Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories by Agatha Christie
“Yes, indeed, sir. Of my own making and my own recipe such as I’ve made for many years. When I came here Mrs. Lacey said that she’d ordered a pudding from a London store to save me the trouble. But no, Madam, I said, that may be kind of you but no bought pudding from a store can equal a homemade Christmas one. Mind you,” said Mrs. Ross, warming to her subject like the artist she was, “it was made too soon before the day. A good Christmas pudding should be made some weeks before and allowed to wait. The longer they’re kept, within reason, the better they are. I mind now that when I was a child and we went to church every Sunday, we’d start listening for the collect that begins ‘Stir up O Lord we beseech thee’ because that collect was the signal, as it were, that the puddings should be made that week. And so they always were. We had the collect on the Sunday, and that week sure enough my mother would make the Christmas puddings. And so it should have been here this year. As it was, that pudding was only made three days ago, the day before you arrived, sir. However, I kept to the old custom. Everyone in the house had to come out into the kitchen and have a stir and make a wish. That’s an old custom, sir, and I’ve always held to it.”
“Most interesting,” said Hercule Poirot. “Most interesting. And so everyone came out into the kitchen?”
“Yes, sir. The young gentlemen, Miss Bridget and the London gentleman who’s staying here, and his sister and Mr. David and Miss Diana—Mrs. Middleton, I should say—All had a stir, they did.”
“How many puddings did you make? Is this the only one?”
“No, sir, I made four. Two large ones and two smaller ones. The other large one I planned to serve on New Year’s Day and the smaller ones were for Colonel and Mrs. Lacey when they’re alone like and not so many in the family.”
“I see, I see,” said Poirot.
“As a matter of fact, sir,” said Mrs. Ross, “it was the wrong pudding you had for lunch today.”
“The wrong pudding?” Poirot frowned. “How is that?”
“Well, sir, we have a big Christmas mould. A china mould with a pattern of holly and mistletoe on top and we always have the Christmas Day pudding boiled in that. But there was a most unfortunate accident. This morning, when Annie was getting it down from the shelf in the larder, she slipped and dropped it and it broke. Well, sir, naturally I couldn’t serve that, could I? There might have been splinters in it. So we had to use the other one—the New Year’s Day one, which was in a plain bowl. It makes a nice round but it’s not so decorative as the Christmas mould. Really, where we’ll get another mould like that I don’t know. They don’t make things in that size nowadays. All tiddly bits of things. Why, you can’t even buy a breakfast dish that’ll take a proper eight to ten eggs and bacon. Ah, things aren’t what they were.”
“No, indeed,” said Poirot. “But today that is not so. This Christmas Day has been like the Christmas Days of old, is that not true?”
Mrs. Ross sighed. “Well, I’m glad you say so, sir, but of course I haven’t the help now that I used to have. Not skilled help, that is. The girls nowadays—” she lowered her voice slightly, “—they mean very well and they’re very willing but they’ve not been trained, sir, if you understand what I mean.”
“Times change, yes,” said Hercule Poirot. “I too find it sad sometimes.”
“This house, sir,” said Mrs. Ross, “it’s too large, you know, for the mistress and the colonel. The mistress, she knows that. Living in a corner of it as they do, it’s not the same thing at all. It only comes alive, as you might say, at Christmas time when all the family come.”
“It is the first time, I think, that Mr. Lee-Wortley and his sister have been here?”
“Yes, sir.” A note of slight reserve crept into Mrs. Ross’s voice. “A very nice gentleman he is but, well—it seems a funny friend for Miss Sarah to have, according to our ideas. But there—London ways are different! It’s sad that his sister’s so poorly. Had an operation, she had. She seemed all right the first day she was here, but that very day, after we’d been stirring the puddings, she was took bad again and she’s been in bed ever since. Got up too soon after her operation, I expect. Ah, doctors nowadays, they have you out of hospital before you can hardly stand on your feet. Why, my very own nephew’s wife . . .” And Mrs. Ross went into a long and spirited tale of hospital treatment as accorded to her relations, comparing it unfavourably with the consideration that had been lavished upon them in older times.
Poirot duly commiserated with her. “It remains,” he said, “to thank you for this exquisite and sumptuous meal. You permit a little acknowledgement of my appreciation?” A crisp five pound note passed from his hand into that of Mrs. Ross who said perfunctorily:
“You really shouldn’t do that, sir.”
“I insist. I insist.”
“Well, it’s very kind of you indeed, sir.” Mrs. Ross accepted the tribute as no more than her due. “And I wish you, sir, a very happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year.”
The end of Christmas Day was like the end of most Christmas Days. The tree was lighted, a splendid Christmas cake came in for tea, was greeted with approval but was partaken of only moderately. There was cold supper.
Both Poirot and his host and hostess went to bed early.
“Good night, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Lacey. “I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”
“It has been a wonderful day, Madame, wonderful.”
“You’re looking very thoughtful,” said Mrs. Lacey.
“It is the English pudding that I consider.”
“You found it a little heavy, perhaps?” asked Mrs. Lacey delicately.
