The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

by Agatha Christie

  Her voice, faintly surprised said:

  ‘I – suppose so.’

  ‘I suppose not. I think you have no idea. I think that is the tragedy of your life. But the tragedy is for other people – not for you.

  ‘Someone today mentioned to me Othello. I asked you if your husband was jealous, and you said you thought he must be. But you said it quite lightly. You said it as Desdemona might have said it not realizing danger. She, too, recognized jealousy, but she did not understand it, because she herself never had, and never could, experience jealousy. She was, I think, quite unaware of the force of acute physical passion. She loved her husband with the romantic fervour of hero worship, she loved her friend Cassio, quite innocently, as a close companion . . . I think that because of her immunity to passion, she herself drove men mad . . . Am I making sense to you, Madame?’

  There was a pause – and then Margharita’s voice answered. Cool, sweet, a little bewildered:

  ‘I don’t – I don’t really understand what you are saying . . .’

  Poirot sighed. He spoke in matter of fact tones.

  ‘This evening,’ he said, ‘I pay you a visit.’

  IX

  Inspector Miller was not an easy man to persuade. But equally Hercule Poirot was not an easy man to shake off until he had got his way. Inspector Miller grumbled, but capitulated.

  ‘– though what Lady Chatterton’s got to do with this –’

  ‘Nothing, really. She has provided asylum for a friend, that is all.’

  ‘About those Spences – how did you know?’

  ‘That stiletto came from there? It was a mere guess. Something Jeremy Spence said gave me the idea. I suggested that the stiletto belonged to Margharita Clayton. He showed that he knew positively that it did not.’ He paused. ‘What did they say?’ he asked with some curiosity.

  ‘Admitted that it was very like a toy dagger they’d once had. But it had been mislaid some weeks ago, and they had really forgotten about it. I suppose Rich pinched it from there.’

  ‘A man who likes to play safe, Mr Jeremy Spence,’ said Hercule Poirot. He muttered to himself: ‘Some weeks ago . . . Oh yes, the planning began a long time ago.’

  ‘Eh, what’s that?’

  ‘We arrive,’ said Poirot. The taxi drew up at Lady Chatterton’s house in Cheriton Street. Poirot paid the fare.

  Margharita Clayton was waiting for them in the room upstairs. Her face hardened when she saw Miller.

  ‘I didn’t know –’

  ‘You did not know who the friend was I proposed to bring?’

  ‘Inspector Miller is not a friend of mine.’

  ‘That rather depends on whether you want to see justice done or not, Mrs Clayton. Your husband was murdered –’

  ‘And now we have to talk of who killed him,’ said Poirot quickly. ‘May we sit down, Madame?’

  Slowly Margharita sat down in a high-backed chair facing the two men.

  ‘I ask,’ said Poirot, addressing both his hearers, ‘to listen to me patiently. I think I now know what happened on that fatal evening at Major Rich’s flat . . . We started, all of us, by an assumption that was not true – the assumption that there were only two persons who had the opportunity of putting the body in the chest – that is to say, Major Rich, or William Burgess. But we were wrong – there was a third person at the flat that evening who had an equally good opportunity to do so.’

  ‘And who was that?’ demanded Miller sceptically. ‘The lift boy?’

  ‘No. Arnold Clayton.’

  ‘What? Concealed his own dead body? You’re crazy.’

  ‘Naturally not a dead body – a live one. In simple terms, he hid himself in the chest. A thing that has often been done throughout the course of history. The dead bride in the Mistletoe Bough, Iachimo with designs on the virtue of Imogen and so on. I thought of it as soon as I saw that there had been holes bored in the chest quite recently. Why? They were made so that there might be a sufficiency of air in the chest. Why was the screen moved from its usual position that evening? So as to hide the chest from the people in the room. So that the hidden man could lift the lid from time to time and relieve his cramp, and hear better what went on.’

  ‘But why?’ demanded Margharita, wide-eyed with astonishment. ‘Why should Arnold want to hide in the chest?’

