Hercule Poirot's Christmas: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot 20)

‘He’s one of the old school. He’s been with us nearly forty years. He’s devoted to us all.’

Lydia nodded.

‘Yes. He’s like the faithful old retainers of fiction. I believe he’d lie himself blue in the face if it was necessary to protect one of the family!’

Alfred said:

‘I believe he would…Yes, I believe he would.’

Lydia smoothed over the last bit of her shingle.

‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s ready.’

‘Ready?’ Alfred looked puzzled.

She laughed.

‘For Christmas, silly! For this sentimental family Christmas we’re going to have.’

IV

David was reading the letter. Once he screwed it up into a ball and thrust it away from him. Then, reaching for it, he smoothed it out and read it again.

Quietly, without saying anything, his wife, Hilda, watched him. She noted the jerking muscle (or was it a nerve?) in his temple, the slight tremor of the long delicate hands, the nervous spasmodic movements of his whole body. When he pushed aside the lock of fair hair that always tended to stray down over his forehead and looked across at her with appealing blue eyes she was ready.

‘Hilda, what shall we do about it?’

Hilda hesitated a minute before speaking. She had heard the appeal in his voice. She knew how dependent he was upon her—had always been ever since their marriage—knew that she could probably influence his decision finally and decisively. But for just that reason she was chary of pronouncing anything too final.

She said, and her voice had the calm, soothing quality that can be heard in the voice of an experienced nannie in a nursery:

‘It depends on how you feel about it, David.’

A broad woman, Hilda, not beautiful, but with a certain magnetic quality. Something about her like a Dutch picture. Something warming and endearing in the sound of her voice. Something strong about her—the vital hidden strength that appeals to weakness. An over-stout dumpy middle-aged woman—not clever—not brilliant—but with something about her that you couldn’t pass over. Force! Hilda Lee had force!

David got up and began pacing up and down. His hair was practically untouched by grey. He was strangely boyish-looking. His face had the mild quality of a Burne Jones knight. It was, somehow, not very real…

He said, and his voice was wistful:

‘You know how I feel about it, Hilda. You must.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘But I’ve told you—I’ve told you again and again! How I hate it all—the house and the country round and everything! It brings back nothing but misery. I hated every moment that I spent there! When I think of it—of all that she suffered—my mother…’

His wife nodded sympathetically.

‘She was so sweet, Hilda, and so patient. Lying there, often in pain, but bearing it—enduring everything. And when I think of my father’—his face darkened—‘bringing all that misery into her life—humiliating her—boasting of his love affairs—constantly unfaithful to her and never troubling to conceal it.’

Hilda Lee said:

‘She should not have put up with it. She should have left him.’

He said with a touch of reproof:

‘She was too good to do that. She thought it was her duty to remain. Besides, it was her home—where else should she go?’

‘She could have made a life of her own.’