Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and other stories

by Agatha Christie

  For a moment he stood quite still, scrutinizing her closely. There was nothing ill-bred in his manner of doing it. It was more the kind but searching look that a famous consultant gives a new patient.

  "Are you sure, madame," he said at last, "that I can help you?"

  A little flush rose to her cheeks.

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "What is it, madame, that you want me to do?"

  "Oh," she seemed surprised. "I thought - you knew who I was?"

  "I know who you are. Your husband was killed - stabbed, and a Major Rich has been arrested and charged with his murder."

  The flush heightened.

  "Major Rich did not kill my husband."

  Quick as a flash Poirot said:

  "Why not?"

  She stared, puzzled. "I - I beg your pardon?"

  "I have confused you - because I have not asked the question that everybody asks - the police - the lawyers 'Why should Major Rich kill Arnold Clayton?' But I ask the opposite. I ask you, madame, why you are sure that Major Rich did not kill him?"

  "Because" - she paused a moment - "because I know Major Rich so well."

  "You know Major Rich so well," repeated Poirot tonelessly. He paused and then said sharply:

  "How well?"

  Whether she understood his meaning, he could not guess. He thought to himself. 'Here is either a woman of great simplicity or of great subtlety...' Many people, he thought, must have wondered that about Margharita Clayton...

  "How well?" She was looking at him doubtfully. "Five years - no, nearly six."

  "That was not precisely what I meant. You must understand, madame, that I shall have to ask you the impertinent questions. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie sometimes. Women must defend themselves, and the lie, it can be a good weapon. But there are three people, madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father confessor, to her hairdresser, and to her private detective - if she trusts him. Do you trust me, madame?"

  Margharita Clayton drew a deep breath.

  "Yes," she said. "I do." And added: "I must."

  "Very well, then. What is it you want me to do - find out who killed your husband?"

  "I suppose so - yes."

  "But it is not essential? You want me, then, to clear Major Rich from suspicion?"

  She nodded quickly - gratefully.

  "That - and that only?"

  It was, he saw, an unnecessary question. Margharita Clayton was a woman who saw only one thing at a time.

  "And now," he said, "for the impertinence. You and Major Rich, you are lovers, yes?"

  "Do you mean, were we having an affair together? No."

  "But he was in love with you?"

  "Yes."

  "And you - were in love with him?"

  "I think so."

  "You do not seem quite sure?"

  "I am sure - now."

  "Ah! You did not, then, love your husband?"

  "No."

  "You reply with an admirable simplicity. Most women would wish to explain at great length just exactly what their feelings were. How long had you been married?"

  "Eleven years."

  "Can you tell me a little about your husband - what kind of a man he was?"

  She frowned. "It's difficult. I don't really know what kind of a man Arnold was. He was very quiet - very reserved. One didn't know what he was thinking. He was clever, of course - everyone said he was brilliant - in his work, I mean. He didn't - how can I put it - he never explained himself at all."

  "Was he in love with you?"

  "Oh, yes. He must have been. Or he wouldn't have minded so much…" she came to a sudden stop.

  "About other men? That is what you were going to say? He was jealous?"

  Again she said:

  "He must have been." And then, as though she felt that the phrase needed explanation, she said,

  "Sometimes, for days, he wouldn't speak -"

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

  "This violence - that has come into your life. Is it the first that you have known?"

  "Violence?" She frowned, then flushed. "I - you mean - that poor boy who shot himself?"

  "Yes," said Poirot. "I expect that is what I mean -"

  "I'd no idea he felt like that... I was sorry for him - he seemed so shy - so lonely. He must have been very neurotic, I think. And there were two Italians and a duel… it was ridiculous! Anyway, nobody was killed, thank goodness. And honestly, I didn't care about either of them! I never even pretended to care."

  "No. You were just - there! And where you are things happen! I have seen that before in my life. It is because you do not care that men are driven mad. But for Major Rich you do care. So we must do what we can -"

  He was silent for a moment or two.