  ‘Is it you who ask that, Madame? Your husband was a jealous man. He was also an inarticulate man. “Bottled up”, as your friend Mrs Spence put it. His jealousy mounted. It tortured him! Were you or were you not Rich’s mistress? He did not know! He had to know! So – a “telegram from Scotland”, the telegram that was never sent and that no one ever saw! The overnight bag is packed and conveniently forgotten at the club. He goes to the flat at a time when he has probably ascertained Rich will be out – He tells the valet he will write a note. As soon as he is left alone, he bores the holes in the chest, moves the screen, and climbs inside the chest. Tonight he will know the truth. Perhaps his wife will stay behind the others, perhaps she will go, but come back again. That night the desperate, jealousy-racked man will know . . .’

  ‘You’re not saying he stabbed himself ?’ Miller’s voice was incredulous. ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘Oh no, someone else stabbed him. Somebody who knew he was there. It was murder all right. Carefully planned, long premediated, murder. Think of the other characters in Othello. It is Iago we should have remembered. Subtle poisoning of Arnold Clayton’s mind; hints, suspicions. Honest Iago, the faithful friend, the man you always believe! Arnold Clayton believed him. Arnold Clayton let his jealousy be played upon, be roused to fever pitch. Was the plan of hiding in the chest Arnold’s own idea? He may have thought it was – probably he did think so! And so the scene is set. The stiletto, quietly abstracted some weeks earlier, is ready. The evening comes. The lights are low, the gramophone is playing, two couples dance, the odd man out is busy at the record cabinet, close to the Spanish chest and its masking screen. To slip behind the screen, lift the lid and strike – Audacious, but quite easy!’

  ‘Clayton would have cried out!’

  ‘Not if he were drugged,’ said Poirot. ‘According to the valet, the body was “lying like a man asleep”. Clayton was asleep, drugged by the only man who could have drugged him, the man he had had a drink with at the club.’

  ‘Jock?’ Margharita’s voice rose high in childlike surprise. ‘Jock? Not dear old Jock. Why, I’ve known Jock all my life! Why on earth should Jock . . . ?’

  Poirot turned on her.

  ‘Why did two Italians fight a duel? Why did a young man shoot himself ? Jock McLaren is an inarticulate man. He has resigned himself, perhaps, to being the faithful friend to you and your husband, but then comes Major Rich as well. It is too much! In the darkness of hate and desire, he plans what is well nigh the perfect murder – a double murder, for Rich is almost certain to be found guilty of it. And with Rich and your husband both out of the way – he thinks that at last you may turn to him. And perhaps. Madame, you would have done . . . Eh?’

  She was staring at him, wide eyed horror struck . . .

  Almost unconsciously she breathed:

  ‘Perhaps . . . I don’t – know . . .’

  Inspector Miller spoke with sudden authority.

  ‘This is all very well, Poirot. It’s a theory, nothing more. There’s not a shred of evidence. Probably not a word of it is true.’

  ‘It is all true.’

  ‘But there’s no evidence. There’s nothing we can act on.’

  ‘You are wrong. I think that McLaren, if this is put to him, will admit it. That is, if it is made clear to him that Margharita Clayton knows . . .’

  Poirot paused and added:

  ‘Because, once he knows that, he has lost . . . The perfect murder has been in vain.’

  The Under Dog

  I

  Lily Margrave smoothed her gloves out on her knee with a nervous gesture, and darted a glance at the occupant of the big chair opposite her.

  She had he
ard of M. Hercule Poirot, the well-known investigator, but this was the first time she had seen him in the flesh.

  The comic, almost ridiculous, aspect that he presented disturbed her conception of him. Could this funny little man, with the egg-shaped head and the enormous moustaches, really do the wonderful things that were claimed for him? His occupation at the moment struck her as particularly childish. He was piling small blocks of coloured wood one upon the other, and seemed far more interested in the result than in the story she was telling.

  At her sudden silence, however, he looked sharply across at her.

  ‘Mademoiselle, continue, I pray of you. It is not that I do not attend; I attend very carefully, I assure you.’

  He began once more to pile the little blocks of wood one upon the other, while the girl’s voice took up the tale again. It was a gruesome tale, a tale of violence and tragedy, but the voice was so calm and unemotional, the recital was so concise that something of the savour of humanity seemed to have been left out of it.

  She stopped at last.

