by Mark Place
Hilda said firmly: ‘Don’t let’s start again! Lydia shall tell Pilar what we’ve decided. We can settle details later.’ She added in the hope of making a diversion, ‘I wonder where Mr Farr is, and M. Poirot?’
Alfred said: ‘We dropped Poirot in the village on our way to the inquest. He said he had an important purchase to make.’
Harry said: ‘Why didn’t he go to the inquest? Surely he ought to have done!’
Lydia said: ‘Perhaps he knew it was not going to be important. Who’s that out there in the garden? Superintendent Sugden, or Mr Farr?’ The efforts of the two women were successful. The family conclave broke up. Lydia said to Hilda privately: ‘Thank you, Hilda. It was nice of you to back me up. You know, you really have been a comfort in all this.’
Hilda said thoughtfully: ‘Queer how money upsets people.’
The others had all left the room. The two women were alone.
Lydia said: ‘Yes, even Harry, although it was his suggestion! And my poor Alfred, he is so British, he doesn’t really like Lee money going to a Spanish subject.’
Hilda said, smiling: ‘Do you think we women are more unworldly?’
Lydia said with a shrug of her graceful shoulders: ‘Well, you know, it isn’t really our money—not our own! That may make a difference.’ Hilda said thoughtfully: ‘She is a strange child, Pilar, I mean. I wonder what will become of her?’
Lydia sighed. ‘I’m glad that she will be independent. To live here, to be given a home and a dress allowance, would not, I think, be very satisfactory to her. She’s too proud and, I think, too…too alien.’
She added musingly: ‘I once brought some beautiful blue lapis home from Egypt. Out there, against the sun and the sand, it was a glorious colour—a brilliant warm blue. But when I got it home, the blue of it hardly showed any more. It was just a dull, darkish string of beads.’
Hilda said: ‘Yes, I see…’
Lydia said gently: ‘I am so glad to come to know you and David at last. I’m glad you both came here.’
Hilda sighed: ‘How often I’ve wished in the last few days that we hadn’t!’
‘I know. You must have done…But you know, Hilda, the shock hasn’t affected David nearly as badly as it might have done. I mean, he is so sensitive that it might have upset him completely. Actually, since the murder, he’s seemed ever so much better’
Hilda looked slightly disturbed. She said: ‘So you’ve noticed that? It’s rather dreadful in a way…But oh! Lydia, it’s undoubtedly so!’ She was silent a minute recollecting words that her husband had spoken only the night before. He had said to her, eagerly, his fair hair tossed back from his forehead: ‘Hilda, you remember in Tosca …when Scarpia is dead and Tosca lights the candles at his head and feet? Do you remember what she says: ‘Now I can forgive him…’ That is what I feel…about Father. I see now that all these years I couldn’t forgive him, and yet I really wanted to…But no…now there’s no rancour any more. It’s all wiped away. And I feel oh, I feel as though a great load had been lifted from my back.’
She had said, striving to fight back a sudden fear: ‘Because he’s dead?’ He had answered quickly, stammering in his eagerness: ‘No, no, you don’t understand. Not because he is dead, but because my childish stupid hate of him is dead…’
Hilda thought of those words now. She would have liked to repeat them to the woman at her side, but she felt instinctively that it was wiser not. She followed Lydia out of the drawing-room into the hall. Magdalene was there, standing by the hall table with a little parcel in her hand. She jumped when she saw them. She said: ‘Oh, this must be M Poirot’s important purchase. I saw him put it down here just now. I wonder what it is.’ She looked from one to the other of them, giggling a little, but her eyes were sharp and anxious, belying the affected gaiety of her words. Lydia’s eyebrows rose. She said:
‘I must go and wash before lunch.’
Magdalene said, still with that affectation of childishness, but unable to keep the desperate note out of her voice: ‘I must just peep!’
She unrolled the piece of paper and gave a sharp exclamation. She stared at the thing in her hand. Lydia stopped and Hilda too. Both women stared. Magdalene said in a puzzled voice: ‘It’s a false moustache. But…but…why?’
Hilda said doubtfully: ‘Disguise? But’
Lydia finished the sentence for her.