  She sat there gravely, watching him.

  "We turn from personalities, which are the really important things, to plain facts. I know only what has been in the papers. On the facts as given there, only two persons had the opportunity of killing your husband, only two persons could have killed him - Major Rich and Major Rich's manservant."

  She said, stubbornly:

  "I know Charles didn't kill him."

  "So, then, it must have been the valet. You agree?"

  She said doubtfully:

  "I see what you mean -"

  "But you are dubious about it?"

  "It just seems – fantastic!"

  "Yet the possibility is there. Your husband undoubtedly came to the flat, since his body was found there. If the valet's story is true, Major Rich killed him. But if the valet's story is false? Then the valet killed him and hid the body in the chest before his master returned. An excellent way of disposing of the body from his point of view. He has only got to 'notice the bloodstain' the next morning and 'discover' it. Suspicion will immediately fall on Rich."

  "But why should he want to kill Arnold?"

  "Ah why? The motive cannot be an obvious one - or the police would have investigated it. It is possible that your husband knew something to the valet's discredit, and was about to acquaint Major Rich with the facts. Did your husband ever say anything to you about this man Burgess?"

  She shook her head.

  "Do you think he would have done so - if that had indeed been the case?"

  She frowned.

  "It's difficult to say. Possibly not. Arnold never talked much about people. I told you he was reserved. He wasn't - he was never - a chatty man."

  "He was a man who kept his own counsel. Yes, now what is your opinion of Burgess?"

  "He's not the kind of man you notice very much. A fairly good servant. Adequate, but not polished."

  "What age?"

  "About thirty-seven or eight, I should think. He'd been an orderly in the army during the war, but he wasn't a regular soldier."

  "How long had he been with Major Rich?"

  "Not very long. About a year and a half, I think."

  "You never noticed anything odd about his manner towards your husband?"

  "We weren't there so very often. No, I noticed nothing at all."

  "Tell me now about the events of that evening. What time were you invited?"

  "Eight-fifteen for half past."

  "And just what kind of a party was it to be?"

  "Well, there would be drinks, and a kind of buffet supper - usually a very good one. Foie gras and hot toast. Smoked salmon. Sometimes there was a hot rice dish - Charles had a special recipe he'd got in the Near East - but that was more for winter. Then we used to have music - Charles had got a very good stereophonic gramophone. Both my husband and Jock McLaren were very fond of classical records. And we had dance music - the Spences were very keen dancers. It was that sort of thing - a quiet informal evening. Charles was a very good host."

  "And this particular evening - it was like other evenings there? You noticed nothing unusual - nothing out of place?"

  "Out of place?" she frowned for a
moment. "When you said that I - no, it's gone. There was something -"

  She shook her head again. "No. To answer your question, there was nothing unusual at all about that evening. We enjoyed ourselves. Everybody seemed relaxed and happy." She shivered. "And to think that all the time -"

  Poirot held up a quick hand.

  "Do not think. This business that took your husband to Scotland, how much do you know about that?"

  "Not very much. There was some dispute over the restrictions on selling a piece of land which belonged to my husband. The sale had apparently gone through and then some sudden snag turned up."

  "What did your husband tell you exactly?"

  "He came in with a telegram in his hand. As far as I remember, he said, 'This is most annoying. I shall have to take the night mail to Edinburgh and see Johnston first thing tomorrow morning. Too bad, when one thought the thing was going through smoothly at last.' Then he said, 'Shall I ring up Jock and get him to call for you?' and I said, 'Nonsense, I'll just take a taxi,' and he said that Jock or the Spences would see me home. I said did he want anything packed and he said he'd just throw a few things into a bag, and have a quick snack at the club, before catching the train. Then he went off and - and that's the last time I saw him."

  Her voice broke a little on the last words.

  Poirot looked at her very hard.

