Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

  “I want you to be happy,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Ah! there’s your young man bringing his car round. You know, I like these very tight trousers these young men wear nowadays. They look so smart—only, of course, it does accentuate knock knees.”

  Yes, Sarah thought, Desmond had got knock knees, she had never noticed it before. . . .

  “Go on, dear, enjoy yourself,” said Mrs. Lacey.

  She watched her go out to the car, then, remembering her foreign guest, she went along to the library. Looking in, however, she saw that Hercule Poirot was taking a pleasant little nap, and smiling to herself, she went across the hall and out into the kitchen to have a conference with Mrs. Ross.

  “Come on, beautiful,” said Desmond. “Your family cutting up rough because you’re coming out to a pub? Years behind the times here, aren’t they?”

  “Of course they’re not making a fuss,” said Sarah, sharply as she got into the car.

  “What’s the idea of having that foreign fellow down? He’s a detective, isn’t he? What needs detecting here?”

  “Oh, he’s not here professionally,” said Sarah. “Edwina Morecombe, my grandmother, asked us to have him. I think he’s retired from professional work long ago.”

  “Sounds like a broken-down old cab horse,” said Desmond.

  “He wanted to see an old-fashioned English Christmas, I believe,” said Sarah vaguely.

  Desmond laughed scornfully. “Such a lot of tripe, that sort of thing,” he said. “How you can stand it I don’t know.”

  Sarah’s red hair was tossed back and her aggressive chin shot up.

  “I enjoy it!” she said defiantly.

  “You can’t, baby. Let’s cut the whole thing tomorrow. Go over to Scarborough or somewhere.”

  “I couldn’t possibly do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, it would hurt their feelings.”

  “Oh, bilge! You know you don’t enjoy this childish sentimental bosh.”

  “Well, not really perhaps but—” Sarah broke off. She realized with a feeling of guilt that she was looking forward a good deal to the Christmas celebration. She enjoyed the whole thing, but she was ashamed to admit that to Desmond. It was not the thing to enjoy Christmas and family life. Just for a moment she wished that Desmond had not come down here at Christmastime. In fact, she almost wished that Desmond had not come down here at all. It was much more fun seeing Desmond in London than here at home.

  In the meantime the boys and Bridget were walking back from the lake, still discussing earnestly the problems of skating. Flecks of snow had been falling, and looking up at the sky it could be prophesied that before long there was going to be a heavy snowfall.

  “It’s going to snow all night,” said Colin. “Bet you by Christmas morning we have a couple of feet of snow.”

  The prospect was a pleasurable one.

  “Let’s make a snowman,” said Michael.

  “Good lord,” said Colin, “I haven’t made a snowman since—well, since I was about four years old.”

  “I don’t believe it’s a bit easy to do,” said Bridget. “I mean, you have to know how.”

  “We might make an effigy of M. Poirot,” said Colin. “Give it a big black moustache. There is one in the dressing-up box.”

  “I don’t see, you know,” said Michael thoughtfully, “how M. Poirot could ever have been a detective. I don’t see how he’d ever be able to disguise himself.”

  “I know,” said Bridget, “and one can’t imagine him running about with a microscope and looking for clues or measuring footprints.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” said Colin. “Let’s put on a show for him!”

  “What do you mean, a show?” asked Bridget.

  “Well, arrange a murder for him.”

  “What a gorgeous idea,” said Bridget. “Do you mean a body in the snow—that sort of thing?”

  “Yes. It would make him feel at home, wouldn’t it?”

  Bridget giggled.

  “I don’t know that I’d go as far as that.”

  “If it snows,” said Colin, “we’ll have the perfect setting. A body and footprints—we’ll have to think that out rather carefully and pinch one of Grandfather’s daggers and make some blood.”

  They came to a halt and oblivious to the rapidly falling snow, entered into an excited discussion.

  “There’s a paintbox in the old schoolroom. We could mix up some blood—crimson-lake, I should think.”

  “Crimson-lake’s a bit too pink, I think,” said Bridget. “It ought to be a bit browner.”

  “Who’s going to be the body?” asked Michael.

  “I’ll be the body,” said Bridget quickly.

  “Oh, look here,” said Colin, “I thought of it.”

  “Oh, no, no,” said Bridget, “it must be me. It’s got to be a girl. It’s more exciting. Beautiful girl lying lifeless in the snow.”

