Suddenly, I asked myself: why had Aunt Dahlia phoned me, when she thought I was still in New York? I remembered a book I’d read recently, one of those mystery novels I devoured at night when the rain makes pinging noises on the windows–By Order of the Czar. In it, anarchists conspired with other anarchists, or against them, and none of them were half as smart as Aunt Dahlia.
“In America? Certainly not!” I decided I would wait for her to disclose her hand.
“Excellent, because you’ll be able to come tonight for Christmas Eve dinner, then.”
“Christmas Eve dinner? What, tonight?” I repeated, a tad naively, I confess, as I twisted my neck to look at the calendar.
“Come on, Bertie, you know it happens every year at the same time.”
Indeed, we had reached December 24th. Now I knew why Aunt Dahlia had phoned. Knowing perfectly well that I was back in London, she wanted to make sure I wouldn’t miss this old family tradition. Travers was cunning in that way; she would have felt at home inside a wooden horse plotting to take over Troy. But she was right: I had all but forgotten.
“No problem. You can start serving the plum pudding, rehearsing the carols and everything that goes with them.”
“You are a dear.”
“You know my motto: women and children first.”
“Don’t forget to bring Jeeves.”
Sometimes, I wonder if, in my Aunt’s heart, the image of her poor Bertram isn’t being slowly erased and replaced by the roman profile of Jeeves carved on one of her ventricles.
“Why? Do you need additional staff to serve eggnog?”
“No, but we have a, shall we say, special guest this year.”
Her voice could have been heard as far as Coconut Grove.
“Will you please stop being mysterious and tell me what you are talking about?”
“We’ve invited a Captain Arthur Hastings. A veteran from the Somme. I met him when I served as a volunteer in the Royal Army Medical Corps when he was wounded. You both love tennis, you should get along.”
“Then I fail to see the problem. Do you need Jeeves to keep the score?”
It is worth noting that at this point, Aunt Dahlia paused. Then, after a minute of silence, she barked:
“Listen: Captain Hastings asked me to invite one of his friends. I willingly agreed, of course, you know me, but now I’m having second thoughts. The little Belgian hardly stops chattering. He is getting on your Uncle Tom’s nerves, and you know how patient he is. I lost patience long before Tom. But above all, Monsieur Poirot prizes himself on being a deep thinker. That’s why I’d like to see Jeeves take him down a peg. Tell me, his brain is as sharp as ever?”
“Not to worry, I feed him a plate of fish every day.”
“Very good. Then be here at eight.”
“Kind of you to ask me as well.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” she mooed before hanging up.
I almost felt like dancing the Rite of Spring. Of course, I was happy at the notion of spending Christmas in the Woosters’ ancestral home in Market Snodbury, Worcestershire. But I was already salivating at the thought of enjoying Anatole’s cooking. Maestro of the cooking pots, gift from the gods to our mortal palates, Aunt Dahlia’s chef makes me regret having only one stomach. Even though he is French, Anatole, unlike many of his colleagues, does not cook only French dishes. He is always ready to try some good, old-fashioned English recipe, such as his succulent steak and kidney pie.
My spirits uplifted, I decided to no longer dwell on the register of the Junior Ganymede and leave to Jeeves the responsibility of his entries. I put on a Jacques Fath suit and my best pair of deerskin shoes.
“I would recommend these, sir. It’s snowing outside, and your shoes might be damaged,” said Jeeves as he offered me a pair of rubber boots.
We Woosters are known for our magnanimity, and I accepted the boots with all the kindness a medieval lord would show to a transgressing vassal. Jeeves showed further concern for the impact of the weather on my delicate constitution by handing me a pair of kidskin gloves. Fully accoutered, I went to the Drones Club to chew the curd in the company of my friend Bingo.
