The Second Gong: A Hercule Poirot Short Story

The Second Gong: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
Agatha Christie

A classic Agatha Christie short story, available individually for the first time as an ebook.Lytcham Close, one of the oldest stately homes in England is owned by the last remaining heir and is a house ruled by his intolerable whims. Old Hubert demands complete silence when he plays selected music and dinner is timed exactly by the resounding gong, no matter to trifle with. Rushing down at the hearing of the second, or is it the first gong, Joan Ashby is about to find out that not only is dinner delayed, but, she is about to hear a sound that no one can explain. Everyone is thrown into disarray when Old Hubert never materialises and instead a new guest is announced. The new guest is Hercule Poirot himself. What unfolds is a mystery of lovers, michalmas daisies and a death that is not as it appears.

The Second Gong

A Short Story

by Agatha Christie

Copyright (#u8cbfb04a-3d54-54d6-9255-d2b2c376e813)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Copyrig© 2011 Agatha Christie Ltd.

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EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007452019

Version: 2017-04-19

Contents

Cover (#uc10b494d-1e81-5979-9375-ae7e3f2cea4c)

Title Page (#u98c16e23-b7c8-5609-b8c4-e027e38a3a49)

Copyright

The Second Gong

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The Second Gong (#ulink_68ac272e-6490-5fd9-8e3e-804feaabd80c)

‘The Second Gong’ was first published in the USA in Ladies’ Home Journal, June 1932, and then in Strand Magazine, July 1932. It was later expanded into ‘Dead Man’s Mirror’ for the book Murder in the Mews (Collins, March 1937).

Joan Ashby came out of her bedroom and stood a moment on the landing outside her door. She was half turning as if to go back into the room when, below her feet as it seemed, a gong boomed out.

Immediately Joan started forward almost at a run. So great was her hurry that at the top of the big staircase she collided with a young man arriving from the opposite direction.

‘Hullo, Joan! Why the wild hurry?’

‘Sorry, Harry. I didn’t see you.’

‘So I gathered,’ said Harry Dalehouse dryly. ‘But as I say, why the wild haste?’

‘It was the gong.’

‘I know. But it’s only the first gong.’

‘No, it’s the second.’

‘First.’

‘Second.’

Thus arguing they had been descending the stairs. They were now in the hall, where the butler, having replaced the gongstick, was advancing toward them at a grave and dignified pace.

‘It is the second,’ persisted Joan. ‘I know it is. Well, for one thing, look at the time.’

Harry Dalehouse glanced up at the grandfather clock. ‘Just twelve minutes past eight,’ he remarked. ‘Joan, I believe you’re right, but I never heard the first one. Digby,’ he addressed the butler, ‘is this the first gong or the second?’

‘The first, sir.’

‘At twelve minutes past eight? Digby, somebody will get the sack for this.’

A faint smile showed for a minute on the butler’s face.

‘Dinner is being served ten minutes later tonight, sir. The master’s orders.’

‘Incredible!’ cried Harry Dalehouse. ‘Tut, tut! Upon my word, things are coming to a pretty pass! Wonders will never cease. What ails my revered uncle?’

‘The seven o’clock train, sir, was half an hour late, and as –’ The butler broke off, as a sound like the crack of a whip was heard.

‘What on earth –’ said Harry. ‘Why, that sounded exactly like a shot.’

A dark, handsome man of thirty-five came out of the drawing room on their left.

‘What was that?’ he asked. ‘It sounded exactly like a shot.’

‘It must have been a car backfiring, sir,’ said the butler. ‘The road runs quite close to the house this side and the upstairs windows are open.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Joan doubtfully. ‘But that would be over there.’ She waved a hand to the right. ‘And I thought the noise came from here.’ She pointed to the left.

The dark man shook his head.

‘I don’t think so. I was in the drawing room. I came out here because I thought the noise came from this direction.’ He nodded his head in front of him in the direction of the gong and the front door.

‘East, west, and south, eh?’ said the irrepressible Harry. ‘Well, I’ll make it complete, Keene. North for me. I thought it came from behind us. Any solutions offered?’

‘Well, there’s always murder,’ said Geoffrey Keene, smiling. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Ashby.’

‘Only a shiver,’ said Joan. ‘It’s nothing. A what-do-you-call-it walking over my grave.’

‘A good thought – murder,’ said Harry. ‘But, alas! No groans, no blood. I fear the solution is a poacher after a rabbit.’