SPECIAL MESSAGE TO READERS

This book is published by
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I've travelled the world twice over, Met the famous: saints and sinners,
Poets and artists, kings and queens,
Old stars and hopeful beginners,
I've been where no-one's been before, Learned secrets from writers and cooks
All with one library ticket
To the wonderful world of books.

 JANICE JAMES.


THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING

In the introduction to this short story collection, the author wrote "This
book of Christmas fare may be
described as 'The Chef's Selection'.
I am the Cheil" She offers two
main courses THE ADVENTURE
OF THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING
and THE MYSTERY OF THE
SPANISH CHEST, a case in which
Hercule Poirot considers he was at his
best. The other four stories are a
selection of appetizers. Of these six
stories, five are Poirot's and one is
Miss Marple's.


AGATHA CHRISTIE

THE ADVENTURE OF
THE CHRISTMAS
PUDDING

Complete and Unabridged

ULVERSCROFT
Leicester


First published in Great Britain in 1960 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.,
London

First Large Print Edition
published November 1990
by arrangement with
William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.,
London

Copyright  1960 by Agatha Christie Ltd.
All rights reserved

British Library CIP Data

Christie, Agatha, 18901976
The adventure of the Christmas pudding.
--Large print
Ulverscroft large print series: mystery,
I. Title
823'.912

ISBN 0708923097

Published by
IF. A. Thorpe (Publishing) Ltd.
Anstey, Leicestershire
Set by Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd.
Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
T. J. Press (Padstow) Ltd., Padstow, Cornwall


Foreword by Agatha
Christie

T
HIS book of Christmas fare may be described as "The Chef's Selection.''
I am the Chef!
There are two main courses: The
Adventure of the Christmas Pudding and
The Mystery of the Spanish Chest; a selection
of Entr6es: Greenshaw's Folly, The
Dream, and The Under Dog, and a
Sorbet: Four-and-twenty Blackbirds.
The Mystery of the Spanish Chest may be described as a Hercule Poirot Special.
It is a case in which he considers he was
at his best! Miss Marple, in her turn, has
always been pleased with her perspicuity
in Greenshaw's Folly.
The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding is an indulgence of my own, since
it recalls to me, very pleasurably, the


Christmases of my youth. After my father's death, my mother and I always
spent Christmas with my brother-in-law's
family in the north of England--and what
superb Christmases they were for a child
to remember! Abney Hall had everything!
The garden boasted a waterfall, a stream,

and a tunnel under Christmas fare was
proportions. I was
appearing delicate, but

the drive! The
of gargantuan a skinny child,
actually of robust

health and perpetually hungry! The boys of the family and I used to vie with each
other as to who could eat most on
Christmas Day. Oyster Soup and Turbot
went down without undue zest, but then
came Roast Turkey, Boiled Turkey and an
enormous Sirloin of Beef. The boys and I
had two helpings of all three! We then had
Plum Pudding, Mince-pies, Trifle and
every kind of dessert. During the afternoon
we ate chocolates solidly. We neither
felt, nor were, sick! How lovely to be
eleven years old and greedy!
What a day of delight from "Stockings" in bed in the morning, Church and all the
Christmas hymns, Christmas dinner,


Presents, and the final Lighting of the Christmas Tree!
And how deep my gratitude to the kind and hospitable hostess who must have
worked so hard to make Christmas Day a
wonderful memory to me still in my old
age.
So let me dedicate this book to the memory of Abney Hall its kindness and
its hospitality.

And a happy Christmas to all who read this book.

AGATHA CHRISTIE


The Adventure of the
Christmas Pudding


""I' REGRET exceedingly 	"said M.
	1

		Hercule Poirot.
He was interrupted. Not rudely
interrupted. The interruption was suave,
dexterous, persuasive rather than contradictory.
"Please don't refuse offhand, M. Poirot.
There are grave issues of State. Your cooperation
will be appreciated in the highest
quarters."
"You are too kind," Hercule Poirot
waved a hand, "but I really cannot undertake
to do as you ask. At this season of
the year "
Again Mr. Jesmond interrupted.
"Christmas time," he said, persuasively.
"An old-fashioned Christmas in the
English countryside."
Hercule Poirot shivered. The thought of
the Christmas countryside at this season of
the year did not attract him.
"A good old-fashioned Christmas!" Mr.
Jesmond stressed it.


"Me I am not an Englishman," said
Hercule Poirot. "In my country,
Christmas, it is for the children. The New
Year, that is what we celebrate."
"Ah," said Mr. Jesmond, "but
Christmas in England is a great institution
and I assure you at Kings Lacey you
would see it at its best. It's a wonderful
old house, you know. Why, one wing of it
dates from the fourteenth century."
Again Poirot shivered. The thought of
a fourteenth-century English manor house
filled him with apprehension. He had
suffered too often in the historic country
houses of England. He looked round
appreciatively at his comfortable modern flat with its radiators and the latest patent
devices for excluding any kind of draught.
"In the winter," he said firmly, "I do
not leave London."
"I don't think you quite appreciate, Mr.
Poirot, what a very serious matter this is."
Mr. Jesmond glanced at his companion
and then back at Poirot.
Poirot's second visitor had up to now
said nothing but a polite and formal "How
do you do." He sat now, gazing down at
his well-polished shoes, with an air of the

4


utmost dejection on his coffee-coloured
face. He was a young man, not more than
twenty-three, and he was clearly in a state
of complete misery.
"Yes, yes," said Hercule Poirot. "Of course the matter is serious. I do
appreciate that. His Highness has my
heartfelt sympathy."
"The position is one of the utmost delicacy,'' said Mr. Jesmond.
Poirot transferred his gaze from the young man to his older companion. If one
wanted to sum up Mr. Jesmond in a word,
the word would have been discretion.
Everything about Mr. Jesmond was
discreet. His well-cut but inconspicuous
clothes, his pleasant, well-bred voice
which rarely soared out of an agreeable
monotone, his light-brown hair just thinning
a little at the temples, his pale serious
face. It seemed to Hercule Poirot that he
had known not one Mr. Jesmond but a
dozen Mr. Jesmonds in his time, all using
sooner or later the same phrase "a
position of the utmost delicacy."
"The police," said Hercule Poirot, "can be very discreet, you know."
Mr. Jesmond shook his head firmly.

5


"Not the police," he said. "To recover the--er--what we want to recover will
almost inevitably involve taking proceedings
in the law courts and we know so
little. We suspect, but we do not know."
"You have my sympathy," said Hercule Poirot again.
If he imagined that his sympathy was going to mean anything to his two visitors,
he was wrong. They did not want
sympathy, they wanted practical help. Mr.
Jesmond began once more to talk about
the delights of an English Christmas.
"It's dying out, you know," he said, "the real old-fashioned type of Christmas.
People spend it at hotels nowadays. But
an English Christmas with all the family
gathered round, the children and their
stockings, the Christmas tree, the turkey
and plum pudding, the crackers. The
snow-man outside the windowm"
In the interests of exactitude, Hercule Poirot intervened.
"To make a snow-man one has to have the snow," he remarked severely. "And
one cannot have snow to order, even for
an English Christmas."
"I was talking to a friend of mine in

6


the meteorological office only to-day," said Mr, Jesmond, "and he tells-me that it is
highly probable there will be snow this
Christmas."
It was the wrong thing to have said. Hercule Poirot shuddered more forcefully
than ever.
"Snow in the country!" he said. "That would be still more abominable. A large,
cold, stone manor house."
"Not at all," said Mr. Jesmond. "Things have changed very much in the
last ten years or so. Oil-fired central
heating."
"They have oil-fired central heating at Kings Lacey?" asked Poirot. For the first
time he seemed to waver.
Mr. Jesmond seized his opportunity. "Yes, indeed," he said, "and a splendid
hot water system. Radiators in every
bedroom. I assure you, my dear M. Poirot,
Kings Lacey is comfort itself in the winter
time. You might even find the house too warm.
"That is most unlikely," said Hercule Poirot.
With practised dexterity Mr. Jesmond shifted his ground a little.