  “Beautiful girl! Ah-ha,” said Michael in derision.

  “I’ve got black hair, too,” said Bridget.

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Well, it’ll show up so well on the snow and I shall wear my red pyjamas.”

  “If you wear red pyjamas, they won’t show the bloodstains,” said Michael in a practical manner.

  “But they’d look so effective against the snow,” said Bridget, “and they’ve got white facings, you know, so the blood could be on that. Oh, won’t it be gorgeous? Do you think he will really be taken in?”

  “He will if we do it well enough,” said Michael. “We’ll have just your footprints in the snow and one other person’s going to the body and coming away from it—a man’s, of course. He won’t want to disturb them, so he won’t know that you’re not really dead. You don’t think,” Michael stopped, struck by a sudden idea. The others looked at him. “You don’t think he’ll be annoyed about it?”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Bridget, with facile optimism. “I’m sure he’ll understand that we’ve just done it to entertain him. A sort of Christmas treat.”

  “I don’t think we ought to do it on Christmas Day,” said Colin reflectively. “I don’t think Grandfather would like that very much.”

  “Boxing Day then,” said Bridget.

  “Boxing Day would be just right,” said Michael.

  “And it’ll give us more time, too,” pursued Bridget. “After all, there are a lot of things to arrange. Let’s go and have a look at all the props.”

  They hurried into the house.

  The evening was a busy one. Holly and mistletoe had been brought in in large quantities and a Christmas tree had been set up at one end of the dining room. Everyone helped to decorate it, to put up the branches of holly behind pictures and to hang mistletoe in a convenient position in the hall.

  “I had no idea anything so archaic still went on,” murmured Desmond to Sarah with a sneer.

  “We’ve always done it,” said Sarah, defensively.

  “What a reason!”

  “Oh, don’t be tiresome, Desmond. I think it’s fun.”

  “Sarah my sweet, you can’t!”

  “Well, not—not really perhaps but—I do in a way.”

  “Who’s going to brave the snow and go to midnight mass?” asked Mrs. Lacey at twenty minutes to twelve.

  “Not me,” said Desmond. “Come on, Sarah.”

  With a hand on her arm he guided her into the library and went over to the record case.

  “There are limits, darling,” said Desmond. “Midnight mass!”

  “Yes,” said Sarah. “Oh yes.”

  With a good deal of laughter, donning of coats and stamping of feet, most of the others got off. The two boys, Bridget, David and Diana set out for the ten minutes’ walk to the church through the falling snow. Their laughter died away in the distance.

  “Midnight mass!” said Colonel Lacey, snorting. “Never went to midnight mass in my young days. Mass, indeed! Popish, that is! Oh, I beg your pardon, M. Poirot.”

 
; Poirot waved a hand. “It is quite all right. Do not mind me.”

  “Matins is good enough for anybody, I should say,” said the colonel. “Proper Sunday morning service. ‘Hark the herald angels sing,’ and all the good old Christmas hymns. And then back to Christmas dinner. That’s right, isn’t it, Em?”

  “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Lacey. “That’s what we do. But the young ones enjoy the midnight service. And it’s nice, really, that they want to go.”

  “Sarah and that fellow don’t want to go.”

  “Well, there dear, I think you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Sarah, you know, did want to go, but she didn’t like to say so.”

  “Beats me why she cares what that fellow’s opinion is.”

  “She’s very young, really,” said Mrs. Lacey placidly. “Are you going to bed, M. Poirot? Good night. I hope you’ll sleep well.”

  “And you, Madame? Are you not going to bed yet?”

  “Not just yet,” said Mrs. Lacey. “I’ve got the stockings to fill, you see. Oh, I know they’re all practically grown up, but they do like their stockings. One puts jokes in them! Silly little things. But it all makes for a lot of fun.”

  “You work very hard to make this a happy house at Christmas time,” said Poirot. “I honour you.”

  He raised her hand to his lips in a courtly fashion.

  “Hm,” grunted Colonel Lacey, as Poirot departed. “Flowery sort of fellow. Still—he appreciates you.”

  Mrs. Lacey dimpled up at him. “Have you noticed, Horace, that I’m standing under the mistletoe?” she asked with the demureness of a girl of nineteen.

