Agatha Christie - The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

‘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.

‘You see too many sensational films, I think, Annie,’ he said at last, ‘or perhaps it is the television that affects you? But the important thing is that you have the good heart and a certain amount of ingenuity. When I return to London I will send you a present.’

‘Oh thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir.’

‘What would you like, Annie, as a present?’

‘Anything I like, sir? Could I have anything I like?’

‘Within reason,’ said Hercule Poirot prudently, ‘yes.’

‘Oh sir, could I have a vanity box? A real posh slap-up vanity box like the one Mr Lee-Wortley’s sister, wot wasn’t his sister, had?’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot, ‘yes, I think that could be managed.

‘It is interesting,’ he mused. ‘I was in a museum the other day observing some antiquities from Babylon or one of those places, thousands of years old—and among them were cosmetic boxes. The heart of woman does not change.’

‘Beg your pardon, sir?’ said Annie.

‘It is nothing,’ said Poirot. ‘I reflect. You shall have your vanity box, child.’

‘Oh thank you, sir. Oh thank you very much indeed, sir.’

Annie departed ecstatically. Poirot looked after her, nodding his head in satisfaction.

‘Ah,’ he said to himself. ‘And now—I go. There is nothing more to be done here.’

A pair of arms slipped round his shoulders unexpectedly.

‘If you will stand just under the mistletoe—’ said Bridget.

Hercule Poirot enjoyed it. He enjoyed it very much. He said to himself that he had had a very good Christmas.

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