7


"You can appreciate the terrible dilemma we are in," he said, in a confidential
manner.
Hercule Poirot nodded. The problem was, indeed, not a happy one. A young
potentate-to-be, the only son of the ruler
of a rich and important native State had
arrived in London a few weeks ago. His
country had been passing through a period
of restlessness and discontent. Though
loyal to the father whose way of life had
remained persistently Eastern, popular
opinion was somewhat dubious of the
younger generation. His follies had been
Western ones and as such looked upon
with disapproval.
Recently, however, his betrothal had been announced. He was to marry a cousin
of the same blood, a young woman who,
though educated at Cambridge, was
careful to display no Western influences in
her own country. The wedding day was
announced and the young prince had made
a journey to England, bringing with him
some of the famous jewels of his house to
be reset in appropriate modern settings by
Cartier. These had included a very famous
ruby which had been removed from its

8


cumbersome old-fashioned necklace and had been given a new look by the famous
jewellers. So far so good, but after this
came the snag. It was not to be supposed
that a young man possessed of much
wealth and convivial tastes, should not
commit a few follies of the pleasanter type.
As to that there would have been no
censure. Young princes were supposed to
amuse themselves in this fashion. For the
prince to take the girl friend of the
moment for a walk down Bond Street and
bestow upon her an emerald bracelet or a
diamond clip as a reward for the pleasure
she had afforded him would have been regarded as quite natural and suitable,
corresponding in fact to the Cadillac cars
which his father invariably presented to his
favourite dancing girl of the moment.
But the prince had been far more indiscreet than that. Flattered by the lady's
interest, he had displayed to her the
famous ruby in its new setting, and had
finally been so unwise as to accede to her
request to be allowed to wear it just for
one evening!
The sequel was short and sad. The lady had retired from their supper table to

9


powder her nose. Time passed. She did not return. She had left the establishment by
another door and since then had disappeared
into space. The important and
distressing thing'was that the ruby in its
new setting had disappeared with her.
These were the facts that could not possibly be made public without the most dire
consequences. The ruby was something
more than a ruby, it was a historical
possession of great significance, and the
circumstances of its disappearance were
such that any undue publicity about them
might result in the most serious political
consequences.
Mr. Jesmond was not the man to put these facts into simple language. He
wrapped them up, as it were, in a great
deal of verbiage. Who exactly Mr.
Jesmond was, Hercule Poirot did not
know. He had met other Mr. Jesmonds in
the course of his career. Whether he was
connected with the Home Office, the
Foreign Office or some more discreet
branch of public service was not specified.
He was acting in the interests of the
Commonwealth. The ruby must be
recovered.

l0


M. Poirot, so Mr. Jesmond delicately insisted, was the man to recover it.
"Perhaps--yes," Hercule Poirot
admitted, "but you can tell me so little.
Suggestion suspicion all that is not
very much to go upon."
"Come now, Monsieur Poirot, surely it
is not beyond your powers. Ah, come
now."
"I do not always succeed."
But this was mock modesty. It was clear
enough from Poirot's tone that for him to
undertake a mission was almost synonymous
with succeeding in it.
"His Highness is very young," Mr.
Jesmond said. "It will be sad if his whole
life is to be blighted for a mere youthful
indiscretion."
Poirot looked kindly at the downcast
young man. "It is the time for follies,
when one is young," he said encouragingly,
"and for the ordinary young man it
does not matter so much. The good papa,
he pays up; the family lawyer, he helps to
disentangle the inconvenience; the young
man, he learns by experience and all ends for the best. In a position such as yours,

11


it is hard
marriage--"

indeed. Your approaching

"That is it. That is it exactly." For the first time words poured from the young
man. "You see she is very, very serious.
She takes life very seriously. She has
acquired at Cambridge many very serious
ideas. There is to be education in my
country. There are to be schools. There
are to be many things. All in the name of
progress, you understand, of democracy.
It will not be, she says, like it was in my
father's time. Naturally she knows that I
will have diversions in London, but not
the scandal. No! It is the scandal that
matters. You see it is very, very famous,
this ruby. There is a long trail behind it, a
history. Much bloodshed--many deaths!"
"Deaths," said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully. He looked at Mr. Jesmond. "One
hopes," he said, "it will not come to that?"
Mr. J esmond made a peculiar noise rather like a hen who has decided to lay
an egg and then thought better of it.
"No, no, indeed," he said, sounding rather prim. "There is no question, I am
sure, of anything of that kind."
"You cannot be sure," said Hercule

12 i


Poirot. "Whoever has the ruby now, there may be others who want to gain possession
of it, and who will not stick at a trifle, my
friend."
"I really don't think," said Mr. Jesmond, sounding more prim than ever,
"that we need enter into speculations of
that kind. Quite unprofitable."
"Me," said Hercule Poirot, suddenly becoming very foreign, "me, I explore all
the avenues, like the politicians."
Mr. Jesmond looked at him doubtfully. Pulling himself together, he said, "Well, I
can take it that is settled, M. Poirot? You
will go to Kings Lacey?"
"And how do I explain myself there?" asked Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Jesmond smiled with confidence. "That, I think, can be arranged very
easily," he said. "I can assure you that it
will all seem quite natural. You will find
the Laceys most charming. Delightful
people."
"And you do not deceive me about the oil-fired central heating?"
"No, no, indeed." Mr. Jones sounded quite pained. "I assure you you will find
every comfort."

13


"Tout confort moderne," murmured Poirot to himself, reminiscently. "Eh
bien," he said, "I accept."

14


2

T
HE temperature in the long draw-ing-room at Kings Lacey was a
comfortable sixty-eight as Hercule
Poirot sat talking to Mrs. Lacey by one of
the big mullioned windows. Mrs. Lacey
was engaged in needlework. She was not
doing petit point or embroidering flowers
upon silk. Instead, she appeared to be
engaged in the prosaic task of hemming
dishclothes. As she sewed she talked in a
soft reflective voice that Poirot found very
charming.
"I hope you will enjoy our Christmas party here, M. Poirot. It's only the family,
you know. My granddaughter and a
grandson and a friend of his and Bridget
who's my great-niece, and Diana who's a
cousin and David Welwyn who is a very
old friend. Just a family party. But Edwina
Morecombe said that that's what you really
wanted to see. An old-fashioned
Christmas. Nothing could be more old-fashioned
than we are! My husband, you

15


know, absolutely lives in the past. He likes everything to be just as it was when he was
a boy of twelve years old, and used to
come here for his holidays." She smiled
to herself. "All the same old things, the
Christmas tree and the stockings hung up
and the oyster soup and the turkey--two
turkeys, one boiled and one roast--and
the plum pudding with the ring and the
bachelor's button and all the rest of it in it.
O(/e can't have sixpences nowadays because
they're not pure silver any more. But all
the old desserts, the Elvas plums and
Carlsbad plums and almonds and raisins,
and crystallised fruit and ginger. Dear me,
I sound like a catalogue from Fortnum and
Mason!"
"You arouse my gastronomic juices, Madame."
"I expect we'll all have frightful indigestion by to-morrow evening," said Mrs.
Lacey. "One isn't used to eating so much
nowadays, is one?"
She was interrupted by some loud shouts and whoops of laughter outside the
window. She glanced out.
"I don't know what they're doing out there. Playing some game or other, I