  ‘I hope,’ she said anxiously, ‘that I have made everything clear.’

  Poirot nodded his head several times in emphatic assent. Then he swept his hand across the wooden blocks, scattering them over the table, and, leaning back in his chair, his fingertips pressed together and his eyes on the ceiling, he began to recapitulate.

  ‘Sir Reuben Astwell was murdered ten days ago. On Wednesday, the day before yesterday, his nephew, Charles Leverson, was arrested by the police. The facts against him as far as you know are: – you will correct me if I am wrong, Mademoiselle – Sir Reuben was sitting up late writing in his own special sanctum, the Tower room. Mr Leverson came in late, letting himself in with a latch-key. He was overheard quarrelling with his uncle by the butler, whose room is directly below the Tower room. The quarrel ended with a sudden thud as of a chair being thrown over and a half-smothered cry.

  ‘The butler was alarmed, and thought of getting up to see what was the matter, but as a few seconds later he heard Mr Leverson leave the room gaily whistling a tune, he thought nothing more of it. On the following morning, however, a housemaid discovered Sir Reuben dead by his desk. He had been struck down by some heavy instrument. The butler, I gather, did not at once tell his story to the police. That was natural, I think, eh, Mademoiselle?’

  The sudden question made Lily Margrave start.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said.

  ‘One looks for humanity in these matters, does one not?’ said the little man. ‘As you recited the story to me – so admirably, so concisely – you made of the actors in the drama machines – puppets. But me, I look always for human nature. I say to myself, this butler, this – what did you say his name was?’

  ‘His name is Parsons.’

  ‘This Parsons, then, he will have the characteristics of his class, he will object very strongly to the police, he will tell them as little as possible. Above all, he will say nothing that might seem to incriminate a member of the household. A house-breaker, a burglar, he will cling to that idea with all the strength of extreme obstinacy. Yes, the loyalties of the servant class are an interesting study.’

  He leaned back beaming.

  ‘In the meantime,’ he went on, ‘everyone in the household has told his or her tale, Mr Leverson among the rest, and his tale was that he had come in late and gone up to bed without seeing his uncle.’

  ‘That is what he said.’

  ‘And no one saw reason to doubt that tale,’ mused Poirot, ‘except, of course, Parsons. Then there comes down an inspector from Scotland Yard, Inspector Miller you said, did you not? I know him, I have come across him once or twice in the past. He is what they call the sharp man, the ferret, the weasel.

  ‘Yes, I know him! And the sharp Inspector Miller, he sees what the local inspector has not seen, that Parsons is ill at ease and uncomfortable, and knows something that he has not told. Eh bien, he makes short work of Parsons. By now it has been clearly proved that no one broke into the house that night, that the murderer must be looked for inside the house and not outside. And Parsons is unhappy and frightened, and feels very relieved to have his secret knowledge drawn out of him.

  ‘He has done his best to avoid scandal, but there are limits; and so Inspector Miller listens to Parsons’ story, and asks a question or two, and then makes some private investigations of his own. The case he builds up is very strong – very strong.

  ‘Blood-stained fingers rested on the corner of the chest in the Tower room, and the fingerprints were those of Charles Leverson. The housemaid told him she emptied a basin of blood-stained water in Mr Leverson’s room the morning after the crime. He explained to her that he had cut his finger, and he had a little cut there, oh yes, but such a very little cut! The cuff of his evening shirt had been washed, but they found blood-stains in the sleeve of his coat. He was hard pressed for money, and he inherited money at Sir Reuben’s death. Oh, yes, a very strong case, Mademoiselle.’ He paused.

  ‘And yet you come to me today.’

  Lily Margrave shrugged her slender shoulders.

  ‘As I told you, M. Poirot, Lady Astwell sent me.’

  ‘You would not have come of your own accord, eh?’

  The little man glanced at her shrewdly. The girl did not answer.

  ‘You do not reply to my question.’

  Lily Margrave began smoothing her gloves again.

  ‘It is rather difficult for me, M. Poirot. I have my loyalty to Lady Astwell to consider. Strictly speaking, I am only her paid companion, but she has treated me more as though I were a daughter or a niece. She has been extraordinarily kind and, whatever her faults, I should not like to appear to criticize her actions, or – well, to prejudice you against taking up the case.’