One cannot but love Christmas when one is a Londoner. At this time of the year, the city radiates a festive atmosphere that the worst blows of the Great War could not diminish. Even in Dec. of 1916 the mailmen delivered letters amongst bombed-out ruins, most of any crowd on Regent Street were soldiers out of uniforms, and every shop proudly displayed a sign reading “Business as usual.” Fortunately, that time is gone. I hurried towards the Drones Club, my overcoat collar upturned against the cold. Customers were leaving shops their hands full of presents or gawking at the lavishly decorated windows of Selfridge’s. On the ice rink inside, lovers and children were skating to the continuous music of the store’s ragtime band. The streets were lit up and sparkling with gold-colored garlands. Every street corner seemed to have a hot chestnut peddler.
I arrived at the club, the entrance of which was decorated with a ball of holly and a tiny Santa Claus made of paper maché. Leaving my boots at the cloakroom, I went to the smoking room where I knew I’d find Bingo Little. With Pongo Twistleton, “Catsmeat” Potter-Pirbright, Boko Fittleworth and Reginald Herring, a.k.a. the “Salted Herring.” Bingo is one of the pillars of our club. Besides myself, of course. I have enjoyed a not inconsiderable prestige since the time I crossed the club’s swimming pool by grabbing the ceiling’s net. At least, I was crossing the pool until a sore loser cut the net. We call ourselves Drones because we make as much noise as real drones, although once a year the senior members ask us to relocate to the Senior Liberal Club in order to straighten up the lampshades, repair the broken furniture, and so on. The exile to the Senior Liberal Club is appreciated differently depending on whether one enjoys being served by, believe it or not, female waiters.
Bingo was in deep conversation with a whisky soda. After the customary exchange of “Hullo!” and “How do you do, old branch?” we began tackling serious business, i.e.: the horses in this year’s Derby, Pongo’s birthday and, especially, our annual dart competition sweepstakes, which at ten shillings a ticket keeps the till full.
“Catsmeat and Boko will join us later this afternoon to discuss it.”
I made the sorry expression of a Hun prevented from looting a nunnery.
“I’m afraid I shan’t be able to stay. I’m supposed to spend Christmas Eve at Market Snodbury.”
“Anyone I know?” asked Bingo, taking a cigarette from his case.
“The usual crew, plus two stowaways: a Captain Hastings and a Monsieur Poirot.”
Bingo’s mouth dropped and he stayed there, his lighter still on, like a Statue of Liberty afflicted with a toothache.
“Poirot?”
“You heard me.”
“Hercule Poirot?”
“If you’d like.”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know who he is, Bertie? Ouch!”
Bongo dropped the lighter and began to suck his thumb, waiting for my full confession.
“Not in the least.”
“You, who brags about reading murder mysteries and whose manservant has to rush to the nearest bookstore to get the latest Spinoza, you don’t know Hercule Poirot?”
He was quickly becoming irritating. Young Bingo, you see, is the type of man who knows everything there is to know about sports cars and male fashions, but when it comes to literature, his knowledge stops with the Sporting Times.
“As you can see, I’m as innocent as a new-born lamb.”
Bingo Little assumed an educated air. It made him look as if he was giving his admission speech at the Royal Society. “Hercule Poirot is a famous detective whose investigations are often recorded by his friend, Captain Hastings.”
“Really?” I said, barely suppressing a yawn.
“That’s true,” he reply, unnoticing. “And his name is often linked with that of the Queen of Crime, Mrs. A...”
“A...?”
“A...” he repeat
ed, leaning over his whisky soda.
“Almost there, Bingo!”
“I’ve got it! Mrs. Ariadne Oliver!”
The budding literary critic gave me a list of a few titles, then I went home. Jeeves finished loading the suitcases in the boot of my old sports coupé and we left our cozy headquarters at 3, Berkeley Mansions, Berkeley Square, London, W1, driving towards the divine kitchen of Anatole.
I’m not particularly gifted with descriptions, but suffice it to say that Aunt Dahlia’s rustic haven of peace, its gardens and dependencies, were buried under snow. Seppings opened the front door. The icy composure of the old butler seemed reinforced by the weather. I dispensed with the “What ho!” and went straight to the point.
“Where is my aunt?”
“In the salon,” replied Banquo’s ghost.
