‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that some years ago you had an interest and sympathy for a certain political party. Like many other young men of a scientific bent. In your profession such sympathies and tendencies are naturally regarded with suspicion. I do not think you were ever seriously compromised, but I do think that pressure was brought upon you to consolidate your position in a way you did not want to consolidate it. You tried to withdraw and you were faced with a threat. You were given a rendezvous with someone. I doubt if I shall ever know that young man’s name. He will be for me always the young man in a turtle shirt.’

Alec Legge gave a sudden explosion of laughter.

‘I suppose that shirt was a bit of a joke. I wasn’t seeing things very funny at the time.’

Hercule Poirot continued.

‘What with worry over the fate of the world, and the worry over your own predicament, you became, if I may say so, a man almost impossible for any woman to live with happily. You did not confide in your wife. That was unfortunate for you, as I should say that your wife was a woman of loyalty, and that if she had realized how unhappy and desperate you were, she would have been whole-heartedly on your side. Instead of that she merely began to compare you, unfavourably, with a former friend of hers, Michael Weyman.’

He rose.

‘I should advise you, Mr Legge, to complete your packing as soon as possible, to follow your wife to London, to ask her to forgive you and to tell her all that you have been through.’

‘So that’s what you advise,’ said Alec Legge. ‘And what the hell business is it of yours?’

‘None,’ said Hercule Poirot. He withdrew towards the door. ‘But I am always right.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then Alec Legge burst into a wild peal of laughter.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll take your advice. Divorce is damned expensive. Anyway, if you’ve got hold of the woman you want, and are then not able to keep her, it’s a bit humiliating, don’t you think? I shall go up to her flat in Chelsea, and if I find Michael there I shall take hold of him by that hand-knitted pansy tie he wears and throttle the life out of him. I’d enjoy that. Yes, I’d enjoy it a good deal.’

His face suddenly lit up with a most attractive smile.

‘Sorry for my filthy temper,’ he said, ‘and thanks a lot.’

He clapped Poirot on the shoulder. With the force of the blow Poirot staggered and all but fell.

Mr Legge’s friendship was certainly more painful than his animosity.

‘And now,’ said Poirot, leaving Mill Cottage on painful feet and looking up at the darkening sky, ‘where do I go?’

Chapter 19

Chapter 19