“No, no, I do not speak gastronomically. I consider its significance.”
“It’s traditional, of course,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Well, good night, M. Poirot, and don’t dream too much of Christmas puddings and mince pies.”
“Yes,” murmured Poirot to himself as he undressed. “It is a problem certainly, that Christmas plum pudding. There is here something that I do not understand at all.” He shook his head in a vexed manner. “Well—we shall see.”
After making certain preparations, Poirot went to bed, but not to sleep.
It was some two hours later that his patience was rewarded. The door of his bedroom opened very gently. He smiled to himself. It was as he had thought it would be. His mind went back fleetingly to the cup of coffee so politely handed him by Desmond Lee-Wortley. A little later, when Desmond’s back was turned, he had laid the cup down for a few moments on a table. He had then apparently picked it up again and Desmond had had the satisfaction, if satisfaction it was, of seeing him drink the coffee to the last drop. But a little smile lifted Poirot’s moustache as he reflected that it was not he but someone else who was sleeping a good sound sleep tonight. “That pleasant young David,” said Poirot to himself, “he is worried, unhappy. It will do him no harm to have a night’s really sound sleep. And now, let us see what will happen?”
He lay quite still, breathing in an even manner with occasionally a suggestion, but the very faintest suggestion, of a snore.
Someone came up to the bed and bent over him. Then, satisfied, that someone turned away and went to the dressing table. By the light of a tiny torch the visitor was examining Poirot’s belongings neatly arranged on top of the dressing table. Fingers explored the wallet, gently pulled open the drawers of the dressing table, then extended the search to the pockets of Poirot’s clothes. Finally the visitor approached the bed and with great caution slid his hand under the pillow. Withdrawing his hand, he stood for a moment or two as though uncertain what to do next. He walked round the room looking inside ornaments, went into the adjoining bathroom from whence he presently returned. Then, with a faint exclamation of disgust, he went out of the room.
“Ah,” said Poirot, under his breath. “You have a disappointment. Yes, yes, a serious disappointment. Bah! To imagine, even, that Hercule Poirot would hide something where you could find it!” Then, turning over on his other side, he went peacefully to slee
He was aroused next morning by an urgent soft tapping on his door.
“Qui est lá? Come in, come in.”
The door opened. Breathless, red-faced, Colin stood upon the threshold. Behind him stood Michael.
“Monsieur Poirot, Monsieur Poirot.”
“But yes?” Poirot sat up in bed. “It is the early tea? But no. It is you, Colin. What has occurred?”
Colin was, for a moment, speechless. He seemed to be under the grip of some strong emotion. In actual fact it was the sight of the nightcap that Hercule Poirot wore that affected for the moment his organs of speech. Presently he controlled himself and spoke.
“I think—M. Poirot, could you help us? Something rather awful has happened.”
“Something has happened? But what?”
“It’s—it’s Bridget. She’s out there in the snow. I think—she doesn’t move or speak and—oh, you’d better come and look for yourself. I’m terribly afraid—she may be dead.”
“What?” Poirot cast aside his bed covers. “Mademoiselle Bridget—dead!”
“I think—I think somebody’s killed her. There’s—there’s blood and—oh do come!”
“But certainly. But certainly. I come on the instant.”
With great practicality Poirot inserted his feet into his outdoor shoes and pulled a fur-lined overcoat over his pyjamas.
“I come,” he said. “I come on the moment. You have aroused the house?”
“No. No, so far I haven’t told anyone but you. I thought it would be better. Grandfather and Gran aren’t up yet. They’re laying breakfast downstairs, but I didn’t say anything to Peverell. She—Bridget—she’s round the other side of the house, near the terrace and the library window.”
“I see. Lead the way. I will follow.”
Turning away to hide his delighted grin, Colin led the way downstairs. They went out through the side door. It was a clear morning with the sun not yet high over the horizon. It was not snowing now, but it had snowed heavily during the night and everywhere around was an unbroken carpet of thick snow. The world looked very pure and white and beautiful.
“There!” said Colin breathlessly. “I—it’s—there!” He pointed dramatically.
The scene was indeed dramatic enough. A few yards away Bridget lay in the snow. She was wearing scarlet pyjamas and a white wool wrap thrown round her shoulders. The white wool wrap was stained with crimson. Her head was turned aside and hidden by the mass of her outspread black hair. One arm was under her body, the other lay flung out, the fingers clenched, and standing up in the centre of the crimson stain was the hilt of a large curved Kurdish knife which Colonel Lacey had shown to his guests only the evening before.
“Mon Dieu!” ejaculated M. Poirot. “It is like something on the stage!”
There was a faint choking noise from Michael. Colin thrust himself quickly into the breach.
“I know,” he said. “It—it doesn’t seem real somehow, does it. Do you see those footprints—I suppose we mustn’t disturb them?”
“Ah yes, the footprints. No, we must be careful not to disturb those footprints.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Colin. “That’s why I wouldn’t let anyone go near her until we got you. I thought you’d know what to do.”
“All the same,” said Hercule Poirot briskly, “first, we must see if she is still alive? Is not that so?”