  ‘Impossible to prejudice Hercule Poirot, cela ne ce fait pas,’ declared the little man cheerily. ‘I perceive that you think Lady Astwell has in her bonnet the buzzing bee. Come now, is it not so?’

  ‘If I must say –’

  ‘Speak, Mademoiselle.’

  ‘I think the whole thing is simply silly.’

  ‘It strikes you like that, eh?’

  ‘I don’t want to say anything against Lady Astwell –’

  ‘I comprehend,’ murmured Poirot gently. ‘I comprehend perfectly.’ His eyes invited her to go on.

  ‘She really is a very good sort, and frightfully kind, but she isn’t – how can I put it? She isn’t an educated woman. You know she was an actress when Sir Reuben married her, and she has all sorts of prejudices and superstitions. If she says a thing, it must be so, and she simply won’t listen to reason. The inspector was not very tactful with her, and it put her back up. She says it is nonsense to suspect Mr Leverson and just the sort of stupid, pig-headed mistake the police would make, and that, of course, dear Charles did not do it.’

  ‘But she has no reasons, eh?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘Ha! Is that so? Really, now.’

  ‘I told her,’ said Lily, ‘that it would be no good coming to you with a mere statement like that and nothing to go on.’

  ‘You told her that,’ said Poirot, ‘did you really? That is interesting.’

  His eyes swept over Lily Margrave in a quick comprehensive survey, taking in the details of her neat black suit, the touch of white at her throat and the smart little black hat. He saw the elegance of her, the pretty face with its slightly pointed chin, and the dark-blue, long-lashed eyes. Insensibly his attitude changed; he was interested now, not so much in the case as in the girl sitting opposite him.

  ‘Lady Astwell is, I should imagine, Mademoiselle, just a trifle inclined to be unbalanced and hysterical?’

  Lily Margrave nodded eagerly. ‘That describes her exactly. She is, as I told you, very kind, but it is impossible to argue with her or to make her see things logically.’

  ‘Possibly she suspects someone on her own account,’ suggested Poirot, ‘someone quite absurd.’

  ‘That is
exactly what she does do,’ cried Lily. ‘She has taken a great dislike to Sir Reuben’s secretary, poor man. She says she knows he did it, and yet it has been proved quite conclusively that poor Owen Trefusis cannot possibly have done it.’

  ‘And she has no reasons?’

  ‘Of course not; it is all intuition with her.’

  Lily Margrave’s voice was very scornful.

  ‘I perceive, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, smiling, ‘that you do not believe in intuition?’

  ‘I think it is nonsense,’ replied Lily.

  Poirot leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Les femmes,’ he murmured, ‘they like to think that it is a special weapon that the good God has given them, and for every once that it shows them the truth, at least nine times it leads them astray.’

  ‘I know,’ said Lily, ‘but I have told you what Lady Astwell is like. You simply cannot argue with her.’

  ‘So you, Mademoiselle, being wise and discreet, came along to me as you were bidden, and have managed to put me au courant of the situation.’

  Something in the tone of his voice made the girl look up sharply.

  ‘Of course, I know,’ said Lily apologetically, ‘how very valuable your time is.’

  ‘You are too flattering, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot, ‘but indeed – yes, it is true, at this present time I have many cases of moment on hand.’

  ‘I was afraid that might be so,’ said Lily, rising. ‘I will tell Lady Astwell –’

  But Poirot did not rise also. Instead he lay back in his chair and looked steadily up at the girl.

  ‘You are in haste to be gone, Mademoiselle? Sit down one more little moment, I pray of you.’

  He saw the colour flood into her face and ebb out again. She sat down once more slowly and unwillingly.

  ‘Mademoiselle is quick and decisive,’ said Poirot. ‘She must make allowances for an old man like myself, who comes to his decisions slowly. You mistook me, Mademoiselle. I did not say that I would not go down to Lady Astwell.’

  ‘You will come, then?’

  The girl’s tone was flat. She did not look at Poirot, but down at the ground, and so was unaware of the keen scrutiny with which he regarded her.