  Hercule Poirot entered his bedroom. It was a large room well provided with radiators. As he went over towards the big four-poster bed he noticed an envelope lying on his pillow. He opened it and drew out a piece of paper. On it was a shakily printed message in capital letters.

  DON’T EAT NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING. ONE AS WISHES YOU WELL.

  Hercule Poirot stared at it. His eyebrows rose. “Cryptic,” he murmured, “and most unexpected.”

  Christmas dinner took place at 2 p.m. and was a feast indeed. Enormous logs crackled merrily in the wide fireplace and above their crackling rose the babel of many tongues talking together. Oyster soup had been consumed, two enormous turkeys had come and gone, mere carcasses of their former selves. Now, the supreme moment, the Christmas pudding was brought in, in state! Old Peverell, his hands and his knees shaking with the weakness of eighty years, permitted no one but himself to bear it in. Mrs. Lacey sat, her hands pressed together in nervous apprehension. One Christmas, she felt sure, Peverell would fall down dead. Having either to take the risk of letting him fall down dead or of hurting his feelings to such an extent that he would probably prefer to be dead than alive, she had so far chosen the former alternative. On a silver dish the Christmas pudding reposed in its glory. A large football of a pudding, a piece of holly stuck in it like a triumphant flag and glorious flames of blue and red rising round it. There was a cheer and cries of “Ooh-ah.”

  One thing Mrs. Lacey had done: prevailed upon Peverell to place the pudding in front of her so that she could help it rather than hand it in turn round the table. She breathed a sigh of relief as it was deposited safely in front of her. Rapidly the plates were passed round, flames still licking the portions.

  “Wish, M. Poirot,” cried Bridget. “Wish before the flame goes. Quick, Gran darling, quick.”

  Mrs. Lacey leant back with a sigh of satisfaction. Operation Pudding had been a success. In front of everyone was a helping with flames still licking it. There was a momentary silence all round the table as everyone wished hard.

  There was nobody to notice the rather curious expression on the face of M. Poirot as he surveyed the portion of pudding on his plate. “Don’t eat none of the plum pudding.” What on earth did that sinister warning mean? There could be nothing different about his portion of plum pudding from that of everyone else! Sighing as he admitted himself baffled—and Hercule Poirot never liked to admit himself baffled—he picked up his spoon and fork.

  “Hard sauce, M. Poirot?”

  Poirot helped himself appreciatively to hard sauce.

  “Swiped my best brandy again, eh Em?” said the colonel good-humouredly from the other end of the table. Mrs. Lacey twinkled at him.

  “Mrs. Ross insists on having the best brandy, dear,” she said. “She says it makes all the difference.”

  “Well, well,” said Colonel Lacey, “Christmas comes but once a year and Mrs. Ross is a great woman. A great woman and a great cook.”

  “She is indeed,” said Colin. “Smashing plum pudding, this. Mmmm.” He filled an appreciative mouth.

  Gently, almost gingerly, Hercule Poirot attacked his portion of pudding. He ate a mouthful. It was delicious! He ate another. Something tinkled faintly on his plate. He investigated with a fork. Bridget, on his left, came to his aid.

  “You’ve got something, M. Poirot,” she said. “I wonder what it is.”

  Poirot detached a little silver object from the surrounding raisins that clung to it.

  “Oooh,” said Bridget, “it’s the bachelor’s button! M. Poirot’s got the bachelor’s button!”

  Hercule Poirot dipped the small silver button into the finger-glass of water that stood by his plate, and washed it clear of pudding crumbs.

  “It is very pretty,” he observed.

  “That means you’re going to be a bachelor, M. Poirot,” explained Colin helpfully.

  “That is to be expected,” said Poirot gravely. “I have been a bachelor for many long years and it is unlikely that I shall change that status now.”

  “Oh, never say die,” said Michael. “I saw in the paper that someone of ninety-five married a girl of twenty-two the other day.”

  “You encourage me,” said Hercule Poirot.

  Colonel Lacey uttered a sudden exclamation. His face became purple and his hand went to his mouth.

  “Confound it, Emmeline,” he roared, “why on earth do you let the cook put glass in the pudding?”

  “Glass!” cried Mrs. Lacey, astonished.

  Colonel Lacey withdrew the offending substance from his mouth. “Might have broken a tooth,” he grumbled. “Or swallowed the damn thing and had appendicitis.”