‘But M. Poirot has a very fine moustache of his own!’
Magdalene was wrapping the parcel up again. She said: ‘I don’t understand. It’s…it’s mad. Why does M. Poirot buy a false moustache?’
II
When Pilar left the drawing-room she walked slowly along the hall. Stephen Farr was coming in through the garden door. He said:
‘Well? Is the family conclave over? Has the will been read?’
Pilar said, her breath coming fast: ‘I have got nothing…nothing at all! It was a will made many years ago. My grandfather left money to my mother, but because she is dead it does not go to me but goes back to them.’
Stephen said: ‘That seems rather hard lines.’
Pilar said: ‘If that old man had lived, he would have made another will. He would have left money tome…a lot of money! Perhaps in time he would have left me all the money!’
Stephen said, smiling: ‘That wouldn’t have been very fair either, would it?’
‘Why not? He would have liked me best, that is all.’
Stephen said: ‘What a greedy child you are. A real little gold-digger.’
Pilar said soberly: ‘The world is very cruel to women. They must do what they can for themselves…while they are young. When they are old and ugly no one will help them.’
Stephen said slowly: ‘That’s more true than I like to think. But it isn’t quite true. Alfred Lee, for instance, was genuinely fond of his father in spite of the old man being thoroughly trying and exacting.’
Pilar’s chin went up. ‘Alfred,’ she said, ‘is rather a fool.’
Stephen laughed. Then he said: ‘Well, don’t worry, lovely Pilar. The Lees are bound to look after you, you know.’
Pilar said disconsolately: ‘It will not be very amusing, that.’
Stephen said slowly: ‘No, I’m afraid it won’t. I can’t see you living here, Pilar. Would you like to come to South Africa?’
Pilar nodded. Stephen said: ‘There’s sun there, and space. There’s hard work too. Are you good at work, Pilar?’
Pilar said doubtfully: ‘I do not know.’
He said: ‘You’d rather sit on a balcony and eat sweets all day long? And grow enormously fat and have three double chins?’
Pilar laughed and Stephen said: ‘That’s better. I’ve made you laugh.’
Pilar said: ‘I thought I should laugh this Christmas! In books I have read that an English Christmas is very gay, that one eats burning raisins and there is a plum pudding all in flames, and something that is called a Yule log.’
Stephen said: ‘Ah, but you must have a Christmas uncomplicated by murder. Come in here a minute. Lydia took me in here yesterday. It’s her store-room.’
He led her into a small room little bigger than a cupboard.
‘Look, Pilar, boxes and boxes of crackers, and preserved fruits and oranges and dates and nuts. And here’
‘Oh!’ Pilar clasped her hands. ‘They are pretty, these gold and silver balls.’
‘Those were to hang on a tree, with presents for the servants. And here are little snowmen all glittering with frost to put on the dinner table. And here are balloons of every colour all ready to blow up!’
‘Oh!’ Pilar’s eyes shone. ‘Oh! can we blow one up? Lydia would not mind. I do love balloons.’
Stephen said: ‘Baby! Here, which will you have?’
Pilar said: ‘I will have a red one.’
They selected their balloons and blew, their cheeks distended. Pilar stopped blowing to laugh, and her balloon went down again.
She said: ‘You look so funny…blowing…with your cheeks puffe
d out.’ Her laugh rang out. Then she fell to, blowing industriously. They tied up their balloons carefully and began to play with them, patting them upwards, sending them to and fro. Pilar said: ‘Out in the hall there would be more room.’ They were sending the balloons to each other, and laughing, when Poirot came along the hall. He regarded them indulgently. ‘So you playles jeux d’enfants? It is pretty, that!’
Pilar said breathlessly: ‘Mine is the red one. It is bigger than his. Much bigger. If we took it outside it would go right up in the sky.’
‘Let’s send them up and wish,’ said Stephen.
‘Oh, yes, that is a good idea.’
Pilar ran to the garden door, Stephen followed. Poirot came behind, still looking indulgent. ‘I will wish for a great deal of money,’ announced Pilar. She stood on tiptoe, holding the string of the balloon. It tugged gently as a puff of wind came. Pilar let go and it floated along, taken by the breeze. Stephen laughed. ‘You mustn’t tell your wish.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t come true. Now, I’m going to wish.’