16


suppose. I've always been so afraid, you know, that these young people would be
bored by our Christmas here. But not at
all, it's just the opposite. Now my own son
and daughter and their friends, they used
to be rather sophisticated about Christmas.
Say it was all nonsense and too much fuss
and it would be far better to go out to a
hotel somewhere and dance. But the
younger generation seem to find all this
terribly attractive. Besides," added Mrs.
Lacey practically, "schoolboys and schoolgirls
are always hungry, aren't they? I
think they must starve them at these
schools. After all, one does know children
of that age each eat about as much as three
strong men."
Poirot laughed and said, "It is most kind of you and your husband, Madame,
to include me in this way in your family
party."
"Oh, we're both delighted, I'm sure," said Mrs. Lacey. "And if you find Horace
a little gruff," she continued, "pay no
attention. It's just his manner, you know."
What her husband, Colonel Lacey, had actually said was: "Can't think why you
want one of these damned foreigners here

17


cluttering up Christmas? Why can't we have him some other time? Can't stick
foreigners! All right, all right, so Edwina
Morecombe wished him on us. What's it
got to do with her, I should like to know?
Why doesn't she have him for Christmas?"
"Because you know very well," Mrs. Lacey had said, "that Edwina always goes
to Claridge's."
Her husband had looked at her piercingly and said, "Not up to something, are
you, Em?"
"Up to something?" said Em, opening very blue eyes. "Of course not. Why
should I be?"
Old Colonel Lacey laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh. "I wouldn't put it past
you, Em," he said. "When you look your
most innocent is when you are up to
something."
Revolving these things in her mind, Mrs. Lacey went on: "Edwina said she
thought perhaps you might help us ....
I'm sure I don't know quite how, but she said that friends of yours had once found
you very helpful in--in a case something
like ours. I--well, perhaps you don't
know what I'm talking about?"

18


Poirot looked at her encouragingly. MrSLacey was close on seventy, as upri,Bt s
a ramrod, with snow-white hair,pirk
cheeks, blue eyes, a ridiculous nose arid a
determined chin.
"If there is anything I can do I shall
only be too happy to do it," said Poiro['
"It is, I understand, a rather unfortunate
matter of a young girl's infatuation."
Mrs. Lacey noddqd. "Yes. It scerOs
extraordinary that I should well, wart to
talk to you about it. After all, you are a
perfect stranger. . . ."
"And a foreigner," said Poirot, ir an
understanding manner.
"Yes," said Mrs. [,acey, "but perhalps
that makes it easier, in a way. Anylao,
Edwina seemed to think that you miglt
perhaps know something--how shall I pot
it ... something useful about this your}g
Desmond Lee-Wortley."
Poirot paused a mt)ment to admire 0e
ingenuity of Mr. Jelmond and the eae
with which he had made use of laclY
Morecombe to further his own purposes'
"He has not, I unc[erstand, a very goa'
reputation, this youhg man?" he begn
delicately.


"No, indeed, he hasn't! A very b,'
reputation! But that's no help so far
Sarah is concerned. It's never any good,
it, telling young girls that men have a
reputation? It--it just spurs them on!"
"You are so very right," said Poirot. "In my young day," went on
Lacey. ("Oh dear, that's a very long
ago!) We used to be warned, you
against certain young men, and of
it did heighten one's interest in them,
if one could possibly manage to dance wil
them, or to be alone with them in a d:
conservatory--" she laughed. "That's
I wouldn't let Horace do any of the thin, he wanted to do."
"Tell me," said Poirot, "exactly what is that troubles you?"
"Our son was killed in the war," Mrs. Lacey. "My daughter-in-law
when Sarah was born so that she
always been with us, and we've brou
her up. Perhaps we've brought her
unwisely--I don't know. But we thou
we ought always to leave her as free
possible."
"That is desirable, I think," said Poirt

20


"One cannot go against the spirit of the times."
"No," said Mrs. Lacey, "that's just what I felt about it. And, of course, girls
nowadays do do these sort of things." Poirot looked at her inquiringly.
"I think the way one expresses it," said Mrs. Lacey, "is that Sarah has got in with
what they call the coffee-bar set. She won't
go to dances or come out properly or be
a deb or anything of that kind. Instead she
has two rather unpleasant rooms in
Chelsea down by the river and wears these
funny clothes that they like to wear, and
black stockings or bright green ones. Very
thick stockings. (So prickly, I always
think!) And she goes about without
washing or combing her hair."
"(2a, c'est tout fait naturelle," said
Poirot. "It is the fashion of the moment. They grow out of it."
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Lacey. "I wouldn't worry about that sort of thing.
But you see she's taken up with this
Desmond Lee-Wortley and he really has a
very unsavoury reputation. He lives more
or less on well-to-do girls. They seem to
go quite mad about him. He very nearly

21


married the Hope girl, but her people got her made a ward of court or something.
And of course that's what Horace wants to
do. He says he must do it for her protection.
But I don't think it's really a good
idea, M. Poirot. I mean, they'll lust run
away together and go to Scotland or
Ireland or the Argentine or somewhere and
either get married or else live together
without getting married. And although it
may be contempt of court and all that
well, it isn't really an answer, is it, in the end? Especially if a baby's coming. One
has to give in then, and let them get
married. And then, nearly always, it seems
to me, after a year or two there's a divorce.
And then the girl comes home and usually
after a year or two she marries someone so
nice he's almost dull and settles down. But
it's particularly sad, it seems to me, if
there is a child, because it's not the same
thing, being brought up by a stepfather,
however nice. No, I think it's much better
if we did as we did in my young days. I
mean the first young man one fell in love
with was always someone undesirable. I
remember I had a horrible passion for a
young man called now what was his

22


name now? how strange it is, I can't remember his Christian name at all!
Tibbitt, that was his surname. Young
Tibbitt. Of course, my father more or less
forbade him the house, but he used to get
asked to the same dances, and we used to
dance together. And sometimes we'd
escape and sit out together and occasionally
friends would arrange picnics to which
we both went. Of course, it was all very
exciting and forbidden and one enjoyed it
enormously. But one didn't go to the
well, to the lengths that girls go nowadays. And so, after a while, the Mr. Tibbitts
faded out. And do you know, when I saw
him four years later I was surprised what
I could ever have seen in him! He seemed
to be such a dull young man. Flashy, you
know. No interesting conversation."
"One always thinks the days of one's own youth are best," said Poirot, somewhat
sententiously.
"I know," said Mrs. Lacey. "It's tiresome, isn't it? I mustn't be tiresome. But
all the same I don't want Sarah, who's a
dear girl really, to marry Desmond Lee-Wortley.
She and David Welwyn, who is
staying here, were always such friends and


so fond of each other, and we did hope, Horace and I, that they would grow up
and marry. But of course she just finds
him dull now, and she's absolutely infatuated
with Desmond."
"I do not quite understand, Madame," said Poirot. "You have him here now,
staying in the house, this Desmond Lee-Wortley?"
"That's my doing," said Mrs. Lacey. "Horace was all for forbidding her to see
him and all that. Of course, in Horace's
day, the father or guardian would have
called round at the young man's lodgings
with a horse whip! Horace was all for
forbidding the fellow the house, and
forbidding the girl to see him. I told him
that was quite the wrong attitude to take.
'No,' I said. 'Ask him down here. We'll
have him down for Christmas with the
family party.' Of course, my husband said
I was mad! But I said, 'At any rate, dear,
let's try it. Let her see him in our atmosphere
and our house and we'll be very nice
to him and very polite, and perhaps then
he'll seem less interesting to her'!"
"I think, as they say, you have something there, Madame," said Poirot. "I

