against his family. He said, you
remember it, that he would swear he had better sons born the wrong side of the blanket. We are
back again at the character of Simeon Lee. Simeon Lee, who was successful with women and who
broke his wife’s heart! Simeon Lee, who boasted to Pilar that he might have a bodyguard of sons
almost the same age! So I came to this conclusion: Simeon Lee had not only his legitimate family
in the house, but an unacknowledged and unrecognized son of his own blood.
Stephen got to his feet. Poirot said
That was your real reason, wasn’t it? Not that pretty romance of the girl you met in the train
You were coming here before you met her. Coming to see what kind of a man your father was.
Stephen had gone dead white. He said, and his voice was broken and husky
Yes, I’ve always wondered . . . Mother spoke about him sometimes. It grew into a kind of
obsession with me—to see what he was like! I made a bit of money and I came to England. I
wasn’t going to let him know who I was. I pretended to be old Eb’s son. I came here for one
reason only—to see the man who was my father. . . .
Superintendent Sugden said in almost a whisper
Lord, I’ve been blind . . . I can see it now. Twice I’ve taken you for Mr. Harry Lee and then
seen my mistake, and yet I never guessed
He turned on Pilar.
That was it, wasn’t it? It was Stephen Farr you saw standing outside that door? You
hesitated, I remember, and looked at him before you said it was a woman. It was Farr you saw
and you weren’t going to give him away.
There was a gentle rustle. Hilda Lee’s deep voice spoke
No,” she said. “You’re wrong. It was I whom Pilar saw. . . .
Poirot said
You, madame? Yes, I thought so. . . .
Hilda said quietly
Self-preservation is a curious thing. I wouldn’t believe I could be such a coward. To keep
silence just because I was afraid
Poirot said
You will tell us now
She nodded.
I was with David in the music room. He was playing. He was in a very queer mood. I was a
little frightened and I felt my responsibility very keenly because it was I who had insisted on
coming here. David began to play the ‘Dead March,’ and suddenly I made up my mind. However
odd it might seem, I determined that we would both leave at once—that night. I went quietly out
of the music room and upstairs. I meant to go to old Mr. Lee and tell him quite plainly why we
were going. I went along the corridor to his room and knocked on the door. There was no answer.
I knocked again a little louder. There was still no answer. Then I tried the door handle. The door
was locked. And then, as I stood hesitating, I heard a sound inside the room
She stopped.
You won’t believe me, but it’s true! Someone was in there—assaulting Mr. Lee. I heard
tables and chairs overturned and the crash of glass and china, and then I heard that one last
horrible cry that died away to nothing—and then silence.
I stood there paralysed! I couldn’t move! And then Mr. Farr came running along and
Magdalene and all the others and Mr. Farr and Harry began to batter on the door. It went down
and we saw the room, and there was no one in it—except Mr. Lee lying dead in all that blood.
Her quiet voice rose higher. She cried
There was no one else there—no one, you understand! And no one had come out of the
room. . . .