  "Did he show you the telegram?"

  "No."

  "A pity."

  "Why do you say that?"

  He did not answer that question. Instead he said briskly:

  "Now to business. Who are the solicitors acting for Major Rich?"

  She told him and he made a note of the address.

  "Will you write a few words to them and give it to me? I shall want to make arrangements to see Major Rich."

  "He - it's been remanded for a week."

  "Naturally. That is the procedure. Will you also write a note to Commander McLaren and to your friends the Spences? I shall want to see all of them, and it is essential that they do not at once show me the door."

  When she rose from the writing desk, he said:

  "One thing more. I shall register my own impressions, but I also want yours - of Commander McLaren and of Mr. and Mrs. Spence."

  "Jock is one of our oldest friends. I've known him ever since I was a child. He appears to be quite a dour person, but he's really a dear - always the same - always to be relied upon. He's not gay and amusing but he's a tower of strength - both Arnold and I relied on his judgement a lot."

  "And he, also, is doubtless in love with you?" Poirot's eyes twinkled slightly.

  "Oh yes," said Margharita happily. "He's always been in love with me - but by now it's become a kind of habit."

  "And the Spences?"

  "They're amusing - and very good company. Linda Spence is really rather a clever girl. Arnold enjoyed talking with her. She's attractive, too."

  "You are friends?"

  "She and I? In a way. I don't know that I really like her. She's too malicious."

  "And her husband?"

  "Oh, Jeremy is delightful. Very musical. Knows a good deal about pictures, too. He and I go to picture shows a good deal together."

  "Ah, well, I shall see for myself." He took her hand in his, "I hope, madame, you will not regret asking for my help."

  "Why should I regret it?" Her eyes opened wide.

  "One never knows," said Poirot cryptically.

  "And I - I do not know," he said to himself, as he went down the stairs. The cocktail party was still in full spate, but he avoided being captured and reached the street.

  "No," he repeated. "I do not know."

  It was of Margharita Clayton he was thinking. That apparently childlike candor, that frank innocence - was it just that? Or did it mask something else? There had been women like that in medieval days - women on whom history had not been able to agree.

  He thought of Mary Stuart, the Scottish Queen. Had she known, that night in Kirk o'Fields, of the deed that was to be done? Or was she completely innocent? Had the conspirators told her nothing? Was she one of those childlike simple women who can say to themselves "I do not know" and believe it? He felt the spell of Margharita Clayton. But he was not entirely sure about her...

  Such women could be, though innocent themselves, the cause of crimes.

  Such women could be, in intent and design, criminals themselves, though not in action.

  Theirs was never the hand that held the knife - as to Margharita Clayton - no - he did not know!

  Hercule Poirot did not find Major Rich's solicitors very helpful. He had not expected to do so.

  They managed to indicate, though without saying so, that it would be in their client's best interest if Mrs. Clayton showed no sign of activity on his behalf.

  His visit to them was in the interests of "correctness." He had enough pull with the Home Office and the CID to arrange his interview with the prisoner.

  Inspector Miller, who was in charge of the Clayton case, was not one of Poirot's favorites. He was not, however, hostile on this occasion, merely contemptuous.

  "Can't waste much time over the old dodderer," he had said to his assisting sergeant before Poirot was shown in. "Still, I'll have to be polite."

  "You'll really have to pull some rabbits out of a hat if you're going to do anything with this one, M. Poirot," he remarked cheerfully. "Nobody else but Rich could have killed the bloke."

  "Except the valet."

  "Oh, I'll give you the valet! As a possibility, that is. But you won't find anything there. No motives whatever."

  "You cannot be entirely sure of that. Motives are very curious things."

  "Well, he wasn't acquainted with Clayton in any way. He's got a perfectly innocuous past. And he seems to be perfectly right in his head. I don't know what more you want?"

  "I want to find out that Rich did not commit the crime."