“Well—yes—of course,” said Michael, a little doubtfully, “but you see, we thought—I mean, we didn’t like—”
“Ah, you have the prudence! You have read the detective stories. It is most important that nothing should be touched and that the body should be left as it is. But we cannot be sure as yet if it is a body, can we? After all, though prudence is admirable, common humanity comes first. We must think of the doctor, must we not, before we think of the police?”
“Oh yes. Of course,” said Colin, still a little taken aback.
“We only thought—I mean—we thought we’d better get you before we did anything,” said Michael hastily.
“Then you will both remain here,” said Poirot. “I will approach from the other side so as not to disturb these footprints. Such excellent footprints, are they not—so very clear? The footprints of a man and a girl going out together to the place where she lies. And then the man’s footsteps come back but the girl’s—do not.”
“They must be the footprints of the murderer,” said Colin, with bated breath.
“Exactly,” said Poirot. “The footprints of the murderer. A long narrow foot with rather a peculiar type of shoe. Very interesting. Easy, I think, to recognize. Yes, those footprints will be very important.”
At that moment Desmond Lee-Wortley came out of the house with Sarah and joined them.
“What on earth are you all doing here?” he demanded in a somewhat theatrical manner. “I saw you from my bedroom window. What’s up? Good lord, what’s this? It—it looks like—”
“Exactly,” said Hercule Poirot. “It looks like murder, does it not?”
Sarah gave a gasp, then shot a quick suspicious glance at the two boys.
“You mean someone’s killed the girl—what’s-her-name—Bridget?” demanded Desmond. “Who on earth would want to kill her? It’s unbelievable!”
“There are many things that are unbelievable,” said Poirot. “Especially before breakfast, is it not? That is what one of your classics says. Six impossible things before breakfast.” He added: “Please wait here, all of you.”
Carefully making a circuit, he approached Bridget and bent for a moment down over the body. Colin and Michael were now both shaking with suppressed laughter. Sarah joined them, murmuring “What have you two been up to?”
“Good old Bridget,” whispered Colin. “Isn’t she wonderful? Not a twitch!”
“I’ve never seen anything look so dead as Bridget does,” whispered Michael.
Hercule Poirot straightened up again.
“This is a terrible thing,” he said. His voice held an emotion it had not held before.
Overcome by mirth, Michael and Colin both turned away. In a choked voice Michael said:
“What—what must we do?”
“There is only one thing to do,” said Poirot. “We must send for the police. Will one of you telephone or would you prefer me to do it?”
“I think,” said Colin, “I think—what about it, Michael?”
“Yes,” said Michael, “I think the jig’s up now.” He stepped forward. For the first time he seemed a little unsure of himself. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “I hope you won’t mind too much. It—er—it was a sort of joke for Christmas and all that, you know. We thought we’d—well, lay on a murder for you.”
“You thought you would lay on a murder for me? Then this—then this—”
“It’s just a show we put on,” explained. Colin, “to—to make you feel at home, you know.”
“Aha,” said Hercule Poirot. “I understand. You make of me the April fool, is that it? But today is not April the first, it is December the twenty-sixth.”
“I suppose we oughtn’t to have done it really,” said Colin, “but—but—you don’t mind very much, do you, M. Poirot? Come on, Bridget,” he called, “get up. You must be half frozen to death already.”
The figure in the snow, however, did not stir.
“It is odd,” said Hercule Poirot, “she does not seem to hear you.” He looked thoughtfully at them. “It is a joke, you say? You are sure this is a joke?”
“Why, yes.” Colin spoke uncomfortably. “We—we didn’t mean any harm.”
“But why then does Mademoiselle Bridget not get up?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Colin.
“Come on, Bridget,” said Sarah impatiently. “Don’t go on lying there playing the fool.”
“We really are very sorry, M. Poirot,” said Colin apprehensively. “We do really apologize.”
“You need not apologize,” said Poirot, in a peculiar tone.
Poirot beckoned to Desmond. “You, Mr. Lee-Wortley. Come here—”
Desmond joined him.
“Feel her pulse,” said Poirot.
Desmond Lee-Wortley bent down. He touched the arm—the wrist.
“There’s no pulse . . .” he stared at Poirot. “Her arm’s still. Good God, she really is dead!”
Poirot nodded. “Yes, she is dead,” he said. “Someone has turned the comedy into a tragedy.”
“Someone—who?”
“There is a set of footprints going and returning. A set of footprints that bears a strong resemblance to the footprints you have just made, Mr. Lee-Wortley, coming from the path to this spot.”
Desmond Lee-Wortley wheeled round.
“What on earth—Are you accusing me? ME? You’re crazy! Why on earth should I want to kill the girl?”
“Ah—why? I wonder . . . Let us see. . . .”
He bent down and very gently prised open the stiff fingers of the girl’s clenched hand.
Desmond drew a sharp breath. He gazed down unbelievingly. In the palm of the dead girl’s hand was what appeared to be a large ruby.
“It’s that damn thing out of the pudding!” he cried.
“Is it?” said Poirot. “Are you sure?”
“Of course it is.”