24


think your point of view is very wise. Wiser than your husband's."
"Well, I hope it is," said Mrs. Lacey doubtfully. "It doesn't seem to be working
much yet. But of course he's only been
here a couple of days." A sudden dimple
showed in her wrinkled cheek. "I'll
confess something to you, M. Poirot. I
myself can't help liking him. I don't mean I really like him, with my mind, but I can
feel the charm all right. Oh yes, I can see
what Sarah sees in him. But I'm an old
enough woman and have enough experience
to know that he's absolutely no good.
Even if I do enjoy his company. Though
I do think," added Mrs. Lacey, rather
wistfully, "he has some good points. He
asked if he might bring his sister here, you
know. She's had an operation and was in
hospital. He said it was so sad for her
being in a nursing home over Christmas
and he wondered if it would be too much
trouble if he could bring her with him. He
said he'd take all her meals up to her and
all that. Well now, I do think that was
rather nice of him, don't you, M. Poirot?"
"It shows a consideration," said Poirot,

25


thoughtfully, "which seems almost out of character."
"Oh, I don't know.'You can have family
affections at the same time as wishing to
prey on a rich young girl. Sarah will be
very rich, you know, not only with what we leave hermand of course that won't be
very much because most of the money goes
with the place to Colin, my grandson. But
her mother was a very rich woman and
Sarah will inherit all her money when she's
twenty-one. She's only twenty now. No, I
do think it was nice of Desmond to mind
about his sister. And he didn't pretend she
was anything very wonderful or that. She's
a shorthand typist, I gather--does
secretarial work in London. And he's been
as good as his word and does carry up
trays to her. Not all the time, of course,
but quite often. So I think he has some
nice points. But all the same," said Mrs.
Lacey with great decision, "I don't want
Sarah to marry him."
"From all I have heard and been told,"
said Poirot, "that would indeed be a
disaster."
"Do you think it would be possible for

26


you to help us in any way?" asked Mrs.
Lacey.
"I think it is possible, yes," said Hercule Poirot, "but I do not wish to
promise too much. For the Mr. Desmond
Lee-Wortleys of this world are clever,
Madame. But do not despair. One can,
perhaps, do a little something. I shall at
any rate, put forth my best endeavours, if
only in gratitude for your kindness in
asking me here for this Christmas
festivity." He looked round him. "And it
cannot be so easy these days to have
Christmas festivities."
"No, indeed," Mrs. Lacey sighed. She leaned forward. "Do you know, M.
	Poirot, what I really dream of 	what I
	would
love to have?"
	"But
tell me, Madame."
"I
simply long to have a small, modern bungalow.
No, perhaps not a bungalow exactly,
but a small, modern, easy to run house
built somewhere in the park here, and
live in it with an absolutely up-to-date kitchen
and no long passages. Everything easy
and simple."
"It
is a very practical idea, Madame." "It's
not practical for me," said Mrs.

27


Lacey. "My husband adores this place. He loves living here. He doesn't mind being
slightly uncomfortable, he doesn't mind
the inconveniences and he would hate,
simply hate, to live in a small modern
house in the park!"
"So you sacrifice yourself to his wishes?"
Mrs. Lacey drew herself up. "I do not consider it a sacrifice, M. Poirot," she
said. "I married my husband with the wish
to make him happy. He has been a good
husband to me and made me very happy
all these years, and I wish to give happiness
to him."
"So you will continue to live here," said Poirot.
"It's not really too uncomfortable," said Mrs. Lacey.
"No, no," said Poirot, hastily. "On the contrary, it is most comfortable. Your
central heating and your bath water are
perfection."
"We spend a lot of money in making the house comfortable to live in," said
Mrs. Lacey. "We were able to sell some
land. Ripe for development, I think they
call it. Fortunately right out of sight of the

28


house on the other side of the park. Really rather an ugly bit of ground with no nice
view, but we got a very. good price for it.
So that we have been able to have as many
improvements as possible."
"But the service, Madame?"
"Oh, well, that presents less difficulty than you .might think. Of course, one
cannot expect to be looked after and
waited upon as one used to be. Different
people come in from the village. Two
women in the morning, another tw, o to
cook lunch and wash it up, and different
ones again in the evening. There are plenty
of people Who want to come and work for
a few hours a day. Of course for Christmas
we are very lucky. My dear Mrs. Ross
always comes in every Christmas. She is a
wonderful cook, really first-class. She
retired about ten years ago, but she comes
in to help us in any emergency. Then there
is dear Peverell."
"Your butler?'
"Yes. He is pensioned off and lives in the little house near the lodge, but he is
so devoted, and he insists on coming to
wait on us at Christmas. Really, I'm terrified,
M. Poirot, because he's so old and so

29


shaky that I feel certain that if he carries anything heavy he will drop it. It's really
an agony to watch him. And his heart is
not good and I'm afraid of his doing too
much. But it would hurt his feelings
dreadfully if I did not let him come. He
hems and hahs and makes disapproving
noises when he sees the state our silver is
in and within three days of being here, it
is all wonderful again. Yes. He is a dear
faithful friend." She smiled at Poirot. "So
you see, we are all set for a happy
Christmas. A white Christmas, too," she
added as she looked out of the window.
"See? It is beginning to snow. Ah, the
children are coming in. You must meet
them, M. Poirot."
Poirot was introduced with due ceremony. First, to Colin and Michael, the
schoolboy grandson and his friend, nice
polite lads of fifteen, one dark, one fair.
Then to their cousin, Bridget, a black-haired
girl of about the same age with
enormous vitality.
"And this is my granddaughter, Sarah," said Mrs. Lacey.
Poirot looked with some interest at Sarah, an attractive girl with a mop of red

30


hair; her manner seemed to him nervy and a trifle defiant, but she showed real affection
for her grandmother.
"And this is Mr. Lee-Wortley."
Mr. Lee-Wortley wore a fisherman's jersey and tight black jeans; his hair was
rather long and it seemed doubtful
whether he had shaved that morning. In
contrast to him was a young man introduced
as David Welwyn, who was solid
and quiet, with a pleasant smile, and
rather obviously addicted to soap and
water. There was one other member of the
party, a handsome, rather intense-looking
girl who was introduced as Diana
Middleton.
Tea was brought in. A hearty meal of scones, crumpets, sandwiches and three
kinds of cake. The younger members of
the party appreciated the tea. Colonel
Lacey came in last, remarking in a noncommittal
voice:
"Hey, tea? Oh yes, tea."
He received his cup of tea from his wife's hand, helped himself to two scones,
cast a look of aversion at Desmond Lee-Wortley
and sat down as far away from
him as he could. He was a big man with

31


bushy eyebrows and a red, weather-beaten face. He might have been taken for a
farmer rather than the lord of the manor.
"Started to snow," he said. "It's going
to be a white Christmas all right." After tea the party dispersed.
"I expect they'll go and play with their tape recorders now," said Mrs. Lacey to
Poirot. She looked indulgently after her
grandson as he left the room. Her tone was
that of one who says "The children are
going to play with their toy soldiers."
"They're frightfully technical, of course," she said, "and very grand about
it all."
The boys and Bridget, however, decided to go along to the lake and see if the ice
on it was likely to make skating possible.
"I thought we could have skated on it this morning," said Colin. "But old
Hodgkins said no. He's always so terribly
careful."
"Come for a walk, David," said Diana Middleton, softly.
David hesitated for half a moment, his eyes on Sarah's red head. She was standing
by Desmond Lee-Wortley, her hand on his
arm, looking up into his face.

