The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘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 Ali had given 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.

‘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.

‘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 moustache.

‘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 conjurer 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.’

‘Now, come on, M. Poirot, tell us. How did 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 Poirot to himself. ‘I do not. I, 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. Please, sir.’

‘And who may you be, mon enfant?’ inquired M. Poirot genially.

‘Annie Bates, sir, please sir. I 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 detective,” 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 pudding.” 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 what 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.