PART SEVEN DECEMBER 28TH V

Alfred came out on the terrace. Lydia was bending over a stone sink. She straightened up when

she saw him.

He said with a sigh:

“Well—they’ve all gone.”

Lydia said:

“Yes—what a blessing¹.”

“It is, rather.”

Alfred said:

“You’ll be glad to leave here.”

She asked:

“Will you mind very much?”

“No, I shall be glad. There are so many interesting things we can do together. To live on here

would be to be constantly reminded of that nightmare. Thank God it’s all over!”

Lydia said:

“Thanks to Hercule Poirot.”

“Yes. You know, it was really amazing the way everything fell into place when he explained

it.”

“I know. Like when you finish a jigsaw² puzzle and all the queer-shaped bits you swear won’t

fit in anywhere find their places quite naturally.”

Alfred said:

“There’s one little thing that never fitted in. What was George doing after he telephoned?

Why wouldn’t he say?”

“Don’t you know? I knew all the time. He was having a look through your papers on your

desk.”

“Oh! No, Lydia, no one would do a thing like that!”

“George would. He’s frightfully curious about money matters. But of course he couldn’t say

so. He’d have had to be actually in the dock before he’d have owned up to that.”

Alfred said:

“Are you making another garden?”

“Yes.”

“What is it this time?”

“I think,” said Lydia, “it’s an attempt at the Garden of Eden. A new version—without any

serpent—and Adam and Eve are definitely middle-aged³.”

Alfred said gently:

“Dear Lydia, how patient you have been all these years. You have been very good to me.”

Lydia said:

“But, you see, Alfred, I love you. . . .”

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