He released his balloon. But he was not so lucky. It floated sideways, caught on a holly bush and expired with a bang. Pilar ran to it. She announced tragically: ‘It is gone…’ Then, as she stirred the little limp wisp of rubber with her toe, she said: ‘So that was what I picked up in Grandfather’s room. He, too, had had a balloon, only his was a pink one.’
Poirot gave a sharp exclamation. Pilar turned inquiringly.
Poirot said: ‘It is nothing. I stabbed…no stubbed…the toe.’
He wheeled round and looked at the house. He said: ‘So many windows! A house, mademoiselle, has its eyes…and its ears. It is indeed regrettable that the English are so fond of open windows.’
Lydia came out on the terrace. She said: ‘Lunch is just ready. Pilar, my dear, everything has been settled quite satisfactorily. Alfred will explain the exact details to you after lunch. Shall we come in?’ They went into the house. Poirot came last. He was looking grave.
III
Lunch was over. As they came out of the dining-room, Alfred said to Pilar: ‘Will you come into my room? There is something I want to talk over with you.’ He led her across the hall and into his study, shutting the door after him. The others went on into the drawing-room. Only Hercule Poirot remained in the hall looking thoughtfully at the closed study door. He was aware suddenly of the old butler hovering uneasily near him. Poirot said: ‘Yes, Tressilian, what is it?’
The old man seemed troubled. He said: ‘I wanted to speak to Mr Lee. But I don’t like to disturb him now.’
Poirot said: ‘Something has occurred?’
Tressilian said slowly: ‘It’s such a queer thing. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Tell me,’ said Hercule Poirot.
Tressilian hesitated. Then he said: ‘Well, it’s this, sir. You may have noticed that each side of the front door there was a cannon ball. Big heavy stone things. Well, sir, one of them’s gone .’
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said; ‘Since when?’
‘They were both there this morning, sir. I’ll take my oath on that.’
‘Let me see.’
Together they went outside the front door. Poirot bent and examined the remaining cannon ball. When he straightened himself, his face was very grave. Tressilian quavered: ‘Who’d want to steal a thing like that, sir? It doesn’t make sense.’
Poirot said: ‘I do not like it. I do not like it at all…’
Tressilian was watching him anxiously. He said slowly: ‘What’s come to the house, sir? Ever since the master was murdered it doesn’t seem like the same place. I feel the whole time as though I was going about in a dream. I mix things up, and I sometimes feel I can’t trust my own eyes.’
Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said: ‘You are wrong. Your own eyes are just what you must trust.’
Tressilian said, shaking his head: ‘My sight’s bad—I can’t see like I used to do. I get things mixed up…and people. I’m getting too old for my work.’
Hercule Poirot clapped him on the shoulder and said: ‘Courage.’
‘Thank you, sir. You mean it kindly, I know. But there it is, I am too old. I’m always going back to the old days and the old faces. Miss Jenny and Master David and Master Alfred. I’m always seeing them as young gentlemen and ladies. Ever since that night when Mr Harry came home’
Poirot nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is what I thought. You said just now “Ever since the master was murdered” but it began before that. It is ever since Mr Harry came home, is it not, that things have altered and seemed unreal?’
The butler said: ‘You’re quite right, sir. It was then. Mr Harry always brought trouble into the house, even in the old days.’
His eyes wandered back to the empty stone base. ‘Who can have taken it, sir?’ he whispered. ‘And why? It’s…it’s like a madhouse.’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘It is not madness I am afraid of. It is sanity! Somebody, Tressilian, is in great danger.’
He turned and re-entered the house. At that moment Pilar came out from the study. A red spot shone on either cheek. She held her head high and her eyes glittered. As Poirot came up to her, she suddenly stamped her foot and said: ‘I will not take it.’ Poirot raised his eyebrows. He said: ‘What is it that you will not take, mademoiselle?’
Pilar said: ‘Alfred has just told me that I am to have my mother’s share of the money my grandfather left.’
‘Well?’