You can say what you want about Seppings, but he knows the house. Even if I wouldn’t immediately think of asking him to join us for a picnic on Brighton Beach, I trust his directions entirely. While Jeeves was unloading the car, I rushed to join my dear old aunt.
Aunt Dahlia had done things well, as she does every year. Trusting the decoration to no one else, she had pinned bunches of holly everywhere in the salon and stuck knots of red and green crepe on the walls. The huge Christmas tree was topped by a large star, and hung with fake snow garlands and ball ornaments. Under it was a pile of multicolored boxes. How many times as a child I had sought to open them before the appointed time? I confess I still felt that old desire. Suppressing a tear of grateful joy at the memories, I was about to say hello when I noticed the gnomes. There were six of them, tough men wearing wool caps and scarves, methodically crushing the pine needles that had fallen off the trees under their cleat boots. At a signal from their master, Reverend Aubrey Upjohn, the local vicar, they launched themselves into a Christmas carol. At least, I suppose that that’s what it was, because it sounded more like a concerto for tortured felines, and indeed the mangled tones scared Augustus, Aunt Dahlia’s cat, nearly to death. He came running and hid between my legs and I scratched his ears. Augustus only asked one thing from life: three meals a day and 15 hours’ sleep. Otherwise, he gets grumpy and I can’t blame him. In fact, I’m a rather okay type of human, from the perspective of cats.
With no mercy for their audience, the choir of evil dwarves finished their number. Reverend Upjohn greeted the polite applause the way a Grand Inquisitor receives apprentice torturers. At Aunt Dahlia’s signal, they all rushed to the table to stuff themselves with butterfingers and candied fruits. I didn’t dare imagine what they might do if they fell on crackers—they’d use them to give birds heart attacks. Well, that’s what Bingo Little would do....
“Bertie! Come here!” shouted Aunt Dahlia, her round face unusually pinkish.
It’s funny how my aunts can be so different. Aunt Agatha is tall and bony, while Aunt Dahlia is built like an athlete. I walked around the tree and gave her a hug.
“Glad to be here!” I said while she tried to suffocate me.
“You didn’t forget?”
“What?” I said, freeing myself from her death grip.
“I asked you to come with...”
I looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Good spirits?” I said, helpfully.
“No, you ass! Not that!” Aunt Dahlia replied, winking at me repeatedly.
“Your eye medicine?”
“No!”
“But you do need some! You’re batting your eyes like an owl.”
The dear old thing took a deep breath, making a visible effort. She was obviously exhausted by all the Christmas preparations.
“Forget it, Bertie,” she sighed. “Let me introduce you to a dear friend: Captain Hastings!”
The more easily distracted amongst you would be forgiven if you had assumed that the guests in the room were the carolers. Not at all! In fact, Captain Hastings looked nothing like a gnome. He was a man of good appearance, elegant stature and dressed in a well-tailored suit. He wore a frank smile that inspired immediate confidence.
We shook hands.
“Tennis, said my aunt?” I said.
“Only as an amateur. What about you?”
“The same, since William Tilden won the singles at Wimbledon. And he just did it again at the US championship.”
“Tsk! An American!” said Hastings, visibly shocked.
We discussed the case of Miss Suzanne Lenglen, who had won three years in a row in both the Singles and Womens’ Doubles at Wimbledon.
“Since I moved to Argentina, I don’t follow the fashions closely but I’ve heard reports that Miss Lenglen appeared with bared forearms and a skirt cut just above the calf?”
I was forced to admit the truth of this appalling image. During our conversation, Aunt Dahlia hadn’t stopped glancing nervously towards the kitchen. The appearance of a rather odd-looking gentleman did nothing to diminish her anxiety.
“Monsieur Poirot, I’d like you to meet my nephew!” she bellowed with the delicacy of a Scots Regiment.
Poirot rolled up his eyes like a cat.
“Ah! La famille. Nothing is more important than blood ties,” he said, shaking my hand.
