Agatha Christie: Hercule Poirot's Christmas

‘Certainly, you shall come and have a real English Christmas.’

‘That will be lovely. You see, Lydia, I feel that this year it was not a nice Christmas at all.’

Lydia caught her breath. She said:

‘No, it was not a nice Christmas…’

Harry said:

‘Well, goodbye, Alfred. Don’t suppose you’ll be troubled by seeing much of me. I’m off to Hawaii. Always meant to live there if I had a bit of money.’

Alfred said:

‘Goodbye, Harry. I expect you’ll enjoy yourself. I hope so.’

Harry said rather awkwardly:

‘Sorry I riled you so much, old man. Rotten sense of humour I’ve got. Can’t help trying to pull a fellow’s leg.’

Alfred said with an effort:

‘Suppose I must learn to take a joke.’

Harry said with relief:

‘Well – so-long.’

Alfred said:

‘David, Lydia and I have decided to sell up this place. I thought perhaps you’d like some of the things that were our mother’s – her chair and that footstool. You were always her favourite.’

David hesitated a minute. Then he said slowly:

‘Thanks for the thought, Alfred, but do you know, I don’t think I will. I don’t want anything out of the house. I feel it’s better to break with the past altogether.’

Alfred said:

‘Yes, I understand. Maybe you’re right.’

George said:

‘Well, goodbye, Alfred. Goodbye, Lydia. What a terrible time we have been through. There’s the trial coming on, too. I suppose the whole disgraceful story is bound to come out – Sugden being – er – my father’s son. One couldn’t arrange for it to be put to him, I suppose, that it would be better if he pleaded advanced Communist views and dislike of my father as a capitalist – something of that kind?’

Lydia said:

‘My dear George, do you really imagine that a man like Sugden would tell lies to soothe our feelings?’

George said:

‘Er – perhaps not. No, I see your point. All the same, the man must be mad. Well, goodbye again.’

Magdalene said:

‘Goodbye. Next year do let’s all go to the Riviera or somewhere for Christmas and be really gay.’

George said:

‘Depends on the Exchange.’

Magdalene said:

‘Darling, don’t be mean.’

Alfred came out on the terrace. Lydia was bending over a stone sink. She straightened up when she saw him.

He said with a sigh:

‘Well – they’ve all gone.’

Lydia said:

‘Yes – what a blessing.’

‘It is, rather.’

Alfred said:

‘You’ll be glad to leave here.’

She asked:

‘Will you mind very much?’

‘No, I shall be glad. There are so many interesting things we can do together. To live on here would be to be constantly reminded of that nightmare. Thank God it’s all over!’

Lydia said:

‘Thanks to Hercule Poirot.’

‘Yes. You know, it was really amazing the way everything fell into place when he explained it.’

‘I know. Like when you finish a jig-saw puzzle and all the queer-shaped bits you swear won’t fit in anywhere find their places quite naturally.’

Alfred said:

‘There’s one little thing that never fitted in. What was George doing after he telephoned? Why wouldn’t he say?’

‘Don’t you know? I knew all the time. He was having a look through your papers on your desk.’

‘Oh! No, Lydia, no one would do a thing like that!’

‘George would. He’s frightfully curious about money matters. But of course he couldn’t say so. He’d have had to be actually in the dock before he’d have owned up to that.’

Alfred said:

‘Are you making another garden?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is it this time?’

‘I think,’ said Lydia, ‘it’s an attempt at the Garden of Eden. A new version – without any serpent – and Adam and Eve are definitely middle-aged.’

Alfred said gently:

‘Dear Lydia, how patient you have been all these years. You have been very good to me.’

Lydia said:

‘But, you see, Alfred, I love you…’

Colonel Johnson said:

‘God bless my soul!’ Then he said:

‘Upon my word!’ And finally, once more: ‘God bless my soul!

He leaned back in his chair and stared at Poirot. He said plaintively:

‘My best man! What’s the police coming to?’

Poirot said:

‘Even policemen have private lives! Sugden was a very proud man.’

Colonel Johnson shook his head.

To relieve his feelings he kicked at the logs in the grate. He said jerkily:

‘I always say – nothing like a wood fire.’

Hercule Poirot, conscious of the draughts round his neck, thought to himself:

‘Pour moi, every time the central heating…’