‘I could not get it by law, he said. But he and Lydia and the others consider it should be mine. They say it is a matter of justice. And so they will hand it over to me.’
Poirot said again: ‘Well?’
Pilar stamped once more with her foot.
‘Do you not understand? They are giving it to me—giving it to me.’
‘Need that hurt your pride? Since what they say is true—that it should in justice be yours?’
Pilar said: ‘You do not understand…’
Poirot said: ‘On the contrary—I understand very well.’
‘Oh!…’ She turned away pettishly. There was a ring at the bell. Poirot glanced over his shoulder. He saw the silhouette of Superintendent Sugden outside the door. He said hurriedly to Pilar: ‘Where are you going?’ She said sulkily: ‘To the drawing-room. To the others.’
Poirot said quickly: ‘Good. Stay with them there. Do not wander about the house alone, especially after dark. Be on your guard. You are in great danger, mademoiselle. You will never be in greater danger than you are today.’
He turned away from her and went to meet Sugden. The latter waited till Tressilian had gone back into his pantry. Then he shoved a cable form under Poirot’s nose. ‘Now we’ve got it!’ he said. ‘Read that. It’s from the South African Police.’
The cable said: ‘Ebenezer Farr’s only son died two years ago.’
Sugden said: ‘So now we know! Funny…I was on a different tack altogether…’
IV
Pilar marched into the drawing-room, her head held high. She went straight up to Lydia, who was sitting in the window with some knitting. Pilar said: ‘Lydia, I have come to tell you that I will not take that money. I am going away—at once…’
Lydia looked astonished. She laid down her knitting. She said:
‘My dear child, Alfred must have explained very badly! It is not in the least a matter of charity, if that is what you feel. Really, it is not a question of kindness or generosity on our part. It is a plain matter of right and wrong. In the ordinary course of events your mother would have inherited this money, and you would have come into it from her. It is your right—your blood right. It is a matter, not of charity, but of justice !’
Pilar said fiercely: ‘And that is why I cannot do it—not when you speak like that—not when you are like that! I enjoyed coming here. It was fun! It was an adventure, but now you have spoilt it all! I am going away now, at once—you will never be bothered by me again…’ Te
ars choked her voice. She turned and ran blindly out of the room. Lydia stared. She said helplessly: ‘I’d no idea she would take it like that!’
Hilda said: ‘The child seems quite upset.’
George cleared his throat and said portentously: ‘Er—as I pointed out this morning the principle involved is wrong. Pilar has the wit to see that for herself. She refuses to accept charity’
Lydia said sharply: ‘It is not charity. It is her right!’
George said: ‘She does not seem to think so!’
Superintendent Sugden and Hercule Poirot came in. The former looked round and asked: ‘Where’s Mr Farr? I want a word with him.’ Before anyone had time to answer, Hercule Poirot said sharply: ‘Where is the señorita Estravados?’
George Lee said with a trace of malicious satisfaction: ‘Going to clear out, so she says. Apparently she has had enough of her English relations.’
Poirot wheeled round. He said to Sugden: ‘Come!’ As the two men emerged into the hall, there was the sound of a heavy crash and a far-away shriek. Poirot cried: ‘Quick…Come…’
They raced along the hall and up the far staircase. The door of Pilar’s room was open and a man stood in the doorway. He turned his head as they ran up. It was Stephen Farr. He said: ‘She’s alive…’
Pilar stood crouched against the wall of her room. She was staring at the floor where a big stone cannon ball was lying. She said breathlessly: ‘It was on top of my door, balanced there. It would have crashed down on my head when I came in, but my skirt caught on a nail and jerked me back just as I was coming in.’
Poirot knelt down and examined the nail. On it was a thread of purple tweed. He looked up and nodded gravely. ‘That nail, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘saved your life.’ The superintendent said, bewildered: ‘Look here, what’s the meaning of all this?’
Pilar said: ‘Someone tried to kill me!’ She nodded her head several times.
Superintendent Sugden glanced up at the door. ‘Booby trap,’ he said. ‘An old-fashioned booby trap—and its purpose was murder! That’s the second murder planned in this house. But this time it didn’t come off!’
Stephen Farr said huskily: ‘Thank God you’re safe.’