32


"All right," said David Welwyn, "yes, let's."
Diana slipped a quick hand through his arm and they turned towards the door into
the garden. Sarah said:
"Shall we go, too, Desmond? It's fearfully stuffy in the house."
"Who wants to walk?" said Desmond. "I'll get my car out. We'll go along to the
Speckled Boar and have a drink."
Sarah hesitated for a moment before saying:
"Let's go to Market Ledbury to the White Hart. It's much more fun."
Though for all the world she would not have put it into words, Sarah had an
instinctive revulsion from going down
to the local pub with Desmond. It
was, somehow, not in the tradition of
Kings Lacey. The women of Kings Lacey
had never frequented the bar of the
Speckled Boar. She had an obscure feeling
that to go there would be to let old Colonel
Lacey and his wife down. And why not?
Desmond Lee-Wortley would have said.
For a moment of exasperation Sarah felt
that he ought to know why not! One didn't
upset such old darlings as Grandfather and

33


dear old Em unless it was necessary. They'd been very sweet, really, letting her
lead her own life, not understanding in the
least why she wanted to live in Chelsea in
the way she did, but accepting it. That was
due to Em of course. Grandfather would
have kicked up no end of a row.
Sarah had no illusions about her grandfather's attitude. It was not his doing that
Desmond had been asked to stay at Kings
Lacey. That was Em, and Em was a
darling and always had been.
When Desmond had gone to fetch his car, Sarah popped her head into the draw-ing-room
again.
"We're going over to Market Ledbury," she said. "We thought we'd have a drink
there at the White Hart."
There was a slight amount of defiance in her voice, but Mrs. Lacey did not seem
to notice it.
"Well, dear," she said, "I'm sure that will be very nice. David and Diana have
gone for a walk, I see. I'm so glad. I really
think it was a brainwave on my part to ask
Diana here. So sad being left a widow so
young only twenty-two I do hope she
marries again soon."

34


Sarah looked at her sharply. "What are you up to, Em?"

"It's my little plan," said Mrs. Lacey gleefully. "I think she's just right for
David. Of course I know he was terribly
in love with you, Sarah dear, but you'd no
use for him and I realise that he isn't your
type. But I don't want him to go on being
unhappy, and I think Diana will really suit
him."
"What a matchmaker you are, Em," said Sarah.
"I know," said Mrs. Lacey. "Old women always are. Diana's quite keen on
him already, I think. Don't you think
she'd be just right for him?"
"I shouldn't say so," said Sarah. "I think Diana's far too well, too intense,
too serious. I should think David would
find it terribly boring being married to
her."
"Well, we'll see," said Mrs. Lacey. "Anyway, you don't want him, do you,
dear?"
"No, indeed," said Sarah, very quickly. She added, in a sudden rush, "You do like
Desmond, don't you, Em?"

35


"I'm sure he's very nice indeed," said Mrs. Lacey.
"Grandfather doesn't like him," said Sarah.
"Well, you could hardly expect him to, could you?" said Mrs. Lacey reasonably,
"but I dare say he'll come round when he
gets used to the idea. You mustn't rush
him, Sarah dear. Old people are very slow
to change their minds and your grandfather is rather obstinate."
"I don't care what Grandfather thinks or says," said Sarah. "I shall get married
to Desmond whenever I like!"
"I know, dear, I know. But do try and be realistic about it. Your grandfather
could cause a lot of trouble, you know.
You're not of age yet. In another year you
can do as you please. I expect Horace will
have come round long before that."
"You're on my side aren't you, darling?" said Sarah. She flung her arms
round her grandmother's neck and gave
her an affectionate kiss.
"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

36


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 godmother,
asked us to have him. I think

37


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 to-morrow. 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 realised with a feeling of
guilt that she was looking foward 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

38


family life. Just for a moment she wished that Desmond had not come down here at Christmas time. 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 snow-man," said

Michael.
"Good lord," said made a snow-man since
about four years old."

Colin, "I haven't well, since I was

"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 dues 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 snowwthat
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, "v/e'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

40


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

41


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

42


of things to arrange. Let's go and have a
look at all the props."
They hurried into the house.

43


3

T
HE evening was a busy one. Holly .and mistletoe had been brought
..m 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,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.

44


"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

45


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

46


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 toward 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."

47


4

C
HRISTMAS 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 foot48



ball 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. 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
ludding." What on earth did that sinister
warning mean? There could be nothing
different about his portion of plum

49


pudding from that of everyone else!
Sighing as he tclmitted himself baffled--and
Hercule It)irot never liked to admit
himself baffied-he picked up his spoon
and fork.
"Hard sauce, M. Poirot?"
Poirot helpetl 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 twinklecl at him.
"Mrs. Ross insists on having the best
brandy, dear," she said. "She says it
makes all the clifference."
"Well, well,,, said Colonel Lacey,
"Christmas .COtrtes but once a year and
Mrs. Ross is a great woman. A great
woman and a. lreat cook."
"She is indeed,,, said Colin. "Smashing
plum pudding, this. Mmmm." He filled an
appreciative mhuth.
Gently, alrntst gingerly, Hercule Poirot
attacked his Ptrtion of pudding. He ate a
mouthful. It was delicious! He ate another.
Something tinlqed faintly on his plate. He
investigated with a fork. Bridget, on his
left, came to his. aid.

50


"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.

51


"Confound it,
"why on earth do you let the cook put glass in the pudding?"
"Glass!" cried Mrs. Lacey, astonished.

	Emmeline," he roared,
		"Oh, don't be an ass, Bridget. Why a

			ruby of that size would be worth thou
			sands and thousands of pounds. Wouldn't

			it, M. Poirot?"

	Colonel Lacey withdrew the offending
		"It would indeed," said Poirot.

	substance from his mouth. "Might have
	I
	"But what I can't understand," said

	broken a tooth," he grumbled. "Or
		Mrs. Lacey, "is how it got into the

	swallowed the damn' thing and had 		pudding."

	appendicitis."
		"Oooh," said Colin, diverted by his last

	He dropped the piece of glass into the
		mouthful, "I've got the pig. It isn't fair."

	finger-bowl, rinsed it and held it up.
		Bridget chanted immediately, "Colin's

	"God bless my soul," he ejaculated,
		got the pig! Colin's got the pig! Colin is

	"It's a red stone out of one of the cracker
		the greedy guzzling pig.t"

	brooches." He held it aloft.
		"I've got the ring," said Diana in a

	"You permit?"
		clear, high voice.

			"Good for you, Diana. You'll be

	Very deftly M. Poirot stretched across

	his neighbour, took it from Colonel
		married first, of us all."

			"i've

	Lacey's fingers and examined it attent		got
the thimble," wailed Bridget.

	ively. As the squire had said, it was an
		"Bridget's going to be an old maid,"

	enormous red stone the colour of a ruby.
		chanted the two boys. "Yah, Bridget's

	The light gleamed from its facets as he
		going to be an old maid."

	turned it about. Somewhere around the
		"Who's got the money?" demanded

	table a chair was pushed sharply back and
		David. "There's a real ten shilling piece,

	then drawn in again,
		gold, in this pudding. I know. Mrs. Ross

	"Phew!" cried Michael. "How wizard
		told me so."