  "To please the lady, eh?" Inspector Miller grinned wickedly. "She's been getting at you, I suppose. Quite something, isn't she? Cherchez la femme with a vengeance. If she'd had the opportunity, you know, she might have done it herself."

  "That, no!"

  "You'd be surprised. I once knew a woman like that. Put a couple of husbands out of the way without a blink of her innocent blue eyes. Broken-hearted each time, too. The jury would have aquitted her if they'd had half a chance which they hadn't, the evidence being practically cast iron."

  "Well, my friend, let us not argue. What I make so bold as to ask is a few reliable details on the facts. What a newspaper prints is news - but not always truth!"

  "They have to enjoy themselves. What do you want?"

  "Time of death as near as can be."

  "Which can't be very near because the body wasn't examined until the following morning. Death is estimated to have taken place from thirteen to ten hours previously. That is, between seven and ten o'clock the night before... He was stabbed through the jugular vein - death must have been matter of moments."

  "And the weapon?"

  "A kind of Italian stiletto - quite small - razor sharp. Nobody has ever seen it before, or knows where it comes from. But we shall know - in the end it's a matter of time and patience."

  "It could not have been picked up in the course of a quarrel."

  "No. The valet says no such thing was in the flat."

  "What interests me is the telegram," said Poirot. "The telegram that called Arnold Clayton away to Scot- land. Was that summons genuine?"

  "No. There was no hitch or trouble up there. The land transfer, or whatever it was, was proceeding normally."

  "Then who sent that telegram - I am presuming there was a telegram?"

  "There must have been. Not that we'd necessarily believe Mrs. Clayton. But Clayton told the valet he was called by wire to Scotland. And he also told Commander McLaren."

  "What time did he see Commander McLaren?"

  "They had a snack together at their club - Combined Services - that was at about a quarter past se
ven. Then Clayton took a taxi to Rich's flat, arriving there just before eight o'clock. After that -" Miller spread his hands out.

  "Anybody noticed anything at all odd about Rich's manner that evening?"

  "Oh well, you know what people are. Once a thing has happened, people think they noticed a lot of things I bet they never saw at all. Mrs. Spence, now, she says he was distrait all the evening. Didn't always answer to the point. As though he had 'something on his mind.' I bet he had, too, if he had a body in the chest! Wondering how the hell to get rid of it!"

  "Why didn't he get rid of it?"

  "Beats me. Lost his nerve, perhaps. But it was madness to leave it until the next day. He had the best chance he'd ever have that night. There's no night porter on. He could have got his car round, packed the body in the boot - it's a big boot - driven out in the country and parked it somewhere. He might have been seen getting the body into the car, but the flats are in a side street and there's a courtyard you drive a car through. At, say, three in the morning, he had a reasonable chance. And what does he do? Goes to bed, sleeps late the next morning and wakes up to find the police in the flat!"

  "He went to bed and slept well as an innocent man might do."

  "Have it that way if you like. But do you really believe that yourself?"

  "I shall have to leave that question until I have seen the man myself."

  "Think you know an innocent man when you see one? It's not so easy as that."

  "I know it is not easy - and I should not attempt to say I could do it. What I want to make up my mind about is whether the man is as stupid as he seems to be."

  Poirot had no intention of seeing Charles Rich until he had seen everyone else.

  He started with Commander McLaren.

  McLaren was a tall, swarthy, uncommunicative man. He had a rugged but pleasant face. He was a shy man and not easy to talk to. But Poirot persevered.

  Fingering Margharita's note, McLaren said almost reluctantly:

  "Well, if Margharita wants me to tell you all I can, of course I'll do so. Don't know what there is to tell, though. You've heard it all already. But whatever Margharita wants - I've always done what she wanted - ever since she was sixteen. She's got a way with her, you know."

  "I know," said Poirot. He went on. "First I should like you to answer a question quite frankly. Do you think Major Rich is guilty?"