His exaggerated manners and comical accent indicated right away that he was from the Continent–likely a Frenchman. I learned later that he was, in fact, from Belgium. Jeeves told me they are two different nations, but one thing is certain: there’s no one else like Hercule Poirot. We Woosters are generally tall, and I’m not even including Aunt Agatha, whose personality adds six inches to her stature. So I had to bend almost halfway to make eye contact with Monsieur Poirot. He might have been 5’4” but he stood up straight, not conceding an inch. His head was egg-shaped and decorated with a superb moustache. At first, I was sorry that Jeeves wasn’t there to look at him, but I soon changed my mind. According to Jeeves, a modest dress style should be inversely proportional to one’s height. By studying Poirot and the care he took in his attired I could only conclude that he was something of a dandy. Now, those who know Bertram know that he is in favor of greater simplicity. Following the publication of my “What Elegant Men Must Wear” in Milady’s Boudoir, perfect strangers have stopped me in the street to ask for my tailor’s name. And I of course give it to them, for it is the duty of the enlightened man to spread his wisdom around.
“Monsieur Poirot is a policeman!” shouted Aunt Dahlia.
The little fellow inclined his head to the side.
“A retired policeman, dear Madame. In truth, Hercule Poirot is now a consulting detective. One of the best in England.”
His oddly accented statement was delivered with obvious self-satisfaction. He immediately reminded me of Aunt Agatha’s husband. Spencer Gregson has the gift to turn the story of one of his days at the Stock Exchange into a Norse saga, and as soon as he begins throwing market prices at me, I start nodding off. We Woosters came to Jolly Old with William the Conqueror and fought alongside Richard the Lionhearted, but the Stock Market positively paralyses us.
Wishing to lighten up the atmosphere, I said:
“Like Nick Carter, eh? Bang! Bang!”
Poirot looked down his nose at my fingers, which I had formed into guns.
“Non, not really,” he said, balancing on the tips of his feet.
“You have a beautiful moustache.”
His face lit up immediately.
“You think so?”
“Waxed?”
“Parfaitement ! But you too, it seems…”
“Hello, hello!”
It would have been impossible to mistake that breathy voice. Among the persons I almost married, in addition to the aforementioned Honoria Glossop, was Florence Craye. Florence is the daughter of Lord Parcival Worplesdon, which is enough of a handicap for anyone to bear. At first glance, Florence looks like a divine creature next to whom Ida Lupino is a stunted gargoyle. The mere sight of Florence has led stout men to say things they have regretted later. But her flawless faces hides a tyrannical harpy who would not hesit
ate to send a Light Brigade into the mouths of Russian cannon. And since we are no longer engaged, Florence bears me all the good will of the iceberg for the Titanic.
“Goodness gracious, what a small world!” I said, pulling out my cigarette case.
As a matter of fact, I ought to have guessed that Florence would be here. After all, she is family.
“Bertie?”
I pretended to feel nonchalant, but my hands shook lightly. I couldn’t count on Aunt Dahlia for help, because she had removed herself.
“Yes?” I said, quivering.
“Bertram?”
“Hullo! I’m here!”
“You’re not going to start smoking now?”
I looked at my cigarette’s incandescent tip.
“Not at all. I thought I would chew on it for a while, but I like your idea much better.”
Florence looked as if she would gladly have hit my head with a croquet mallet but had to keep her composure in front of the other guests.
“I’m told you’re a writer?” she asked Hastings.
The good Captain became as red as the Norton lighthouse. He nodded to his Belgian friend and muttered:
“It’s nothing. Just a few accounts...”
“I wrote a novel once,” interrupted Florence.
Indeed, and if I add that the novel is entitled Spiral and is an introspective drama sporting on its cover a green-faced woman smelling a purple lily, you will understand why Florence and I postponed indefinitely choosing names for our first-born.
I felt the need to remind her that Bertram, too, is an accomplished man of letters. I said loudly, “It’s a family gift. Have you seen the latest issue of Milady’s Boudoir? There is…”
“Oh, stop talking about yourself and let Captain Hastings talk, Bertie!”
Tales of the Shadowmen 4: Lords of Terror Page 16
