Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

‘Oh, come now, Father.’

‘I except you, my boy. I except you.’

‘And David?’ asked Lydia.

‘David now. I’m curious to see the boy after all these years. He was a namby-pamby youngster. Wonder what his wife is like? At any rate he hasn’t married a girl twenty years younger than himself, like that fool George!’

‘Hilda wrote a very nice letter,’ said Lydia. ‘I’ve just had a wire from her confirming it and saying they are definitely arriving tomorrow.’

Her father-in-law looked at her, a keen, penetrating glance.

He laughed.

‘I never get any change out of Lydia,’ he said. ‘I’ll say this for you, Lydia, you’re a well-bred woman. Breeding tells. I know that well enough. A funny thing, though, heredity. There’s only one of you that’s taken after me—only one out of all the litter.’

His eyes danced.

‘Now guess who’s coming for Christmas. I’ll give you three guesses and I’ll bet you a fiver you won’t get the answer.’

He looked from one face to the other. Alfred said frowning:

‘Horbury said you expected a young lady.’

‘That intrigued you—yes, I dare say it did. Pilar will be arriving any minute now. I gave orders for the car to go and meet her.’

Alfred said sharply:

‘Pilar?’

Simeon said:

‘Pilar Estravados. Jennifer’s girl. My granddaughter. I wonder what she’ll be like.’

Alfred cried out:

‘Good heavens, Father, you never told me…’

The old man was grinning.

‘No, I thought I’d keep it a secret! Got Charlton to write out and fix things.’

Alfred repeated, his tone hurt and reproachful:

‘You never told me…’

His father said, still grinning wickedly:

‘It would have spoilt the surprise! Wonder what it will be like to have young blood under this roof again? I never saw Estravados. Wonder which the girl takes after—her mother or her father?’

‘Do you really think it’s wise, Father,’ began Alfred. ‘Taking everything into consideration—’

The old man interrupted him.

‘Safety—safety—you play for safety too much, Alfred! Always have! That hasn’t been my way! Do what you want and be damned to it! That’s what I say! The girl’s my granddaughter—the only grandchild in the family! I don’t care what her father was or what he did! She’s my flesh and blood! And she’s coming to live here in my house.’

Lydia said sharply: ‘She’s coming to live here?’

He darted a quick look at her. ‘Do you object?’

She shook her head. She said smiling:

‘I couldn’t very well object to your asking someone to your own house, could I? No, I was wondering about—her.’

‘About her—what d’you mean?’

‘Whether she would be happy here.’

Old Simeon flung up his head.

‘She’s not got a penny in the world. She ought to be thankful!’

Lydia shrugged her shoulders.

Simeon turned to Alfred:

‘You see? It’s going to be a grand Christmas! All my children round me. All my children! There, Alfred, there’s your clue. Now guess who the other visitor is.’

Alfred stared at him.

‘All my children! Guess, boy! Harry, of course! Your brother Harry!’

Alfred had gone very pale. He stammered:

‘Harry—not Harry—’

‘Harry himself!’

‘But we thought he was dead!’

‘Not he!’

‘You—you are having him back here? After everything?’

‘The prodigal son, eh? You’re right. The fatted calf! We must kill the fatted calf, Alfred. We must give him a grand welcome.’

Alfred said:

‘He treated you—all of us—disgracefully. He—’