Agatha Christie: Hercule Poirot's Christmas

‘Well? Is the family conclave over? Has the will been read?’

Pilar said, her breath coming fast:

‘I have got nothing – nothing at all! It was a will made many years ago. My grandfather left money to my mother, but because she is dead it does not go to me but goes back to them.’

Stephen said:

‘That seems rather hard lines.’

Pilar said:

‘If that old man had lived, he would have made another will. He would have left money to me – a lot of money! Perhaps in time he would have left me all the money!’

Stephen said, smiling:

‘That wouldn’t have been very fair either, would it?’

‘Why not? He would have liked me best, that is all.’

Stephen said:

‘What a greedy child you are. A real little gold-digger.’

Pilar said soberly:

‘The world is very cruel to women. They must do what they can for themselves – while they are young. When they are old and ugly no one will help them.’

Stephen said slowly:

‘That’s more true than I like to think. But it isn’t quite true. Alfred Lee, for instance, was genuinely fond of his father in spite of the old man being thoroughly trying and exacting.’

Pilar’s chin went up.

‘Alfred,’ she said, ‘is rather a fool.’

Stephen laughed.

Then he said:

‘Well, don’t worry, lovely Pilar. The Lees are bound to look after you, you know.’

Pilar said disconsolately:

‘It will not be very amusing, that.’

Stephen said slowly:

‘No, I’m afraid it won’t. I can’t see you living here, Pilar. Would you like to come to South Africa?’

Pilar nodded.

Stephen said:

‘There’s sun there, and space. There’s hard work too. Are you good at work, Pilar?’

Pilar said doubtfully:

‘I do not know.’

He said:

‘You’d rather sit on a balcony and eat sweets all day long? And grow enormously fat and have three double chins?’

Pilar laughed and Stephen said:

‘That’s better. I’ve made you laugh.’

Pilar said:

‘I thought I should laugh this Christmas! In books I have read that an English Christmas is very gay, that one eats burning raisins and there is a plum pudding all in flames, and something that is called a Yule log.’

Stephen said:

‘Ah, but you must have a Christmas uncomplicated by murder. Come in here a minute. Lydia took me in here yesterday. It’s her store-room.’

He led her into a small room little bigger than a cupboard.

‘Look, Pilar, boxes and boxes of crackers, and preserved fruits and oranges and dates and nuts. And here–’

‘Oh!’ Pilar clasped her hands. ‘They are pretty, these gold and silver balls.’

‘Those were to hang on a tree, with presents for the servants. And here are little snowmen all glittering with frost to put on the dinner table. And here are balloons of every colour all ready to blow up!’

‘Oh!’ Pilar’s eyes shone. ‘Oh! can we blow one up? Lydia would not mind. I do love balloons.’

Stephen said: ‘Baby! Here, which will you have?’

Pilar said: ‘I will have a red one.’

They selected their balloons and blew, their cheeks distended. Pilar stopped blowing to laugh, and her balloon went down again.

She said:

‘You look so funny – blowing – with your cheeks puffed out.’

Her laugh rang out. Then she fell to, blowing industriously. They tied up their balloons carefully and began to play with them, patting them upwards, sending them to and fro.

Pilar said:

‘Out in the hall there would be more room.’

They were sending the balloons to each other, and laughing, when Poirot came along the hall. He regarded them indulgently.

‘So you playles jeux d’enfants? It is pretty, that!’

Pilar said breathlessly:

‘Mine is the red one. It is bigger than his. Much bigger. If we took it outside it would go right up in the sky.’

‘Let’s send them up and wish,’ said Stephen.

‘Oh, yes, that is a good idea.’

Pilar ran to the garden door, Stephen followed. Poirot came behind, still looking indulgent.

‘I will wish for a great deal of money,’ announced Pilar.

She stood on tiptoe, holding the string of the balloon. It tugged gently as a puff of wind came. Pilar let go and it floated along, taken by the breeze.

Stephen laughed.

‘You mustn’t tell your wish.’

‘No? Why not?’

‘Because it doesn’t come true. Now, I’m going to wish.’

He released his balloon. But he was not so lucky. It floated sideways, caught on a holly bush and expired with a bang.

Pilar ran to it.

She announced tragically:

‘It is gone…’

Then, as she stirred the little limp wisp of rubber with her toe, she said:

‘So that was what I picked up in Grandfather’s room. He, too, had had a balloon, only his was a pink one.’

Poirot gave a sharp exclamation. Pilar turned inquiringly.

Poirot said:

‘It is nothing. I stabbed – no stubbed – the toe.’

He wheeled round and looked at the house.

He said:

‘So many windows! A house, mademoiselle, has its eyes – and its ears. It is indeed regrettable that the English are so fond of open windows.’

Lydia came out on the terrace. She said:

‘Lunch is just ready. Pilar, my dear, everything has been settled quite satisfactorily. Alfred will explain the exact details to you after lunch. Shall we come in?’

They went into the house. Poirot came last. He was looking grave.

Lunch was over.

As they came out of the dining-room, Alfred said to Pilar:

‘Will you come into my room? There is something I want to talk over with you.’

He led her across the hall and into his study, shutting the door after him. The others went on into the drawing-room. Only Hercule Poirot remained in the hall looking thoughtfully at the closed study door.

He was aware suddenly of the old butler hovering uneasily near him.

Poirot said: ‘Yes, Tressilian, what is it?’

The old man seemed troubled. He said:

‘I wanted to speak to Mr Lee. But I don’t like to disturb him now.’

Poirot said: ‘Something has occurred?’

Tressilian said slowly:

‘It’s such a queer thing. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Tell me,’ said Hercule Poirot.

Tressilian hesitated. Then he said:

‘Well, it’s this, sir. You may have noticed that each side of the front door there was a cannon ball. Big heavy stone things. Well, sir, one of them’s gone.’

Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows rose. He said; ‘Since when?’

‘They were both there this morning, sir. I’ll take my oath on that.’

‘Let me see.’

Together they went outside the front door. Poirot bent and examined the remaining cannon ball. When he straightened himself, his face was very grave.

Tressilian quavered:

‘Who’d want to steal a thing like that, sir? It doesn’t make sense.’

Poirot said: ‘I do not like it. I do not like it at all…’

Tressilian was watching him anxiously. He said slowly:

‘What’s come to the house, sir? Ever since the master was murdered it doesn’t seem like the same place. I feel the whole time as though I was going about in a dream. I mix things up, and I sometimes feel I can’t trust my own eyes.’

Hercule Poirot shook his head. He said:

‘You are wrong. Your own eyes are just what you must trust.’

Tressilian said, shaking his head:

‘My sight’s bad – I can’t see like I used to do. I get things mixed up – and people. I’m getting too old for my work.’

Hercule Poirot clapped him on the shoulder and said:

‘Courage.’

‘Thank you, sir. You mean it kindly, I know. But there it is, I am too old. I’m always going back to the old days and the old faces. Miss Jenny and Master David and Master Alfred. I’m always seeing them as young gentlemen and ladies. Ever since that night when Mr Harry came home–’