While the Light Lasts

by Agatha Christie

  ‘You are lost in a dream, Mademoiselle,’ said the little man at last. ‘And the dream is not a happy one, eh?’

  She started, and looked across at him uncertainly. He nodded reassuringly.

  ‘It is my business to know things. No, you are not happy. Me, too, I am not very happy. Shall we confide in each other? See you, I have the big sorrow because a friend of mine, a friend of many years, has gone away across the sea to the South America. Sometimes, when we were together, this friend made me impatient, his stupidity enraged me; but now that he is gone, I can remember only his good qualities. That is the way of life, is it not? And now, Mademoiselle, what is your trouble? You are not like me, old and alone–you are young and beautiful; and the man you love loves you–oh yes, it is so: I have been watching him for the last half-hour.’

  The girl’s colour rose.

  ‘You mean Roger Endicott? Oh, but you have made a mistake; it is not Roger I am engaged to.’

  ‘No, you are engaged to Mr Oscar Levering. I know that perfectly. But why are you engaged to him, since you love another man?’

  The girl did not seem to resent his words; indeed, there was something in his manner which made that impossible. He spoke with a mixture of kindliness and authority that was irresistible.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ said Poirot gently; and he added the phrase he had used before, the sound of which was oddly comforting to the girl. ‘It is my business to know things.’

  ‘I am so miserable, M. Poirot–so very miserable. You see, once we were very well off. I was supposed to be an heiress, and Roger was only a younger son; and–and although I’m sure he cared for me, he never said anything, but went off to Australia.’

  ‘It is droll, the way they arrange the marriages over here,’ interpolated M. Poirot. ‘No order. No method. Everything left to chance.’

  Evelyn continued.

  ‘Then suddenly we lost all our money. My mother and I were left almost penniless. We moved into a tiny house, and we could just manage. But my mother became very ill. The only chance for her was to have a serious operation and go abroad to a warm climate. And we hadn’t the money, M. Poirot–we hadn’t the money! It meant that she must die. Mr Levering had proposed to me once or twice already. He again asked me to marry him, and promised to do everything that could be done for my mother. I said yes–what else could I do? He kept his word. The operation was performed by the greatest specialist of the day, and we went to Egypt for the winter. That was a year ago. My mother is well and strong again; and I–I am to marry Mr Levering after Christmas.’

  ‘I see,’ said M. Poirot; ‘and in the meantime, M. Roger’s elder brother has died, and he has come home–to find his dream shattered. All the same, you are not yet married, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘A Haworth does not break her word, M. Poirot,’ said the girl proudly.

  Almost as she spoke, the door opened, and a big man with a rubicund face, narrow, crafty eyes, and a bald head stood on the threshold.

  ‘What are you moping in here for, Evelyn? Come out for a stroll.’

  ‘Very well, Oscar.’

  She rose listlessly. Poirot rose also and demanded politely:

  ‘Mademoiselle Levering, she is still indisposed?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry to say my sister is still in bed. Too bad, to be laid up on Christmas Day.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ agreed the detective politely.

  A few minutes sufficed for Evelyn to put on her snow-boots and some wraps, and she and her fiancé went out into the snow-covered grounds. It was an ideal Christmas Day, crisp and sunny. The rest of the house-party were busy with the erection of the snowman. Levering and Evelyn paused to watch them.

  ‘Love’s young dream, yah!’ cried Johnnie, and threw a snowball at them.

  ‘What do you think of it, Evelyn?’ cried Jean. ‘M. Hercule Poirot, the great detective.’

  ‘Wait till the moustache goes on,’ said Eric. ‘Nancy’s going to clip off a bit of her hair for it. Vivent les braves Belges! Pom, pom!’

  ‘Fancy having a real-live detective in the house!’–this from Charlie–‘I wish there could be a murder, too.’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ cried Jean, dancing about. ‘I’ve got an idea. Let’s get up a murder–a spoof one, I mean. And take him in. Oh, do let’s–it would be no end of a rag.’

  Five voices began to talk at once.

  ‘How should we do it?’

  ‘Awful groans!’

  ‘No, you stupid, out here.’

  ‘Footprints in the snow, of course.’

  ‘Jean in her nightie.’