			"I think I'm the lucky one," said

	it would be if it was reM."
	"Perhaps it is real,"
	said
	Bridget
	Desmond Lee-Wortley.

hopefully.
			Colonel
	Lacey's two next door

	52
	,:'
		53


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 tea-time 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

54


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 to-day. That was a homemade
pudding, was it not? Not a bought one?"
"Yes, indeed, sir. Of my own making
and my own recipe such as I've made for
many, 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

56


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.
i,. [
	57


"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.
Lacey, "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

58


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,

60


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 acknowledgment 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."

61


5

T
HE 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 'i.at 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

62


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. "Ydell 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-0(/ortley. 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
to-night. "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 disappointment. Yes, yes, a

64


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 sleep.
He was aroused next morning by an urgent soft tapping on his door.
"Qui est I? 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

65


	look for yourself. I'm terribly afraid she
	may be dead."

	"What?" Poirot cast aside his bed

	covers. "Mademoiselle Bridget is 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
	1
	but you. I thought it would be better.

		I

	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

66


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.
"Mort Dieu!" ejaculated M. Poirot. "It is 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

67


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.

68


"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 recognise. 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--

69


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

TO


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 to-day 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
apologise."
"You need not apologise," said Poirot,
in a peculiar tone.
"What do you mean?" Colin stared at
him. He turned again. "Bridget! Bridget!
What's the matter? Why doesn't she get
up? Why does she go on lying there?"
Poirot beckoned to Desmond.. "You,
Mr. Lee-Wortley. Come here "
Desmond joined him.
"Feel her pulse," said Poirot.

72


Desmond Lee-Wortley bend down. He touched the arm the wrist.
"There's no pulse..." he stared at Poirot. "Her arm's stiff. 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.

73


"It's that damn' thing out of the pudding!" he cried.
"Is it?" said Poirot. "Are you sure?" "Of course it is."
With a swift movement Desmond bent down and plucked the red stone out of
Bridget's hand.
"You should not do that," said Poirot reproachfully. "Nothing should have been
disturbed."
"I haven't disturbed the body, have I? But this thing might might get lost and
it's evidence. The great thing is to get the
police here as soon as possible. I'll go at
once and telephone."
He wheeled round and ran sharply towards the house. Sarah came swiftly to
Poirot's side.
"I don't understand," she whispered. Her face was dead white. "I don't understand." She caught at Poirot's arm. "What
did you mean about about the footprints?"
"Look for yourself, Mademoiselle." The footprints that led to the body and
back again were the same as the ones just
made accompanying Poirot to the girl's
body and back.

74


"You mean that it was Desmond? Nonsense!"
Suddenly the noise of a car came through the clear air. They wheeled

round. They saw the car clearly enough driving at a furious pace down the drive
and Sarah recognised what car it was.
"It's Desmond," she said. "It's Desmond's car. He ..... he must have gone
to fetch the police instead of telephoning."
Diana Middleton came running out of the house to join them.
"What's happened?" she cried in a breathless voice. "Desmond just came
rushing into the house. He said something
about Bridget being killed and then he
rattled the telephone but it was dead. He
couldn't get any answer. He said the wires
must have been cut. He said the only thing
was to take a car and go for the police.
Why the police... ?"
Poirot made a gesture.
"Bridget?" Diana stared at him. "But surely., isn't it a joke of some kind? I
heard something 	something last night. I
thought
that they were going to play a joke
on
you, M. Poirot?"
"Yes,"
said Poirot, "that was the idea

75


--to play a joke on me. But now come into the house, all of you. We shall catch our
deaths of cold here and there is nothing to
be done until Mr. Lee-Wortley returns
with the police."
"But look here," said Colin, "we can't
--we can't leave Bridget here alone." "You can do her no good by
remaining," said Poirot gently. "Come, it
is a sad, a very sad tragedy, but there is
nothing we can do any more to help
Mademoiselle Bridget. So let us come in
and get warm and have perhaps a cup of
tea or of coffee."
They followed him obediently into the house. Peverell was just about to strike the
gong. If he thought it extraordinary for
most of the household to be outside and
for Poirot to make an appearance in
pyjamas and an overcoat, he displayed no
sign of it. Peverell in his old age was still
the perfect butler. He noticed nothing that
he was not asked to notice. They went into
the dining-room and sat down. When they all had a cup of coffee in front of them
and were sipping it, Poirot spoke.
"I have to recount to you," he said, "a little history. I cannot tell you all the

76


details, no. But I can give you the main outline. It concerns a young princeling
who came to this country. He brought
with him a famous jewel which he was to
have reset for the lady he was going to
marry, but unfortunately before that he
made friends with a very pretty young
lady. This pretty young lady did not care
very much for the man, but she did care
for his jewel.., so much so that one day she
disappeared with this historic possession
which had belonged to his house for generations.
So the poor young man, he is in a
quandary, you see. Above all he cannot
have a scandal. Impossible to go to the
police. Therefore he comes to me, to
Hercule Poirot. 'Recover for me,' he says,
'my historic ruby.' Eh bien, this young
lady, she has a friend and the friend, he
has put through several very questionable
transactions. He has been concerned with
blackmail and he has been concerned with
the sale of jewellery abroad. Always he has
been very clever. He is suspected, yes, but
nothing can be proved. It comes to my
knowledge that this very clever gentleman,
he is spending Christmas here in this
house. It is important that the pretty

77


young lady, once she has acquired the jewel, should disappear for a while from
circulation, so that no pressure can be put
upon her, no questions can be asked her.
It is arranged, therefore, that she comes
here to Kings Lacey, ostensibly as the
	sister of the clever gentleman
	"
	Sarah drew a sharp breath.
"Oh, no. Oh, no, not here/ Not with
me here I"
"But so it is," said Poirot. "And by a
little manipulation I, too, become a guest
here for Christmas. This young lady, she
is supposed to have just come out of hospital. She is much better when she
arrives here. But then comes the news that
I, too, arrive, a detective a well-known
detective. At once she has what you call
the wind up. She hides the ruby in the
first place she can think of, and then very
quickly she has a relapse and takes to her
bed again. She does not want that I should
see her, for doubtless I have a photograph
and I shall recognise her. It is very boring
for her, yes, but she has to stay in her
room and her brother, he brings her up
the trays."
"And the ruby?" demanded Michael.

78


"I think," said Poirot, "that at the
moment it is mentioned I arrive, the young
lady was in the kitchen with the rest of
you, all laughing and talking and stirring
the Christmas puddings. The Christmas
puddings are put into bowls and the young
lady she hides the ruby, pressing it down
into one of the pudding bowls. Not the
one that we are going to have on Christmas
Day. Oh no, that one she knows is in a
special mould. She puts it in the other one,
the one that is destined to be eaten on New
Year's Day. Before then she will be ready
to leave, and when she leaves no doubt
that Christmas pudding will go with her.
But see how fate takes a hand. On the very
morning of Christmas Day there is an accident.
The Christmas pudding in its fancy
.mould is dropped on the stone floor and the mould is shattered to pieces. So what
can be done? The good Mrs. Ross, she
takes the other pudding and sends it in."
"Good lord," said Colin, "do you mean that on Christmas Day when Grandfather
was eating his pudding that that was a veal ruby he'd got in his mouth?"
"Precisely," said Poirot, "and you can imagine the emotions of Mr. Desmond

