why?’ asked Poirot.
With the same appearance of frankness Harry answered readily enough.
‘It’s the good old parable still. I got tired of the husks that the swine do eat—or don’t eat, I forget which. I thought to myself that the fatted calf would be a welcome exchange. I had a letter from my father suggesting that I come home. I obeyed the summons and came. That’s all.’
Poirot said:
‘You came for a short visit—or a long one?’
Harry said: ‘I came home—for good!’
‘Your father was willing?’
‘The old man was delighted.’ He laughed again. The corners of his eyes crinkled engagingly. ‘Pretty boring for the old man living here with Alfred! Alfred’s a dull stick—very worthy and all that, but poor company. My father had been a bit of a rip in his time. He was looking forward to my company.’
‘And your brother and his wife, were they pleased that you were to live here?’
Poirot asked the question with a slight lifting of his eyebrows.
‘Alfred? Alfred was livid with rage. Don’t know about Lydia. She was probably annoyed on Alfred’s behalf. But I’ve no doubt she’d be quite pleased in the end. I like Lydia. She’s a delightful woman. I should have got on with Lydia. But Alfred was quite another pair of shoes.’ He laughed again. ‘Alfred’s always been as jealous as hell of me. He’s always been the good dutiful stay-at-home stick-in-the-mud son. And what was he going to get for it in the end?—what the good boy of the family always gets—a kick in the pants. Take it from me, gentlemen, virtue doesn’t pay.’ He looked from one face to another.
‘Hope you’re not shocked by my frankness. But after all, it’s the truth you’re after. You’ll drag out all the family dirty linen into the light of day in the end. I might as well display mine straight away. I’m not particularly broken-hearted by my father’s death—after all, I hadn’t seen the old devil since I was a boy—but nevertheless he was my father and he was murdered. I’m all out for revenge on the murderer.’ He stroked his jawbone, watching them. ‘We’re rather hot on revenge in our family. None of the Lees forget easily. I mean to make sure that my father’s murderer is caught and hanged.’
‘I think you can trust us to do our best in that line, Mr Lee,’ said Sugden.
‘If you don’t I shall take the law into my own hands,’ said Harry Lee.
The chief constable said sharply:
‘Have you any ideas on the subject of the murderer’s identity, then, Mr Lee?’
Harry shook his head.
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘No—I haven’t. You know it’s rather a jolt. Because I’ve been thinking about it—and I don’t see that it can have been an outside job…’
‘Ah,’ said Sugden, nodding his head.
‘And if so,’ said Harry Lee, ‘then someone here in the house killed him…But who the devil could have done it? Can’t suspect the servants. Tressilian has been here since the year one. The half-witted footman? Not on your life. Horbury, now, he’s a cool customer, but Tressilian tells me he was out at the pictures. So what do you come to? Passing over Stephen Farr (and why the devil should Stephen Farr come all the way from South Africa and murder a total stranger?) there’s only the family. And for the life of me I can’t see one of us doing it. Alfred? He adored Father. George? He hasn’t got the guts. David? David’s always been a moon dreamer. He’d faint if he saw his own finger bleed. The wives? Women don’t go and slit a man’s throat in cold blood. So who did? Blessed if I know. But it’s damned disturbing.’
Colonel Johnson cleared his throat—an official habit of his—and said:
‘When did you last see your father this evening?’
‘After tea. He’d just had a row with Alfred—about your humble servant. The old man was no end bucked with himself. He always liked stirring up trouble. In my opinion, that’s why he kept my arrival dark from the others.
With the same appearance of frankness Harry answered readily enough.
‘It’s the good old parable still. I got tired of the husks that the swine do eat—or don’t eat, I forget which. I thought to myself that the fatted calf would be a welcome exchange. I had a letter from my father suggesting that I come home. I obeyed the summons and came. That’s all.’
Poirot said:
‘You came for a short visit—or a long one?’
Harry said: ‘I came home—for good!’
‘Your father was willing?’
‘The old man was delighted.’ He laughed again. The corners of his eyes crinkled engagingly. ‘Pretty boring for the old man living here with Alfred! Alfred’s a dull stick—very worthy and all that, but poor company. My father had been a bit of a rip in his time. He was looking forward to my company.’
‘And your brother and his wife, were they pleased that you were to live here?’
Poirot asked the question with a slight lifting of his eyebrows.
‘Alfred? Alfred was livid with rage. Don’t know about Lydia. She was probably annoyed on Alfred’s behalf. But I’ve no doubt she’d be quite pleased in the end. I like Lydia. She’s a delightful woman. I should have got on with Lydia. But Alfred was quite another pair of shoes.’ He laughed again. ‘Alfred’s always been as jealous as hell of me. He’s always been the good dutiful stay-at-home stick-in-the-mud son. And what was he going to get for it in the end?—what the good boy of the family always gets—a kick in the pants. Take it from me, gentlemen, virtue doesn’t pay.’ He looked from one face to another.
‘Hope you’re not shocked by my frankness. But after all, it’s the truth you’re after. You’ll drag out all the family dirty linen into the light of day in the end. I might as well display mine straight away. I’m not particularly broken-hearted by my father’s death—after all, I hadn’t seen the old devil since I was a boy—but nevertheless he was my father and he was murdered. I’m all out for revenge on the murderer.’ He stroked his jawbone, watching them. ‘We’re rather hot on revenge in our family. None of the Lees forget easily. I mean to make sure that my father’s murderer is caught and hanged.’
‘I think you can trust us to do our best in that line, Mr Lee,’ said Sugden.
‘If you don’t I shall take the law into my own hands,’ said Harry Lee.
The chief constable said sharply:
‘Have you any ideas on the subject of the murderer’s identity, then, Mr Lee?’
Harry shook his head.
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘No—I haven’t. You know it’s rather a jolt. Because I’ve been thinking about it—and I don’t see that it can have been an outside job…’
‘Ah,’ said Sugden, nodding his head.
‘And if so,’ said Harry Lee, ‘then someone here in the house killed him…But who the devil could have done it? Can’t suspect the servants. Tressilian has been here since the year one. The half-witted footman? Not on your life. Horbury, now, he’s a cool customer, but Tressilian tells me he was out at the pictures. So what do you come to? Passing over Stephen Farr (and why the devil should Stephen Farr come all the way from South Africa and murder a total stranger?) there’s only the family. And for the life of me I can’t see one of us doing it. Alfred? He adored Father. George? He hasn’t got the guts. David? David’s always been a moon dreamer. He’d faint if he saw his own finger bleed. The wives? Women don’t go and slit a man’s throat in cold blood. So who did? Blessed if I know. But it’s damned disturbing.’
Colonel Johnson cleared his throat—an official habit of his—and said:
‘When did you last see your father this evening?’
‘After tea. He’d just had a row with Alfred—about your humble servant. The old man was no end bucked with himself. He always liked stirring up trouble. In my opinion, that’s why he kept my arrival dark from the others.
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