Agatha Christie - The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

Poirot nodded. ‘Yes, she is dead,’ he said. ‘Someone has turned the comedy into a tragedy.’

‘Someone—who?’

‘There is a set of footprints going and returning. A set of footprints that bears a strong resemblance to the footprints you have just made, Mr Lee-Wortley, coming from the path to this spot.’

Desmond Lee-Wortley wheeled round. ‘What on earth—Are you accusing me? ME? You’re crazy! Why on earth should I want to kill the girl?’

‘Ah—why? I wonder … Let us see …’

He bent down and very gently prised open the stiff fingers of the girl’s clenched hand.

Desmond drew a sharp breath. He gazed down unbelievingly. In the palm of the dead girl’s hand was what appeared to be a large ruby.

‘It’s that damn’ thing out of the pudding!’ he cried.

‘Is it?’ said Poirot. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course it is.’

With a swift movement Desmond bent down and plucked the red stone out of Bridget’s hand.

‘You should not do that,’ said Poirot reproachfully. ‘Nothing should have been disturbed.’

‘I haven’t disturbed the body, have I? But this thing might—might get lost and it’s evidence. The great thing is to get the police here as soon as possible. I’ll go at once and telephone.’

He wheeled round and ran sharply towards the house. Sarah came swiftly to Poirot’s side.

‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. Her face was dead white. ‘I don’t understand .’ She caught at Poirot’s arm. ‘What did you mean about—about the footprints?’

‘Look for yourself, Mademoiselle.’

The footprints that led to the body and back again were the same as the ones just made accompanying Poirot to the girl’s body and back.

‘You mean—that it was Desmond? Nonsense!’

Suddenly the noise of a car came through the clear air. They wheeled round. They saw the car clearly enough driving at a furious pace down the drive and Sarah recognized what car it was.

‘It’s Desmond,’ she said. ‘It’s Desmond’s car. He—he must have gone to fetch the police instead of telephoning.’

Diana Middleton came running out of the house to join them.

‘What’s happened?’ she cried in a breathless voice. ‘Desmond just came rushing into the house. He said something about Bridget being killed and then he rattled the telephone but it was dead. He couldn’t get an answer. He said the wires must have been cut. He said the only thing was to take a car and go for the police. Why the police? …’

Poirot made a gesture.

‘Bridget?’ Diana stared at him. ‘But surely—isn’t it a joke of some kind? I heard something—something last night. I thought that they were going to play a joke on you, M. Poirot?’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘that was the idea—to play a joke on me. But now come into the house, all of you. We shall catch our deaths of cold here and there is nothing to be done until Mr Lee-Wortley returns with the police.’

‘But look here,’ said Colin, ‘we can’t—we can’t leave Bridget here alone.’

‘You can do her no good by remaining,’ said Poirot gently. ‘Come, it is a sad, a very sad tragedy, but there is nothing we can do any more to help Mademoiselle Bridget. So let us come in and get warm and have perhaps a cup of tea or of coffee.’

They followed him obediently into the house. Peverell was just about to strike the gong. If he thought it extraordinary for most of the household to be outside and for Poirot to make an appearance in pyjamas and an overcoat, he displayed no sign of it. Peverell in his old age was still the perfect butler. He noticed nothing that he was not asked to notice. They went into the dining-room and sat down. When they all had a cup of coffee in front of them and were sipping it, Poirot spoke.

‘I have to recount to you,’ he said, ‘a little history. I cannot tell you all the details, no. But I can give you the main outline. It concerns a young princeling who came to this country. He brought with him a famous jewel which he was to have reset for the lady he was going to marry, but unfortunately before that he made friends with a very pretty young lady. This pretty young lady did not care very much for the man, but she did care for his jewel—so much so that one day she disappeared with this historic possession which had belonged to his house for generations. So the poor young man, he is in a quandary, you see. Above all he cannot have a scandal. Impossible to go to the police. Therefore he comes to me, to Hercule Poirot. “Recover for me,” he says, “my historic ruby.” Eh bien , this young lady, she has a friend, and the friend, he has put through several very questionable transactions. He has been concerned with blackmail and he has been concerned with the sale of jewellery abroad. Always he has been very clever. He is suspected, yes, but nothing can be proved. It comes to my knowledge that this very clever gentleman, he is spending Christmas here in this house. It is important that the pretty young lady, once she has acquired the jewel, should disappear for a while from circulation, so that no pressure can be put upon her, no questions can be asked her. It is arranged, therefore, that she comes here to Kings Lacey, ostensibly as the sister of the clever gentleman—’

Sarah drew a sharp breath.

‘Oh, no. Oh, no, not here ! Not with me here!’

‘But so it is,’ said Poirot. ‘And by a little manipulation I, too, become a guest here for Christmas. This young lady, she is supposed to have just come out of hospital. She is much better when she arrives here. But then comes the news that I, too, arrive, a detective—a well-known detective. At once she has what you call the wind up. She hides the ruby in the first place she can think of, and then very quickly she has a relapse and takes to her bed again. She does not want that I should see her, for doubtless I have a photograph and I shall recognize her. It is very boring for her, yes, but she has to stay in her room and her brother, he brings her up the trays.’

‘And the ruby?’ demanded Michael.

‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that at the moment it is mentioned I arrive, the young lady was in the kitchen with the rest of you, all laughing and talking and stirring the Christmas puddings. The Christmas puddings are put into bowls and the young lady she hides the ruby, pressing it down into one of the pudding bowls. Not the one that we are going to have on Christmas Day. Oh no, that one she knows is in a special mould. She put it in the other one, the one that is destined to be eaten on New Year’s Day. Before then she will be ready to leave, and when she leaves no doubt that Christmas pudding will go with her. But see how fate takes a hand. On the very morning of Christmas Day there is an accident. The Christmas pudding in its fancy mould is dropped on the stone floor and the mould is shattered to pieces. So what can be done? The good Mrs Ross, she takes the other pudding and sends it in.’

‘Good lord,’ said Colin, ‘do you mean that on Christmas Day when Grandfather was eating his pudding that that was a real ruby he’d got in his mouth?’

‘Precisely,’ said Poirot, ‘and you can imagine the emotions of Mr Desmond Lee-Wortley when he saw that. Eh bien , what happens next? The ruby is passed round. I examine it and I manage unobtrusively to slip it in my pocket. In a careless way as though I were not interested. But one person at least observes what I have done. When I lie in bed that person searches my room. He searches me. He does not find the ruby. Why?’

‘Because,’ said Michael breathlessly, ‘you had given it to Bridget. That’s what you mean. And so that’s why—but I don’t understand quite—I mean—Look here, what did happen?’