“He was murdered.”
“Do you know who killed him?”
“Indeed, madam.”
“Who?”
“Monsieur De Saint-Hilaire.”
The elderly woman shook her head.
“You are mistaken. Monsieur De Saint-Hilaire could never have committed such a crime.”
“I have the evidence in my hands.”
“I beg you again to tell me everything.”
This time I obeyed, presenting every step that led me to the discovery of the truth. She listened carefully. In the end, she nodded.
“Yes, yes, everything is as you say, except for one thing. It was not Monsieur De Saint-Hilaire who killed my son. It was me, his mother.”
I looked at her intensely. She continued to nod quietly.
“I did well to call you. It is divine providence that Virginie told me what she had done before leaving for the monastery. Listen, Monsieur Poirot! My son was a bad man. He persecuted the Church. The life he lived was full of deadly sins. He condemned other souls besides his own. But there was something worse. One morning, as I was leaving my room, here in this house, I saw my daughter-in-law standing on the landing. She was reading a letter. I saw my son approach her silently from behind. A sudden push and she fell, hitting her head on the marble steps. When they lifted her, she was dead.”