  He dropped the piece of glass into the finger bowl, rinsed it and held it up.

  “God bless my soul,” he ejaculated. “It’s a red stone out of one of the cracker brooches.” He held it aloft.

  “You permit?”

  Very deftly M. Poirot stretched across his neighbour, took it from Colonel Lacey’s fingers and examined it attentively. As the squire had said, it was an enormous red stone the colour of a ruby. The light gleamed from its facets as he turned it about. Somewhere around the table a chair was pushed sharply back and then drawn in again.

  “Phew!” cried Michael. “How wizard it would be if it was real.”

  “Perhaps it is real,” said Bridget hopefully.

  “Oh, don’t be an ass, Bridget. Why a ruby of that size would be worth thousands and thousands and thousands of pounds. Wouldn’t it, M. Poirot?”

  “It would indeed,” said Poirot.

  “But what I can’t understand,” said Mrs. Lacey, “is how it got into the pudding.”

  “Oooh,” said Colin, diverted by his last mouthful, “I’ve got the pig. It isn’t fair.”

  Bridget chanted immediately, “Colin’s got the pig! Colin’s got the pig! Colin is the greedy guzzling pig!”

  “I’ve got the ring,” said Diana in a clear, high voice.

  “Good for you, Diana. You’ll be married first, of us all.”

  “I’ve got the thimble,” wailed Bridget.

  “Bridget’s going to be an old maid,” chanted the two boys. “Yah, Bridget’s going to be an old maid.”

  “Who’s got the money?” demanded David. “There’s a real ten shilling piece, gold, in this pudding. I know. Mrs. Ross told me so.”

  “I think I’m the lucky one,” s
aid Desmond Lee-Wortley.

  Colonel Lacey’s two next door neighbours heard him mutter. “Yes, you would be.”

  “I’ve got a ring, too,” said David. He looked across at Diana. “Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  The laughter went on. Nobody noticed that M. Poirot carelessly, as though thinking of something else, had dropped the red stone into his pocket.

  Mince pies and Christmas dessert followed the pudding. The older members of the party then retired for a welcome siesta before the teatime ceremony of the lighting of the Christmas tree. Hercule Poirot, however, did not take a siesta. Instead, he made his way to the enormous old-fashioned kitchen.

  “It is permitted,” he asked, looking round and beaming, “that I congratulate the cook on this marvellous meal that I have just eaten?”

  There was a moment’s pause and then Mrs. Ross came forward in a stately manner to meet him. She was a large woman, nobly built with all the dignity of a stage duchess. Two lean grey-haired women were beyond in the scullery washing up and a tow-haired girl was moving to and fro between the scullery and the kitchen. But these were obviously mere myrmidons. Mrs. Ross was the queen of the kitchen quarters.

  “I am glad to hear you enjoyed it, sir,” she said graciously.

  “Enjoyed it!” cried Hercule Poirot. With an extravagant foreign gesture he raised his hand to his lips, kissed it, and wafted the kiss to the ceiling. “But you are a genius, Mrs. Ross! A genius! Never have I tasted such a wonderful meal. The oyster soup—” he made an expressive noise with his lips “—and the stuffing. The chestnut stuffing in the turkey, that was quite unique in my experience.”

  “Well, it’s funny that you should say that, sir,” said Mrs. Ross graciously. “It’s a very special recipe, that stuffing. It was given me by an Austrian chef that I worked with many years ago. But all the rest,” she added, “is just good, plain English cooking.”

  “And is there anything better?” demanded Hercule Poirot.

  “Well, it’s nice of you to say so, sir. Of course, you being a foreign gentleman might have preferred the continental style. Not but what I can’t manage continental dishes too.”

  “I am sure, Mrs. Ross, you could manage anything! But you must know that English cooking—good English cooking, not the cooking one gets in the second-class hotels or the restaurants—is much appreciated by gourmets on the continent, and I believe I am correct in saying that a special expedition was made to London in the early eighteen hundreds, and a report sent back to France of the wonders of the English puddings. ‘We have nothing like that in France,’ they wrote. ‘It is worth making a journey to London just to taste the varieties and excellencies of the English puddings.’ And above all puddings,” continued Poirot, well launched now on a kind of rhapsody, “is the Christmas plum pudding, such as we have eaten today. That was a homemade pudding, was it not? Not a bought one?”