  ‘You do it with red paint.’

  ‘In your hand–and clap it to your head.’

  ‘I say, I wish we had a revolver.’

  ‘I tell you, Father and Aunt Em won’t hear. Their rooms are the other side of the house.’

  ‘No, he won’t mind a bit; he’s no end of a sport.’

  ‘Yes, but what kind of red paint? Enamel?’

  ‘We could get some in the village.’

  ‘Fat-head, not on Christmas Day.’

  ‘No, watercolour. Crimson lake.’

  ‘Jean can be it.’

  ‘Never mind if you are cold. It won’t be for long.’

  ‘No, Nancy can be it, Nancy’s got those posh pyjamas.’

  ‘Let’s see if Graves knows where there’s any paint.’

  A stampede to the house.

  ‘In a brown study, Endicott?’ said Levering, laughing disagreeably.

  Roger roused himself abruptly. He had heard little of what had passed.

  ‘I was just wondering,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Wondering?’

  ‘Wondering what M. Poirot was doing down here at all.’

  Levering seemed taken aback; but at that moment the big gong pealed out, and everybody went in to Christmas dinner. The curtains were drawn in the dining-room, and the lights on, illuminating the long table piled high with crackers and other decorations. It was a real old-fashioned Christmas dinner. At one end of the table was the Squire, red-faced and jovial; his sister faced him at the other. M. Poirot, in honour of the occasion, had donned a red waistcoat, and his plumpness, and the way he carried his head on one side, reminded one irresistibly of a robin redbreast.

  The Squire carved rapidly, and everyone fell to on turkey. The carcasses of two turkeys were removed, and there fell a breathless hush. Then Graves, the butler, appeared in state, bearing the plum-pudding aloft–a gigantic pudding wreathed in flames. A hullabaloo broke out.

  ‘Quick. Oh! my piece is going out. Buck up, Graves; unless it’s still burning, I shan’t get my wish.’

  Nobody had leisure to notice a curious expression on the face of M. Poirot as he surveyed the portion of pudding on his plate. Nobody observed the lightning glance he sent round the table. With a faint, puzzled frown he began to eat his pudding. Everybody began to eat pudding. The conversation was more subdued. Suddenly the Squire uttered an exclamation. His face became purple and his hand went to his mouth.

  ‘Confound it, Emily!’ he roared. ‘Why do you let the cook put glass in the puddings?’

  ‘Glass?’ cried Miss Endicott, astonished.

  The Squire withdrew the offending substance from his mouth.

  ‘Might have broken a tooth,’ he grumbled. ‘Or swallowed it and had appendicitis.’

  In front of each person was a small finger-bowl of water, designed to receive the sixpences and other matters found in the trifle. Mr Endicott dropped the piece of glass into this, rinsed it and held it up.

  ‘God bless my soul!’ he ejaculated. ‘It’s a red stone out of one of the cracker brooches.’

  ‘You permit?’ Very deftly, M. Poirot took it from his fingers and examined it attentively. As the Squire had said, it was a big red stone, the colour of a ruby. The light gleamed from its facets as he turned it about.

  ‘Gee!’ cried Eric. ‘Suppose it’s real.’

  ‘Silly boy!’ said Jean scornfully. ‘A ruby that size
would be worth thousands and thousands and thousands–wouldn’t it, M. Poirot?’

  ‘Extraordinary how well they get up these cracker things,’ murmured Miss Endicott. ‘But how did it get into the pudding?’

  Undoubtedly that wasthe question of the hour. Every hypothesis was exhausted. Only M. Poirot said nothing, but carelessly, as though thinking of something else, he dropped the stone into his pocket.

  After dinner he paid a visit to the kitchen.

  The cook was rather flustered. To be questioned by a member of the house-party, and the foreign gentleman too! But she did her best to answer his questions. The puddings had been made three days ago–‘The day you arrived, Sir.’ Everyone had come out into the kitchen to have a stir and wish. An old custom–perhaps they didn’t have it abroad? After that the puddings were boiled, and then they were put in a row on the top shelf in the larder. Was there anything special to distinguish this pudding from the others? No, she didn’t think so. Except that it was in an aluminium pudding-basin, and the others were in china ones. Was it the pudding originally intended for Christmas Day? It was funny that he should ask that. No, indeed! The Christmas pudding was always boiled in a big white china mould with a pattern of holly-leaves. But this very morning (the cook’s red face became wrathful) Gladys, the kitchen-maid, sent to fetch it down for the final boiling, had managed to drop and break it. ‘And of course, seeing that there might be splinters in it, I wouldn’t send it to table, but took the big aluminium one instead.’

