‘I shall be delighted to do so, madame.’
She said:
‘You are a very intelligent man, M. Poirot. I saw that last night. There are things which you will, I think, find out quite easily. I want you to understand my husband.’
‘Yes, madame?’
‘I shouldn’t talk like this to Superintendent Sugden. He wouldn’t understand. But you will.’
Poirot bowed. ‘You honour me, madame.’
Hilda went calmly on:
‘My husband, for many years, ever since I married him, has been what I can only describe as a mental cripple.’
‘Ah!’
‘When one suffers some great hurt physically, it causes shock and pain, but slowly it mends, the flesh heals, the bone knits. There may be, perhaps, a little weakness, a slight scar, but nothing more. My husband, M. Poirot, suffered a great hurt mentally at his most susceptible age. He adored his mother and he saw her die. He believed that his father was morally responsible for that death. From that shock he has never quite recovered. His resentment against his father never died down. It was I who persuaded David to come here this Christmas, to be reconciled to his father. I wanted it—for his sake—I wanted that mental wound to heal. I realize now that coming here was a mistake. Simeon Lee amused himself by probing into that old wound. It was—a very dangerous thing to do…’
Poirot said: ‘Are you telling me, madame, that your husband killed his father?’
‘I am telling you, M. Poirot, that he easily might have done so…And I will also tell you this—that he did not! When Simeon Lee was killed, his son was playing the “Dead March”. The wish to kill was in his heart. It passed out through his fingers and died in waves of sound—that is the truth.’
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
‘And you, madame, what is your verdict on that past drama?’
‘You mean the death of Simeon Lee’s wife?’
‘Yes.’
Hilda said slowly:
‘I know enough of life to know that you can never judge any case on its outside merits. To all seeming, Simeon Lee was entirely to blame and his wife was abominably treated. At the same time, I honestly believe that there is a kind of meekness, a predisposition to martyrdom which does arouse the worst instincts in men of a certain type. Simeon Lee would have admired, I think, spirit and force of character. He was merely irritated by patience and tears.’
Poirot nodded. He said:
‘Your husband said last night: “My mother never complained.” Is that true?’
Hilda Lee said impatiently:
‘Of course it isn’t! She complained the whole time to David! She laid the whole burden of her unhappiness on his shoulders. He was too young—far too young to bear all she gave him to bear!’
Poirot looked thoughtfully at her. She flushed under his gaze and bit her lip.
He said:
‘I see.’
She said sharply:
‘What do you see?’
He answered:
‘I see that you have had to be a mother to your husband when you would have preferred to be a wife.’
She turned away.