79


Lee-Wortley when he saw that. Eh bien, what happens next? The ruby is passed
round. I examine it and I manage unobtrusively
to slip it in my pocket. In a careless
way as though I were not interested.
But one person at least observes what I
have done. When I lie in bed that person
searches my room. He searches me. He
does not find the ruby. Why?"
"Because," said Michael breathlessly, "you had given it to Bridget. That's what
you mean. And so that's why 	but I don't
understand
quite.. I mean	Look
here,
what did happen?"
	Poirot
smiled at him.
"Come
now into the library," he said, "and
look out of the window and I will show
you something that may explain the mystery."
	He led the way and they followed him.
"Consider
once again," said Poirot, "the scene
of the crime."
He
pointed out of the window. A simultaneous
gasp broke from the lips of all of them.
There was no body lying on the snow,
no trace of the tragedy seemed to remain
except a mass of scuffled snow.
	"It
wasn't all a dream, was it?" said

80


Colin faintly. "I has someone taken the
body away?"
"Ah," said Poirot. "You see? The Mystery of the Disappearing Body." He
nodded his head and his eyes twinkled
gently.
"Good lord," cried Michael. "M. Poirot, you are you haven't oh, look,
he's been having us on all this time!" Poirot twinkled more than ever.
"It is true, my children, I also have had my little joke. I knew about your little
plot, you see, and so I arranged a counterplot
of my own. Ah, voilMademoiselle
Bridget. None the worse, I hope, for your
exposure in the snow? Never should I
forgive myself if you attrapped une ttuxion
de poitrine. "
Bridget had just come into the room. She was wearing a thick skirt and a
woollen sweater. She was laughing.
"I sent a tisane to your room," said Poirot severely. "You have drunk it?"
"One sip was enough!" said Bridget. "Fm all right. Did I do it well, M. Poirot?
Goodness, my arm hurts still after that
tourniquet you made me put on it."
"You were splendid, my child," said

81


Poirot. "Splendid. But see, all the others are still in the fog. Last night I went to
Mademoiselle Bridget. I told her that I
knew about your little complot and I asked
her if she would act a part for me. She did
it very cleverly. She made the footprints
with a pair of Mr. Lee-Wortley's shoes." Sarah said in a harsh voice:
"But what's the point of it all, M. Poirot? What's the point of sending
Desmond off to fetch the police? They'll
be very angry when they find out it's
nothing but a hoax."
Poirot shook his head gently.
"But I do not think for one moment, Mademoiselle, that Mr. Lee-Wortley went
to fetch the police," he said. "Murder is a
thing in which Mr. Lee-Wortley does not
want to be mixed up. He lost his nerve
badly. All he could see was his chance to
get the ruby. He snatched that, he
pretended the telephone was out of order
and he rushed off in a car on the pretence
of fetching the police. I think myself it is
the last you will see of him for some time.
He has, I understand, his own ways of
getting out of England. He has his own
plane, has he not, Mademoiselle?"

82


Sarah nodded. "Yes," she said. "We were thinking of "she stopped.
"He wanted you to elope with him that
way, did he not? Eh bien, that is a very
good way of smuggling a jewel out of the
country. When you are eloping with a girl,
and that fact is publicised, then you will
not be suspected of also smuggling a
historic jewel out of the country. Oh yes,
that would have made a very good
camouflage."
"I don't believe it," said Sarah. "I don't
believe a word of it!"
"Then ask his sister," said Poirot,
gently nodding his head over her shoulder.
Sarah turned her head sharply.
A platinum blonde stood in the
doorway. She wore a fur coat and was
scowling. She was clearly in a furious
temper.
"Sister my foot!" she said, with a short
unpleasant laugh. "That swine's no
brother of mine! So he's beaten it, has he,
and left me to carry the can? The whole
thing was his idea! He put me up to it!
Said it was money for jam. They'd never
prosecute because of the scandal. I could
always threaten to say that All had given

i
	83


me his historic jewel. Des and I were to
have shared the swag in Paris and now
the swine runs out on me! I'd like to
murder him!" She switched abruptly.
"The sooner I get out of here Can
someone telephone for a taxi?"
"A car is waiting at the front door to take you to the station, Mademoiselle,"
said Poirot.
"Think of everything, don't you?"
"Most things," said Poirot complacently.
But Poirot was not to get off so easily. When he returned to the dining-room after
assisting the spurious Miss Lee-Wortley
into the waiting car, Colin was waiting for
him.
There was a frown on his boyish face. "But look here, M. Poirot. What about
the ruby? Do you mean to say you've let
him get away with it?"
Poirot's face fell. He twirled his moustaches. He seemed ill at ease.
"I shall recover it yet," he said weakly. "There are other ways. I shall still "
"Well, I do think!" said Michael. "To let that swine get away with the ruby!"
Bridget was sharper.

84


"He's having us on again," she cried. "You are, aren't you, M. Poirot?"
"Shall we do a final conjuring trick, Mademoiselle? Feel in my left-hand
pocket."
Bridget thrust her hand in. She drew it out again with a scream of triumph and
held aloft a large ruby blinking in crimson
splendour.
"You comprehend," explained Poirot, "the one that was clasped in your hand
was a paste replica. I brought it from
London in case it was possible to make a
substitution. You understand? We do not
want the scandal. Monsieur Desmond will
try and dispose of that ruby in Paris or in
Belgium or wherever it is that he has his
contacts, and then it will be discovered
that the stone is not real! What could be
more excellent? All finishes happily. The
scandal is avoided, my princeling receives
his ruby back again, he returns to his
country and makes a sober and we hope a
happy marriage. All ends well."
"Except for me," murmured Sarah under her breath.
She spoke so low that no one heard her but Poirot. He shook his head gently.

85


"You are in error, Mademoiselle Sarah, in what you say there. You have gained
experience. All experience is valuable.
Ahead of you I prophesy there lies
happiness."
"That's what you say," said Sarah. "But look here, M. Poirot," Colin was
frowning. "How did you know about the
show we were going to put on for you?"
"It is my business to know things," said Hercule Poirot. He twirled his moutache.
"Yes, but I don't see how you could
	have managed it. Did someone split 	did
	someone come and tell you?"
	"No, no, not that."

	"Then how? Tell us how?"
They all chorused, "Yes, tell us how." "But no," Poirot protested. "But no. If
I tell you how I deduced that, you will
think nothing of it. It is like the conjuror
who shows how his tricks are done!"
"Tell us, M. Poirot! Go on. Tell us, tell US!"
"You really wish that I should solve for you this last mystery?"
"Yes, go on. Tell us."
"Ah, I do not think I can. You will be so disappointed."

86


"Now, come on, M. Poirot, tell us. How &'d you know?"
"Well, you see, I was sitting in the library by the window in a chair after tea
the other day and I was reposing myself.
I had been asleep and when I awoke you
were discussing your plans just outside the
window close to me, and the window was
open at the top."
"Is that all?" cried Colin, disgusted. "How simple!"
"Is it not?" said Hercule Poirot, smiling. "You see? You are disappointed."
"Oh well," said Michael, "at any rate we know everything now."
"Do we?" murmured Hercule ?oirot to himself. "I do not. /, whose business it is
to know things."
He walked out into the hall, shaking his head a little. For perhaps the twentieth
time he drew from his pocket a rather
dirty piece of paper. "DON'T EAT
NONE OF THE PLUM PUDDING.
ONE AS WISHES YOU WELL."
Hercule Poirot shook his head reflectively. He who could explain everything
could not explain this! Humiliating. Who
had written it? Why had it been written?


Until he found that out he would never know a moment's peace. Suddenly he
came out of his reverie to be aware of a
peculiar gasping noise. He looked sharply
down. On the floor, busy with a dustpan
and brush was a tow-headed creature in a
flowered overall. She was staring at the
paper in his hand with large round eyes.
"Oh sir," said this apparition. "Oh, sir.