  M. Poirot thanked her for her information. He went out of the kitchen, smiling a little to himself, as though satisfied with the information he had obtained. And the fingers of his right hand played with something in his pocket.

  II

  ‘M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Do wake up! Something dreadful’s happened!’

  Thus Johnnie in the early hours of the following morning. M. Poirot sat up in bed. He wore a night-cap. The contrast between the dignity of his countenance and the rakish tilt of the night-cap was certainly droll; but its effect on Johnnie seemed disproportionate. But for his words, one might have fancied that the boy was violently amused about something. Curious sounds came from outside the door, too, suggesting soda-water syphons in difficulty.

  ‘Come down at once, please,’ continued Johnnie, his voice shaking slightly. ‘Someone’s been killed.’ He turned away.

  ‘Aha, that is serious!’ said M. Poirot.

  He arose, and, without unduly hurrying himself, made a partial toilet. Then he followed Johnnie down the stairs. The house-party was clustered round the door into the garden. Their countenances all expressed intense emotion. At sight of him Eric was seized with a violent choking fit.

  Jean came forward and laid her hand on M. Poirot’s arm.

  ‘Look!’ she said, and pointed dramatically through the open door.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ ejaculated M. Poirot. ‘It is like a scene on the stage.’

  His remark was not inapposite. More snow had fallen during the night, the world looked white and ghostly in the faint light of the early dawn. The expanse of white lay unbroken save for what looked like on splash of vivid scarlet.

  Nancy Cardell lay motionless on the snow. She was clad in scarlet silk pyjamas, her small feet were bare, her arms were spread wide. Her head was turned aside and hidden by the mass of her clustering black hair. Deadly still she lay, and from her left side rose up the hilt of a dagger, whilst on the snow there was an ever-widening patch of crimson.

  Poirot went out into the snow. He did not go to where the girl’s body lay, but kept to the path. Two tracks of foot-marks, a man’s and a woman’s, led to where the tragedy had occurred. The man’s footprints went away in the opposite direction alone. Poirot stood on the path, stroking his chin reflectively.

  Suddenly Oscar Levering burst out of the house.

  ‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘What’s this?’

  His excitement was a contrast to the other’s calm.

  ‘It looks,’ said M. Poirot thoughtfully, ‘like murder.’

  Eric had another violent attack of coughing.

  ‘But we must do something,’ cried the other. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘There is only one thing to be done,’ said M. Poirot. ‘Send for the police.’

  ‘Oh!’ said everybody at once. M. Poirot looked inquiringly at them.

  ‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘It is the only thing to be done. Who will go?’

  There was a pause, then Johnnie came forward.

  ‘Rag’s over,’ he declared. ‘I say, M. Poirot, I hope you won’t be too mad with us. It’s all a joke, you know–got up between us–just to pull your leg. Nancy’s only shamming.’

  M. Poirot regarded him without visible emotion, save that his eyes twinkled a moment.

  ‘You mock yourselves at me, is that it?’ he inquired placidly.

  ‘I say, I’m awfully sorry really. We shouldn’t have done it. Beastly bad taste. I apologize, I really do.’

  ‘You need not apologize,’ said the other in a peculiar voice.

  Johnnie turned.

  ‘I say, Nancy, get up!’ he cried. ‘Don’t lie there all day.’

  But the figure on the ground did not move.

  ‘Get up,’ cried Johnnie again.

  Still Nancy did not move, and suddenly a feeling of nameless dread came over the boy. He turned to Poirot.

  ‘What–what’s the matter? Why doesn’t she get up?’

  ‘Come with me,’ said Poirot curtly.

  He strode over the snow. He had waved the others back, and he was careful not to infringe on the other footmarks. The boy followed him, frightened and unbelieving. Poirot knelt down by the girl, then he signed to Johnnie.

