Agatha Christie: The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding

These were the facts that could not possibly be made public without the most dire consequences. The ruby was something more than a ruby, it was a historical possession of great significance, and the circumstances of its disappearance were such that any undue publicity about them might result in the most serious political consequences.

Mr Jesmond was not the man to put these facts into simple language. He wrapped them up, as it were, in a great deal of verbiage. Who exactly Mr Jesmond was, Hercule Poirot did not know. He had met other Mr Jesmonds in the course of his career. Whether he was connected with the Home Office, the Foreign Secretary or some other discreet branch of public service was not specified. He was acting in the interests of the Commonwealth. The ruby must be recovered.

M. Poirot, so Mr Jesmond delicately insisted, was the man to recover it.

‘Perhaps—yes,’ Hercule Poirot admitted, ‘but you can tell me so little. Suggestion—suspicion—all that is not very much to go upon.’

‘Come now, Monsieur Poirot, surely it is not beyond your powers. Ah, come now.’

‘I do not always succeed.’

But this was mock modesty. It was clear enough from Poirot’s tone that for him to undertake a mission was almost synonymous with succeeding in it.

‘His Highness is very young,’ Mr Jesmond said. ‘It will be sad if his whole life is to be blighted for a mere youthful indiscretion.’

Poirot looked kindly at the downcast young man. ‘It is the time for follies, when one is young,’ he said encouragingly, ‘and for the ordinary young man it does not matter so much. The good papa, he pays up; the family lawyer, he helps to disentangle the inconvenience; the young man, he learns by experience and all ends for the best. In a position such as yours, it is hard indeed. Your approaching marriage—’

‘That is it. That is it exactly.’ For the first time words poured from the young man. ‘You see she is very, very serious. She takes life very seriously. She has acquired at Cambridge many very serious ideas. There is to be education in my country. There are to be schools. There are to be many things. All in the name of progress, you understand, of democracy. It will not be, she says, like it was in my father’s time. Naturally she knows that I will have diversions in London, but not the scandal. No! It is the scandal that matters. You see it is very, very famous, this ruby. There is a long trail behind it, a history. Much bloodshed—many deaths!’

‘Deaths,’ said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully. He looked at Mr Jesmond. ‘One hopes,’ he said, ‘it will not come to that?’

Mr Jesmond made a peculiar noise rather like a hen who has decided to lay an egg and then thought better of it.

‘No, no indeed,’ he said, sounding rather prim. ‘There is no question, I am sure, of anything of that kind.’

‘You cannot be sure,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘Whoever has the ruby now, there may be others who want to gain possession of it, and who will not stick at a trifle, my friend.’

‘I really don’t think,’ said Mr Jesmond, sounding more prim than ever, ‘that we need enter into speculation of that kind. Quite unprofitable.’

‘Me,’ said Hercule Poirot, suddenly becoming very foreign, ‘me, I explore all the avenues, like the politicians.’

Mr Jesmond looked at him doubtfully. Pulling himself together, he said, ‘Well, I can take it that is settled, M. Poirot? You will go to Kings Lacey?’

‘And how do I explain myself there?’ asked Hercule Poirot.

Mr Jesmond smiled with confidence.

‘That, I think, can be arranged very easily,’ he said. ‘I can assure you that it will all seem quite natural. You will find the Laceys most charming. Delightful people.’

‘And you do not deceive me about the oil-fired central heating?’

‘No, no, indeed.’ Mr Jesmond sounded quite pained. ‘I assure you you will find every comfort.’

‘ Tout confort moderne ,’ murmured Poirot to himself, reminiscently. ‘ Eh bien ,’ he said, ‘I accept.’

The temperature in the long drawing-room at Kings Lacey was a comfortable sixty-eight as Hercule Poirot sat talking to Mrs Lacey by one of the big mullioned windows. Mrs Lacey was engaged in needlework. She was not doing petit point or embroidered flowers upon silk. Instead, she appeared to be engaged in the prosaic task of hemming dishcloths. As she sewed she talked in a soft reflective voice that Poirot found very charming.

‘I hope you will enjoy our Christmas party here, M. Poirot. It’s only the family, you know. My granddaughter and a grandson and a friend of his and Bridget who’s my great-niece, and Diana who’s a cousin and David Welwyn who is a very old friend. Just a family party. But Edwina Morecombe said that that’s what you really wanted to see. An old-fashioned Christmas. Nothing could be more old-fashioned than we are! My husband, you know, absolutely lives in the past. He likes everything to be just as it was when he was a boy of twelve years old, and used to come here for his holidays.’ She smiled to herself. ‘All the same old things, the Christmas tree and the stockings hung up and the oyster soup and the turkey—two turkeys, one boiled and one roast—and the plum pudding with the ring and the bachelor’s button and all the rest of it in it. We can’t have sixpences nowadays because they’re not pure silver any more. But all the old desserts, the Elvas plums and Carlsbad plums and almonds and raisins, and crystallized fruit and ginger. Dear me, I sound like a catalogue from Fortnum and Mason!’

‘You arouse my gastronomic juices, Madame.’

‘I expect we’ll all have frightful indigestion by tomorrow evening,’ said Mrs Lacey. ‘One isn’t used to eating so much nowadays, is one?’

She was interrupted by some loud shouts and whoops of laughter outside the window. She glanced out.

‘I don’t know what they’re doing out there. Playing some game or other, I suppose. I’ve always been so afraid, you know, that these young people would be bored by our Christmas here. But not at all, it’s just the opposite. Now my own son and daughter and their friends, they used to be rather sophisticated about Christmas. Say it was all nonsense and too much fuss and it would be far better to go out to a hotel somewhere and dance. But the younger generation seem to find all this terribly attractive. Besides,’ added Mrs Lacey practically, ‘schoolboys and schoolgirls are always hungry, aren’t they? I think they must starve them at these schools. After all, one does know children of that age each eat about as much as three strong men.’

Poirot laughed and said, ‘It is most kind of you and your husband, Madame, to include me in this way in your family party.’

‘Oh, we’re both delighted, I’m sure,’ said Mrs Lacey. ‘And if you find Horace a little gruff,’ she continued, ‘pay no attention. It’s just his manner, you know.’

What her husband, Colonel Lacey, had actually said was: ‘Can’t think why you want one of these damned foreigners here cluttering up Christmas? Why can’t we have him some other time? Can’t stick foreigners! All right, all right, so Edwina Morecombe wished him on us. What’s it got to do with her , I should like to know? Why doesn’t she have him for Christmas?’

‘Because you know very well,’ Mrs Lacey had said, ‘that Edwina always goes to Claridge’s.’

Her husband had looked at her piercingly and said, ‘Not up to something, are you, Em?’

‘Up to something?’ said Em, opening very blue eyes. ‘Of course not. Why should I be?’

Old Colonel Lacey laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you, Em,’ he said. ‘When you look your most innocent is when you are up to something.’