PIefls, sir."
"And who may you be, enant?" inquired M. Poirot genially.
"Annie Bates, sir, please sir. I

mort

come here to help Mrs. Ross. I didn't mean, sir,
I didn't mean to to do anything what I
shouldn't do. I did mean it well, sir. For
your good, I mean."
Enlightenment came to Poirot. He held out the dirty piece .of paper.
"Did you write that, Annie?"
"I didn't mean any harm, sir. Really I didn't."
"Of course you didn't, Annie." He smiled at her. "But tell me about it. Why
did you write this?"
"Well, it was them two, sir. Mr. Lee-Wortley and his sister. Not that she was his sister, I'm sure. None of us thought


so! And she wasn't ill a bit. We could all tell that. We thought we all thought-
something queer was going on. I'll tell you
straight, sir. I was in her bathroom taking
in the clean towels, and I listened at the
door. He was in her room and they were
talking together. I heard what they said
plain as plain. 'This detecive,' he was
saying. 'This fellow Poirot who's coming
here. We've got to do something about it.
We've got to get him out of the way as
soon as possible.' And then he says to her
in a nasty, sinister sort of way, lowering
his voice, 'Where did you put it?' And she
answered him 'In the pudd/ng.' Oh, sir,
my heart gave such a leap I thought it
would stop beating. I thought they meant
to poison you in the Christmas pudding. I
didn't know hat to do!' Mrs. Ross, she
wouldn't listen to the likes of me. Then
the idea came to me as I'd write you a warning. And I did and I put it on your
pillow where you'd find it when you 'went
to bed." Annie paused breathlessly.
Poirot surveyed her gravely for some
minutes.
"You see too many sensational films, I
think, Annie," he said at last, "or perhaps

89


it is the television that affects you? But the important thing is that you have the good heart and a certain amount of ingenuity.
When I return to London I will send you
a present."
"Oh thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir."
"What would you like, Annie, as a present?"
"Anything I like, sir? Could I have anything I like?"
"Within reason," said Hercule Poirot prudently, "yes."
"Oh sir, could I have a vanity box? A real posh slap up vanity box like the one
Mr. Lee-Wortley's sister, wot wasn't his
sister, had?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "yes, I think that could be managed."
"It is interesting," he mused. "I was in a museum the other day observing some
antiquities from Babylon or one of those
places, thousands of years old and
among them were cosmetics boxes. The
heart of women does not change."
"Beg your pardon, sir?" said Annie.
"It is nothing," said Poirot, "I reflect. You shall have your vanity box, child."

90


"Oh thank you, sir. Oh thank you very much indeed, sir."
Annie departed ecstatically. Poirot looked after her, nodding his head in
satisfaction.
"Ah," he said to himself. "And now .....
I go. There is nothing more to be done here."
A pair of arms slipped round his shoulders unexpectedly.
"If you will stand just under the mistletoe, "said Bridget.

Hercule Poirot enjoyed it. He enjoyed it very much. He said to himself that he had
had a very good Christmas.

91


The Mystery of the
Spanish Chest


p
UNCTUAL to the moment, as always, Hercule Poirot entered the
small room where Miss Lemon, his

efficient secretary, awaited her instructions for the day.
At first sight Miss Lemon seemed to be composed entirely of angles thus
satisfying Poirot's demand for symmetry.
Not that where women were concerned Hercule Poirot carried his passion for
geometrical precision so far. He was, on
the contrary, old-fashioned. He had a
continental prejudice for curves it might
be said for voluptuous curves. He liked
women to be women. He liked them
lush, highly coloured, exotic. There had
been a certain Russian countess but
that was long ago now. A folly of earlier
days.
But Miss Lemon he had never considered as a woman. She was a human
machine an instrument of precision. Her
efficiency was terrific. She was forty-eight


	years of age, and was fortunate enough to
	have no imagination whatever.

	"Good morning, Miss Lemon."

	"Good morning, M. Poirot."

	Poirot sat down and Miss Lemon placed

	before him the morning's mail, neatly

	arranged in categories. She resumed her

	seat and sat with pad and pencil at the

	ready.

		But there was to be this morning a slight

	change in routine. Poirot had brought in

	with him the morning newspaper, and his

	eyes were scanning it with interest. The

	headlines were big and bold. SPANISH
CHEST 	MYSTERY.
	LATEST
	DEVELOPMENTS.
"You have read the morning papers, I presume, Miss Lemon?"
"Yes, M. Poirot. The news from Geneva is not very good."
Poirot waved away the news from Geneva in a comprehensive sweep of the
arm.
"A Spanish chest," he mused. "Can you tell me, Miss Lemon, what exactly is a
Spanish chest?"
"I suppose, M. Poirot, that it is a chest that came originally from Spain."

96


"One might reasonably suppose so. You have then, no expert knowledge?"
"They are usually of the Elizabethan period, I believe. Large, and with a good
deal of brass decoration on them. They
look very nice when well kept and
.polished. My sister bought one at a sale.
She keeps household linen in it. It looks
very nice.",
' "I .am sure that in thehouse of any sister .;. of yours, alt the furniture would be well
'.'kept," said Poirot, bowing' gracefully,
Miss Lemon replied sadly that servants 'did not seem to know what elbow grease
was nowadays, Poirot looked a little Puzzled, but decided not to inquire' into
 the inward meaning of the mysterious

phrase "elbow 'grease."
He looked down again at the newspaper,
conning over'the names: Major Rich, Mr.  and' Mrs.. CIayton, Commander McLaren,
Mr. and Mrs. Spence. Names, nothing but names to him.; yetall possessed of human
personalities, hating, loving, fearing. A
drama, this, in which he, Hercule Poirot,
had no part. And he would have liked to
have a part in it! Six people at an evening
party, in a room with a big Spanish chest

97


against the wall, six people, five of them talking, eating a buffet supper, putting
records on the gramophone, dancing, and
the sixth dead, in the Spanish chest...
Ah, thought Poirot. How my dear friend, Hastings, would have enjoyed this!
What romantic flights of imagination he
would have had. What ineptitudes he
would have uttered! Ah, ce chef Hastings, at this moment, to-day, I miss him...
Instead He sighed and looked at
Miss Lemon. Miss Lemon intelligently
perceiving that Poirot was in no mood
to dictate letters, had uncovered her
typewriter and was awaiting her moment
to get on with certain arrears of work.
Nothing could have interested her less
than sinister Spanish chests containing
dead bodies.
Poirot sighed and looked down at a photographed face. Reproductions in
newsprint were never very good, and this
was decidedly smudgy but what a face! Mrs. Clayton, the wife of the murdered

On an impulse, he thrust the paper at Miss Lemon.

98


"Look," he demanded. "Look at that
face."
Miss Lemon looked at it obediently, without emotion.
"What do you think of her, Miss Lemon? That is Mrs. Clayton."
Miss Lemon took the paper, glanced casually at the picture and remarked:
"She's a little like the wife of our bank manager when we lived at Croydon Heath."
"Interesting," said Poirot. "Recount to me, if you will be so kind, the history of
your bank manager's wife."
"Well, it's not really a very pleasant story, M. Poirot."
"It was in my mind that it might not be. Continue."
"There was a good deal of talk about Mrs. Adams and a young artist. Then Mr.
Adams shot himself. But Mrs. Adams
wouldn't marry the other man and he took
some kind of poison--but they pulled him
through all right; and finally Mrs. Adams
married a young solicitor. I believe there
was more trouble after that, only of course
we'd left Croydon Heath by then so I
didn't hear very much more about it."
Hercule Poirot nodded gravely.

99


"She was beautiful?"
"Well--not really what you'd call beautiful . But there seemed to be something
about her "
"Exactly. What is that so