  ‘Feel her hand and pulse.’

  Wondering, the boy bent down, then started back with a cry. The hand and arm were stiff and cold, and no vestige of a pulse was to be found.

  ‘She’s dead!’ he gasped. ‘But how? Why?’

  M. Poirot passed over the first part of the question.

  ‘Why?’ he said musingly. ‘I wonder.’ Then, suddenly leaning across the dead girl’s body, he unclasped her other hand, which was tightly clenched over something. Both he and the boy uttered an exclamation. In the palm of Nancy’s hand was a red stone that winked and flashed forth fire.

  ‘Aha!’ cried M. Poirot. Swift as a flash his hand flew to his pocket, and came away empty.

  ‘The cracker ruby,’ said Johnnie wonderingly. Then, as his companion bent to examine the dagger, and the stained snow, he cried out: ‘Surely it can’t be blood, M. Poirot. It’s paint. It’s only paint.’

  Poirot straightened himself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘You are right. It’s only paint.’

  ‘Then how–’ The boy broke off. Poirot finished the sentence for him.

  ‘How was she killed? That we must find out. Did she eat or drink anything this morning?’

  He was retracing his steps to the path where the others waited as he spoke. Johnnie was close behind him.

  ‘She had a cup of tea,’ said the boy. ‘Mr Levering made it for her. He’s got a spirit-lamp in his room.’

  Johnnie’s voice was loud and clear. Levering heard the words.

  ‘Always take a spirit-lamp about with me,’ he declared. ‘Most handy thing in the world. My sister’s been glad enough of it this visit–not liking to worry the servants all the time you know.’

  M. Poirot’s eyes fell, almost apologetically as it seemed, to Mr Levering’s feet, which were encased in carpet slippers.

  ‘You have changed your boots, I see,’ he murmured gently.

  Levering stared at him.

  ‘But, M. Poirot,’ cried Jean, ‘what are we to do?’

  ‘There is only one thing to be done, as I said just now, Mademoiselle. Send for the police.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ cried Levering. ‘It won’t take me a minute to put on my boots. You people had better not stay out here in the cold.’

  He disappeared into the ho
use.

  ‘He is so thoughtful, that Mr Levering,’ murmured Poirot softly. ‘Shall we take his advice?’

  ‘What about waking father and–and everybody?’

  ‘No,’ said M. Poirot sharply. ‘It is quite unnecessary. Until the police come, nothing must be touched out here; so shall we go inside? To the library? I have a little history to recount to you which may distract your minds from this sad tragedy.’

  He led the way, and they followed him.

  ‘The story is about a ruby,’ said M. Poirot, ensconcing himself in a comfortable arm-chair. ‘A very celebrated ruby which belonged to a very celebrated man. I will not tell you his name–but he is one of the great ones of the earth. Eh bien, this great man, he arrived in London, incognito. And since, though a great man, he was also a young and a foolish man, he became entangled with a pretty young lady. The pretty young lady, she did not care much for the man, but she did care for his possessions–so much so that she disappeared one day with the historic ruby which had belonged to his house for generations. The poor young man, he was in a quandary. He is shortly to be married to a noble Princess, and he does not want the scandal. Impossible to go to the police, he comes to me, Hercule Poirot, instead. “Recover for me my ruby,” he says. Eh bien, I know something of this young lady. She has a brother, and between them they have put through many a clever coup. I happen to know where they are staying for Christmas. By the kindness of Mr Endicott, whom I chance to have met, I, too, become a guest. But when this pretty young lady hears that I am arriving, she is greatly alarmed. She is intelligent, and she knows that I am after the ruby. She must hide it immediately in a safe place; and figure to yourself where she hides it–in a plum-pudding! Yes, you may well say, oh! She is stirring with the rest, you see, and she pops it into a pudding-bowl of aluminium that is different from the others. By a strange chance, that pudding came to be used on Christmas Day.’

  The tragedy forgotten for the moment, they stared at him open-mouthed.

  ‘After that,’ continued the little man, ‘she took to her bed.’ He drew out his watch and looked at it. ‘The household is astir. Mr Levering is a long time fetching the police, is he not? I fancy that his sister went with him.’