All right, that headline was a little mean. But tell me he doesn't deserve a little meanness.
Anyway: Hughes's widow and The New Statesman were looking through Hughes's papers and found a poem that directly addresses Plath's suicide. Here's part of it:
And I had started to write when the telephone
Jerked awake, in a jabbering alarm,
Remembering everything. It recovered in my hand.
Then a voice like a selected weapon
Or a measured injection,
Coolly delivered its four words
Deep into my ear: 'Your wife is dead.
The New Statesman has drafts of the poem. They do not change my opinion of Hughes one bit.